Charles the Bald allowed one whose name was Scottus to sit at the table with him for his pleasure. Scottus sat on the other side of the table. One time the king, being merry with him, said to him, "What is there between Scot and sot?" Scottus answered, "The table only."

There was a marriage made between a widow of great wealth and a gentleman of great house that had no estate or means. Jack Roberts said that marriage was like a black pudding: the one brought blood, and the other brought suet and oatmeal.

King James was wont to be very earnest with the country gentlemen to go from London to their country houses. And sometimes he would say thus to them: "Gentlemen, at London you are like ships at sea, which show like nothing; but in your country villages you are like ships in a river, which look like great things."

Count Gondomar sent a compliment to my Lord St. Alban, wishing him a good Easter. My lord thanked the messenger, and said he could not at present requite the count better than in returning him the like; that he wished his lordship a good Passover.

My Lord Chancellor Elsmere, when he had read a petition which he disliked, would say, “What, you would have my hand to this now?" And the party answering "Yes," he would say further, "Well, so you shall; nay, you shall have both my hands to it." And so would, with both his hands, tear it in pieces.

Sir Francis Bacon was wont to say of an angry man who suppressed his passion, that he thought worse than he spoke ; and of an angry man that would chide, that he spoke worse than he thought.

When Mr. Attorney Coke, in the Exchequer, gave high words to Sir Francis Bacon, and stood much upon the higher place, Sir Francis said to him, "Mr. Attorney, the less you speak of your own greatness, the more I shall think of it; and the more, the less."

Sir Francis Bacon (who was always for moderate counsels), when one was speaking of such a reformation of the Church of England as would in effect make it no church, said thus to him: Sir, the subject we talk of is the eye of England, and if there

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be a speck or two in the eye, we endeavor to take them off; but he were a strange oculist who would pull out the eye."

The same Sir Francis Bacon was wont to say that those who left useful studies for useless scholastic speculations were like the Olympic gamesters, who abstained from necessary labors, that they might be fit for such as were not so.

The Lord St. Alban, who was not overhasty to raise theories, but proceeded slowly by experiments, was wont to say to some philosophers who would not go his pace, "Gentlemen, nature is a labyrinth, in which the very haste you move with will make you lose your way."

The same lord, when a gentleman seemed not much to approve of his liberality to his retinue, said to him: "Sir, I am all of a piece; if the head be lifted up, the inferior parts of the body must, too."

The Lord Bacon was wont to commend the advice of the plain old man at Buxton, that sold besoms: a proud, lazy young fellow came to him for a besom upon trust; to whom the old man said, "Friend, hast thou no money? Borrow of thy back, and borrow of thy belly, they'll ne'er ask thee again. I shall be dunning thee every day."

Jack Weeks said of a great man (just then dead), who pretended to some religion, but was none of the best livers, "Well, I hope he is in heaven. Every man thinks as he wishes; but if he be in heaven, 'twere pity it were known."

A SUPPLICATION.

BY ABRAHAM COWLEY.

AWAKE, awake, my Lyre!

And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail;

Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:

Though so exalted she

And I so lowly be

Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark! how the strings awake:

And, though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear

A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;

Now all thy charms apply;

Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure

Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,

And she to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak too wilt thou prove

My passion to remove;

Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!

For thou canst never tell my humble tale

In sounds that will prevail,

Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;

All thy vain mirth lay by,

Bid thy strings silent lie,

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

THE RELIEF OF LEYDEN.1

BY JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY.

(From the "Rise of the Dutch Republic.")

[JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, American historian, was born in Dorchester, Mass., April 15, 1814; graduated at Harvard in 1831, and attended Göttingen and Berlin. He was admitted to the bar in 1836, but practiced little; wrote the novels " Morton's Hope" (1839) and "Merry Mount" (1849); was secretary of legation at St. Petersburg in 1840; 1851-1856 he spent in Europe gathering material for the "Rise of the Dutch Republic," which was translated into Dutch, German, and French; from 1858 to 1867 was in Europe again; in 1860 published vols. 1 and 2 of the " History of the United Netherlands," 3 and 4 being issued in 1868; 1861-1867 was United States minister to Austria, resigning in the latter year; 1869-1870 was minister to England; published John of Barneveld" in 1874. He died May 28, 1877.]

THE preparations for the relief of Leyden, which, notwithstanding his exertions, had grown slack during his sickness, 1 By permission of Harper & Brothers.