THE REV.  MR. WATERHOUSE.

The following is the inscription on a stone designed to perpetuate the memory of the late singular and unfortunate rector of Little Stukely, and is now exhibited in the mason’s yard at Huntingdon.  According to immemorial usage a copy of verses is appended to the inscription, which, in point of style, taste, and orthography, are on a par with the “uncouth rhymes” alluded to by Gray.  The poetry is said to be the production of a Cambridge graduate.

“Sacred to the memory of the Rev, Joshua Waterhouse, B.D., nearly forty years Fellow of Catherine Hall, Cambridge, Chaplain to his Majesty, Rector of this parish, and of Coton, near Cambridge, who was inhumanly murdered in this Parsonage House, about ten o’clock on the morning of July 3rd, 1827.  Aged eighty-one.

  Beneath this tomb his mangled body’s laid,
  Cut, stabb’d, and murdered by Joshua Slade;
  His ghastly wounds a horrid sight to see,
  And hurl’d at once into eternity.

  What faults you’ve seen in him take care to shun,
  And look at home, enough there’s to be done;
  Death does not always warning give,
  Therefore be careful how you live.”

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MAN.

Philosophers have puzzled themselves how to define man, so as to distinguish him from other animals.  Burke says, “Man is an animal that cooks its victuals.”  “Then,” says Johnson, “the proverb is just, ’there is reason in roasting eggs.’” Dr. Adam Smith has hit this case; “Man,” says he, “is an animal that makes bargains; no other animal does this—­one dog does not change a bone with another.”—­London Mag.

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LANGUAGES.

A French professor of languages, in what he calls an Ethnographic Atlas of the Globe, states there are 860 languages, and about 5,000 dialects, all which may be classed; in addition to as many more which are not so arranged.  In the present state of our knowledge, therefore, the Asiatic languages amount to 153; the European to 53; the African to 114; the Polynesian to 117; and the American to 423.

* * * * *

Epitaph in the Church-yard of Iselton Cum Fenby, in Lincolnshire.

  Here lies the bodie of old Will Loveland,
  He’s put to bed at length with a shovel, and
  Eas’d of expenses for raiment and food,
  Which all his life tyme he would fain have eseyewed: 
  He grudg’d his housekeeping—­his children’s support,
  And laid in his meates of the cagge mag sorte,
  No fyshe or fowle touch’d he, when ’twas dearly bought,
  But a green taile or herrings, a score for a groate. 
      No friend to the needy,
      His wealth gather’d speedy,
    And he never did naught but evil;
      He liv’d like a hogg,
      And dyed like a dogg,
    And now he rides post to the devil.