There are being born into this great city a vast number of young people—enough babies indeed, every day, to make a great noise in the world sometime, if every one should turn out to be a Demosthenes or Cicero, an Alexander, a Cæsar, or a Napoleon. But though every dame may think her own the prettiest child alive, it seems to us not altogether agreeable to good taste for her to anticipate the judgment of the future in naming it after that celebrity that he or she is destined to rival or eclipse. In seriousness, the habit which prevails so generally of bestowing illustrious names in baptism, is ridiculous and disgraceful, and is continually productive of misfortunes to the victims, if they happen to be possessed of parts to elevate them from a vulgar condition. In the south they manage these things better; the Cæsars, Hannibals, Napoleons, Le Grands, Rexes, &c., are all to be found in the negro yards; but almost every public occasion in the north, affords an instance by which a "man of the people," hearing his name called in an assembly, or seeing it printed in a journal, is compelled to feel shame for the weakness of his parents, by which he is burthened with a name that belittles the greatest actions of which he is capable.
In illustration of the passport system, a good story is told of the recent arrest of a Turk on the frontier of the Herzegowina. For some time past, the Turkish Government has allowed its authorities to wring something out of the people by means of passports and the devices thereunto belonging, but it chances that a great many persons in power can neither read nor write, and therefore a shrewd fellow may palm any species of official-looking paper he thinks proper as his regular pass on the officials; thus it was that a Turk who had travelled some time in peace with a document of imposing appearance, which he had picked up in the streets at Constantinople, at last found one who could read it, and it was discovered to be one of Jean Maria Farina's Eau de Cologne labels!
A Mayor of the department of the Haute-Saône, France, has had the following decision placarded on the church door:—
"Whereas, at all times, there have been disorders, and always will be; and whereas, at all times, there have been laws to repress them, and always will be; and whereas magistrates are appointed to have them properly executed, I ask, ought we, or ought we not, to do our duty? If we do our duty, we are calumniated. Well, then, taking these things into consideration, I declare that if that horde of good-for-nothings who are in the habit of frequenting the churchyard during Divine service, shall continue to do so, they will have to come into collision with me."
M. Michaud, of the French Academy, is pleased to express literary malice against those whom he loves and esteems the most. A political man came one day to confide a secret to him, and recommended to him the strictest discretion. "Do not be uneasy," replied M. Michaud, "your secret shall be well kept; I will hide it in the complete works of my friend Lacretelle." We think we know of an American author whose "various writings" would serve the same purpose.
In the last International we mentioned the death of the well-known ballad composer Alexander Lee. Some painfully interesting circumstances of his last days have since appeared in the journals: