My 11, 13, 13, 9, 2, 7, 2, 3, 6, 1, 13 is a peculiar kind of stuff.

My 2, 6, 12, 8, 9, 4 is the name of a great general of ancient times (have spelt it to best of ability, though may have missed the bull’s-eye on a letter or two, but not enough to signify).

My 3, 11, 1, 9, 15, 2, 2, 6, 2, 9, 13, 2, 6, 15, 4, 11, 2, 3, 5, 1, 10, 4, 8 is the middle name of a Russian philosopher, up whose full cognomen fame is slowly but surely climbing.

My 7, 11, 4, 12, 3, 1, 1, 9 is an obscure but very proper kind of bug.

My whole is—­but perhaps a reasonable amount of diligence and ingenuity will reveal that.

We take a just pride in offering the customary gold pen or cheap sewing-machine for correct solutions of the above.

THE HAPPINESS OF SIR THOMAS BROWNE
[Sidenote:  Religio Medici]

In my solitary and retired imagination (Neque enim cum porticus, aut me lectulus accepit, desum mihi) I remember I am not alone, and therefore forget not to contemplate Him and His Attributes who is ever with me, especially those two mighty ones, His Wisdom and Eternity; with the one I recreate, with the other I confound, my understanding; for who can speak of Eternity without a soloecism, or think thereof without an Extasie?  Time we may comprehend; ’tis but five days elder than ourselves, and hath the same Horoscope with the World; but to retire so far back as to apprehend a beginning, to give such an infinite start forwards as to conceive an end in an essence that we affirm hath neither the one nor the other, it puts my Reason to St. Paul’s Sanctuary:  my Philosophy dares not say the angels can do it; God hath not made a Creature that can comprehend Him; ’tis a privilege of His own nature....

[Sidenote:  Religio Medici]

Art is the perfection of Nature:  were the World now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a Chaos:  Nature hath made one World, and Art another.  In brief, all things are artificial; for Nature is the Art of God.

[Sidenote:  Religio Medici]

There is surely a piece of divinity in us, something that was before the Elements, and owes no homage unto the Sun.  Nature tells me I am the Image of God, as well as Scripture:  he that understands not thus much, hath not his introduction or first lesson, and is yet to begin the Alphabet of man.  Let me not injure the felicity of others, if I say I am as happy as any:  Ruat coelum, Fiat voluntas tua, salveth all; so that whatsoever happens, it is but what our daily prayers desire.  In brief, I am content, and what should providence add more?  Surely this is it we call Happiness, and this do I enjoy; with this I am happy in a dream, and as content to enjoy a happiness in a fancy, as others in a more apparent truth and reality.  There is surely a nearer apprehension of anything that delights us in our dreams, than in our waked senses; without this I were unhappy:  for my awaked judgment discontents