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The Gatherer.

“I am but a Gatherer and disposer of other men’s stuff.”—­Wotton.

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ON CRANIOLOGY.

  In days of yore,
  Laid wit and lore,
    And wisdom in the wig;
  But now the skull
  Contains them all,
    The peruke is too big.

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“According to Julius Africanus,” says Gibbon, “the world was created on the first of September—­an opinion almost too foolish to be recorded.”

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In the memoirs of the celebrated French actor, Preville, we find the following letter, addressed by the manager of a strolling company to his prompter:—­

“At last, my dear boy, here we are safe in Provins.  The coach-office undertook to deliver the boxes of snow and hail.  The winds and tempest came later than we expected—­we even lost a zephyr.  The thunder got broke on the road, and we have been forced to have fresh sodder for the two lightnings.  Our divinities are well, with the exception of Love, who has got the small-pox; the Graces have been inoculated; we were obliged to leave them behind on the road, with the brick wall, which being wrapt round the sun to keep it from getting soiled, was rubbed to pieces by the sharp rays.  Our rivers and sea are coming by water; and pray, when you come yourself, do not forget to bring lots of clouds with you, and a new moon.  A torrent too will be wanted, for our last has most unluckily got burnt.  I am anxious for a full account of all your purchases, to which you must add two yards of weeping willows.  Above all, bring me a drawbridge, a fortress, and my linen, if it was not turned into tinder for the last sea-fight.  Ever yours.”