The Past, the Present, and the Future, are
But names bestowed on one perpetual stream,
In different provinces beneath the Crown
Of Him who is the source from whence all comes
And to whom all returns—we see no more
But as the gazer from some narrow bridge
Looks down upon the waters, when beneath
They come from far, and so pass, and are gone.
The Domestic Man.—There is no being of the masculine gender whom “the sex” so heartily despise as the domestic man. He is an anomaly—a sort of half-way house between the sexes—a concentration of weaknesses—a poor driblet of humanity—a vile caudle-drinker—an auditor of laundress’s bills—an inquisitor of the nursery—a fellow that likes his bed warmed, and takes note of the decay of carpets—a reader of works on “cookery” and a “treatise on teething”—a pill bolter—a man that buys his wife’s gowns and his children’s dresses—a scolder of maid-servants—a frequenter of the kitchen—a person who can tell you the price of treacle, and how long a mop should last—a gazer at butchers’ windows—a consumer of ginger wine—a slop eater—a market visitor—a tea maker—Faugh! He looks like the aborigine of a bed-room. He is lean and bilious—delights in black gaiters and a brown greatcoat. He gives his little bandy-legged child a walk in the Park, where he is taken for a brother of one of the nursery maids in delicate health. He entertains his visitors with his discoveries of the tricks of bakers and the machinations of grocers—ennuies them to death with long stories about bad bread, and “coffee without adulteration.” He always knows what is to be for dinner, what remains in the larder—and employs his gigantic intellect in considering the best mode of cooking it. He is naturally fretful and peevish, and in cold weather has a helplessness of aspect peculiar to himself. These men never look like Englishmen. They never acquire that manly bluff appearance which is the character of our nation. God knows what is the matter with them, but they always seem out of sorts. Their features are sharp—their voices are effeminate, and they are nearly all of them “troubled with colds.” The business of life with them is to regulate the affairs of housekeeping—their tastes, habits, thoughts, and rivalries, are womanish. Their conversation is about “poor Mrs” this, and “poor Lady” that—antiquated matrons, with whom they occasionally compare notes in matters of condolence—yet who have enough of the spirit of their sex in them to despise their male coadjutor, and in their souls they think “poor Mr” so-and-so the greatest bore alive. They are always complaining; if not positively unwell themselves—a case of rare occurrence—some of their family is sure to be so—or, if all that should fail, then, at least, a dish has been broken, and there is always a number of standing grievances ready to be produced when occasion requires. “Well, heaven help them!” as Shakspeare says, “for they are sad fools.” They live a long time, these fellows, but they die at last—all the pills and possets in the world will not avert death. The passenger who sees the hearse and mutes, thinks some rational being has died—the stranger, who reads the tombstone, thinks that a man moulders below. But are they deceived? We think so.—Court Gazette.
Petrarch’s Opinion of Money.—He who expends it properly, is its master; he who lays it up, its keeper; he who loves it, a fool; he who fears it, a slave; and he who adores it, an idolator.