Newspaper Page Text
Distrust.
A BRIEF TALE.
List and I will tell you a story of real life as
occurred in our very midst. The heroine of my
story lived many years in Mobile ; was a native.
1 think, of this place; at all events her lot in
life must early have been cast among us. Ma
ny in this Fair Room have taken her by the
hand ; for, at every hearth-stone she was a wel
come guest, rendered so by her brilliant man
ners, and engaging, lovely disposition. Every |
body loved Dora Hammer.-!v, for -lie loved every ;
body. She had been a widow nine years when
I first made her acquaintance, and a more lovely ;
woman in every point of view it has never been
my lot to meet with. 1 often wondered at her
perversity in remaining single, when 1 knew,
with the world, that she had it so largely in her
power not only to become an interesting wife,
but a most useful member of society. She al
ways parried my persuasions, by saying that she
dreaded the dominion of a step-father over her
only child, a sweet little girl of some ten sum
mers. I noticed at the timer despite her effort
to conceal it, that the poor woman was most im
measurably wretched. She was not in love,
for she was a woman of too firmly balanced a
mind ever to sit down and mope on an unrequited
passion. Her beautiful blameless life had been
passed among us, with the exception of the five
years of her married life, which she had spent
elsewhere. It was during a brief visit she paid
Mobile in 18—, while at her father’s house, she
heard of her husband’s death. 1 shall never for
get the shock it occasioned me, more for Dora’s
sake, whom 1 knew to he so ardently attached to
him. Time heals every wound, and 1 knew, in
the common course of things, she must have
long since ceased to grieve lor her husband’s
death. The announcement, at last, that she was
about to leave Mobile forever and settle in the
West, filled (he large circle of her friends with
the most unbounded astonishment. What! leave
the dear friends, where she had been so petted,
so caressed, for a home in a stranger land—far
from the scene of her childhood—well might we
wonder. I determined with mv husband’s per
mission, to ask an explanation for this strange
resolve. She was to perform her last pilgrim
age to the graves of her parents, who were in
terred in the old grave-vard, at head of Church
Street. Thither we went together, and after
sauntering through the old arena—anon stopping
to listen to the wind, as it swept in yEolian
strains through the overhanging gloomy pines
--we reached at last an old broken wall, and
bidding her sit down beside me, I took both
hands in mine and implored her, by my past
friendship and my present devotion to her inter
ests, to frankly tell me the cause of her unhappi
ness. “I am so glad you have touched upon this
subject,” she hesitatingly said, ‘ - for, oh, 1 know
that 1 would he so much happier if someone else
beside myself knew the terrible secret of my
past life.” Yes,” she jaid, “l will tell you all
without reservation ; hut we must enter into a
solemn compact first.” “Any thing in reason,
Dora, and which it is in my power to perform, I
will most willingly do.” “Will you promise not
to hate me?” she convulsively sobbed- “Will
you promise by the sacred dust of my parents,
that you will still love me as you have hitherto
done ?” “I will still continue to love you, Dora,
though you had committed murder, ‘['here now,
will that assurance satisfy you ?”
She kissed me affectionately and began the
.recital of her griefs. “Mind, you promise me
not to interrupt me,” she said. “You will re
member,” she continued, “that I was married
in early life to one whom I more than idolized,
-and went to Louisiana to live. It was during
the last months of the five years that I sojourned
in that State, that the seeds of my after unhappi
mess were sown. I was young, Emily, and was
•too prone-to put faith in all I saw and heard.—
It has only been through the last two years of
my close intimacy with you, that 1 have learned
what a good wile should be. Oh, Emily, Emi
ly, the precious pearls that I have cast from me,
and trampled in the dust, because 1 knew not
their value. Will you believe it. my friend, that
my husband is now alive and the father of a
large family in one of the West India Islands.
Ii was my own fault,” she continued, as I was
about to interrupt her; “1 listened to evil coun
sel, Emil), and learned to distrust my husband.
\es, I learned to distrus', and at last to hate (or
at least thought I did) that husband who had al
ways lavished on me every kindness. I never
quarreled with him. No; I was too innately
proud for that ; but 1 allowed myself to brood on
my silent growing hate, and, oh ! there is no feel
ing on this earth that so nigh warps the brain
to madness as the hate born of jealousy. You
Jknow my frank, open disposition, Emily. So 1
•went to him, and with my mouth in the dust,
asked fora separation. Oh, never did the poor
doomed-sacked victim ol the Bosphorus beg for
life, as I for the blessed privilege—of going from
his presence forever with our only child. He
tried to reason with me, but I was mad, Emily,
and have been mad since. I asked for nothing
but my child, and pleaded with an earnestness
which he saw it would he useless to resist So,
Emily, I will pass on to the announcement of my
widowhood. When I went forth to the world a
hypocrite in widow's weeds, my husband wrote
to me three times during the first year of our sep
aration, imploring me by every precious tie to
permit him even by stealth to look once more up
on the face of his child ; to every entreaty I re
turned a cold, stern, hard answer, and for all
this I have dearly bitten the dust since. The
years spod on which return no more, and mv
child began to expand into a loveliness which
was almost superhuman, (Strange a* it may up.
pear to you, 1 again learned to love my husband
through his child ; when she spoke to me it was !
with her lather’s voice, every lineament is his. i
and I so loved my child that 1 again loved mv
husband through her. Strange inconsistency [
you may call this, but it is nevertheless true. I
knew that he was alive, for regularly every year
I hate received a small provision for our main- j
tenance through unknown hands. This, with !
the little patrimony received from my father en
abled me to live above want—actually aflbrdiim !
many of the luxuries of life. You little know i
how I have yearned to look once more upon mv ■
husband’s face. Oh, Emily! I thought if I could j
but see him, all might he made up. I was pre
pared to humble myself in the very dust To be ta
ken to his heart mice more. I knew not where
to direct a letter to hirn, and like a poor condemn
ed criminal I dared not make open enquiry ; for
in the eyes of the world I was a widow and mv !
poor child, was an orphan. So well have I play, j
ed my part in hypocrisy, that no one lias ever ;
dreamed of my husband’s existence.
“1 believe that I knew, and loved yon too. for :
nearly four years—this brings me to a widow- j
hood ot thirteen years, 1 had almost outlived
the hope of ever seeing my husband, when about
three weeks since 1 received a small note from
him announcing that he was in Mobile, and j
most anxious to sec the child of his youth that
he would call on the evening of that day, as an
old triend of the family, promising under any
circumstances not to reveal himself to Ada.—
Oh J the hours of that day were so ‘leaden pa
ced.’ At last he came with < o clock. I part- ,
ed from my husband—a tall slight figure, with i
light blue eves, and dark curling hair—and I
shook hands with him after a lapse of thirteen
years—a perfect Indian in complexion—an en
larged robust figure—eyes somewhat darker,
and his hair, instead of grey, was as black as
night, lying in thick masses of large manly
crispy curls! Never would I have recognized
the husband of my youth in the fine looking mid
dle-aged man I presented my daughter as the
friend of her father. I had prepared her to re
ceive him affectionately, and the warm welcome
she extended, assuring him that any one who
had known her father should have the warmest
corner of her heart, was beyond conception
painful to both of us. They had a long and in
teresting conversation—he inquired about her
studies, and seemed pleased with the progress
she had made, making her promise (with my
permission) to correspond with him under the
assumed name of Dutislow. While in conver
sation with his child, 1 had written a few lines,
stating mv earnest recantation of my former er
rors, and earnestly asking for a reconciliation.
He was terribly agitated during the whole inter
view, and when I gave him rny note to read, the
strong man shook like an ague fit.
“He scanned it several times, walked the floor
in terrible agitation— looked at me once with
the concentrated agony of a life of human suf
fering—and approaching Ada gave her a minia
ture of himself, which he said she must keep
for her father’s sake a: well as his own—kissed
herseveral times,and bidding her farewell, ask
ed me to take a turn with him on the - tlcony.
■Dora,’ he said, as he nervously closed the
door, ‘years ago you passed the fiat of our sep
aration—you know how earnestly and hopelessly
l sued for terms—you turned a deaf ear and a
hard heart to all my solicitations—you were the
victim, I too well know, Dora, of a wicked con
spiracy ; had you hut listened to the counsel con
tained in the last letter I wrote you, twelve years
ago, all would have been well ; as it is, you sow
ed the seeds of your own unhappiness, by-dis
trusting your husband, and at best have reaped
i but Dead Sea fruit. I grieve for you—l grieve
more for my daughter who must go forth to the
world without a father’s proteeting arm. After
your utter rejection of all overtures on my part,
I went to the West Indies, obtained a divorce
from yourself and married a Spanish woman,
jw ho could not speak one word of English. By
my last marriage I have three children, all
daughters. You will hear often from me through
your child. God bless you, madam!’ “And
without even one kiss, Emily, my husband van
ished from my sight. One affectionate, kindly
c aress, Emily, would have been so little from hih,
and such a precious remembrance to me. May
be, this is w hat men call retribution !” Slowly
we pursued our way home waul, and I ceased to
wonder at those eccentricities in my friend,
which formed the comments of so many. Dora
IJammersly le't Mobile six years since, and set
tied in the West, lie r daughter, as everyone
tells me, is worthy her mother —has married
i well, and moves with her mother among the first
! women of the nation. Farewell, gentle reader;
; many thanks for your kindly attention ; may we
meet often on earth, and at last in heaven, is the
sincere prayer ol one who has tried to benefit
her sex by this simple narrative of real life.
[Cupid's Bow.
How he won Her.
We hope the moral of the following sketch
will he productive of much good. Young men
who are ambitious of success in the matrimonial
line, should study well the grand secret. Our
friend who furnished the sketch, says he sees no
reason why it should not he true :
A young lady of eccentric character, hut of
rare mental endowments and extraordinary per
j sonai attractions, had five suitors equally assidu
! ous in their attentions. Unable to decide upon
which she would bestow her hand, she gave
them notice to call upon her at a certain day,
and each state his claims in the presence of the
others. At the appointed time the lovers arrived.
Four of them were confident of success; hut
the fifth had a downcast look, and sighed when
he gazed on the object of his devotion.
“Gentlemen,” said she, “you have honored
me with proposals of marriage. I have, as yet,
neither refused nor accepted any one ofyou ; state
your claims to my hand, that 1 may know upon
what ground I may he justified in bestowing it.”
A. answered as follows: “If you marry me,
you shali live in a splendid house, have carriages
and servants at your command, and enjoy all the
luxuries of fashionable life. lam rich.”
B. spoke next: “My rival .has said very truly
that he is rich, and that he offers you a strong
inducement; but lamof a noble descent. My
grandfather was a duke, and although not weal
thy, I am of a family with whom an alliance
would be considered an honor to the wealthiest
heiress in the land,”
C. slated his claims : ‘‘l am a politician, and
have now a reputation that older persons have
envied. Next year I shall run for Congress, arid
have no doubt ot success. By marrying me
your name xviil he handed down to posterity.”
D. twisted his mustache with the air of an ex
quisite, and said: “Angelic creature! ’Pon my
word, l think you have already made up your
mind in my favor. You know how much lam
admired. Who is the most fashionably dressed
in town ? Who frequents the most fashionable
places? Who is a better judge of the opera?
Humor says D., but, ’pon my honor, I’m too mod
est to insist upon it.”
When it came to E.’s turn to speak there was
; a pause. Ail eyes were turned towards him.
’ Poor fellow, he was dreadfully embarrassed.
“Well,” said the beauty, “what say you Mr.
“Alas !” was the reply, “I yield to those gen
’ tlemen. ‘1 hey have the advantage of me in ev.
cry respect.” And he took up his hat to leave.
“Stop,” said the lady, “make your statement,
no matter how humble may be your claims.”
“I am poor —”
“Go on.”
“I am not of noble family—”
“Go on, sir.”
“I am unknown in the world—”
“No matter ; proceed.”
! “I have neither the taste nor the means to
dress fashionably. I work for my livelihood.
It is ffardlv possible that I can make you happy,
for I can afford none of the inducements held
out by my rivals.”
“1 am to judge of that, sir; what next?”
“Nothing, only l love you, and take a news
paper.”
At this, Messrs. A., 8., C., and D. burst out
in a loud laugh, and exclaimed in one voice, “So
do we ! I love you to distraction! I take four
newspapers, ha! ha!”
“Silence,” said the lady. “In one month you
shall have my answer. You may all withdraw.”
At the end of the month the hve suitors again
appeared. Turning to each one in succession
the lady answered :
“Riches are not productive of happiness.—
Boasted nobility ©f blood is the poorest of all
recommendations. Faroe i3 fleeting, and he
§2)53¥00 §IB 1 S> i KITT OKOi IL 0
that hath the garb of a gentleman is to be pitied.
I have found out the names of the papers to which
you all subscribe, and have ascertained that none
of you who have boasted of wealth, nobility, and
fame, or fashion, have paid the printer.—
Now, gentlemen, this is dishonest. I cannot
think ot marrying a man who would he guilty of
a dishonest act. I have learned that Mr. E.
not only subscribes for a paper, but pays the
printer. Therefore, I say, he is the man ; I give
him my hand with the full conviction that he is
the one every way calculated t© make me
happy.”
Need we extend our narrative? The disap
pointed gentlemen disappeared quite suddenly ;
and the lucky suitor was united to the object of
his devotion ; and in a few years, by honesty and
industry, became not only a distinguished hut a
wealthy man, and was esteemed by all. Young
man, he paid the printer. Is there no moral
in this ?
To my Little Daughter’s Shoes.
Two little, rough-woru, stubbed shoes,
A plump, well trodden pair,
W ith striped stockings thrust within,
Lie just beside my chair.
Os very homely fabric they,
A hole is in eacli toe,
They misfit have cost, when they were new,
Some fifty cents or so.
And yet, this little worn out pair,
Is richer far to me,
Than all the jeweled sandals are
Os Eastern luxury.
This mottled leather, cracked with use,
Is satin in my sight;
These little tarnished buttons shine
With all a diamond's light.
Search through the wardrobe of the world !
\ ou shall not find me there,
So rarely made, so rarely wrought,
So glorious a pair.
And why ? Because they tell of her,
Now sound asleep above,
Whose form is moving beauty, and
Whose heart is heating love.
They tell me of her merry laugh—
Her rich whole-hearted glee ;
Her gentleness, her innocence,
And infant purity.
They tell me that her wavering steps
Will long demand my aid ;
For the old road of human life
Is very roughly laid.
High hills and swift descents abound ;
And on so rude a way
Feet that can wear these coverings
Would surely go astray.
Sweet little girl, be mine the task
Thy feeble steps to tend ;
To be thy guide, thy counsellor,
Thy playmate and thy friend !
And when my steps shall faltering grow,
And thine be firm and strong,
1 hy strength shall lead my tottering age
In cheerful peace along.
i COTTON.
The London Economist and other well in
-1 formed English Journals maintain, that the hu
man family neewl lull 3,000,000 bales of Arneii
i can Cotton a year- I'o produce this crop, on
the land now under cultivation, some 9,000,000
acres must be ever under the action of the plow
and the hoe.
Whether the acres arc gradually improved, or
gradually made poor and poorer, is a matter of
importance to the cotton growing States. We
ask the reader to weigh well the fact, that these
States can never emigrate, let their natural fer
tility* he ever so much impaired. A wrong done
to them will tell disastrously on their children
now unborn. A generation soon passes away;
and as (rod gives fruitfulness to the earth, man
is bound to his race, never to leave an acre of
arable land less fertile than he found it. The
duty and the interest of (he planter, coincide in
urging him to husband the few elementary bodies
in his soil, which nature demands in making
good crops of cotton and grain. The needless
waste ol the raw material for forming bread,
meat and clothing—things of inestimable value,
which never come from nothing—is the error
i which we labor to correct. Such is the pro-
I gross of civilization, and such the increase of
i our species in the world, that it will soon demand
; five and perhaps ten millions of bales a year,
ot our great staple. Hence good cotton iands
will rapidly appreciate in value; and the reno
vation ot fields, in a cheap and economical man
ner, be regarded as an object worth investiga
ting. It is a subject upon which the writer has
bestowed no little thought; and if he remain!
long in Washington, an effort shall he made to j
illustrate his views in a practical way 7 . The re
is a great deal of meaning in the fact that 100
pounds of bird dung called “Guano,” are now
annually adding 400 pounds to the seeds of
wheat invested in England. Turn this fertili
zer over and over as you will, and there stands
recorded the unquestionable truth ffat one pound
of matter added to the soil, may give a gain .of j
four pounds of good bread at the harvest. Eng- j
land has more than doubled her crop of wheat
per acre ; and may we not hope to see the annual j
harvest of cotton, coin and wheat at the South j
also doubled ?'\lf science applied to agricul
ture, be so useful on the “pastern side of the At- i
lantic, is it fair advance, that it is j
worthless in the
laws of chemistyiffnd of vitality are the same in
America as in Europe. These must he studied !
and obeyed, before we can hope to grow large
and cheap crops, and at the same time improve
the land under cultivation. A planter should
have a pretty clear idea in his head how much
cotton, corn, or wheat, a cubic foot of his soil
really contains before he begins to extract from
it the things which make wheat, corn or cotton.
[Southern Cultivator .
Rice Waffles.—Warm a tea-cup and a half of
boiled rice with a pint of milk, mix it smooth, and
take it from the fire; then stir in a pint of cold milk
and a teaspoonful of salt; add four well beaten eggs,
! and gradually flour enough to make a thick batter.’
! Roiling Potatoes, —An Irish paper gives the
following directions lor rooking potatoes : Put them
in a pot or kettle without a lid, with water just suffi
cient lo cover them. After the water comes nearly
to a boil, pour it oIF, replace it with cold water, into
i which throw a good portion of salt. The cold water
I sends the heat from the surface to the heart and
j makes the potato mealy. After they are boiled and
! the water poured off, let them stand on the lire ten
or fifteen minutes to dry. .
Truth Beautifully Expressed.—The talented
editor of the Genesee Farmer, in the January n um
ber of his good book, truthfully and poetically ob
serves :
“Parents should teach their children to love and prac
tice gardening. It will learn them system and order,
patience and hope ; it will ge strength to the body
aitd mind ; it will improve the head and the heart.
It will teach them self-reliance—that success is the
reward of industry and perseverance, while failure is
the result ol negligence. It will teach them to
‘Look through Nature up to Nature’s God.’
“What affords pleasure like visiting the scene of
ouNchildhood, and there beholding, growing in majes
ty and pride, the trees we planted in our childish
glee ! What music so sweet as the shouting of the
tempest in their lofty tops !”
Death from a Tight Boot.—At New York, on
Monday morning, a man named Patrick Callaghan,
died in the City Hospital, from erysipelas, brought
on by wearing a tight boot.
‘•Alps Well that Ends Well.”
ROMANTIC MARRIAGE.
Every day’s experience tends to convince us of
the fact, that stranger things actually occur in
our transit life, than “are dreamt of in philoso
phy- How often is it that the spells which a
brilliant writer has for the moment cast around
us, are suddenly dissipated by our fancied con
viction—that the fiction, ingenious as it is, is ut
terly incompatible with probability? And yet
does not frequently something of a similar, per
haps even of a more extraordinary character,
come particulirly under our own knowledge,
which, had we read of in the pages of the novel
ist, we should not have credited ? That “truth
is oftentimes stranger than fiction” is generally
allowed, and that point being conceded, comes
the question, have we not at times done mani
fest injustice to the talents of many eminent
writers ?
The only charge alledged against the immor
tal Shakspeare is, that at times his mighty gen
ius drew too largely on his imagination. Yet
are these allegations correct ? Mow many of
his characters do we not see daily defore us ?
A singular incident recently occurred in
France, that reminds us somewhat ol Helena and
Bertram in his admirable comedy of “All’s well
that ends well,” although, perhaps, the lady in
our tale possesses a little more of the Lola Mon.
tez spirit than did the,heroine so beautifully por
trayed by the Bard of Avon ; but as we have al
ready, in these remarks, trespassed on the pa
tience. of our readers, we shall, without further
comments, proceed to relate it.
Mons. 1* , an old military officer—a man
of harsh and unbending character—had resolved
to marry his son to a daughter of one of his
brother officers. The young man fold formed
other prospects —had dreamed of another union ;
but, being of an exceedingly timid disposition,
dared not openly resist his father’s wishes. His
first words of dissent having been answered by
a torrent ol abuse on the part of the old gentle
man, poor Arthur permitted the month of be
; trothal to pass without further opposition ; whilst
his fiancee , Mil. L , mistook his sighs—his
melancholy—for proofs positive of his passion
fur her, and considered herself in duty bound to
adore him.
The wedding day having arrived, the fiances ,
with their attendants, presented themselves at
i the Mayoralty. Arthur was gloomy and rcserv.
! ed, and seemed to have his mind made up to
I some desperate resolve. The countenance of
| Emma was radiant with happiness.
1 he preliminaries having been duly arranged,
the Mayor of C (M. Morband) put to the
! groom the usual question, “Arthur P , will
you take, this woman, Emma C , for your
! wife ?” etc.
Arthur slowly raised his head, and in a trem
! bliug, yet clear, emphatic lone, answered—
j “No !”
Os course, then followed a scene, to the por-
I trnyal of which w e cannot hope to do justice.
, All was confusion. The party separated in dis
order—the relatives of the interested bride in
dignantly demanding an explanation of Mons.
,I’ , senior, who looked the picture of petrifi
! cation. As for Arthur, he had already escaped,
and started directly for Paris.
A few days subsequent to this extraordinary |
occurrence, a young girl was seen rapidly as
cending the stairs of a hotel garni in Rue St
j Honore. She had learned from the potter that
J Mons. Arthur P , arrived the preceding
! night. It was Emma C , come with her
father and intended father-in-law, in search of
the fugitive fiance, who had so cruelly insulted
her. But she was now- alone. She tapped at
the door of No. 17, and entered without waiting
for an answer. The young man was reclining S
in bed, reading a newspaper. Emma walked
straight to the lied side, and drawing from under
her shawl an immense horse-pistol, which i
doubtless she had procured from her father — i
“Sir, ’ said she to Arthur, her eyes flashing j
with anger, “you have grossly insulted me, and :
I demand reparation ! Refuse this reparation j
at the peril of your life ! Let us return at once i
to the Mayoralty of C , both in marriage 1
costume. \Y hen the customary question is put j
to you, you will answer * 17.s\’ and I w ill answer |
‘JVo,’ when my honor will be satisfied.”
Emma seconded hei persuasive eloquence by !
brandishing her pistol with both hands. It was |
a powerful argument. After all, she was light, \
or nearly so—at least such was Arthur’s opinion. J
He promised, and set out the same day with his i
father, who ground his teeth, during the journey, j
but uttered not a word. j
Finally, they presented themselves again at j
the Mayoralty, before the same Magistrate.— i
Arthur brarely answered “Yes,” as arranged, !
and prepared his countenance to express the pro- !
per degree of indignation when he should hear I
the reply of his betrothed.
The Mayor resumed—“ Emma C ,do you i
consent ?” etc. “Ye,?,” answered Emma, in the
most natural tone possible.
Mons. I* , senior, was delighted; he de
clared that this union commenced under such
auspices, would end like the fairy tales. And
they are now actually living together, as happy
as the days are long, thus practically demonstra
ting that All's icdi that ends well”
The Polished Boots—Or, the Rich Brussels
Carpet.
! A Thrilling Eleven Hundred and Twenty-Four
Dollar Prize Tale.
“<;o IT, BOOTS.” MILTON.
Sec ’em !
See those new boots standing quietly as a sum
mer’s cloud, upon the rich Brussels carpet!
Black as the night of doom, they sit quietly up
on the rich Brussels carpet. Ten thousand tem
pest clouds made up of lamp black, midnight and
little niggers, could not rival in darkness tho ? e
ryjw calf-skin boots, titling quietly upon the new
| Brussels carpet.
How still they arc !
j I.ike a black Berkshire pig, on some sum-
I mer’s day, half buried in mud, unstirred by the
j gentle gale, sit the boots upon the carpet.
Look again !
The sun, just sinking in the west like a huge
Orange county cheese. The splendiferously
golden curtains are unrolling around his evening
couch. The plough boy is preparing to turn out
his team, and the milk maid, as happy as a Peri
with anew bonnet, is about to milk the gentle
cows.
How beautiful!
The rich, golden sunshine peers in at the
raised window, and bathes in a flood of li<*ht
the room with the rich Brussels carpet,
How it lingers on the new calf-skin boots,
sitting so still !
N<t a sound is heard, yet how the hoots shine in
the golden sunshine! They glitter like a warrior’s
buckler, all scoured up. Like a negro’s heel in
a dark night, appear the boots, in°the golden
sunshine, upon tho rich Brussels carpet, at the
close of day.
The boots were paid for! That day they had
been purchased.
What ecstasy J
The first new pair of calf-skin boots Is
there a free born American citizen whose heart
does not throb at the mention of such things ?
Point him out, anu let him be branded as some
misanthropic wretch who entered upon the great
stage of life w-ith nothing but coarse cowhide
stogies to hide his homely feet.
Yet every rose lias its thorn. Every pleasure
has its pain. Every stick of candy has an end.
We remember well that as we looked upon those
new calf-skin boots, bathed in a flood of golden
sunshine and sitting quietly upon the rich Brus
sels carpet fust at the decline of day, that some
ill-fated offspring of a cow had been slain in
cold blood, his sleek, glossy skin cut from his
quivering flesh, and plunged into tan bark and
lime, while the bereaved mother was mourning
for the calf that should bleat no more or caper
around with his hind legs and tail in air.
Calves must die !
Whether upon two legs or lour, we solemnly
reiterate the truth, that calves must die. As we
thought of thee things, a tear came in the eye.
We brushed it away and turned boldly to the
future, as we looked upon the new boots, sitting
quietly upon the rich Brussels carpet.
A Smart ltoy.
“Well, sonny, whose pigs are these ?’’
“Old sow’s, sir.”
“Whose sow is it?”
“Our old man’s, sir.”
“Well, then, who is your old man ?”
“If you’ll mind the pigs, I’ll run home ami ax
the old woman.”
“Never mind, sonny, I want a smart hoy,what
can you do ?”
“Oh, I can do more than considerable. I
milk the geese, ride the turkeys to water, ham
string die grasshoppers, lights fires for flies to
court by, cuts the buttons oIV dad’s coat when
lie’s at prayers, keeps tally for dad and mam
when they scold at a mark—old woman is al
ways ahead.”
“Got any brothers ?”
“Lots of’em—all named Bill, except Bob, his
name’s Sam—my name’s Larry, but they call
me Lazy Lawrence for shortness.”
“Well, you’re most too smart for me.”
“Travel on, old stick-in-the-mud, I shan’t hire
you for a boss to-day.”
O’ “What is the matter with the tea this morning ?”
said a lady to a newly imported maid. “Is it thetas*
you mane, ma’am ? Sure an’ 1 thought the cot Fee an’
tay too wake intirely? !*<> I mixt ’em together to make
’em sthrong, me lady.”
“Were you present, and did you see the pris
oner at the bar strike Mr. Jones?” said an at
torney.
“lies, sir-ee ! I didn’t see nothing else; and
lie struck him a-purpose, too, for 1 seed him, I
did. I’m gwine to sware ali about it, too, for lie
tried to buy me off for a dollar and seventy-five
cents ; but I just told him old Joscy Rouse didn’t
swear to no lies for a dollar and seventy-five
cents, by a jug full, and if my edification wasn’t
woith two dollars, he might go to thunder and
I’d out the whole story and more too, if Jones
wanted it. Ugh! a dollar and seventy-five cents !
Old Josey Rouse ain’t bought up lor that
money!”
O” A gentleman of Paris, when he had considera
ble company to dine, would not l?t his son, about six
years of age, sit at the table with him, saying, “The
boy’s beard is too short.” The boy took a seat at a
side table, where a large cat tried to take away bis
food, when he exclaimed, “ Go and eat with my
father; your board is long enough.”
A Ijtf.rai.ist or a Joker. —We see a paragraph
going the rounds, to the effect that tiie Bishop of Ox
ford had sent round to the church-warden* of his
diocese a circular of inquiries, among which was:
“Does your officiating clergyman preach the gos
pel, and are Ilia conversation and carriage consistent
therewith ?”
The church-warden near Wallington replied :
“He preaches the gospel, but does not keep a car
riage.”
O’ “Do you see anything ridiculous about this
wig?” saida young gentleman t Curran. “Noth
ing,” said Cui ran, ‘but the head in it.”
O “Beautiful is the love, and sweet the kiss of a
sister.” Dobbs says that a kiss from a more distant
relative isn’t much worse to take.
Being Sure. —“ Look out, Patrick, and if von see
any rock ahead of tiie boat, let us know—keep a
sharp eye.” “Yes, your honor.” The next moment
bang goes the boat on a reef. “Yon blunderhead—
didn't i tell you to sing out when you saw a rock ?”
“Och plase, sure*. I wasn’t quite sure it was a rock J
saw—so 1 waited till we struck before 1 told ye 1”
IT “My name is Ben D ! I live at No.
Bo'.vry, I do. I ‘ keep a deppo there for buck-wheat
flour, apple-pass, eggs and butter. Ido business on
my own book, I do. I don't keep no clerks at a
thousand dollars a year, to eat up the profits, and
steal the rest, I don't. 1 keep my books in my head,
and my safe in my breeches pocket; sleep on the coun
ter o’ nights; and when Igo out in the morning and
put on iny hat, my house is shingled ; and when I’ve
had my breakfast, my family’s fed for half a day ; if
’taint, you can take my hat!”
A Dream.—“l once dreamed,” said Pat, “f was
with the Pope, and he axed me wud I drink ?
Thinks I, wud a duck swim ?—and seeing Innishow
en, and the lemons, and the sugar, on the sideboard, I
told him I didn’t care if l tuk a drap of punch.” “ Void
or hot V’ asked the Pope, “lint, yer holiness, and
be that, he stepped down into the kitchen for the
bilin* water, ami before he got hack, I woke strate
up, and now it’s distressing me that I didn’t lake it
could”
A son of the Emerald Isle, meeting a
countryman whose face was not familiar, after
saluting him most cordially, inquired his name.
“Walsh.” replied the gentleman. “Walsh—
Walsh,” said Paddy; “are ye from Dublin?
I know two ould maids of that name; is ait her
of them your mother /”
o^7” “How much will you charge me for a horse
aad carriage to-day ?” asked a well known iudi
vidua! of a stable keeper, on a day when horses
were in great demand. ‘ Four dollars,” respr.n
ded the other, and pointing to an antiquated frame
©fa quadruped at that. “Ah! my dear sir, you
must have misunderstood me; l wish to hire
the h orsc, not to buy him.”
if? hen a woman lospth her good name she
can’t get it back again. Such is precisely the case
with a dog made into sausages—he’s gone forever.
IT An Irishman received a challenge to fight a
duel, but declined. On being asked the reason,
Och, said Pat, “would ye Imvc me lave his mother
an orphan ?”
Very Poor. —A trifling sort of a fellow in one of
onr neighboring counties, not long since, won the
affections of the daughter of a bluff, honest Dutch
man of some wealth. On asking the old man for
hir, he opened with a romantic speech about his be
ing a “poor young man,” &c.
“Ya,ya,” says the old man, “I know all apoutit;
but you ish a little too tarn poor—you hash neider
money nor character.”
IT “Am I not a little pale?” inquired a lady who
was rather short and corpulent, of a crusty old bach
elor. “You look more like a big tub!” was the
blunt reply.
(The following is the best conundrum
with which we have met for -‘these many days.”
Why is a newspaper like a tooth-brush ?
Answer —Because everybody should be pro
vided with ono of his own and no: borrow fats
neighbor’s.
Scenes in a School-House.
Under this head we find, in the York Spi r .
it, some humorous reminiscences, from which
we extract the following spicy scenes in a
country school.house :
“First class, rise !” thundered our old school,
master. Well, the first class did rise.
“Now, answer every question correctly, or
I’ll break every bone in your ugly little bodies,”
was the next pronunciamento of the old auto,
crat of our red school-house.
“John Brown, what do you understand by
acoustics ?”
“Why, a stick to drive cows with, I suppose.”
“Get out, you young vagabond ! Did I not
see you reading about the science of sound V T
“Guess not; that was about SyJ fester Sound
: the Somnambulist.”
“It was, eh ? Sarah, you are John’s young’-
er sister ?”
“Yeth, thir.”
“What is acoustics ?”
“1 know, thir—it ith, it ith the art of making’
a noith and hearing a noith.”
“You are right. Explain it.”
“Yeth, thir. If you thtick your finger in
| your mouth and then pull it out thuddenly. the
j cold air rusheth into the vacuum, and produth*
e.th a thound that thtrikes upon the tymoan of
the ear, which maklh the thound audible, and
is denominated the thienih of acouthtixth.”
“You are quite right, Sarah. John, can you
now tell me what is meant by the science of
acoustics ? Be careful, sir, or you’ll feel my
stick.”
“Yes, sir. A cow sticks your finger in her
mouth—kicks over the tin pan, which sounds
awlul, and is called the science of a cow’s
kick.”
“Well, John, you do credit to your teacher.
You may take your books and run home.”
“Willy Chase, what is the currency of the
United States /”
“Cash and money.”
“Wnat are its denominations ?”
“Coppers, bogus and Bungtown cents, pen.
nies, ftps, pics, fourpencc.hap’nie*, levys, nine,
pcnces, Spanish quarters, and shinplaslers.”
“That will do.”
“Jones, what is the standard weight of the
United States ?”
“Scale weight and a little longer. 1
“Samuel, how many kingdoms are there in
the material world J”
“Four.”
“Three, only three.”
“Four, I think, sir.”
“W ell, name them—what are they ?
“Mineral kingdom, animal kingdom, vrgeta
ble kingdom, and kingdom come.”
“Now, how many kinds of motion nre there V*
“Four.”
*N o. only two ; voluntary and in voluntary.”
“Simon says iheie’s four.”
“What does Simon say they are ?”
“Point, point up. point down and wig.wag.”
“You rascal ! I’ve a mind to wig.wag your
jacket! Hadn’t you better describe the motion
of my stick ?”
“I can. sir.”
“And its effect ?”
“Yes, ?ir. Up stroke and down stroke—the
up stroke regular and easy, tho down stroke
spasmodically electrifying, and its efleets strik
ingly indescribable.”
“You understand that, I see.”
“George Smith, do you recollect tho story of
David and Goliah ?”
“Yes, sir; David was a 11 vern-keeper, and
Goliah was an intemperate man.”
“Who told you that ?”
“Nobody ; 1 read it ; and it is said that David
fixed a sling for Goliah, and Goliah got slewed
with it.”
“Wasn’t David a musician ?’*
“Yes, sir—he played psalms on the harp, a
favorite instrument with the Jews, and at th
present day it is called a jew sharp. I have
one in my pocket ; here it is. Place it in vo-if
mou h, thus—breathe on the tongue gently—
! then strike it with your fingers this way, and
the ‘psalms, in harmonious corncob, fructify on
j the ear as natural as thunder.”
“That’s sufficient ; you can pocket your
harp.”
“Jane, what is time ?”
“.Something that flics, any how.
“How do you make that out 1”
“\\ hy, tempos fug it.”
“W hat’s that ?”
“Latin ; it means that time flics, and how
can time, if it flies, he anything else than iom.
thing that flies ?”
“Excellent. What is the meaning of requi.
escat in pace 1”
“Rest, quiet cat, in peace.”
“Well, Jane, at Latin you are perfectly an
fait, which, translated, means perfectly awful ;
it is a great phrase, from the classics, and appli.
cable to this class particularly. Now take oft’
your jackets, and I will give you ‘rvward
merit.’ Those who get more than they merit
can keep the overplus as a token of my special
affection for them ; and those who get less can
have the mistake rectified by meniroruug Lt to>
me.’’
Taking a Lesson. —Waiting in a friend’s
library the other day for the servant to announce
our presenco, we were much amused on ovcr
hearing the following in an adjoiuing room ;
“Vot note you call dat ? Eh ?”
“.Minim.”
“Mee-:mm ; very good. Now vat you call
him vil de black face ?”
•‘Crotchet.”
“Cm-shay; ah! tres bien. Now vat you
call him vit de tail ]”
“Quaver.”
“Quee-vrc ; aha ! Now, ma-dame, you see
, de mee-num go twice as sass as de setni-brave*
de cro-shay as tie ince-num, dc quee-vre as do
cro-shay, and so fort. Now, vat you call hims %
“Those are semi-qnavers, tied.”
“Aha ! Now him ?”
“Demi-semi-quavers, tied.”
j “And him?”
] “Hemi-demi-semi-quavers.”
| “Oui. Now, ma-datne, y6u see if you tie do
cro-shay, he will go twice as sass as himself.
You see? He is de quee-vre. If you tie him
JeetJe more, den he vill go more sass as de quee
vre. He is de sema. quee-vre. If you tie him
once, twice, tree toims more— vy de more you
tie him, de fasser he will go. Bimeby he vill
kick de sema-quee-vre to de debble, he vill trn
so sass ! Eh ? You see ?” ®
GO” “Is that clock right over there ?” asked a
visitor the other day.
“Right over there?” sakl ‘ho bov ‘“aim
no whore ebe.”