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head was crowned with glory, because it was found in the way of righteousness.1 In one's ever narrow ing circle of friends, these old associates are sorely missed, sed scripts litera manent.

P1pe and Pouch. — "Pipe and Pouch, the Smoker's own Book of Poetry," is the title of a very dainty little volume, compiled by Joseph Knight, of Boston, and published by his company. Doubtless it will appeal to most lawyers, for we take it that most lawyers smoke. We hope that few of them chew. Three of Lowell's poems, and one by Aldrich and one by Lamb, are in the book, and almost all the rest are characterized by humorous or pathetic merit. There are few names of lawyers among the authors. Those which we recall are Daniel Webster and Judge Finch of New York. Brander Matthews, was educated to the law. Mr. Knight, in the pref ace, says that Newton was smoking in his garden when the historic apple fell. But it did not fall. The story is probably as baseless as the earlier one of the apple in Eden. We do not know where Mr. Knight gets his authority for classing Napoleon among the smokers. He made a good deal of smoke in his time, but we have never heard that it was from tobacco. He snuffed. Mr. Knight further says that "while nearly all the poems here gathered together were written and perhaps could only have been written, by smokers, several among the best are the work of authors who never use the weed, one by a man, two or three by women.'1 That phrase, " two or three," is a safe one, for while the presumptions are in favor of Eva Wilder McGlasson and Kate A. Carrington, and are almost conclusive as to mother Amelia E. Barr, yet we gravely fear that the pale poetess of passion, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, is perfectly honest in singing, " I like cigars." Mr. Knight does not specify the man in question, but we know him, and it is quite safe to say that his poem displays more imagination than any of those by the smokers. It was to this man that the late Judge Neilson, of 1 In the Judge's house hangs a portrait of Mrs. Cleveland inscribed in affectionate terms in her own hand. The Judge, who sometimes " dropped into poetry,'' apostrophized it as follows : — "Hads't thou appeared with those entrancing eyes On Ida's mount, beside the sacred three, Whose charms contended for the golden prize, Paris had Venus passed and fled to thee, To crown thee queen of beauty, love and purity." Enclosing us the verses he thus commented on them : " When 1 wrote the verses, I wrote, * To crown,' but now on reading it, I think it would have been better if I had written. 'To hail' or ' And hailed.' Had the golden apple been a wreath or crown, 1t might have been better. Possibly at the writing I was thinking of the manner the darkies carry apples, squashes, potatoes, etc, on their heads. But you know ' Homer sometimes nods.'"

Brooklyn, once offered a cigar, which was declined with the explanation that he never smoked. "What! did you never smoke?" said the Judge. "Never." "Well, that is one of the best things you never did," replied the genial wit. The Chairman has so much respect for this non-smoker that he reproduces his poem below : — THE SMOKE-TRAVELER. When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish girl, — Mantilla, fan, coquettish curl, Languid airs and dimpled face, Calculating, fatal grace; Hear a twittering serenade Under lofty balcony played; Queen at bull-fight, naught she cares What her agile lover dares; She can love and quick forget. Let me but my meerschaum light, I behold a bearded man, Built upon capacious plan, Sabre-slashed in war or duel, GrulT of aspect, but not cruel, Metaphysically muddled, With strong beer a little fuddled, Slow in love and deep in books, More sentimental than he looks, Swears new friendships every night. Let me my chibouk enkindle, — In a tent I'm quick set down With a Bedouin lean and brown, Plotting gain of merchandise, Or perchance of robber prize; Clumsy camel load upheaving, Woman deftly carpet weaving, Meal of dates and bread and salt, While in azure heavenly vault Throbbing stars begin to dwindle. Glowing coal in clay dudheen Carries me to sweet Killarney, Pull of hypocritic blarney, — Huts with babies, pigs and hens Mixed together, bogs and fens, Shillalahs, praties, usquebaugh, Tenants defying hated law, Pair blue eyes with lashes black, Eyes black and blue from cudgel-thwack, — So fair, so foul is Erin green. My nargileh once inflamed, Quick appears a Turk with turban, Girt with guards in palace urban, Or in house by summer sea, Slave-girls dancing languidly, Bow-string, sack, and bastinado, Black boats darting in the shadow; I^et things happen as they please, Whether well or ill at ease, Fate alone is blessed or blamed.