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their own election, but they quarrel with all the world for not following their example. A Bigot is a man of respectable opinions, but very ordinary talents; defending what is right without judgment, and believing what is holy without charity. Generally obstinate in proportion as he is wrong, he thinks he best shows his love of God by hatred of his fellow-creatures, and his humility by lauding himself and his sect. Vain is the endeavor to argue with men of this stamp

For steel'd by pride from all assaults,
They cling the closer to their faults,
And make self-praise supply an ointment
For every wound and disappointment,
As dogs by their own licking cure
Whatever soreness they endure.
Minds thus debased by mystic lore,

Are like the pupils of the eye,
Which still contract themselves the more,

The greater light that you supply.
Others by them are praised or slander'd,
Exactly as they fit their standard,
And as an oar, though straight in air,

Appears in water to be bent,
So men and measures, foul or fair,

Viewed through the bigot's element,
(Such are the optics of their mind,)
They crooked or straightforward find.

BIRTH – Low-An incitement to high deeds and the attainment of lofty station. Many of our greatest men have sprung from the humblest origin, as the lark, whose nest is on the ground, soars the nearest to heaven. Narrow circumstances are the most powerful stimulant to mental expansion, and the early frowns of fortune the best security for her final smiles. A nobleman who painted remarkably well for an amateur, showing one of his pictures to Poussin, the latter exclaimed—“Your lordship only requires a little poverty to make you a complete artist.” The conversation turning upon the antiquity of different Italian houses, in the presence of Sextus V. when Pope, he maintained that his was the most illustrious of any, for being half unroofed, the light entered on all sides, a circumstance to which he attributed his having been enabled to exchange it for the Vatican.


BLOOD—The oil of our life's lamp :-the death signature of the destroying angel. Of blood, eight parts in ten consist of pure water, and yet into what an infinite variety of substances is it converted by the inscrutable chemistry of nature ! All the secretions, all the solids of our bodies, life itself, are formed from this mysterious fluid.

T. H., who, whenever he gets beyond his depth in argument, seeks to make his escape by a miserable pun, was once maintaining that the blood was not originally red, but acquired that color in its progress.—"Pray, sir,” demanded his opponent, “what staye does the blood turn red in ? "_" Why, sir," replied T. H., “in the Reading Stage, I presume.”

BLUSHING-a suffusion-least seen in those who have the most occasion for it.

BODY_That portion of our system which receives the chief attention of Messrs. Somebody, Anybody, and Everybody, while Nobody cares for the soul.-Body and mind .are harnessed together to perform in concert the journey of life, a duty which they will accomplish pleasantly and safely if the coachman, Judgment, do not drive one faster than the other. If he attempt this, confusion, exhaustion, and disease are sure to ensue. Sensnalists are like savages, who cut down the tree to pluck all the fruit at once. Writers and close thinkers, on the contrary, who do not allow themselves sufficient relax

clay,” soon entail upon themselves physical or mental disorders, generally both. We are like lamps; if we wind up the intellectual burner too high, the glass becomes thickened or discolored with smoke, or it breaks, and the unregulated flame, blown about by every puff of wind, if not extinguished altogether, throws a fitful glare and distorting shadows over the objects that it was intended to illuminate. The bow that is the oftenest unbent, will the longest retain its strength and elasticity.

-“Quandam citharà tacentem Suscitat musam, neque semper arcum

Tendit Apollo."

BON-MOT—See the present work-passim. “Collectors of ana and facetiæ,” says Champfort, “ are like children with a large cake before them; they begin by picking out the plums and titbits, and finish by devouring the whole.” He might also have compared their works to a snow-ball, which, in our endeavors to make it larger, takes up the snow first, and then the dirt.

Sheridan, when shown a single volume, entitled “The Beauties of Shakspeare," read it for some time with apparent satisfaction, and then exclaimed, “This is all very well, but where are the other seven volumes ?”

BOOK-a thing formerly put aside to be read, and now read to be put aside. The world is, at present, divided into two classes—those who forget to read, and those who read to forget. Bookmaking, which used to be a science, is now a manufacture, with which, as in every thing else, the market is so completely overstocked, that our literary operatives, if they wish to avoid starving, must eat up one another. They have, for some time, been employed in cutting up each other, as if to prepare for the meal. Alas! they may have reason for their feast, without finding it a feast of reason.

BOOKS-PROHIBITED—Attempting to put the sun of reason into a dark lantern, that its mighty blaze may be hidden or revealed, according to the will of some purblind despot. When W. S. R. published his admirable “Letters from the North of Italy,” they were found so little palatable to the Austrian emperor, that they were prohibited throughout his dominions. This honor the author appreciated as he ought, only regretting that the interdict would prevent his sending copies to some of his Italian friends; a difficulty, however, which was soon overcome. Cancelling the original title-page, he procured a new one to be printed, which ran as follows: “A Treatise upon Sour Krout, with full directions for its preparation, and remarks upon its medicinal properties.” On their arrival at the frontiers, the inspector compared the books with the Index Expurgatorius, but as he did not find any imperial anathema against sour krout, they were forwarded without further scrutiny, and safely reached their respective destinations.

Rabelais said, that all the bad books ought to be bought, because they would not be reprinted; a hint which has not been thrown away upon our Bibliomanians, who seem to forget, that, since the invention of printing, no good book has ever become scarce.

BOOKSELLER_There is this difference between the heroes of Paternoster Row and the Scandinavian warriors in the Hall of Valhalla,—that the former drink their wine out of the skulls of their friends, the authors, whereas the latter quaffed theirs oụt of the skulls of their enemies. In ancient times, the Vates was considered a prophet as well as bard, but now he is barred from his profit, most of which goes to the bookseller, who, in return, generously allows the scribbler to come in for the whole of the critical abuse. It has been invidiously said, that as a bibliopolist lives upon the brains of others, he need not possess any himself. This is a mistake. He has the wit to coin the wit that is supplied to him, and thus proves his intellectual by his golden talents. Many a bookvendor rides in his own carriage; but I do not know a single professional bookwriter who does not trudge a-foot. “Sic vos non vobis—the proverb's somewhat musty.-If they take our honey, they cannot quarrel with us if we now and then give them a sting.

BORE—a brainless, babbling button-holder. A wretch so deficient in tact that he cannot adapt himself to any society, nor perceive that all agree in thinking him disagreeable. Sydney Smith, who had a very keen scent .for that kind of game, speaks thus pertinently of the worst specimen of that class, the Titled Bore: “a heavy, pompous, meddling peer, occupying a large share of the conversation-saying things in ten words which required only two, and evidently convinced that he is making a great impression ; a large man, with a large head, and very learned manner; knowing enough to torment his fellow-creatures, not to instruct them—the ridicule of young ladies, and the natural butt and target of wit. It is easy to talk of carnivorous animals and beasts of prey; but does such a man who lays waste a whole party of civilized beings by prosing, reflect upon the joy he spoils, and the misery he creates, in the course of his life ? and that any one who listens to him through politeness, would prefer toothache or earache to his conversation? Does he consider the extreme uneasiness which ensues, when the company have discovered a man to be an extremely absurd person, at the same time that it is absolutely impossible to convey, by words or manner, the most distant suspicion of the discovery ? And then, who punishes this bore? What sessions and what assizes for him? What bill is found against him? Who indicts him ? When the judges have gone their vernal and autumnal rounds

-the sheep-stealer disappears——the swindler gets ready for the Bay—the solid parts of the murderer are preserved in anatomical collections. But, after twenty years of crime, the bore is discovered in the same house, in the same attitude, eating the same soup—unpunished, untried, undissected—no scaffold, no skeleton—no mob of gentlemen and ladies to gape over his last dying speech and confession.” Nevertheless, we forgive the man who bores us much more easily than the man who lets us see that we are boring him. Towards the former, we exercise a magnanimous compassion; but our wounded self-love cannot tolerate the latter. A newly-elected M. C. lately consulted his friend as to the occasion that he should select for his maiden speech. A very important subject was suggested, when the modest member expressed a fear that his mind was hardly of sufficient calibre to embrace it. “Poh! poh!” said the friend, -—" don't be under any apprehensions

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