The Sublime.—Over the stall of a public writer, in Rue de Bac, at Paris, is the following inscription: “M. Renard, public writer and compiler—translates the tongues, explains the language of flowers, and sells fried potatoes.”
Feeling for Another.—A Quaker, once hearing a person tell how much he felt for a friend who needed his assistance, dryly observed: “Friend, hast thou ever felt in thy pocket for him?”
“What are you writing such a thundering big hand for, Patrick?” “Why, do you see, my grandmother is deaf, and I am writing a loud lether to her.”
A Knotty Case.—Not many years ago, a man appeared in court, whether as plaintiff, defendant, or witness, tradition does not inform us. Be this as it may, the following dialogue ensued:—Court—“What is your name, sir?” “My name is Knott Martin, your honor.” “Well, what is it?” “It is Knott Martin.” “Not Martin, again! We do not ask you what your name is not, but what it is. No contempt of court, sir.” “If your honor will give me leave, I will spell my name.” “Well, spell it.” “K-n-o-tt, Knott, M-a-r, Mar, t-i-n, tin—Knott Martin.” “O, well, Mr. Martin, we see through it now; but it is one of the most knotty cases we have had before us for some time.”
Good.—It was a judicious resolution of a father, as well as a most pleasing compliment to his wife, when, on being asked by a friend what he intended to do with his daughters, he replied: “I intend to apprentice them to their mother, that they may become like her—good wives, mothers, heads of families, and useful members of society.”