VARIETIES.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1281, 27 April 1878, Page 3

VARIETIES.

TWO STYLES. ’Tis a very ancient saying, Time till now has proved it true, “ Do unto all your neighbours As you would have them do to you.” But another saying now prevails, Of an entirely different hue ; t! Be sure and do your neighbours, Or they’ll certainly do you." A Highland gentleman, on the point of starting for the United States, left his purse, containing a hundred pounds, at the railway station. On his return to his native towm the purse was brought to him by a clerk, who expected a tlight recognition. The laird took the purse and counted the money, and then looked inquiringly at the clerk, who said in astonishment, “Isn’t it right, sir ?” “ Richt! No,” was the quick response. “Where’s the interest?” The following gem is “ after Tennyson”;— When Pussy sits in Katey’s chair, Oh ! don't I wish that I were there ? When her fair fingers pats his head, Oh! don’t I wish ’twas me instead ? When Katey’s arm its neck imprison, Oh! don’t I wish my neck was his’n ? When Katey kisses Pussy’s nose, Oh ! don’t I wish that I w*as those ? A gentleman at Scarborough, after waving his handkerchief for half an hour or more at an unknown lady whom he discovered at a distant point on the shore, was encouraged by a warm response to his signals to approach his charmer. Imagine his feelings when, on drawing nearer, he saw that it was his own dear wife whom he had loft at the hotel but a short time before. “ Why, how remarkable that we should have recognised each other at such a distance !” exclaimed both in the same breath ; and then they changed the subject. One of the local papers has recently taken a young lady novice on trial, and she has been awaiting her opportunity to prove her value. A small wedding gave it. She had a jolly good time, used her eyes to the best advantage, and went home to write about it. At midnight she carried in her copy herself, to make sure of its safety, and in about an hour back she came, breathless, and in a great flurry. “ Where is my manuscript i” she inquired. “I am sorry,” was the reply, “ but your copy is in hand upstairs, and I cannot possibly arrange for you to see it.” “Oh, but I must; the correction must be made—everything is spoiled without it. It is very important 1” she urged. Seeing her evident distress, the editor suggested that she should give him the correction, aud he would attend to it. She was profuse in her thanks, and would he kindly see that, after the description of the veil, the words “a mist of tulle” be inserted.

Retribution. —A poor journalist and a celebrated divine died recently on the same day. The one was followed to the gra e by a few broken-hearted Bohemians ; the other lay in state amid thousands of lillies and camellias, and his obsequies were enlivened by a choir of twenty voices, while his funeral oration was delivered by his bishop and three other celebrated ministers. The one lay in an oaken coffin in a quiet corner of the churchyard; the other slumbered in a rosewood casket enshrined in a marble vault. The journalist’s spirit arrived at the gate of heaven first, for he had been lean while in the flesh, and light of heart; but he dared not knock, and he lay on the lowest step with the eyes of his soul cast down toward the earth. And anon he heard a rustling, and the panting soul of the great divine came surging through the air, almost knocking the poor little journalist off the steps in its eagerness to enter in to the joy of the Lord. The great soul lifted the knocker of the heavenly gate, and (the other courts resounded with the vigour of its summons. “Who art thou?” responded St. Peter through a golden lattice. “I, dear saint, am the Reverend Doctor , eager to occupy a large mansion in heaven,” replied the divine. “ I have preached eleven thousand eight hundred old sermons, converted over three thousand sinners, and givenadvice and communion to countless herds of erring mortals. Please not to keep me standing here, as I am dying to see the streets paved with sapphires and listen to the angelic choir,” Saint Peter turned to his ledger and frowned a horrible frown, though he said nothing. The little journalist’s soul lay quaking on the lowest step, but the saint saw it. “And who are you,” he asked, “that lie so tremblingly below ?” “I am,” retorted the terrified scribbler, “ I am nothing; I once was a paragrammist on the ‘ Morning Call,’ and spent my life in poking fun at clergymen and drinking beer wherever it was cheapest. I have written hundreds of articles ; accusing the clergy of being hypocrites and immoral, and I’ve made fun of everything from an elephant to a peanut, without the slightest regard to the principles of Christianity. I’ve libelled the angel Gabriel, and even written the socks off Htnry Ward Beecher.” “My poor boy,” sighed Saint Peter, “I’ll attend to you, directly,” and a diamond tear, of about 45 carats weight, rolled from his eye down to where the little journalist say. The divine made a grab at it as it passed him; but bo was baulked in his design by the stentorian voice of the saint, who thundered forth “Most reverend doctor, there are eleven souls of women in hell, whom you have ruined, and countless penitents in heaven, whom you have all but destroyed. Go to the bottomless pit, where you belong, for ever and ever, and hear the curses of the wretched souls who await your coming, to revenge their damnation on you.” There was a sudden fall, and, as he heard it, the little journalist passed through a thousand years of purgatorial pain. He knew nothing more until he heard a key turning in the glorious door. The arms of the saint were round him, and he was lying on his shining breast. “My poor child,” he said, “you had hard lines down there, and your life was uot a blameless one, but it’s all over now; come in and see Artemua Ward.”— “American paper.”