* Rochefoucauld.

The carriage then stopped.  Come, Cousin,” said the younger Stanton,—­“come and view a purchase I have made.”  Stanton absently alighted, and followed him across a small paved court; the other person followed.  “In troth, Cousin,” said Stanton, “your choice appears not to have been discreetly made; your house has somewhat of a gloomy aspect.”—­“Hold you content, Cousin,” replied the other; “I shall take order that you like it better, when you have been some time a dweller therein.”  Some attendants of a mean appearance, and with most suspicious visages, awaited them on their entrance, and they ascended a narrow staircase, which led to a room meanly furnished.  “Wait here,” said the kinsman, to the man who accompanied them, “till I go for company to divertise my cousin in his loneliness.”  They were left alone.  Stanton took no notice of his companion, but as usual seized the first book near him, and began to read.  It was a volume in manuscript,—­they were then much more common than now.

The first lines struck him as indicating insanity in the writer.  It was a wild proposal (written apparently after the great fire of London) to rebuild it with stone, and attempting to prove, on a calculation wild, false, and yet sometimes plausible, that this could be done out of the colossal fragments of Stonehenge, which the writer proposed to remove for that purpose.  Subjoined were several grotesque drawings of engines designed to remove those massive blocks, and in a corner of the page was a note,—­“I would have drawn these more accurately, but was not allowed a knife to mend my pen.”

The next was entitled, “A modest proposal for the spreading of Christianity in foreign parts, whereby it is hoped its entertainment will become general all over the world.”—­This modest proposal was, to convert the Turkish ambassadors (who had been in London a few years before), by offering them their choice of being strangled on the spot, or becoming Christians.  Of course the writer reckoned on their embracing the easier alternative, but even this was to be clogged with a heavy condition,—­namely, that they must be bound before a magistrate to convert twenty Mussulmans a day, on their return to Turkey.  The rest of the pamphlet was reasoned very much in the conclusive style of Captain Bobadil,—­ these twenty will convert twenty more apiece, and these two hundred converts, converting their due number in the same time, all Turkey would be converted before the Grand Signior knew where he was.  Then comes the coup d’eclat,—­one fine morning, every minaret in Constantinople was to ring out with bells, instead of the cry of the Muezzins; and the Imaum, coming out to see what was the matter, was to be encountered by the Archbishop of Canterbury, in pontificalibus, performing Cathedral service in the church of St. Sophia, which was to finish the business.  Here an objection appeared to arise, which the ingenuity of the writer had anticipated.—­“It