THE PLANETARY AND TERRESTRIAL WORLDS.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

In

[Joseph Addison was the son of an English dean; he was born in Wiltshire, in 1672. Educated at Oxford, he soon distinguished himself by his Latin poetry, and, in his twenty-second year, published his first English verse. 1713 his tragedy of "Cato" was brought upon the stage, but his place in literature is among the first of British essayists. In conjunction with Sir Richard Steele he published "The Spectator," and it is admitted on all sides that to him "we are indebted for the formation of a pure English style." Addison had official employment, from which he retired on a pension of 15001. a year. He married the Dowager Countess of Warwick, but it has been said "married discord in a noble wife." He died in Holland House, Kensington, 1719.] To us, who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far the most extensive orb that our eyes can anywhere behold: it is also clothed with verdure, distinguished by trees, and adorned with a variety of beautiful decorations; whereas, to a spectator, placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform aspect, looks all luminous, and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell at still greater distances it entirely disappears. That which we call alternately the morning and the evening star-as, in one part of the orbit, she rides foremost in the procession of night; in the other, ushers in and anticipates the dawn-is a planetary world; which, with those others that so wonderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves dark bodies, and shine only by reflection; have fields, and seas, and skies of their own; are furnished with all accommodations for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes of intellectual life: all which together with our earthly habitation, are dependent on that grand dispenser of divine munificence, the sun; receive their light from the distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency.

The sun, which seems to perform its daily stages through the sky, is, in this respect, fixed and immovable: it is the great axle of heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, and other more spacious orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun, though seemingly smaller than the dial it illuminates, is abundantly larger than this whole earth, on which so many lofty mountains rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line extending from side to side through the centre of that resplendent orb, would measure more than eight hundred thousand miles: a girdle formed to go round its circumference, would require a length of millions. Were its solid contents to be estimated, the account would overwhelm our understanding, and be almost beyond the power of language to express. Are we startled at these reports of philosophy? Are we ready to cry out, in a transport of surprise, "How mighty is the Being who kindled such a prodigious fire; and keeps alive from age to age such an enormous mass of flame!" Let us attend our philosophic guides, and we shall be brought acquainted with speculations more enlarged and more inflaming.

This sun, with all its attendant planets, is but a very little part of the grand machine of the universe: every star, though in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a lady's ring, is really a vast globe, like the sun in size and in glory; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant source of day. So that every star is not barely a world, but the centre of a magnificent system; has a retinue of worlds, irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive influence; all which are lost to our sight, in immeasurable wilds of ether. That the stars appear like so many diminutive and scarcely-distinguishable points, is owing to their immense and inconceivable distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it is; since a ball shot from the loaded cannon, and flying with unabated rapidity, must travel, at this impetuous rate, almost seven hundred thousand years, before it could reach the nearest of these twinkling luminaries!

While, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own extreme meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of all terrestrial things. What is the earth with all her ostentatious scenes, compared with this astonishingly grand furniture of the skies? What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe! It is observed by a very judicious writer, that, if the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, were extinguished, and all the host of planetary worlds which move about him were annihilated, they would not be missed by an eye that can take in the whole compass of nature, any more than a grain of sand upon the sea shore. The bulk of which they consist, and the space which they occupy, are so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole that their loss would scarcely leave a blank in the immensity of God's works. If then, not our globe only, but this whole system, be so very diminutive, what is a kingdom or a country? What are a few lordships, or the so-much-admired patrimonies of those who are styled wealthy? When I measure them with my own little pittance, they swell into proud and bloated dimensions; but when I take the universe for my standard, how scanty is their size! how contemptible their figure! They shrink into pompous nothings.

THE CLOWN OUT OF SERVICE.

ALLAN LAIDLAW.

[Mr. Laidlaw, whose character-sketches are excellent, cherishes the argument that in realistic recitations terse prose is more artistic, because truer to the nature of the character represented than verse, in which the native pathos of the narrative is apt to be imperilled by the inevitable jingle of rhymes.]

"Yes, sir, you're right; I am out o' service, reg'lar broken down; but matters might have been worse than they are. There's many got more cause to grumble than I have, sir. What'll I take sir? Well, thank ye, sir, my weakness is warm whisky and

Thank'ee, sir,

water, with a lump o' sugar and a slice o' lemon. with your leave, I will take a pipe. Ah, a wonderful soothing thing, bacca, sir; many's the time a pipe of it has served me for a dinner and supper. Want me to tell ye some anecdotes of my life? Well, sir, I'm willing; but s'cuse me, sir, are you a lit'rary chap? Lord bless my soul, sir, the numbers of times I've been asked for anecdotes o' my life, any one 'ud think I was some remarkable pussunage, instead of only a poor broken-down clown.

Beg pardon, sir; but you authors seem to take a lot o' trouble, and spend a lot o' money in treats, looking out for subjects. Ah, sir, I've broken down afore my time. I ain't used up with long running; it's grief and hard times has done it, likewise a bad attack of asthma. Terrible short o' wind I am at times. Bless ye I could no more jump through a "flat" now than I could fly.

Well, sir, I'm sure I'm very pleased to tell you something about my life. I've had many ups and downs and hardships; for in our profession there's plenty of 'em. There's one very painful part o' my history, that somehow or other I have a melancholy pleasure in lingering over. You shall hear the story, sir; may be it 'll serve to show that theatrical life ain't the life that some parties think it is.

I was engaged for a long time at a flourishing provincial theatre. I had a hard time of it then, for my wife was took bad, and was near her first confinement as well. She was a terrible charge on me at times, though she loved me well and so did I her. Bless you, I never let her see she was a bit pulling me back; but I found it out arterwards. You see, she wasn't a professional-she was a pretty, amiable creature; but she was a simple country girl. I often think I did very wrong to marry her, for I could'nt keep her comfortable with my poor earnings, and I led her as hard a life as I led myself. Business was very bad too, just then. The best days for our line o' business are gone by now, I think. A pantomimist now wants more eddication in dancing, and gets a better position in the "opening" part. I was never much of an hand at dancing, myself, beyond the hornpipe, double shuffles, or a breakdown.

But, however, at the time I speak of, we were a strong company, and were doing well; business was good, and the manager was a kind, nice-spoken man-none o' your loud-voiced, cock-o'-the-walk sort-and we were always paid regularly up to time. Taken altogether he was about the best I ever served under.

We went on smoothly for four weeks, and I was beginning to get a little more light at heart, though I spent my money as soon as I'd earned it, and my wife was still very ill.

Well, one day, about the middle of the fifth week, my wife was took much worse, and became very ill indeed. I was in a terrible

state, for the heaviness of my heart brought a painful reaction after the excitement of my business. Ah! little do the public think what pains and griefs sometimes lie in the hearts of those who are amusing them.

Well, that night I was almost floored; but I couldn't give in, I must do my turn, there was no one to take my place; so I had to go and crack my poor jokes, and jump about and dance in the theatre, while there at home was my poor wife dying.

I felt terrible low when I passed the stage door. The managerGod bless him-came up to me and said a few kind words, and several of the corps came and pressed my hand in sympathy. But there was a girl whose good deed I shall never forget. She was one of the extras," and that night she came up to me in one of the wings where I was standing, and says she:

"I'm only on two turns, and I'm not wanted after the fifth scene in the opening; as soon as I'm done I'll go to your home and nurse your wife. I can help her better than the woman that keeps the house. You follow on quickly when you're finished."

I could not speak to her, so I only squeezed her hand; but after the fifth scene was "closed in" she suddenly appeared to me in her ordinary clothes.

"All right," says she. "I'm going now; keep your heart up; don't break down now; and follow as soon as you've done."

Well, sir, I barely rubbed the paint off my face, huddled my ordinary clothes on over my stage dress, and tore off through the streets home like mad. I entered the room quiet like, trying to stay my hard breathing. I took in at a glance what had happened during my absence. The landlady-good old soul-was a crying, and that kind girl was nursing the new-born child. My wife was conscious of my being in the room, somehow. I went to her call, and, almost fit to choke, I knelt by her side, took her hand and kissed it. 66 Joseph dear," says she, in a weak, trembling_voice. "I'm so glad you've come in time; I'm going to leave you, Joe. I know you have been the best of husbands; I know I could never have had a better, if a wealthier one. I'm ignorant and awkward, and only dragged you back; but I loved you dearly. You'll take care of the child, Joe. It's a girl. Cherish it for my sake, dear, and think of me sometimes. Kiss me now, Joe, before I go."

I couldn't speak, I could hardly breathe. I pressed her hand and kissed her feverish lips. Her mild blue eyes looked at me very, very soft and kind-I can see 'em now-and then of a sudden they came dull and vacant; and I knew that the spirit that loved me was gone. Thank'ee, sir, I will take another glass-to your good health and a merry Christmas to you. Well, sir, I manage very well. My daughter earns a good bit now. She's a beautiful dancer-splendid, sir. No, sir, only in the provinces as yet, sir; but she's a splendid dancer, sir. She'd hold her own easy in London, if she could only get an opening." You! a dramatic author! got influence! and you'll get her an engagement! Bless you, sir, bless you from my heart. The blessing of an old brokendown clown ain't much, I know, sir; but I do bless you. You've made my Christmas happy, sir; may you never know a sad one.”

66

(By permission of the Author.)

AT A WRONG LECTURE.

6

GEORGE Grossmith wrote the following account of his experience at one of his own lectures: "In Blankshire once I had the misfortune to incur the animosity of an eccentric lady. It was in one of those little country towns where they do not often have lectures, but where, oddly enough, whenever they have one, they are pretty certain to have two the same night; for, being about equally divided by religious differences, such is the neighbourly, friendly spirit in which all matters are conducted there that, whenever one side invites a lecturer down from London, the other section are sure to have one down on the same night in opposition. Now I was engaged to hold forth on the Sketches by Boz,' my rival in the opposition room behind on 'The Pilgrim's Progress.' The lady in question-elderly, very respectable, but not very intelligent-wandered from her peaceful home with the view of attending the latter; but she went to the wrong room, taking her place in the front, and, putting on the most solemn countenance it was ever my misfortune to behold, became a listener to my discourse on the writings of Dickens, and I am certain for the first twenty minutes did not discover the mistake she had made. But, alas! when I at length referred to my author's description of a country fair and the servantgirls out for the day, not allowed to have any followers at home, and now resolved to have 'em all at once,' the dear old soul gave a shriek of horror and said quite audibly, 'Oh, how shocking!' This exclamation was repeated when I described the fat old lady with the Jack-in-the-b ox, and three shies for a penny,' and I at last became somewhat unnerved. I tried not to look at the old lady; but there is nothing in creation more difficult than the effort not to look at a thing you don't want to. At length I approached with horror the author's description of a thimble-rig, knowing it would upset her. Here's a little game to make you wake up and laugh six months after you're dead, buried, and forgotten, and turn the hair of your head grey with delight. Here's three little thimbles and one little pea. Keep your eye on the pea, and never say die! Now there, with a one, two, three, and a three, two, one, &c.' This was quite enough. The old lady, mistaking me for the creature I was describing, and believing I was offering to bet with the company, uttered a shriek of horror, and left the room. 'Poor lady,' said I to the quiet old chairman, of course she's mad! But why did the committee let her in ?' 'No, sir,' said the president, 'that lady is not mad; she's my wife.' I apologised; but, much to my comfort, the chairman was not so much offended as I had supposed; for, addressing me again, he said, 'Never mind; you'd better get on with your lecture. She's more trouble to me than she is to you.""