her son, Henry, second Earl of Darlington, the father of the present Marquess of Cleveland, became one of the representatives of that family. It is an extraordinary fact, that the attainder of the celebrated Sir Henry Vane should never have been reversed, though his son was created a Baron, his great-grandson a Viscount and Earl, and his great-great-great-grandson a Marquess. The only individual on whom the title of Cleveland has been conferred, besides Barbara Villiers and her descendants, was Thomas, fourth Lord Wentworth, who was created Earl of Cleveland in February, 1626; but it became extinct on his death, S.P.M., in 1667.
A dirty dog is a nuisance not to be borne. But here the question arises,—who—what—is a dirty dog? Now there are men (no women) naturally—necessarily—dirty. They are not dirty by chance or accident—say twice or thrice per diem—but they are always dirty—at all times and in all places—and never and nowhere more disgustingly so than when figged out for going to church. It is in the skin—in the blood—in the flesh—and in the bone—that with such the disease of dirt more especially lies. We beg pardon, no less in the hair. Now such persons do not know that they are dirty—that they are unclean beasts. On the contrary, they often think themselves pinks of purity—incarnations of carnations—impersonations of moss-roses—the spiritual essences of lilies, "imparadised in form of that sweet flesh." Now, were such persons to change their linen every half hour night and day, that is, were they to put on forty-eight clean shirts in the twenty-four hours,—and it would not be reasonable, perhaps, to demand more of them,—yet though we cheerfully grant that one and all of the shirts would be dirty, we as sulkily deny that at any given moment from sunrise to sunset, and over again, the wearer would be clean. He would be just every whit and bit as dirty as if he had known but one single shirt all his life—and firmly believed his to be the only shirt in the universe.
Men, again, on the other hand, there are—and, thank God, in great numbers—who are naturally so clean, that we defy you to make them bonâ fide dirty. You may as well drive down a duck into a dirty puddle, and expect lasting stains on its pretty plumage. Pope says the same thing of swans—that is, poets—when speaking of Aaron Hill diving into the ditch—
"He bears no tokens of the sabler streams,
But soars far off among the swans of Thames."
Pleasant people of this kind of constitution you see going about of a morning rather in dishabille—hair uncombed haply—face and hands even unwashed—and shirt with a somewhat day-before-yesterdayish hue. Yet are they, so far from being dirty, at once felt, seen, and smelt, to be among the very cleanest of his majesty's subjects. The moment you shake hands with them, you feel in the firm flesh of palm and finger that their heart's blood circulates purely and freely from the point of the highest hair on the apex of the pericranium, to the edge of the nail on the large toe of the right foot. Their eyes are as clean as unclouded skies—the apples on their cheeks are like those on the tree—what need, in either case, of rubbing off dust or dew with a towel? What though, from sleeping without a night-cap, their hair may be a little toosey? It is not dim—dull—oily—like half-withered sea-weeds! It will soon comb itself with the fingers of the west wind—that tent-like tree its toilette—its mirror that pool of the clear-flowing Tweed.
Irishmen are generally sweet—at least in their own green isle.—So are Scotchmen. Whereas, blindfolded, take a cockney's hand, immediately after it has been washed and scented, and put it to your nose—and you will begin to be apprehensive that some practical wit has substituted in lieu of the sonnet-scribbling bunch of little fetid fives, the body of some chicken-butcher of a weasel, that died of the plague. We have seen as much of what is most ignorantly and malignantly denominated dirt—one week's earth—washed off the feet of a pretty young girl on a Saturday night, at a single sitting, in the little rivulet that runs almost round about her father's hut, as would have served a cockney to raise his mignionette in, or his crop of cresses. How beautifully glowed the crimson-snow of the singing creature's new-washed feet!
It will be seen, from these hurried remarks, that there is more truth than Dr. Kitchiner was aware of in his apophthegm—that a clean skin may be regarded as next in efficacy to a clear conscience. But the doctor had but a very imperfect notion of the meaning of the words—clean skin—his observation being not even skin-deep. A wash-hand basin—a bit of soap—and a coarse towel—he thought would give a cockney on Ludgate-hill a clean skin—just as many good people think that a Bible, a prayer-book, and a long sermon can give a clear conscience to a criminal in Newgate. The cause of the evil, in both cases, lies too deep for tears. Millions of men and women pass through nature to eternity clean-skinned and pious—with slight expense either in soap or sermons; while millions more, with much week-day bodily scrubbing, and much Sabbath spiritual sanctification, are held in bad odour here, while they live, by those who happen to sit near them, and finally go out like the snuff of a candle.—Blackwoods Magazine.
A short time since a soi-disant doctor sold water of the pool of Bethesda, which was to cure all complaints, if taken at the time when the angel visited the parent spring, on which occasion the doctor's bottled water manifested, he said, its sympathy with its fount by its perturbation. Hundreds purchased the Bethesda-water, and watched for the commotion and the consequence, with the result to be expected. At last one, less patient than the rest, went to the doctor, and complained that though he had kept his eye constantly on the water for a whole year, he had never yet discovered anything like the signs of an angel in his bottle.
"That's extremely strange," exclaimed the doctor. "What sized bottle did you buy, sir?"
Patient.—"A half-guinea-one, doctor."
Doctor.—"Oh, that accounts for it. The half-guinea bottles contain so small a quantity of the invaluable Bethesda-water, that the agitation is scarcely perceptible; but if you buy a five-guinea bottle, and watch it well, you will in due season see the commotion quite plain, sympathizing with that of the pool when visited by the angel."
The patient bought the five guinea bottle as advised, and kept a sharp look out for the angel till the day of his death.
HANGING BY DESIRE.
Some few years ago, two fellows were observed by a patrol sitting on a lamp-post in the New Road, and on closely watching them, he discovered that one was tying up the other (who offered no resistance) by the neck. The patrol interfered, to prevent such a strange kind of murder, and was assailed by both, and pretty considerably beaten for his good offices. The watchmen, however, poured in, and the parties were secured. On examination the next morning, it appeared that the men had been gambling; that one had lost all his money to the other, and had at last proposed to stake his clothes. The winner demurred; observing, that he could not strip his adversary naked, in the event of his losing. "Oh," replied the other, "do not give yourself any uneasiness about that. If I lose, I shall be unable to live, and you shall hang me, and take my clothes after I am dead; as I shall then, you know, have no occasion for them." The proposed arrangement was assented to; and the fellow, having lost, was quietly submitting to the terms of the treaty, when he was interrupted by the patrol, whose