IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. At Chester, in the beginning of the year 1790, a reputable farmer, on the evening of a market-day, called at the shop of Mr. Poole, bookseller, and, desiring to speak with him at the door, put a shilling into his hand, telling him, “he had owed it to him many years.” The latter asked, for what? To which the farmer replied, that “When a boy, in buying a book-almanac at his shop, he had stolen another--the reflection of which had frequently given him much uneasiness.” If any one who sees this ever wronged his neighbour, let him be encouraged by the courage of the farmer of Chester, to make reparation in like manner, and so make clean his conscience. * * * * * CONSCIENCE. ----------There is no power in holy men, Nor charm in prayer--nor purifying form Of penitence--nor outward look--nor fast-- Nor agony--nor, greater than all these, The innate tortures of that deep despair, Which is remorse without the fear of hell. But all in all sufficient to itself Would make a hell of heaven--can exorcise From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge Upon itself; there is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self-condemn’d He deals on his own soul. _Byron._ * * * * * EPITAPH BY DR. LOWTH, late bishop of London, on a monument in the church of Cudesden, Oxfordshire, to the memory of his daughter, translated from the Latin:-- Dear as thou didst in modest worth excel, More dear than in a daughter’s name--farewell! Farewell, dear Mary--but the hour is nigh When, if I’m worthy, we shall meet on high: Then shall I say, triumphant from the tomb, “Come, to thy father’s arms, dear Mary, come!” * * * * * INSCRIPTION From the book at Rigi, in Switzerland. Nine weary up-hill miles we sped The setting sun to see; Sulky and grim he went to bed. Sulky and grim went we. Seven sleepless hours we past, and then, The rising sun to see, Sulky and grim we rose again. Sulky and grim rose he. [41] Boaden’s Life of Mrs. Siddons. [Illustration: ~Antiquarian Hall,~ ALIAS ~Will. Will-be-so, of Lynn,~] A goose-herd in the fen-lands; next, he Be-doctor’d Norfolk cows; much vext, he Turn’d bookseller, and poetaster, And was a tolerable master Of title-pages, but his rhymes Were shocking, at the best of times. However, he was very honest, And now, poor fellow, he is--“_non est_.” * _For the Table Book._