UN has no limits.

FUN

very wealthy man, and, as such, a prize to the liquidators, who had just made an enormous 'call.' He was overtaken by an old friend, a civic dignitary, who exchanged salutations; and then, observing the moody condition of his friend, put his arm on his shoulder sympathisingly, and said, 'O Dawvid man, I'm very sorry for ye in this business. They tell me ye're broken. Is't true?' With a proud shake of his head, the old merchant pulled himself together, and responded briskly, Na, na, Tammas, ye're wrang. Ye can tell them I'm no broken yet, but Im gey sair crackit.' Readers who cannot make out this mixture of just pride and dry wit must get a Scotch friend to interpret.

From 1840 to 1870 the late Mr. R. Jd, of Falcon-square, was a well-known man in the City of London; and some readers of these lines will learn with regret that the old hospitable roof-tree has recently been demolished in the course of City improvements. Mr. J. was an enthusiast in philanthropic and missionary enterprise. He gave liberal support to a number of the great London societies, and their records formed his special study. He was an early and attached friend of the Young Men's Christian Association, and in many ways showed an active, courageous spirit in home mission matters. He was not content with work done by deputy at the ends of the earth, but personally penetrated, with his tracts and substantial aid, to many dark spots of London misery. He would go and read to the patients in St. Bartholomew's Hospital; and for some time he maintained at his

own cost a missionary in that notorious slum, Chequer Alley, of which Miss M'Carthy became the evangelist, aided by the late Sir Francis Lycett. One day Mr. J. was on his way from Brixton to the City, by the London, Chatham, and Dover Railway. He had in his hand his usual bundle of tracts; and on entering the carriage he found the compartment contained only one other passenger, a tall, grave, graybearded man, to whom he offered one of his leaflets. It was courteously accepted, and soon led to a conversation on missionary work. In a few simple earnest remarks the stranger showed that this was a subject of which he had thorough grip. Surprised and delighted to find such a kindred spirit, Mr. J. rattled away on his favourite topic. Various incidents connected with different mission fields passed in review-Ellis and Madagascar ; John Williams, the martyr of Erromanga; and finally, the pioneer work of the great missionary traveller, Livingstone. It was all perfectly familiar to the old gentleman in the corner. Too soon

the train drew up at Ludgate Hill; and as he prepared to descend, Mr. J., with old-fashioned politeness, thus addressed his fellowpassenger: 'Sir, I perceive that you are extremely well informed on missionary subjects. May I be permitted to ask your name?' 'O, yes, certainly,' said the grave stranger, with a quiet smile; 'my name is Robert Moffat.' Mr. J. used afterwards to tell how he had once met his master in missionary lore; but then- -that was the venerable apostle of African missions, and the father-in-law of Livingstone !

Ο

One of the earliest advocates of coöperation-real coöperationwas Charles Southwell, the youngest of thirty-six children, with activity enough on the platform for them all. He was a brilliant digressionist. James Silk Buckingham was not more successful in the art of holding an audience spellbound by means of a preface to a subject. On one occasion a large audience had assembled to hear him lecture on a special subject of great importance. The élite of the cause were present, eager for the blow which few but Southwell could strike with effect. After he had spoken threequarters of an hour it was remarked by his supporters on the platform that the lecturer had not reached his subject. Half an

hour later he concluded amid a storm of applause, when one of his friends said to him, "Why, Southwell, you never mentioned your subject.' 'No,' he added, 'it did not occur to me.'

A friend, who had been appointed to a judgeship in one of the colonies, was long afterwards describing to Sir George Rose the agonies he had suffered on the voyage out from sea-sickness. Sir George listened with much interest to the recital of his friend's sufferings, and then said, in a tone of deep commiseration, 'It's a great mercy you did not throw up your appointment.'

Sir George Rose was at a funeral on a bitterly cold day in winter, and his companion in a mourning-coach called his attention to the poor men in scarves and bearing staves, who were trudging along by the side of the carriage. Poor fellows,' said his companion, they look as if they were frozen!' 'Frozen' retorted Sir George. My dear friend, they are mutes, not liquids.'

Sir George Rose was dining with some friends one day, when the outdoor servants had been enlisted into the service of the

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one of them, in carrying out a tray of glass, as he left the room stumbled and fell with a heavy crash. What is that?' exclaimed Sir George's next neighbour, in great alarm. O, nothing,' he replied; only the coachman gone out with his break.'

A report having originated that Archdeacon Robinson, Master of the Temple, who was exceedingly popular with the members of the Inns of Court, was to be elevated to the episcopal bench, Sir George Rose said, 'Well, if he must leave the Temple, I hope it will be by Mitre Court.'

When a singularly matter-offact gentleman had related a story in which the listeners had failed, after all their efforts, to discover the faintest spark of humour, Sir George Rose accounted for the circumstance at once. 'Don't you see,' he said, 'he has tried a joke, but reserved the point.'

When Sir George Rose was ap

At a legal dinner given at Greenwich many years ago, the late Mr. Justice Bailey, who was in the chair, informed the assembled guests, when the decanters had begun to circulate after dinner, that, as it was most important to insure the safety of so eminent a company as that present, he had ordered a handsome and roomy omnibus, which would be at the door at ten o'clock, to convey them back to town. Sir George Rose at once started to his feet, and said:

'The Grecian of old bade his comrades entwine

The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine;

Which our excellent chairman interpreteth thus:

Begin with a bumper and end with a buss.'

LAUGH if you are wise,' was the advice of the witty Roman epigrammatist Martial; and, indeed, the wisest of men have often been the merriest too witness Socrates, Erasmus, Sir Thomas More. Whilst, to come to more modern authorities, our own Addison, though no great laugher himself, and though he declares laughter to be a weakness in the composition of human nature, nevertheless confesses that if we consider the frequent reliefs we receive from it, and how often it

breaks the gloom which is apt to depress the mind and damp our spirits with transient unexpected gleams of joy, one would take care not to grow too wise for so great a pleasure of life.' Wise men,

therefore, of all ages being agreed that laughter is essential to the enjoyment of existence, it has followed that the laughter-makers, from Aristophanes to Punch, have ever been regarded as public benefactors; and sages have ruled that the healthiest and most instructive of teachers is your laughing

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philosopher. Consequently, it is only fit and proper that, as often as possible, we should give a niche in our Anecdote Corner' to some distinguished laughter-maker, whose joyous spirit and sparkling wit have made life brighter to thousands of human souls. The first whom we have chosen is Douglas Jerrold, who was not only a hu morist and wit of the first water, but an essayist full of subtle thought and the most exquisite fancies. Most people nowadays know Douglas Jerrold only as the author of the Caudle Lectures and the sayer of innumerable witty things. But those who have read "The Chronicles of Clovernook,' 'The Epitaph of Sir Hugh Evans,' 'The Sick Giant and the Doctor Dwarf,' will agree with us that Douglas Jerrold was really a fine thinker, with a tender and poetic imagination, and a style singularly pure and graceful. It is, however, as a laughing philosopher that we have here to deal with him, and we will let him be the apologist of his own special function. O glorious laughter!' he makes the sage of Bellyfulle exclaim in 'The Chronicles of Clovernook, 'thou man-loving spirit, that for a time dost take the burden from the weary back; that dost lay salve to the feet, bruised and cut by flints and shards; that takest bloodbaking melancholy by the nose and makest it grin despite itself; that all the sorrows of the past, the doubts of the future, confoundest in the joy of the present; that makest man truly philosophic, conqueror of himself and care! Have you ever considered, sir, what man would be, destitute of the ennobling faculty of laughter?

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Why, sir, laughter is to the face of man what sinovia, I think anatomists call it, is to his joints: it oils and lubricates, and makes the human countenance divine. . . . Let materialists blaspheme as gingerly and acutely as they will, they must find confusion in laughter. Man may take a triumphant stand upon his broad grins, for he looks around the world; and his innermost soul, sweetly tickled with the knowledge, tells him that he alone of all creatures laughs.' In his ideal land of Turvey top the Hermit tells us, A man always dedicated his first joke, whatever it might be, to the God of Laughter.... This first offering was always a matter of great solemnity. The maker of the joke, whether man or maid, was taken in pompous procession to the shrine of the god. And then the joke-beautifully worked in letters of gold upon some rich-coloured silk or velvet-was given in to the flamen, who read it to the assembled people, who roared approving laughter. The joker was then taken back in triumph to his house, and feasting and sports for nine days marked this his first act of citizenship; for I should tell you that no jokeless man could claim any civil rights. Hence when the man began to joke he was considered fit for the gravest offices of human government, and not till then.' What a supreme position Douglas Jerrold would have held in the land of Turveytop the reader may gather from the good things of his which we have collected here, a proof of his claim to rank high among the leaders of the laughing philosophy.