are in the habit of terrifying the consciences of their hearers. This fact accounts for their sermons being as dry as a bone! The same humorous authority affirms, there are many thoughts like diamonds, that take much less time to find, than to polish when found. Old thoughts being frequently like old clothes, you put them away for a time, and they become apparently new by "brushing up."

A few years ago a very impressive sermon was delivered by a young man fresh from the seminary. After service a gentle man observed "Not every young man can think like that young man." It was one of Melville's masterly discourses, word for word!

A preacher of no remarkable powers undertook, not long since, to astound the congregation of a brother minister by a great sermon. It was Massilon's on the small number of the saved. Alas, he could not wield the power of Massilon, and the effort proved a failure.

Another instance of clerical delinquency was that of a printed discourse. It has been heralded to the world with no ordinary parade and display. But in glancing at it, evidences of other authorship were immediately detected-and on comparison it was found that every passage of any beauty or power was stolen. About one half of it, in language as well as idea, was found to be from Gilfillan's Bards of the Bible, and from Hamilton of London.

Even the Press sometimes makes unacknowledged appropriations of the productions of others. Not many months since, we accidentally noticed in a newspaper emanating from the 'far West,' a poem, entitled "The World;" the first stanza of which reads

"Talk who will of the world as a desert of thrall,
Yet there is a bloom on the waste;
Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall,
There are honey-drops, too, for the taste."

The authorship of the production, consisting of thirteen.

verses, would it be believed-was ascribed to a certain N. H Parker, to whose literary claims the discriminating editor thought proper to devote his rhetorical skill. The poem is to be found verbatim in Eliza Cook's poetical works.

An edition of Cicero de Senectute, with annotations, appeared in London about the time of Franklin's mission to that capital, as translated by himself, with his portrait annexed, when it is well-known he was incompetent to such a task. The translation was really made by Logan, who founded the Philadelphia Library. Another literary peccadillo should be recorded: we refer to his plagiarism upon Jeremy Taylor's beautiful parable against "Intolerance," which Franklin has incorporated verbatim into his works without the slightest acknowledgment; while even Lord Kaimes, in quoting the extract, gives credit for it to Franklin. It is as follows:

"And it came to pass after these things, that Abraham sat in the door of his tent, about the going down of the sun. And behold a man bent with age, coming from the way of the wilderness leaning on a staff: and Abraham rose, and met him, and said unto him, Turn in, I pray thee, and wash thy feet, and tarry all night: and thou shalt rise early in the morning and go on thy way.' And the man said, 'Nay, for I will abide under this tree.' But Abraham pressed him greatly; so he turned and went into the tent, and Abraham baked unleavened bread, and they did eat. And when Abraham saw that the man blesssed not God, he said unto him, 'Wherefore dost thou not worship the most high God, creator of heaven and earth?' And the man answered and said, 'I do not worship thy God, neither do I call upon his name; for I have made to myself a god, which abideth always in mine house, and provideth me with all things.' And Abraham's zeal was kindled against the man, and he arose, and fell upon the man, and drove him forth with blows into the wilderness. And God called unto Abraham, saying, 'Abraham, where is the stranger?' And Abraham answered and said, 'Lord, he would not worship thee, neither would he call upon thy name, therefore have I driven him out from before my face into the wilderness;' and God said, 'Have I borne with him these hundred and ninety and eight years, and nourished him, and clothed him, notwithstanding his rebellion against me; and couldst not thou, who art thyself a sinner, bear with him one night?'"

Having thus taken a brief glance at prominent cases of literary fraud, we are tempted to inquire whether there is such a thing in existence as absolute moral honesty. The earliest indications of childhood afford us no very conclusive evidence in its behalf, however guileless the incipient knavery, while among the unsophisticated rangers of the forest, similar developments of a natural law of secretiveness are no less observable. The governing impulse of the robber seems but the exuberant outgrowth of the very principle, otherwise known by the less objectionable epithet-covetousness; and we cannot but conclude that he must be an ingenious sophist who can adduce any substantial reasons against their positive identity. If, then, they are convertible terms, it is solely to our conventional usage we must ascribe the fact, that both are not alike visited by penal enactment. How far such a course may conflict with our notions of abstract justice, we leave the reader to decide, since to both we admit an eager, if not an equal, proclivity.

"In the crowd,

May it please your excellency, your thief looks
Exactly like the rest, or rather better;

'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon,

That wise men know your felon by his features."

VERY few wills are executed without a codicil, so that it may not be inadmissible to offer a little dish of trifles after our Salad. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true, as Shakspeare has it, that a good play needs no epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and good plays do prove the better by the help of good epilogues. Not unfrequently the after-thought which suggests the postscript contains the most important item of the whole epistle and although this may not be the case in the present instance, yet our pen seems reluctant to resign its office without a few words supplementary-a brief tête-à-tête with our excellent friends who have shared our literary repast. Patroclus is said to have been famous for his "Olla Podrida"-in our emulation of the classic hero, we stake our reputation upon Salad. Our preference has been confirmed, moreover, by the brilliant success of a more recent artiste in the same department of culinary skill-the chevalier D'Aubigné, the story of whose career is too curious to be passed over. "Latour D'Aubigné contrived to live, as many French gentleman did at the time of the French Revolution, in bitter poverty, without a sacrifice of dignity. He had one day been invited by an English friend to dine with the latter at a tavern. In the course of the repast,

he took upon himself to mix the salad; and the way in which he did this attracted the notice of all the guests. Previous to this period, lettuces were commonly eaten, by tavern frequenters at least, au naturel, with no more dressing than Nebuchadnezzar had to his grass when he dieted daily among the beasts. Consequently, when D'Aubigné handled the preparation for which he had asked, like a chemist concocting elixir in his laboratory, the guests were lost in admiration, for the refreshing aroma of a Mayonnaise was warrant to their senses that the French knight had discovered for them a new pleasure. One of them approached the foreign magician, and said, 'Sir, it is universally known that your nation excels all others in the making a salad. Would it be too great a liberty to ask you to do us the favor to mix one for the party at my table? The courteous Frenchman smiled, was flattered, performed the office asked, and put four gentlemen in a state of uncontrollable ecstacy. He had talked cheerfully, as he mixed gracefully and scientifically, and, in the few minutes required by him to complete his work of enchantment, he contrived to explain his position as emigrant, and his dependance on the pecuniary aid afforded by the English Government. The guests did not let the poor Chevalier depart without slipping into his hand a golden fee, which he received with as little embarrassment, and as much dignity as though he had been the Physician De Portal, taking an honorarium from the hands of the Cardinal de Rohan.

He had communicated his address, and he, perhaps, was not very much surprised when, a few days after, he received a letter in which he was politely requested to repair to a house in Grosvenor square, for the purpose of mixing a salad for a din.ner-party there to be given. D'Aubigné obeyed the summons; and, after performing his mission, returned home richer by a five-pound note than when he went out.

Henceforth he became the 'fashiouable salad-maker;' and ladies 'died' for his salads, as they do now for Constantine's