sell out if his debts are not paid next month;
his daughter, who would persist in marrying
that chaplain, who has treated her so
indifferently since; his wife, whom he detests,
and who has been suing him ferociously
lately about her marital "paraphernalia,"
chiefly consisting in a gold snuff-box,
presented to her grandfather by George the
Second, for sitting on Admiral Byng's court-
martial? Yes. The bailiffs may be in
possession of Castle Lackrent; the family
diamonds may be in the custody of Mr.
Triball; the ten tribes of Israel may be
keeping up a ceaseless clamour about
interests unpaid, and mortgages to be
fore-closed; but the noble lord is engrossed pro
tem., in the vital question as to whether the
barrack-master at Ballygarret was illegally
dismissed or not. The opposition maintains
that he was; Lord Viscount Lackrent
maintains that he was not—and victoriously
maintaining it, forgets disease, debt, and
difficulty, and is, for the time, triumphant
over all.

Again: here in the Court of Quiddities
you shall see a grave old judge, majestic in
his wig and his fur. The sands of life have
filtered sagely and decorously and profitably
through the glass; but he is seventy years
old now; and there are few, very few grains
left to run. He is rich, and honoured, and
wise and famous; but his hand shakes, and
his eyes are dim, and his voice is feeble; and
his memory begins to play him strange tricks.
He can remember, to a dactyl, the Latin
verses he made at school; but he cannot
exactly call to mind who was plaintiff, and
who defendant, and what the action was
all about that he tried yesterday. Yet you shall
see him in the Court of Quiddities, patiently
listening to the hair-splitting arguments of
counsel; you shall hear him copiously pouring
forth stores of erudition upon the right of
patent in the ribs of an umbrella; accurately
weighing and commenting upon every tittle of
evidence for and against the vexed question of a
bad sixpence; nicely balancing the pro and
con as to whether Mossop kicked Barry, or
Barry kicked Mossop; concentrating all the
wisdom and learning, the experience and
observation of seventy years into a bad joke
to make the jury titter, or a clap-trap sentiment
to elicit a peal of applause (immediately
afterwards, and severely, repressed by the
officers of the court, of course) from the gallery.
Who should not be jubilant at the existence of
that mercy of limitation which places the
horizon at the end of the Statesman's nose, and
an adamantean wall round the retina of the
judge's eye; which can make them both forget
in the absorption of the Irish barrack-
master's dismissal, the patent umbrella, the
bad sixpence, Barry's kick, the bad joke, and
the clap-trap sentiment, how old and feeble
they both are; how swiftly and steadily the
sands are running through the glass; in
how short a space of time they must be
brought to death, "and to the house appointed
to all living."

In Hoc Momenta pulsat Æternitas—(In this
moment throbs Eternity.) But what a world
of unceasing misery and lamentation, of
impenetrable gloom and hopeless despair, this
world would be if the business, the happiness,
the hope or fear of the Moment were not
permitted to avert our eyes from the
momentarily progressing dial and its mortuary
inscription. If all our yesterdays were but
to be considered as candles that have

                                     "lighted fools
         The way to dusty death,"

Each blessed morrow would be but as one
guiding us still further graveward; the years
would be but as milestones on the high road
to the House of Death. Such milestones we
know them to be; but thank God there are
pleasant prospects on the way, and green
glades and sunny spots. We may stop and
rest—we may beguile the journey with innocent
mirth; there are way-side inns for
refreshment, and pleasant cuts and bridle-
paths; we must make the journey, and come
to our bourne at last; but which is better?
—To march along cheerfully, with a brave
heart, and a stout walking-stick, singing a
merry song at times; going a little out of
our way down a green lane to visit a mossy
ruin or a snug cottage; tarrying if needs be,
to help the ox out of the pit, and the lame
dog over the stile; to carry the milkmaid's
pails, yea, and to keep company with her
through the journey, for better for worse,
if she be as good as comely; to pull the
wounded man out of the ditch, and bind up
his wounds and carry him to the next inn
and leave two pence for him there; to sit,
now and again on a green knoll to take a
sketch of the glorious landscape; to halt,
when hungry and weary by a bubbling brook,
to bathe the swollen feet, and kindle the
crackling branches beneath the iron pot:
yea, and to see that the stew be well
concocted, and that there be good fellows to eat
it, and that our brother in rags be not
forgotten in respect of the bones and fragments,
—I say, which is better,—this manner of
journeying, or that adopted by brother
Dolorosus, the brother with the sour face, and
the hair shirt, and the girdle with spikes in
it, who toils along barefoot, looking neither
to the right nor to the left, choosing the
hardest part of the road where the shards
and shingles are, and seeing nothing but
misery and grief in every possible and
impossible direction? Brother Dolorosus you
may brag lugubriously that you read "In hoc
momento " on the dial oftener than we do, and
have the inscription in your eye, and mind
unceasingly; but in your constant
remembrance is there not some leaven of the vanity
of the Pharisee of old; and have not you,
and have not I, and has not every one,
business to do here, here, here— the business