started; afterwards a frog, and other objects; and when we reach the
end of our excursion, if we mistake not, it will be confessed that the
moon has created more merriment, more marvel, and more mystery,
than all of the other orbs taken together.

But before we forget the fair moon in the society of its famous man,
let us soothe our spirits in sweet oblivion of discussions and
dissertations, while we survey its argentine glories with poetic
rapture. Like Shelley, we are all in love with

"That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon." (_The Cloud_.)

Our little loves, who take the lowest seats in the domestic
synagogue, if they cannot have the moon by crying for it, will rush
out, when they ought to be in bed, and chant,

"Boys and girls come out to play,
The moon doth shine as bright as day."

The young ladies of the family, without a tincture of affectation,
will languish as they gaze on the lovely Luna. Not, as a grumpy,
grisly old bear of a bachelor once said, "Because there's a man in
it!" No; the precious pets are fond of moonlight rather because they
are the daughters of Eve. They are in sympathy with all that is
bright and beautiful in the heavens above, and in the earth beneath;
and it has even been suspected that the only reason why they ever
assume that invisible round-about called crinoline is that, like the
moon, they may move in a circle. Our greatest men, likewise, are
susceptible to Luna's blandishments. In proof of this we may
produce a story told by Mark Lemon, at one time the able editor of
Punch. By the way, an irrepressible propensity to play upon words
has reminded some one that punch is always improved by the
essence of lemon. But this we leave to the bibulous, and go on with
the story. Lord Brougham, speaking of the salary attached to a new
judgeship, said it was all moonshine. Lord Lyndhurst, in his dry and
waggish way, remarked, "May be so, my Lord Harry; but I have a
strong notion that, moonshine though it be, you would like to see
the _first quarter_ of it." [3] That Hibernian was a discriminating
admirer of the moon who said that the sun was a coward, because he
always went away as soon as it began to grow dark, and never came
back till it was light again; while the blessed moon stayed with us
through the forsaken night. And now, feeling refreshed with these
exhilarating meditations, we, for awhile, leave this lovable orb to
those astronomic