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arise to sit upon a more exalted throne, and
to wear a brighter crown, than mortal mind
hath ever conceived.— Abbott's Kings and
Queens.
Jmuapapct* Jlmxlccts.
NOT IN.
A friend relates an anecdote, ghowing that
practical inconveniences sometimes result
from an injudicious phrase. Our informant
knew a lady who was called upon a few
weeks since by a gentleman acquaintance
very much noted as a visiting bore. The la
dy caught a glimpse of the intruder as he as
cended the door-steps, and not wishing to be
annoyed by his parrot-like clatter, gave her
servant girl instructions according to our cap
tion, and stepped from her parlor into a small
room adjoining, from which there was no
egress but by the door she entered. The
door-bell was rung, and Biddy answered it in
propria forma. To the enquiry as to wheth
er her mistress was at home, she replied:
“Misthress not in, zur.” 1
“ Never mind,” replied the bore, “I’ll step
in and wait until her return, as we are very
particular friends.”
Biddy straightened herself up, and putting
on a very important look, exclaimed :
“Zur, if you plaze, zur, misthress will
not be afther coming home at all, at all, zur,
before night.”
“ All the same,” said the dunce, and en
tering, straightway placed himself before the
cheerful fire, and amused himself for two
long hours in reading the morning papers.—
Meanwhile the imprisoned lady was standing
in a small room, without chair, stool, bench
or fire, and with the thermometer at the
agreeable point of three degrees below zero.
But all things must come to an end, —so did
this ill-timed visit’ and the lady was finally
released from her thraldom. If this should
chance to meet the eyes of the offender, we
hope he will profit by the lesson, as well as
those who thoughtlessly equivocate in the
manner set forth in our text.
A LESSON FOR SCOLDING WIVES.
“ And I dare say you have scolded your
wife very often, Newman,” said I once.
Old Newman looked down, and his wile
took up the reply—
“ Never to signify—and if he has, I deserv
ed it!”
“Nay,” said the old woman, with a beauty
of kindness which all the poetry in the world
cannot excel, “ how can a wife scold her
good man, who has been working for her and
her little ones all the day ? It nmy do for a
man to be peevish, for it is he who bears the
crosses of the world; but who should make
him forget them but I his own wife? And
she had best, for her own sake —for nobody
can scold -much when the scolding is all on
one side.”
PRAISING A LADY.
The following, from one of the old plays
of Belly, might appear to be excessive praise
but is certainly a rich specimen of the ironi
cal. The Philadelphia Dispatch, in quoting
the extract, remarks:
“How deceitful arc adjectives —and how
we njay be completely bamboozled by them.
Words of commendation, if analyzed, would
often be found to be really anything but
complimentary.” But to the extract:
“ Oh, what fine thin hair hath Dispas !
What a pretty, low forehead ! W hat a tall
and stately nose ! What little hollow eyes !
What great and goodly lips! How harmless
is she, being toothless! Her figure fat and
short, with nails like bittern ! What a low
stature she is, and yet what a great foot she
carrieth! llow thrifty she must be, in whom
there is no waist! How virtuous she is like
to be, over whom no man can be jealous!”
THE OLD BACHELOR, r ’
In the vast flowery field of human affection
the old bachelor is the very scarecrow of hap
piness, who drives away the little birds ot
love that come to steal the hemlock seeds of
loneliness and despair. Where is there a
more pitiable object in the world than a man
who has no amiable woman interested in his
welfare! How dismal does his desolate room
appear, when he comes home at night, wet
and hungry, and finds a cold hearth or barren
table—and a lonely pillow, that looks like
the white urn of every earthly enjoyment.
Nee the sick old bachelor, in the dark after
noon of life, when his heart is sinking to its
sun-down! Not a solitary star of memory
gleams over the dusk of his opening grave —
no weeping wife to bend like a blessing over
§®®MIE IE S3 H.fl'tFßjß&M ®ABBIf IT B *
his dying bed—no fond daughter to draw his
chilly hand into the soft pressure of heirs, and
warm his icing blood, with the reviving fires
of unfailing affection, no manly son to link his
breaking name with the golden chain of hon
orable society, and* bind his history in the
vast volume of the world he is leaving for
ever. He has eat, and drank, and died! and
the earth is glad she has got rid of him: for
he has done little else but cramp his soul in
to the circumference of a sixpence, and no
human being but his washer-woman will
breathe a sigh at his funeral.
1 <
THRILLING INCIDENT.
Pres. Hitchcock, in a letter to the Amherst
Express, from Virginia, describing some of
the coal mines in that State, relates the fol
lowing semi-tragic anecdote:
Maj. W. related to us a very thrilling in
cident that took place in this vicinity some
years ago, which he assured us was literally
true. A hunter one autumnal evening, eager
ip following in the chase, found himself slid
ing down into an abandoned coal pit. But
seizing upon the top of a bush as he slipped
down the craggy sides, he hung dangling in
the air over the black gulf, and felt conscious
from his knowledge of the place, that if he
fell he must drop at least 200 feet, and be
dashed to pieces on the rocks beneath. He
struggled in vain to regain a foothold : he
heard the cry of his fellow hunters and of
the hounds as they bounded past. He shout
ed with all his might, and the forest returned
the echo, but no voice of rescue came with
it. The winds whistled around him, and the
moon shone upon his face, but they brought
no relief; his strength rapidly failed; he
thought in agony of a family and friends, but
he must die an awful death, and even his
mangled body never to be discovered. His
mind became bewildered ; his muscles gave
out, and down he went—down—down—
swifter and swifter, nor struck the bottom till
he had reached the enormous depth of Six
Inches!’
MOLIERE'S DEATH.
The circumstances connected with the
death of Moliere form by no means the least
curious portion of his history. He had late
ly produced his “Malade Imaginaire,” a
piece in which he not only ridiculed the pro
fessors of medicine, but attacked the art it
self. Though laboring under a severe attack
of the chest, he sustained the character of
“Monsieur Pourgon,” the imaginary invalid,
and excited peals of laughter at fancied ill
ness, while he was suffering cruelly from
that which was too real. During the con
cluding scenes, in which “Monsieur Pour
gon” is received a member of the faculty,
while pronouncing the word “ jure ,” the ac
tor was seized with a violent fit of coughing,
which he in vain endeavored to disguise from
the audience under an affected laugh. He
was conveyed home, where his cough in
creased so much, that it was followed by a
vomiting of blood which suffocated him.
He thus expired without an opportunity of
receiving the sacrament, or even of making
the formal renunciation of his profession
which was essential to entitle him to Chris
tian burial. The king, deeply affected at the
loss of this distinguished man, and willing to ;
give even after death, a fresh mark of the
esteem in which he had always held him,
used his personal influence with the arch- j
bishop of Paris to surmount the illiberal ob- i
jection. The prelate, after a strict inquiry
into the life of the deceased, gave permission (
for his intefment in the church of St. Joseph;
but the mob, less tolerant in their ignorance, |
and probably excited by some of the inferior j
clergy, assembled in £reat numbers, and
showed a disposition to prevent the progress
of the corpse. Their barbarous intention was
only prevented by the address of the widow, j
who caused money to be thrown amopg !
them, and thus purchased their forbearance, j
ThofeW facts thus thrown together are not j
without interest. The fame of Moliere will
live while the French language shall endure;
and the monarch under whose auspices he
ran his brilliant career deserves credit from
his appreciation of his genius, and the pro
tection he afforded him.
T. I
TRANSLATION OF THE SCRIPTURES.
The arguments used by the monks against
the translation of the Scriptures, at the time
of the Reformation, were not only weak but
ludicrous: “Should this heresy prevail,”
•says Dr. Buckenham, (a prior of the Black
Friars at Cambridge,) in his pulpit, “we
should soon see an end of everything useful
among us. The plowman reading that ‘if
he put his hand to the plow, and should hap
pen to look back, he were unfit for the king-
! dom of God/ would soon lay aside his labor.
! The baker, likewise, reading that ‘a little
leaven would corrupt his lump,’ would give
us very insipid bread. And the simple man,
finding himself commanded ‘to pluck out his
eyes,’ in a few years we should have the na
tion full of blind beggars.”— Life of Latimer.
THE MORAL OF TOBACCO SMOKING.
The Cincinnati Inquirer tells the following
clever story at the expense of an inveterate
smoker in that city; and as it may have a
wide application, we publish it for the benefit
, of our readers:
“A friend of outs had been waiting twen
ty-four hours in Sandusky city, in a most
! impatient humor for the railroad cars to start
down. The time for them to move was near
ly at hand, and our friend thought before
starting he would indulge in a cigar. He
procured one, lit it, and in order not to annoy
the other passengers, he went and stood up
on the platform of the hindmost car , where
he quietly puffed away, ruminating in what a
short space of time he would be at home, and
upon the advantage of steam as applied to
travelling. Chu—chu—elm—chu—chu—
chu! snorted the fiery steed, and away went
the train with all the cars but the one on
which he was standing; that one had been
detached, there not being passengers enough
to fill it, He said that he stood perfectly as
tonished, but did not “ let on” to the by
standers that he intended to go, and when he
bad finished his cigar, walked quietly in the
house, muttering ‘that he didn’t care much
about going any how,’ went to bed and slept
until lie was called up for the next train,
twelve hours after. He has sworn off smok
ing cigars, and has not touched one since;
and what is more he says he never will.”
. > , r
<3s dec tic of tbit.
CENTO VERSES. *
The following is quite a humorous speci
men of what is called Cento Verse :
‘ ()n Linden, when the sun was low,’
‘ A frog he would a-wooing go
‘ He sighed a sigh, and breathed a prayer’—
‘None but the brave deserve the fair.’
‘A gentle knight was pricking o’er the plain,’
‘ Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow ;*
‘ Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain,’
‘ Or who would suffer boing here below.’
* The youngest of the sister arts’
‘ Was born on the open sea,’
‘ The rest were slain in Chevy Chase,’
‘ Under the greenwood tree.’
• v
‘At morn the black cock trims his jetty wings,’
* And says—remembrance saddening o’er each
brow’ —
t ‘Awake, my St. John!—leave all meaner things!’
‘ Who would be free, themselves must strike the
blow!’
‘ It was a friar of orders gray,’
‘ Still harping on my daughter;’
‘Sister spirit, eoipe away,’
‘Across this stormy water.’
# *
‘ On the light fantastic toe,’
‘ Othello’s occupation’s gone,’ , t
‘Maid of Athens, ere I go,’
‘ Were the last words of Marmion.’
‘ There was a sound of revelry by night,’
‘ In Thebes’ streets three thousaiid years ago,’
‘And comely virgins came with garlands (light,’
‘ To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego.’
‘ Oh! the young Lochinvar has come out of the west,’
‘ An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow, was lie;’
‘ A back dropping in, an expansion of chest,’
‘ Far more than I once could foresee.’
Now, we dare say, it seems a remarkably
easy thing to the reader to make a cento
verse; we can assure him that it is often a
very difficult thing to make a legitimate one ;
but then it must be confessed that it is ex
tremely interesting and amusing to chase a
fitting line through all the poets of one’s ac
quaintance, and catch it at last. Any person
who is anxious to try the difficulties of cen
to verse-making, may do so, and greatly
oblige us by finding a fourth line to the fol
lowing. It has baffled our skill and memory
many times :
‘ When Musyc. heavenly maid! was young,’
‘ And little to be trusted,’
‘ Then first the creature found a tongue’ —
TRIALS OF TIMOTHY TANTRUM.
Tantrum’s mind is of that peculiarity in
grief, that it seems to have ‘ crape on ite left
arm’ not for thirty days Slone, but forever.
It is always in morning, and has no associate
except calamity. As Timothy Tantrum has
a thousand times remarked, ‘it is always
cold when I wish it to be \tfarm, and warm
invariably when I desire that it should be
cold. IfT want to go out, then, of course,
it’s stormy —raining cats and dogs; and when
l don t care whether it’s clear or not, and
would rather, may be>’ that it was not clear,
why then it’s as bright as anew button, as
if it was laughing at me. ’Spose I’ve no use
for a thing—it's there, everlastingly 1 right in
the road—l’m tumbling over it a dozen times
a day. But when Ido want that very thing,
is it ever in the way then ? No, I thank
you—no! it wouldn’t be if it could. And
when I hunt it up, if it allows itself to be
found at all, which it won’t, if it can help it,
that thing is morally certain to be the very
last thing in the closet, or the undermost
thing in the drawer.’
• While it is thus between the Inanimate
and the Tantrums, the case is but little better,
as before hinted, between the Animate and
the Tantrums. Creation is a porcupinity,
with its sharp-pointed quills stuck out in all
directions, impaling the Tantrums at every
movement they may chance to make. The
universe is a brambledom, for the scarifica
tion of ankles; and whatever the hand of
Tantrum falls upon, what else can it be but
a nettle-top ? In consequence, whereof, how
the Tantrums suffer in this rasping sandpa
pered, gritty sphere of fret and friction, to
which for a time they are doomed, like Ham
let’s ghost, ‘to fast in lire.’— J, C. Neal
GETTING INTO THE WRONG SHOP.
A STORY OF DOWN EAST.
i BY THE YOUNG ’UN.
A few’ months ago, there arrived in the
quiet city of Portland, a home-spun specimen
of the genus homo, in a packet, all the way
from Passamaquoddy. Upon going ashore,
he inquired the way to the nearest public
house, and was informed that it stood direct
ly at the head of the pier where he landed.
Opposite the head of the wharf stands the
“Eagle Coffee House.” At the corner is lo
cated tile Custom House, the front of which
is surmounted by a large gilt spread eagle.—
Into the latter our traveller walked, with car
pet-bag in hand; and having found his way
into the first room—which chanced to be the
Surveyor’s Department—he threw his lug
gage against the corner, seized an arm-chair,
and drew himself up to the fire. Bracing his
feet against the grate, lie pulled forth a huge
pipe, and having very leisurely crowded it
with pig-tail, he cocked his hat over his
shoulder, and commenced to puff away in
right good earnest.
The Surveyor gazed at the queer biped a
moment, but concluded to wait for the finale
of this scene without intruding unprofitable
questions. Having finished his pipe, lazily,
the traveller turned about to the official,
with— /
“Cold day, nabur.”
“Very, sir.”
“How long to dinner ?”
“To what, sir 1”
- “Dinner.”
“We dine at two,” continued the Survey
or, discovering the stranger’s error, and dis
posed for the nonce to humor it.
“ Wliar’s the old man ?” (meaning the
landlord.)
‘‘The Collector is in the next room, sir,
said the agreeable Surveyor : and our Down-
Easter immediately moved himself into the
Collectors Department, toting his luggage
along as he went. Having laid down his
traps, he stepped up to the counter, where
stood a pitcher and a lumber, for the use of
the room. The cashier looked at him an in
stant, when the stranger broke silence—
'“ Brandy and water.”.
“What, sir?” exclaimed the astonished ac
countant.
“A little brandy and water, ’fu please.”
Leaving the bar-keeper (as he supposed
him) to fix his toddy, he moved forward and
suddenly discovered the Collector of the Port
sound asleep in his easy chair. Stepping up
to him, he gave him a most unceremonious
blow upon the back, and shouted at the top
of his voice— t
“ Hello! old feller —how are ye ? I say.
old boss—how d’e deu !’*
“ Sir!” exclaimed the Collector.
“Glad tu see yer. Tew toddies, bar-keep
er! Brandy and water for me; wot der yer
drink, ’squire?”
“ Sir!” continued the Collector again, im
agining himself the victim of some horrid
dream.
“ Come, come, old feller! wake up !” ad
ded his tormentor, bringing down his huge
mauler again between the Collector’s shoul
ders, and well nigh knocking the breath en
tirely from his body.
“ There’s some mistake here, sir,” said the
Collector, springing back.
“ Not a bit uv it, old rusty ; I know you
jest like a inkstan.”
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