JESSE LEE AND THE LAWYERS.
Jesse Lee, one of the first Methodist preachers in New England, combined unresting energy, and sensibility, with an extraordinary propensity to wit. Mr. Stephens, in his new work on the Memorials of Methodism, gives the following specimen of Lee's bonhommie:
As he was riding on horseback one day, between Boston and Lynn, he was overtaken by two young lawyers, who knew that he was a Methodist preacher, and were disposed to amuse themselves somewhat at his expense. Saluting him, and ranging their horses one on each side of him, they entered in a conversation something like the following:—First Lawyer. I believe you are a preacher, sir? Lee. Yes; I generally pass for one. First lawyer. You preach very often, I suppose? Lee. Generally every day, frequently twice, or more. Second Lawyer. How do you find time to study, when you preach so often? Lee. I study when riding, and read when resting. First Lawyer. But you do not write your sermons? Lee. No; not very often. Second Lawyer. Do you not often make mistakes in preaching extemporaneously? Lee. I do, sometimes. Second Lawyer. How do you do then? Do you correct them? Lee. That depends upon the character of the mistake. I was preaching the other day, and I went to quote the text: "All liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone;" and, by mistake, I said, "All lawyers shall have their part"—Second Lawyer (interrupting him). "What did you do with that? Did you correct it?" Lee. "Oh, no, indeed! It was so nearly true, I didn't think it worth while to correct it." "Humph!" said one of them, with a hasty and impatient glance at the other; "I don't know whether you are the more knave or fool!" "Neither," he quietly replied, turning at the same time his mischievous eyes from one to the other; "I believe I am just between the two!"
Finding they were measuring wit with a master, and mortified at their discomfiture, the knights of the green bag drove on, leaving the victor to solitude and his own reflections.
ANNUARIES,
BY ALICE CAREY.
I.
A year has gone down silently
To the dark bosom of the Past,
Since I beneath this very tree
Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last.
Its waning glories, like a flame,
Are trembling to the wind's light touch—
All just a year ago the same,
And I—oh! I am changed so much!
The beauty of a wildering dream
Hung softly round declining day;
A star of all too sweet a beam
In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay.
Changed in its aspect, yet the same,
Still climbs that star from sunset's glow,
But its embraces of pale flame
Clasp not the weary world from wo!