ATLANTA GA., SATURDAY, MARCH 20, 1875.
We acknowledge to a liking, not exactly for
the institution of old bachelors, but for many
species who compose the genus of what are
called the “unfortunates.” Doubtless, marri
age and home love and home ties are great
softeners of the shell of selfishness, which is
prone to gather over the heart of humanity,
especially over those hearts that are never pressed
so close to another's as to seem as though
Give us, nether, as friend or companion, one
of Dinah's sort—sweet-voiced, pleasant-faced,
gentle, atfectionate and faithful: whose health
is her chief beauty, whose cheerfulness her
principal charm.—one of those creatures
“ Not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food—
For gentie chidings, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love kisses, tears and smiles.”
One. too, who, like the night jasmines, will be
sweeter when the shadows fall; who will “look
MARY E. BRYAN, ... Editress.
The Elements of Strangeness in Poetry.
“There is no exquisite beauty,” says Bacon
Lord Verulam, “without some strangeness in
the proportion.” This we have all felt in our
contemplation of that embodiment of the spirit
of beauty—the human face. Are not the faces
whose beaut}' affects us most profoundly and
lastingly, those which are distinguished by some
peculiarity either in feature or expression—
something in eye or brow or mouth that is to
tally unlike the common type of beauty ?
Poetry is the offspring of beauty, and though
more complex in its nature and more rare in its
manifestations, it is yet, to some extent, gov
erned by the same laws that apply to its origna-
tor. Quaintness is therefore one of the neces
sary attributes. It may possess other character
istics, as strength and sweetness, but these
belong to prose as well, and it is by a certain
subtle strangeness, indescribable as the perfume
of a flower, that poetry is most effectually dis
tinguished from prose. There are few who com- i
prebend this, because they have never analyzed
the poetic principle, or are unable to discrimi
nate between the true and the counterfeit, the
gold and the glitter. There are many who im
agine that elegance of expression and melody of
rythm and measure are all that is requisite to
constitute poetry; and there are men who had
quite as soon hear the tripling tunes played
by a music-box as to listen to the tiring music
that throbs and speaks beneath the inspired fin
gers of Haydn or Mozart.
Melody is indeed an attribute of poetry, but
not its principle one. Nor do merely beautiful
or sublime thoughts, elegantly versified, consti
tute poetry. There must be some strangeness
in the conception—some thought or fancy deli
cate and quaintly beautiful as the frost work
wrought in the night by the magic of cold—
something which, when handled by prosaic rea
son, evaporates as rapidly as those icy crystals
dissolve when blown upon by the human breath.
The thoughts that wander through the fairy
land of poesy are not like other thoughts. They
prophesy like sibyls—they talk like children;
there is a strangeness in their very mirth, and
their tears and sighs are sad as kisses on the lips
of the dead, or weird as the voices of winds that
walk the waves at midnight. They speak a lan
guage of their own—a language that cannot be
translated into prose.
A faculty of weaving sweet and sentimental
thoughts into verse is often mistaken for the
poetic gift, and many have received homage as
poets, who had no claim whatever to that high
and glorious title. Like all exquisitely beautiful
things, poetic genius is exceedingly rare, but its
counterfeit may be met with in the pages of every
newspaper in which a reinil baker wraps a penny
loaf. But the discriminating eye and the refined
taste, whether innate or cultivated, can readily
distinguish between the false and the real the
paste-stones and the true diamonds.
To illustrate this difference, let two be taken—
one with only fine talent, knowledge of compo
sition as an art, and considerable rhyming fac
ulty, and the other with true poetic genius—and
let them describe the same scene ; say that most
hackneyed one on which all who are poets, or
who have imagined themselves to be so, have
written—“A Moonlight Night.”
The writer of latent will describe accurately,
and with sweetness or enthusiasm, the scene as it
appears to him, in common with all mankind. He
will utter such liquidly-sounding platitudes as—
••The young moon's silvery vail falls low
Upon the sleeping earth,"
with the usual allusion to “dew-bowed flowers,’’
“dreaming birds,” etc.; while the genius looks
out with deep eyes upon the same scene, and his
more ideal vision sees moonlight, shrub and star
in aspects invisible to eyes upon which the spell
of poetry has not been laid. None but a poet
could have written this description of moonlight:
•‘.It midnight in the month of June,
1 stand beueath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop.
Upon the quiet mountain-top.
Steals drowsily aud musically
Into the universal valley.”
Again: give the two, the writer of verses and the
writer of poetry, a “tempest” for their theme—
that subject upon which all versifiers have made
their first essays: for new-fledged poets, unlike
feathered bipeds, first try their wings in the
stormiest weather. A writer of “ beautiful
verses" will give us some musical thoughts on
the terror and sublimity of the scene, picture
the cloud rising black with tempest, the rolling
thunder and flashing lightning all of which,
though very magnificent, will not be poetry, and
will fail in painting on the mind the distinct
impression conveyed by this single stroke from
the pencil of genius:
•• There rose in the East
A cloud with the forehead and horns of a beast.
That quick to the zenith mounts higher aud higher.
With feet that are thunder and eyes that are fire.”
This is a true poetic image, full of (plaint and
graceful beauty, like the fancies of a child. And
this delicacy and keenness of perception, which
is the secret of the strangeness discernible in
poetry, does not confine itself to nature and
material objects alone, but extends to the emo
tions, thoughts and sentiments of that inner
realm—the world of the soul and the heart.
, As old proverb: “To neglect open-air exer-
JvSbqse is an invitation to death.”
“With one pulse beating.”
The man who has never had the kindly affec
tions of his nature called forth by the ties of
family, is very apt to centre his thoughts and
feelings around his own especial self, and to lose
that sympathy with his fellow-men which is the
basis of all true and elevated happiness.
But there are men who have never married,
and whose hearts are yet as warm as though
they had been kept so by pillowing upon them
little heads, with curls like those that, threaded
with silver, lie on their own temples. We have
all seen such men—men with broad, catholic
benevolence; men who seemed to regard the
whole world as their family; who were tenderly
respectful and chivalrous to women; who patted
the heads and gave sugar-plums to all little bare
foot children; helped flaxen-haired girls with
their compositions and assisted sun-browned
boys to puzzle out the problems in algebra.
Such men are called “uncle”by the little folks,
and “that dear, good soul” by the women.
Their marriage would be a public misfortune.
Then there are men who, with the determina
tion to attain eminence, devote themselves to
severe literary or professional studies; and
others who, with the earnest purpose to do good
to mankind at large, have thrown aside all hin
drances of a personid nature; and yet another
class — grave, pale men like Bulwer’s Audley,
Edgerton, who, with Queen Elizabeth, have “no
spouse but their country,” and whose public
duties would leave but a small margin of time
for them to devote to household amenities or
family cares. Such men are wise in remaining
unmarried, though loving wives look after them
as they pass, with tears in their gentle eyes, and
a feeling of pity for the man who has no soft
cheek to lay itself to his; no small hand to part
the hair from his thought-weary brow, or pre
pare those little delicacies which can only be
thought of by a tender wife, and no little one
to nestle in his bosom and prattle his cares
away. Still, such men are wise to remain “old
bachelors,” for public duties and private happi
ness, love and ambition, are not harmonizing
principles, and no fetters are so strong and diffi
cult to break as the white arms of affection.
There are a great many bachelors in the world
at present—more, it is said, in proportion to the
population, than in former times. We meet
them everywhere—in the streets, in the cars,
riding through their farms, behind the desks of
counting-rooms, with pens behind their ears;
and seated among the “dust and ruins” of
their offices, whose scattered books and papers
would give a tidy housekeeper the St. Yitus’
dance. We recognize them immediately by
those unmistakable, but hardly describable
signs, which distinguish a married from a single
man. We know them by the spruce figure; the
slightly bald temples, the clean shirt-bosom
minus the one button whose loss is remedied by
a dexterously inserted pin. We know them by
their bow aDd bland smile—their just percept
ible scowl when a baby screams near them, or
shows symptoms of wishing to cultivate a more
intimate acquaintance; by a certain fidgetiness
in their movements, and by the pains they are
at to conceal the unhemmed edges of their
pocket handkerchiefs. Why they are more nu
merous now than formerly, has been explained
in many different ways. It is thought that the
extravagant habits of ladies have a tendency to
frighten men from marriage; and, indeed, the
modern candidates for wedlock—those pyramids
of silk, cambric, steel and gold, finished by a
cobweb of lace on the apex costing, itself, enough
to buy thirty bushels of corn—are rather suffi
cient scare-scrows in the field of matrimony.
A Human Heartsease.
“Dinah,”—says good Mrs. Poyser, the most
original and best drawn character of “ Adam
Bede”—“ Dinah is one of them things as looks
the brightest on a rainy day and loves you the
best when you’re most in need on't. ”
And just such “things” are the dearest and
sweetest treasures earth has in its possession—
just such sunny-hearted, unselfish, loving, help
ful,, sympathizing natures, with no brilliancy of
intellect, no gifts of genius; but what is better,
perhaps, than these—a calm, clear, well-balanced
mind, and a cheerful, contented spirit. En
dowed with but little of the classic regularity of
features, or the voluptuous beauty that artists
and poets have sung, but having a face made
lovely by the heart that beams through it—a
smile that is the sweetest in the world because
we know it to be sincere; eyes that, whatever be
their color, are always lighted up by kindness;
a hand, brown it may be with working for oth
ers, but still ever ready to soothe with the magic
of its loving touch, and to perform offices of
friendship or charity: and a foot that may not
be counterpart of Cinderella's, but which has
yet music in its elastic step for the many who
love to listen to its coming.
Just such a “thing” as Dinah is the one to
love and to be loved, not violently and passion
ately, but reasonably, deeply and lastingly.
They make sunshine for themselves and for
others wherever they go; they are the violets
blooming along life's pathway, overshadowed at
first, perhaps, by gaudier flowers, but sure to be
prized at last, and prized the longest.
Beauty and intellect are splendid things to
admire, but they are too often accompanied by
qualities that render their possessors undesira
ble as intimate friends or life-companions.
Beauty, ever since the days of Narcissus, has
been prone to forget the existence of everything
else in contemplation of its own charms, and
genius is notoriously addicted to elevating its
nose above sublunary things, and ignoring the
“small, sweet charities” of life.
the best on a rainy day. and love us best when
we are most in need of it.’’
[For The Sunny South.]
Little Master Frank.
BY L. L. V.
A glorious boy is our little Frank ! With eyes
that make yon think the conception of “black
diamonds ” not altogether a fancy; with limbs
rounded into a symmetry which the sculptor
would vainly strive to imitate; with locks curl
ing over his fair brow like threads of gold, he
presents almost a model of childish beauty.
Upon his cheeks the sun has thrown his rosy
fingers and left tints such as none save Nature’s
own pallette ever furnished. His delicately-
chiseled lips are rarely unrelieved by a smile
save when a clear, ringing laugh—sweeter far
than note of lute or harp—breaks upon the air.
No bright landscape, no gorgeous sunset, no
sweet-scented flower, nor sun. nor moon, nor !
sky. nor ocean can impart to our heart such rap
turous pleasure as the sight of this lovely boy. j
We love to contemplate him as the type and
embodiment of childish beauty—that form of
beauty which we most adore. We love indeed
to look upon woman in the pride and glory of
her full-bloom loveliness. We love to look upon
man in the majestic dignity of well-developed
muscle. We like to look upon old age when
a long life of ills meekly borne and duties faith- j
fully performed have impressed upon the form j
marks of moral beauty. But none of these im- j
press the heart like a beautiful child. The scene i
in the manger where the new-born babe lies
sleeping on its mother's breast has always taken
a livelier hold on the imagination than the man
treading the midnight billows and stilling the
angry storm, or than even the God shaking cre
ation with his dying groan.
Dear little Frank ! How sweet are the lisp- ,
ings of your little tongue ! How amusing your
tricks of innocent mirth ! That face so soft and
smooth is as yet unmarred by the ugliness of
sin and unshadowed by any sorrow. No discord
as yet interrupts the rich melody of that laugh.
We sigh as we think that these things shall ever
be. We grieve to think that face shall ever seem
less innocent than now. We are pained to think
that sorrow and care shall ever stamp wrinkles
on that fair face and brow. Imagination goes
on unchecked wings to trace thy coming destiny.
Often have we studied that face to discern, if
may be, what prophecy has been written there.
The eyes and brow bespeak intellect, and lips
and nose and hands all announce a character
firm and resolute in carrying out resolves. Will
these predictions prove true ? Shall this little
boy become a great man ? Shall he in the field
or the cabinet, the study or the counting-house
wield a wide-spread influence? We will not
predict such a destiny, nor will we pray for it;
for greatness affords no immunity from misery,
and the most exalted are often the most wicked.
We would wish thee good, whether humble or
great; we would wish thee happy, whether un
known or distinguished. Further than this, we
will not speculate either with hope or fear as to
what thou mayest become. AVe know that thou
art now innocent and beautiful, and praying for
the best, we trust thy future to the will of
NEW SHADES IN SILKS AND SATINS.
The spring novelties in silks and dress goods
are unusually attractive. The prevailing styles
are plaids and quadrille patterns in neutral tints,
color on color, or shades of two colors carefully
blended and fading into each other. Gray and
blue are the favored colors in the silk fabrics, or
shades of cream and tea-color blended with blue
in the plaids. The plaid silks resemble those of
thirty years ago; the plaids being mostly from
one to two inches square, in broken quadrille
patterns. New names have been found for them,
such as Lusignan. Natte and Nyzam. These
silks are very soft in fabric, some being fine
woven and lustrous as faille, others loose woven
in large bunches of warp and woof, giving a can
The black silk grenadines are brought out in
plaids also, and in stripes of watered silk and
grenadine, the stripes so wide that three com
pose the whole width of the material—a silk
stripe hall a yard wide in the middle and two
grenadine stripes a qtiarter of a yard in width
on each side.
Mexicaine is the name given a new silk grena
dine fabric woven in neat thread to form quad
rilles. The Mexicaines are mostly ecru colored
and white. Black grenadines with flower and
arabesque designs are beaded with jet. The
white or colored grenadines for evening wear
are ended with white satin and crystal beads that
glitter like pearls and* diamonds. The silk tus
sores appear in stripe and basket patterns in
light shades of ecru.
The debeges are shown in stripes, diagonals
and plaids. The camel's-hair fabrics for early
spring are also in plaids of two shades of gray
or brown. But perhaps the most elegant and
original production of the manufacturers of
camel’s-hair goods are rough-surfaced fabrics in
shades of solid gray, shot with irregular lines of
black in the warp that appear in knots and fade
to nothingness on either side. They are called
shot camel's-hair goods.
NEW FASHIONS IN BONNETS AND HATS.
The fashion for large and ample head-gear
with full trimmings is a fixed fact. The crowns i
of the hats and bonnets of this spring will cover
the whole of the top of the head. The brims are i
wide in front but taper to nothing in the back,
or are turned up or cut away to make a place for
the eatagan or coil of hair. Chip, white, black j
and gray, and as soft as felt is the material of j
the coming hat. There are no bonnets proper j
to be seen. They are all hats, trimmed some
thing like an old-fashioned bonnet of twenty-five ;
years ago, with a profusion of soft, brocaded,
wide ribbon, feathers and flowers. The brims j
are lined with lovely shades of silk. pink. blue. :
cream color and white. Face trimmings of flow
ers appear under the looped brims. There are
no strings, but bows and streamers in the back.
My washerwoman is a genius. She can mix
up more linen with more promiscuousness than
any other washerwoman on record. Sometimes
I sally around town with a collar belonging to
Governor Smith, the coroner's best shirt, and
blow my nose on a medical student's handker
chief. I invariably receive a choice collection
of indelible autographs weekly. She evidently
takes me for a walking autograph album. Guess
I have had as many as six different names on the
linen that surrounds my oblong person, and there
wasn't one of my own name, neither. When I
expostulate and tell her of these little misadven
tures. she regards it as a good joke, and sends
me another choice collection next week.
THE POET TO THE LADY OF HIS LOVE.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
Oh! would I were a spirit, love—a thing of air and light,
As viewless as the summer breeze, as sunshine free and
I’d stay forever at thy side, in sadness or in mirth;
The air thou breath'st should be to me the sweetest home
My breath should stir the wavy tress that on thy forehead
My glance should search the mysteries of thy unfathom'd
And learn whence the strange sadness comes that shades
at times their beam,
And, like the shadows on the lake, but makes them lovelier
I’d charm away each harmful thing; I’d watch thee in thy
And pray the holy ones in heaven to send them slumbers
Aud then I'd nearer steal to thee and breathe upon thy
The love so hopeless and so sad—the love I may not speak.
A spirit surely might not err, and ’twould not then be
To tell the love I dare not breathe except in sigh or song.
Alas! alas! my heart has lost its early hopes of fame,
Since o’er the “spirit of its dream” this wild delirium
There is no music half so sweet as is thy lightest tone,—
There is no sunshine under heaven, save thy dear glance
Aud were—as for the bards of old—a garland ’twined for
I would not prize the laurel crown unless bestowed by
I wander forth where summer trees are full of light and
To seek the sprite that once was dear — the Muse I’ve
wooed so long;
But all the loveliest things of earth but of thy beauty
I hear thy voice in every breeze that plays upon my cheek.
And when to woo some holier thought I turn to the far
I gaze upon its glorious stars and—think of thy dark eyes;
And in yet graver moods than these, alas! it is the same—
I kneel and clasp my hands to pray, and murmur but thy
Oh! it is sad to have the soul bow at an earthly shrine,
And on it pour in hopelessness all life’s rich wasted wine;
To know that God's own glorious earth would be a dreary
If it were not for the dear smile upon one human face.
EXTRACT FROM A POETIC ADDRESS
Before the Agricultural Convention at Thomasville.
DELIVERED BY TOL. J. A. STEWART
The record of the past is only history in a circle. Peace
makes plently, aud plenty begets pride; aud pride, becom
ing ambitious aud quarrelsome, begets peace. This is
history in a circle. It is history repeating itself; and
until man learns the art of securing perpetual peace, this
circle will never be broken.
LESSONS FROM HISTORY.
Prior to our late great trouble,
Everythiug seemed moving well;
Every plow aud hoe made made money,
Aud our pride began to swell.
We had years and years been peaceful,
And our peace had made us rich, -
Made us proud, ambitious, quarrelsome;
Then came dying iu the ditch,—
Dying, dying, fighting—dying
In the valley, on the plain;
Homes deserted—children starving—
Fathers fallen—brothers slain.
And when thus the ranks were thinning,
Homes in ruins, fields laid waste,
Men were busy seizing, robbing,
Slacking not their greed or haste,
Eager in the darkest hours,
Safe removed from plain or ditch—
Speculating, robbing, thieving—
Growing, growing, growing rich—
Feeding, fattening on the plunder
Which the war placed in their way,
Were the greedy sharks and vampires,
Watching, seeking for the prey.
Thus it was in proud Old England,
In the wars that long prevailed,—
Chiefs grew rich by war and plunder,
And then had their wealth entailed.
Wealth in incomes, wealth in acres,
Were entailed amongst the few;
And the men that fought the battles
Found starvation oft in view.
Thus it is in our country,
In the strife that here prevails:
Wealth ill-gotten seeking safety
In exemptions and entails—
In mobilier thefts and swindles—
In back-salary greed and sway—
In the presidential sanctions
Of their own increase of pay.
If a people give adhesion
To Ambition’s venal crew*,
Then will agriculture languish,
And the wealth be owned by few’.
When a tyrant holds dominion
And claims all of wealth aud land,
Then oppression leaves its traces
Deeply marked on every haud.
Then will labor unrequited,
Cheerless, nerveless, turn the soil,
Till abundance, disappearing,
Points to sure and just recoil.
Homeless, landless, blighted people—
Serfs of kings, whom kings destroy—
Make the earth to yield its treasures
But for others to enjoy.
Then a country goes to ruin;
Then destruction comes in haste,
And in time the thrones of tyrants
Sink themselves to rot and waste.
When a few are selfish, greedy—
Craving, grasping, seizing all—
Then it is a question only,
When a country reaps the fall.
It may flourish for a season,
And it may proud cities boast,
Yet injustice past enduring
Wastes her strength, and all is lost.
PALMYRA OF THE DESERT.
Sad and dreary, lone Palmyra,
On whose ruins greatness falls,
Has her history plainly written
In her silent, crumbling walls—
In the desert which surrounds her—
In the waste of dreary plains—
In the lifeless, voiceless silence
Which o’er Ruin’s vastness reigns.
There, where mournful silence lingers,
Festive shouts of joy arose;
And where, by her prostrate pillars,
Once sprang forth the fragrant rose,
There once flourished countless blessings—
Commerce, power, grandeur, wealth;
And those walls, which now so desert,
Once re-echoed life and health.
She had riches of all nations:
Gold of Ophir—tin of Thule—
Cashmere’s tissues—Tyre’s purple—
Lydia’s fabrics, rich and full—
Amber of the Baltic regions—
Sweet perfumes and ’Rabia's pearls,—
Useful things and things of beauty.
Like a paradise of worlds.
Happy mortals, mixing, mingling.
Soul with soul aud breath with breath,
Long returned to dust aud ashes
In the solitude of death!
What has caused this desolation,
Once so great aud now so low,
May be pondered o’er with profit—
May forewarn us of our woe—
May enlighten us of causes—
May enable us to scan
What obscures a brighter pathway
To a higher state of man.
Land of Syria now so wasted,
Numbered cities by the score;
And with village, town aud hamlet,
Hills and dales were dotted o’er.
Everywhere were soil and tillage;
Everywhere abundance flowed;
Everywhere a bounteous Heaven
Blessings rich aud full bestowed,—
Blessings equal in their bearing—
Laws impartial, judgments just,
Shielding all alike from rapine—
All alike from greed or lust.
Then the poor had full protection,
Men of rapine were restrained;
Then was labor full requited,
And rich blessings were retained.
Justice, then, esteemed and practiced,
Equal rights and equal share
Of the kindly gifts of nature
Iu profusion showered there.
But w'hen peace of years made plenty,
And was filled all hearts’ desire,
Then came schisms and disorder,
Like a great, consuming fire.
In the midst of glare and glamour,
In the grandeur of the throne,
Princes lost to sense of justice
Claimed all riches as their own.
Appetites, all pampered, craving,
Grew unbridled in demand,
Till industry, unprotected,
Ceased to cultivate the laud.
Thus was blasted fertile regions—
Thus were cities overthrown—
Thus Palmyra of the desert
Sauk to ruin sad and lone.
Thus we see the fate of peoples
Where injustice long prevails;
Thus we see the desolations
Which the pride of wealth entails.
Thus we learn from crumbling ruins;
Fragments scattered o’er the plain,
What it is ambition costs us—
What the price of greed and gain.
Thus a lesson for the future
May we clearly, strongly draw—
That a country’s good in common
Finds its strength in equal law.
Here follow business maxims and remarks on the evils
of commerce, concluding the poem with a brief
ADDRESS TO THE LADIES.
Cheered and strengthened by your presence,
Ladies, just one word with you:
Iu the struggle now upon us,
You may find much work to do.
Fathers, brothers, husbands, striving
To regain their loss by war,
Look to you for strength and solace
In the midst of debt and care.
Will you help us with your patience ?
Will you help reduce the waste;
Will you dress in simple garments—
Cheap, though comely, neat and chaste?
Will you let us dress in homespun?
Will you mend the rents and wear?
Will you let no pride in dressing
Multiply our toil and care ?
This appeal is scarcely needed;
Your good sense will pave the way,
In the words of cheer and comfort,
For a brighter, better day.
And we promise on our honor,
On the love we bear for you,
To leave off expensive habits,
And a mutual good pursue.
Mutual aid and mutual solace,
In the burdens to be borne,
Gives to life its choicest pleasures,
Joyous as the gilded morn.
Life is real, life is joyous,
If our option be for good;
Life is ever worth the living,
If no evil be pursued.
Life is fleeting, life is onward;
But its choicest gifts are free,
As the fruits that hang inviting
On the cultivated tree.
Life can be as pure as streamlets
Gushing from the woodland hill—
Streams meandering through the meadows—
Streams that turn the village mill.
Life can be like waters flowing,
Day and night and night and day—
Pure as waters leaping, dancing
On their journey to the sea—
Pure as streams that never weary
Tumbling down the craggy steep,
Kissing pebble, kissing lilies,
On their journey to the deep.
Life, to those who know its value,
Is a gift as bright aud free
As the sparkling crystal waters
On their journey to the sea.
I guess Sniffles will be less gallant and more
discreet after the little incident of last week.
You know how muddy it was. Well, Snif. was
hurrying home when he espied a lady with one
foot stuck hard and fast in the mud, and of
course volunteered to extricate the imprisoned
member. The neatest way to do this was to take
hold of it and pull. This he did, but he did
not notice another lady to whom he owed a
support transfixed with horror at the near cor
ner. This lady observed closely the actions of
her lord and master, and when Snif. reached
home she was ready for him. She used up two
broom-handles, a coffee-mill and a flat-iron in the
discharge of her duty, and wore her tongue to a
frazzle. Snif. swears by all that is righteous
that he wouldn't pull another lady out of the
mud if she was stuck up to her armpits.