, you undertake a very difficult thing. For
though men are moved best by apt illustrations from the things familiar
to them, _un_apt illustrations most surely disgust them.

But if you earnestly desire it, we know of but one certain course,
which is best explained in a brief anecdote. An English gentleman, who
was in all the agonies of a rough and tedious passage from Folkestone
to Boulogne, was especially irritated by the aggravating nonchalance of
a fellow-passenger, who perpetrated all manner of bilious feats, in
eating, drinking, and smoking, unharmed. English reserve and the agony
of sea-sickness long contended in Sir John's breast. At last the latter
conquered, and, leaning from the window of his travelling-carriage,
which was securely lashed to the forward deck of the steamer, he
exclaimed,--"I say, d'ye know, I'd give a guinea to know your secret
for keeping well in this infernal Channel." The traveller solemnly
extended one hand for the money, and, as it dropped into his palm, with
the other shaded his mouth, that no portion of the oracle might fall on
unpaid-for ears, and whispered,--"Hark ye, brother, GO TO SEA TWENTY
YEARS, AS I HAVE."

THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME.

"And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges."--TWELFTH
NIGHT.

My friend Jameson, the lawyer, has frequently whiled away an evening in
relating incidents which occurred in his practice during his residence
in a Western State. On one occasion he gave a sketch of a criminal
trial in which he was employed as counsel; the story, as developed in
court and completed by one of the parties subsequently, made so
indelible an impression on my mind that I am constrained to write down
its leading features. At the same time, I must say, that, if I had
heard it without a voucher for its authenticity, I should have regarded
it as the most improbable of fictions. But the observing reader will
remember that remarkable coincidences, and the signal triumph of the
right, called poetical justice, are sometimes seen in actual life as
well as in novels.

The tale must begin in Saxony. Carl Proch was an honest farmer, who
tilled a small tract of crown land and thereby supported his aged
mother. Faithful to his duties, he had never a thought of discontent,
but was willing to plod on in the way his father had gone before him.
Filial affection, however, did not so far engross him as to prevent his
casting admiring glances on the lovely Katrine, daughter of