Funding for the digitization of this title was provided by the R.J. Taylor, Jr. Foundation in partnership with the Atlanta History Center.
About Weekly constitutionalist. (Augusta, Ga.) 185?-1877 | View Entire Issue (July 17, 1867)
BY STOCKTON & CO. OUR TERNS. The/ollowlrj' are the rate* of Subscription: Duly, one year |IO 00 Weekly, one year |3 00 An Ember-Picture. How stmr gr* are the freak* of memory ! The lessumi of life we forget, * While a trifle, a trick of color, 1 In the worifle.ful Web is set— Set t»y some morflant of fancy, And. despite the wear and tear Os time or distance or trouble, Insists on its right to be there. A chance had brought ns together; Our ta'k wa« of matter*bf course ; We were nothing one to the other, But a stiort half-hour’* resource. * We sp-'ke of French acting and actors, And th-lr easy, natural way— Os the weather, rot it w .s raining. As we drove home from the play. We debated the social nothings Men take such pains to discus*; The thunderous rumors of battle Were silent the while for us. Arrived at her door, we left her With a drippingly hurried adieu, And our wheels went crunching the grave! Os the oak-darkened avenue. As we drove away through the shadow, The candle site held in the door, From rain-varnished tr e to tree-trunk Flashed fainter, and flashed no more - * Flashed fainter and wholly faded Before wc had passed the wood ; 1 But the light of the face behind it Went with me and stayed for good. The vision of scarce a moment, And hardly m irked at the time, It comes unhidden to haunt me, Like a Scrap of ballad rhyme. Had she beauty 1 Well, not what they call so; You may bml a thousand as fair, And yet tiiere’s her face in my memory, With no.spocial right to be there. As I fit sometimes in the twilight, And call back to life in the coals Old face* and hopes and fancies Long buried, good re t io their sou’s ! Her face shine* out of the embers; I see her holding the light, And hear the crunch ol the gr ivel And the sweep of the rain that night. ’Tis a face that can never grow older, That can never part with its gleam; ’Tis a graciou* possession lorever, For what is it all but a dream ? [Atlantic Monthly. Brevity of Life! BY FRANCIS QUARLSS: 1664. Behold llow short a span Was long enough of old, To measure out the life of man! In those well tempered days his time was then Survey’d, cast up, and found but three score years and [ten. Alas ! And what is that ! They come, and g ide and pass, Before my pen can tell thee what. • The posts of time are swift, which hiving run Their seven short stages o’er, their short liv’d task is . (done. Our Days Begun, we lend To sleep and antic plays . And toys, until the first stage end ; Twelve waning moors, twice five times told, we give To unrecovvr’d loss—we rather breathe than live. How vain, How wretched is Poor m in, that death remains ’ A slave to such a state as this! llis days are short, at longest; few almost; They a e but had, at best; yet lavish’d cut or lost. They as: The secret sptings That make our minua s (lee On wheels more swift than eagles’ wings; Our life’s a clock, and every gas,> of breath Breathes forth a warning grief, till time shall st ike a f death. Jlow SOOti Our new • orn light sttta ns to full aged noon! And this, how Soon to gray-haired night! We spring, we bud, we blossom and we blast, Ere wo surmount our days, our days they flee so fast. They end When scarce begun And ere we apprehend That we begin to live, our life is done, Manl count by days, and if they flee too fast For thy dull thought to count, eount every day thy [last. The above lines I found in a very ancient scrap hook, only a few T days since; they tire as applicable as then. I am Dying:. The following beautiful poem, we copy front the Memphis (Term.) Bulletin. It is rarely -we find such contributed to the columns of a newspaper. It is sweetly beautifully sad. Raise my pil'ow, husband dearest— Faint and fainter comes my breath; And those shadows stea'ina s owly, Must 1 know,' be those of death. Sit down close beside me, darling, Let me clasp your warm strong hand, Yours that ever has sustained me. To the borders of this land; For your God and mine— our Father, Thence shall ever lead me on, . Where upon a throne eternal. 1 Sits his loved and only Son. I’ve had visions and been dreaming O’er the past of joy and pain; Year bv year I’ve wanderd’d backward, Till f was a child again. Dreamed of girlhood, and the moment When I stood j our wife and bnde - now my heart thrill'd with Love’B triumph In that hour of woman’s pride. Dieimed of thoe and all the earth-chord Firmly twined about my heart— Oh ! the bitter burning anguish, When I first knew we must part. It has passed—and God has promised All thy footsteps to attend; • He that’s more than friend or brother, He’ll be with thee to the end. There's no shadow o’er the portals leading to my heavenly home— Christ hath promised life immortal. And ’tis lie that bids me come. When life’s tria’s wait around thee . •And its chilling billows swell, Thou'lt thank heaven that I am spared them, Thou’lt th. i) feel “that a’l is well.” Bring our boy* unto my bedside; My last blessing let them keep— But tbey’ie sleeping—do not wake them— They’ll It am soon enough to weep. Tell them often of their mother. Kiss them for me when they wake Lead them gently in life’s pathway, Love them doubly for my sake. Clasp my hand still closer, darling,- This, the last night of my life, For to-morrow, I snail never Answer wh- n you call mo “wife.” Fare thee wel, my noble husband, Faint not ’ncath this chast’ning rod ; Throw your strong arm round our children Keep them oloae to thee—and God. STOEY OF A WOODEN LEG. I've known a heap o’ engine drivers with wooden legs, so cheer up, old malt, and we’ll have many a run up and down the line to j tret her, after yer strong anti well again.” This was old Joe Nason’s kind way o’ tellin’ me that I wasn’t a useless bit o’ fur niture now I’d lost a limb ; but, though I smiled and said yes, it was more to please . him than because I thought what he said , was true. It stood to-reason that I couldn’t b >pe to drive, nor even stoke, engines any more, and it really seemed then as if I’d nothing but the workhouse ora street cross ing before me. Let alone the getting up and down, I knew well enough that for | turning off the steam quick, or for moving j backward and forward from the tender, or for keeping a sharp look-out ahejid, a poor cripple would have no chance with plenty | of smart two-legged young fellows, ready | and willing for work.' This was what made me sad and down, far more than the pain ; j and as I lay there helpless and weak, I used { often to close my eyes to keep the tears back, ; or had a quiet cry to myself, when they tkotaght I was asleep. Anne and me had rather an angry part ; ing the night it happened ; for I was fiery i and a bit jealous, and she was fond of in nocent fun and honest admiration, as every dashing and handsome young lass ought to be, and I couldn’t get her to say either that, she liked me, or that she wouldn’t walk or cliatr with my mate, Dick, any more. It seems strange to look back now, and see What seemed to be my ruin turned out to be my best bit o’luck; and how this old wooden stump has carried me into more comfortable places than my own flesh and blood foot ever did. First, Anne sent word I that she’d love me better, without legs or ' arms, than any one else, be they ever so | good-looking and strong; and then, when l sent my little message of love and thank fulness back, she only asked if I was true i to what I’d said the day we walked from the 1 station, for, if so, slic’d say something she j wanted to tell me then, but put off for teas ing’s sake. And that’s how our marriage came about. Directly I could hobble on my crutches to dhurch she became my wife; and there was as many people at our wedding, and as much kindness, as if we’d been dukes.— The Squire himself gave her away, and promised me the very house you’re in now, stocking It, and saying a kind word for me with all the gentry near. You, perhaps, wouldn’t think, to see Anne now, that she was the prettiest girl round the country side ; but people call my youngest lass there good looking, and though she’s good as gold, # she ain’t fit to hold a candle to her mother as she was on the day I married her. A plump, tight little figure, bright blue eyes, fair hair, which wouldn’t come straight, but crumpled up in short, natural curls over her broad white forehead, just as the ladies have theirs fixed for them now ; a complexion like roses set in milk, ancl a dimple, asking to l>e kissed, whenever she spoke or laughed—that’s what Anne was when she took a poor cripple for better or worse, and promised to be true to him till death. Yes, it all came from this wooden leg; every bit of happiness I’ve had—and my life’s been a peaceful and a happy one, thank God—sprang out of the strange mis fortune I’m going to tell you about. It was just dusk, and I was sitting by the side of the line, where the embankment suddenly runs up some four feet or so, and thinking to myself that Anne didn’t cave for me—that life was so dull and dreary, and that I shouldn’t mind much if I W’ere lying in the church yard I could just see between the trees to the right—when 1 heard a queer scream, and felt some, .one's hot breath on my neck behind. It was so sudden, "that I’d only just time to give a half turn round, when I felt a stiff push, and rolled down the incline as the train rushed up. “ Murdering angels, and mock ing me, poisonous dog!” seemed to be shrieked out, as I fell oyer ancl over; and then I sawyhs i thought, the Squire himself i shaking his fist and jibing at me as I fell under the wheels. It’s wonderful how clearly the figure appeared to stand out, 1 even 'as I tried to catch the tufts of grass 'and weeds to save myself; and how r dis tinctly I saw my danger. A fierce disgust at i the thankless, graceless way in which I’d been murmuring at my lot, a prayer for help, a promise to be gratetUl for God’s blessings of health and safety ; speculations as to if it'really was the Squire, and if so, why that kind, proud gentleman did this cruel thing, were all mixed up With the oddest and most trivial observations on his dress and look. The brightness of his yellow’ metal buttons, the lappelsof his claret body coat, his gaiters and kerseymeres, even a slight red stain over over one of the flap ped pockets of his long, old-fashioned buff waistcoat, were all burned into memory, as it were, in the momentary struggle l made against my fate. Yes; the figure I seemed | to see stood on the edge of the embankment after he’d pushed me down it, and clapped his hands as if he were at the play, until it 1 was joined, as I thought, by another man. This was what I gasped out directly £ came to myself in the infirmary ward ; and J though I was too weak to argue, I could ! see well enough that they thought me wan i dering in iny mind. Then "came other 1 strange fancies, where Anne seemed to push me down, while my mate, Dick, drove the train over me; and Joe Mason clapped liis hands. Then that little red stain on the Squire's waistcoat was my heart, which ! had been taken out and stuck there ; and mixed lip with it all was the horrid sense of falling, and I'd half wake up to sense by clutching and clawing at the bedclothes, or tearing at my hair, with a wild, cry, to save myself. After this, I don't remember much except an aching sense of pain, and a weary longing for rest; and when, after many weeks. I came to myself, everything seemed so strange and odd' like, that I wasn't sure i which of my fancies had been real. I’d only one leg now, and niv arm was worse , than useless; mv trade as engine driver was gone, and the parson and doctor avoid ed the subject of liow my accident happen ed with a sort ol tenderness, as it they 1 were hmnorin a child. This puzzled me more than anything <?lse, but I conldnt j trouble to think it out, and lay quite still, | until one day I heard them talking about * “a recurrence of the suicidal tendency, : and listened quietly until I knew they lthought me mad. I waited until Mr. Firth --that was the. parson’s name—was with | me alone, and then I asked a few questions about the Squire: Had lie inquired after | me? Was he at home and well? Did he seem as usual ? And had he shown S himself angry with, or sorry for me ? i And to all my questions, I could only get AUGUSTA, GA., WEDNESDAY MORNING, JULY 17, 1867. • one sort of reply—that the Squire was as he {always was; but that Lady Caroline, his wife, and his foreign servant, Diego, had been wonderfully kind and thoughtful, giv ing strict orders that I was to have every - ; thnig from the Hall, and no expense was to be spared. A great surgeon had been sent for from London; and when it was thought I should die, Lady Caroline herself sat up | to hear, hour by hour, how I wms and what I chance the doctor thought I had of rally- I ing. “If you’d been her Ladyship’s own ■ son,” said Mr. Firth, “she couldn’t have j displayed greater anxiety; and as tbr poor Anne, she’s been broken hearted at having parted from you coldly, and as she says, driving you to —.” He stopped liere, as if to spare my feelings, and I couldn’t stand it any longer, but told him what I thought was the whole truth, first frightening him into the belief that I’d lost my senses again, but gradually, I could see, convincing him that what I said was w hat I believed had actually occurred. Shading his eyes with his hand, he said, “What you’ve told me is so startling that I should like to think it over alone before I give my opinion upon it.”— And then he left me, and I lay helplessly thinking again, until Anne, bless her, came in, and she was so full of Lady Caroline’s goodness, and the Squire’s promise to set us up in an inn, that I hadn’t the heart to tell her how I thought my misfortune had come about; for what with weakness and pain, mind you, and the strange mad fancies I’d had since I lay there, I began to be puz zled as to w hether I hadn’t been deluded after all; and though I was quite certain I’d been pushed down, the wild improba bility of the Squire doing it set me ponder ing if it weren’t someone else I’d heard shouting, and seen mocking me. The next time I saw Mr. Firth he treated me w ith a respect I’d never noticed before. Always kind and pleasant, there was a touch of friendly, sympathy in his manner now, that made me like him more than ever; and yet somehow we each understood the story I’d told him was never to be mentioned be tween us. The doctors, and Anne, and everybody always spoke of my “ accident ” until I began to think of' it in the same way myself, and it w T as only at odd times, when I was a bit low like about my future, and w r hen I doubted all the promises being kept, that my thoughts went back to the Squire, and the wild shrieks I’d heard after I w r as tumbled under the engine’s wheels. The very first day 1 hobbled to the door on my crutches, with Anne on one side, with a w’heel chair for me, directl)’ I felt tired, w r e met Dr. Firth and her ladyship on the other, just as if they’d arranged to come our way on purpose; and soon afterward we saw the Squire on horseback, and I turned sick faint-like the instant I clapped eyes on his claret body coat and the flapped long buff waiscoat lie always w’ore. I shall never forget my feelings when he rode up, and, in a kind but cold and distant way, said : “Is this the poor fellow’ you’ve told me about, and to w’hom we’re to let the Blaxton Arms ? Well, my man, get hale and strong again as quickly as you can ; don’t excite yourself, and listen to pretty Anne there', and I’ve no doubt you’ll make a better landlord than old Job ever did, who’s drunk himself to death since your mishap.” *Then, turning to my lady: “I shall ride over to Cl tor ley, and ask Sir Ru i pert to come up to dinner after the magis trates’ meeting’s over, my dear; so don’t fcxpect me back before six.” And so, after throwing Annie a sovereign, as her lady | ship’s pet, and w’ith a waive of his hand to { me, he cantered off as unconcernedly as if j he’d never seen me before. It made me ! bitterly angry, as well as sick at heart. The notion that he’d done it came back stronger tliailever, and I see him there, well dressed and prosperous, going to sit in judgment on poor fellows wlio’d, per haps, snared a rabbit, or picked a stray turnip from a field ; when all the time, if I was right, he’d been guilty of what was as bad ’as murder; to hear him talking his proud talk, and telling me to make haste and get well; and to feel that he was laugh ing at the mischief he’d wrought so wantonly, was terribly hard to bear. — If he’d only been shamefaced, or looked per sonally sorry—if he’d avoided my eye, or shown signs of wishing himself away-—I could have forgiven him ; but liis heartless way of treating my misfortune as if it were sent by Providence, and for which he was sorry, just as he’d be sorry if a neighbor’s house caught fire or a tenant’s child fell ill, just maddened me. “ I’ll have law for this,” I said to myself. There are clever men in London, I’ve heard, who take up poor men’s causes for nothing, and who make their op pressors pay for all. We’ll see whether Squire Blaxton, for all he’s an old soldier, and been honored by the Queen for bravery in battle, and in consideration of the many wounds Ire’s received —we’ll see whether he’s to half kill a poor engine-man, and then put it off in the careless way he does. Then I reasoned to myself: “Am I really insane ? Is it likely the" Squire would do what I think ?” and a hard, blank' feeling that the world was all against me, and that my senses were going, came over me like a hot film. Anne offered me the chair now, but I i never heard her - m and when she repeated her | question, I just closed my eyes, and swore a great oath between my teeth that I would revenge myself somehow on my bitter fate. Just after this, I caught Mr. Firth’s eye, and saw that Lady Caroline was weeping. I can’t explain how it was my heart soft- j ened so to her, or how I came to melt to her 1 gentle words in the way I did. I know she told me she had a grievous trouble to bear, of which my misfortune was a part—a trouble she could confide to no one but God, 1 and which could never be turned away or lessened while she lived. She asked me, too, to pray for her and pity her ; and in a humble and gentle way, which made the tears run down my cheeks as if I were a baby, said I was to lie her friend, and help j save her from worse sorrows still. Would i I do all in my power to protect her, and all ! belonging to her, from shame and suffering ? Would I, for her sake, try to get strong, ! an( l n °f think of my accident any more, or i give way to the lever she saw on me now,? Why, ol course I would ; and I promised I and pledged myself not to do the very tliings Id just resolved upon, and all within half an hour of the Squire riding by. bix months after this Anne ai>d me were married. The house you're sitting in was stocked, and the rent made easy for us, and we’ve never looked behind us since. I'm not sure a wooden leg aint an advantage iu a house like this. You see every one’s been Iso precious kind. There’s never t>een an * improvement in false limbs that I haven’t j had the advantage of at once. One geijtle ! man or another has said: “0, Mike, Dr. j Wright has written, and there's anew sort lof leg coming down from London which ! does everything but feel and stumble,” And then the neighbors have stepped in to see it and they called my old wooden limb “ the club, on account of the pleasant meetings it gave rise to to. Ive made a cupboard of this one, you see, and always keep a stock of sweetmeats in it for the children, as well as my pipe and tobacco. Ah! you may de pend on it there are worse tilings than a false leg, when a man finds such friends as I’ve found through life! Well, sir, t.o go back, the Squire used to look us up now ;mkl then, and w r as always kind, but cold and stately-like; for he got a great character for pride and- haughti ness as the years rolled on. I ought to have told you that, when my misfortune happened, the Squire and Lady Caroline had only just settled in our neighborhood, the Hall having come to them through the sudden death of a distant relative. He had a great reputation as a soldier, and was known to suffer much from the effects of the wounds received in battle. Thev were very popular in the country, for the Squire was an agreeable companion, a good horse man, and a firm upholder of church and -State. His military reputation,, too, and superior knowledge of the world, made him a man of mark among the country gentle men ; and it wasn’t long before they look ed to him as their natural leader in all pub- j tic matters affecting their interest or those j of the country. He’d brought with him j from foreign parts a big Spanish fellow, who acted as half secretary, half valet, and J was both hated and feared by the other ; servants as well as by the villagers—a j dark, hang-dog looking fellow; with cun-1 ning, sparkling eyes, high cheek-hones and ! thin lips, on which a treacherous smile was j always hovering. Diego, for that was his name, seem to care.little for looks or personal avoidance, but to go on serv ing the Squire and her Ladyship content edly, and, unless iiis looks belied him, re- j turned the hatred lie inspired elsew here j with interest. This fellow’, whom you’ll j perhaps remember I thought I saw with the Squire on the night of m.y misfortune, used to come and chat with me about my acci dent, and asked me how I felt when the train w’ent over me, w’hether the sur geon’s knife made me quail ; whether I suf fered still; and all in a contemptuous, sneering way that made me hate him.— “ Suddenly slipped down,” he would repeat slowly, as if it were too choice a subject to part from hastily—“ suddenly slipped dow’n the embankment, you say, Mike, and on to the line, and then the train came up, and I then —ah ! poor fellow !—ah ! my poor Mi chael ! it must have been what you call a fit; be careful, my dear, be careful, or it will come on again, and we shall lose our Michael. Do not smoke tbo much, nor drink ;no !” All this, with so many smiles and writhings, and such sharp, searching glances from the dark eyes, that I some times felt £e was. mocking me, and that he knew more than I thought. One night, after he’d been baiting me in this w r ay, he set upon one of the young gamekeepers from the park, and nearly drove him mad by the sneers and doubts lie hinted about the girl the young fellow’ w T as engaged to. They got to high words, and it was remem bered afterward that, as Diego left the room, young Marsh, the keeper, said some thing about being even with him the next morning, which was taken to mean that the Squire should hear of it. Every one would have been glad to see Diego hum bled ; and when Marsh bade his friends good night, and mounted his pony half an hour later, all present had helped to inflame his wrath by dwelling upon the unprovoked and unrestrained insolence of the Spaniard’s attack. A few hours later, Diego was found lying j quite dead within a stone’s throw of the ! Hall. He had been shot through the.heart j as he was in the act of opening a private ! gate leading to his room, which was near j the private apartments of the Squire. Mur- ■ der had been committed, and suspicion at j once fell upon young Marsh. His gun was j proved to have been recently fired; his quarrel with the dead man, and his uncon- • cealed hostility when they last met, were I all remembered; on being brought before i the Squire and his brother magistrates, he J was fully committed for trial, with a strong j feeling from all present as to the guilt. The ! Squire took the deepest interest in the case, and had a London lawyer down to consult with poor Marsh’s advisers, in the hope of helping him; while poor Lady Caroline seemed heart broken at the stigma of crime and disgrace which had fallen on a young fellow born and bred upon the estate. So deep was tjiis feeling that the poor lady fell ill after, telegraphing for a great doctor from London, who came down w ith two assistants, who remained at the Hall after he left. Then came news that the Squire’s health had given way too, that Diego had been with him night and day, that they were always shut up together for two or three days a week when the Squire was suf fering from his wounds, and that now the latter took his loss so much to heart that lie kept his room, and saw r nobody but the two gentlemen the London doctor had left behind. Meanwhile the wlioje village was in the deepest distress, for Marsh had been known to all of us since he was a baby, and w r as as peaceful and good-natured as the dead Diego had been quarrelsome and ma licious ; and though he continued to protest his innocence, all of us, except my Aune | an( j the girl Ellen he was to have married, j felt that appearances w ere against him, and that he would suffer. As for poor Ellen I and my wife, they were just furious in their disbelief. It had been a settled thing be i tween Anne and me that -the cause of my losing my limb should never be mentioned between us, and we’d kept to this during the whole of the long and happy years we’d been together. The neighbors and friends knew' this, and though I often joked about j mT false leg, chaffed those who had corns, i and cracked a jest w ith the village shoe [ maker about mv bad custom, the accident itself was never named. I knew well enough j thev thought I’d been deranged through jealousy, and that I was all right now, and I never cared to talk it out or think of it t much myself. It seemed to me just a mys tery, which I’d better not try to fathom, and, while I knew well enough I owed i everything in life to my mishap, I didn’t care'to dw : ell upon it even when alone, of to ask how far my original fancy had been | correct- Now, mind yon, all this was j changed, and, after some hints which set j me shuddering, Anne said boldly out one night, when we w ere by ourselves: i “ Have you never thought that Diego i may have been shot in the same way as you were pushed down the embankment twenty | years ago ?” | Our eyes met, and I saw that what I’d i long dismissed as unprofitable fancies, she’d taken to heart, and firmly believed to be true. Lady Caroline’s deep sorrow then, and her illness now; the peculiar wav in ! which I’d been taken up by the Hall,'and my interests looked after; the strange doc tor trom London and the Squire’s retire ment; Diego's mysterious hold on them, his : sneering insolence to me, and poor Marsh’s I earnest protestations of innocence—all came j before me in a sort of confused wav; and j when Anne whispered: “I believe the Squire | s hot him, that lie did push you under the train, and that he's been mad for years !” I seemed to have been guilty of murder, murder, and to face an awful truth I’d l>ot tled up and suppressed without thinking it was w rong. It all came out soon afterward. ; Poor Lady Caroline’s illness turned to be j brain fever, and she died raving; the Squire i went melancholy auxl mad, and is in a pri ’ vate asylum now; Marsh and Ellen married I directly after he was set free, and are doing well in New Zealand; and Anne and me kept our own .counsel as jar as w r e could. The wounds for which the Squire had been promoted and honored affected his head in a most curious way. On alternate days he was depressed and excited, and on some of the worst of the last days he was danger ously mad. He never remembered what had happened to him on his coming to his ordinary melancholy self again ; and it was the object of Lady Caroline’s life, who loved him dearly, to keep the dreadful secret from him as from the world. Diego was his keeper, and presumed on his knowledge. He was hated by the Squire, w’ho shot him in a paroxysm of frenzy, just as he had shoved me under the engine long before. For years he had been shut up and secluded from everyone but Lady Caroline and Diego on what were known to be his bad days, and these could be calculated on with such certainty that engagements could be made and invitations given or received for weeks beforehand. When the last sad catastro phe happened, poor Lady Caroline gave way under the anxieties which had been crush ing her for years ; the Squire was told in his sane moments of w’hat he had been guilty, and how he’d been watched, and the result was permanet lunacy. # l’ve had this from the London doctors’ servants who stayed liere, and it may be that learned people will say it’s against nature, but I promised to. give you the history of this patent self-acting cupboard-leg on New’ Year’s night, and I could not do so without telling you of the sad side to my present happiness, or without speaking tenderly of Lady Caroline and the poor Squire. [From the New York Times, 6th. The Turf. The Great Trot Between Etlwn Allen and Running Mate and Dexter in Harness, at Morristown , N. J. — Ethan Allen the Win ner-Time, 2:20 }4, 2:20)4, 2:20. The announcement of a purse of $8,500 for a race of mile heats, best three in live, given by the Morris County, N. J., Agricul tural Association, and to be contended for by the world famous fast trotting horses Dexter in harness and Ethan Allen with a running mate, on the half-mile track be longing to the Society, at Morristown, N. J., attracted a large assemblage of the lov ers of fast trotting in New Jersey as well as of the Empire City to witness it. In the previous match between these horses on the Fashion Course, L. 1., a fortnight ago, the trotting. world was electrified when Ethan Allen and mate in the first heat, struck off four seconds from his own previously un paralleled record of 2:19 with a running mate, by trotting the mile in two minutes and fifteen seconds, and in the second heat, doing it in two minutes and sixteen seconds. — The magnitude of the purse offered by the Morris County Association, ($2,000 for the first and $1,500 for the second horse,) in duced Mr. Fawcett, the owner of Dexter, to try conclusions a second time with- the redoubtable little stallion and his running companion, and the result of their contest will be found fully detailed below. The Morris and Essex Railroad Company run two special, in addition to their ordina ry trains from this city to Morristown, and both were well patronized. The track, which is delightfully located about two miles from the town, is a half mile one, con structed about three years ago, and by no means favorable for the making of very fast time, the turns being abrupt and the home stretch on a descent. It was, however, in capital going order, and the attendance was good, between two and three thousand per sons paying admission to the grounds. The betting was in favor of the team, at the odds of SIOO to SSO, and notwithstanding the persevering eloquence of Johnson, the pool auctioneer of this city, the speculation was flu* from brisk, and principally confined to New Yorkers. Dan Mace, of course, drove Ethan and his running mate, Charlotte F.; while *Budd Doble drove Dexter. Both horses looked in the perfection of condition, and the expectation of a magnificent race was fully realized. First Heat— Dexter had the pole, and about half a length the best of the send off. Eouuding the first turn Ethan broke, and, amid great cheering, Dexter passed him and led three lengths at the quarter pole in 34)4 seconds. Rapidly and surely did the team diminish the lead, when Ethan again struck a trot, and as they passed the score | on the first half mile, 1:09, the team was a neck in front. Gradually drawing away, Ethan and mate were an open length ahead at the three-quarter pole, and, although Dexter worked with wonderful resolution i and speed, he was beaten by that distance | as they crossed the score, the time of the ' team being 2:20)4- Second Heat. —No betting. An excellent ! start was effected without anygdelay. At | the first turn Ethan led a length and a half, ‘ but at the quarter-pole Dexter was on his wheels ; the time to this point being 88)4 seconds. Gamely did the little white-legged J wonder straggle for the lead, but despite i his efforts, an open length Still separated | them at the half-mile score, reached in 1.08. At the turn Dexter left his feet, and Mace, with his trotter and runner, opened a gap of three lengths, which he maintained f throughout, winning the heat by that dis- I tance in 2:20)4- Third Heat. —Dexter got half a length the best of the send off, and when Ethan broke at the first turn, and the little Hara bletonian passing him, assumed a strong lead, the cheering was tremendous, as it looked as if the heats Were going to be broken. At the quarter-pole Dexter led six ! lengths in 34 seconds, and many thought that ! Mac would never recover the lost ground, j and would not try for the heat. But that i skillful and resolute driver well knew the VOL. 25. NO. 29 1 speed ami powers of his horses, and he made a vigorous effort to overtake his opponent. Steadily but surely the tremendous burst of | speed that his term exhibited told; for he : gained at every stride, and as they passed j the score on the first half-mile, only half « length separated them. At the turn Mace’s team were at Dexters head; for a few j Seconds they were even, and then the resist less speed of the team carried them to the front, and although Dexter made a splendid ’ struggle every yard of the way, he was : beaten to the score by a length in 2:20. The i time of the three—seven minutes and three quarters of a second—is extraordinarily fast, when it Is considered that the track was a half-mile one, aud not by any means a fast course. SUMMARY. Morristown, N. J., Half-mile Course, Thurs day, JuJy 4. —Purse $3,500, ($2,000 to the win nerand $1,500 to the second horse,) mile heats, best three in live. D. Mace named Ethan Allen and running mate Charlotte F.’ 1 1 1 B. Doble named hr. g. Dexter, in harness. 2 2 2 Time—2:2o)4 5 2:20)4; 2:20. [From Jenny June’s Circular. Gentlemen’s Glnb Booms —A Lady’s De scription of Them- New York, June, 1867. CLUBS AND CLUB HOUSES. Clubs are getting to be almost as fashion able an institution for men in New York as in London. There are now eight or ten, all well patronized, that can afford to pay from six to fifteen thousand dollars per year for the rent of a handsorrte houfft ; and good ness knows how much more for the sup port of their establishment, its furniture, its attendance, its dinners, its suppers, and luxuries of every description. Ladies are not often invited to participate in club house entertainments, but the other evening one of them gave an inauguration reception on the occasion of opening their new and elegant house in Madison avenue, . and for once spittoons were all huddled to gether in a closet, and the entre permitted to the crinolined friends of the members. Speaking for the information of those la dies who have never been the interior of a club house, it may be as well to re mark that there is nothing disagreeable ‘ about its general aspect. On the contrary, it is rather attractive tlqin otherwise. The gentlemen only exclude the fair sex to the extent of participating in their luxuries, not from aiding in the task of securing their comfort. Every wife has heard her husband, some time or other, ask what she got such “ confoundedly homely girls for ?” And it need scarcely be said that the “club” housemaids are not homely; on the con trary, they are very pretty, and wear co quettish head-dresses. There is a total absence of. what is so ommon in private houses, and that is an appearance of stint and economy. From the broad marble vestibule and wide, im posing staircase to the topmost floor, through reception, dining, billiard, reading, chess, and numberless other rooms, all is ample, commodious and abundant. The carpets are the softest, the pictures the finest, the chairs the easiest that are to be found, while the reading room is sup plied with all the latest hooks, papers and magazines, the music room with the cost liest of grand pianos, and .the dining room with rate and. fragrant flowering plants, placed in the niches of paneled walls, re presenting fruits, game, and all sorts of table delicacies, all of which put in a substantial appearance- from the hands of a French cook, an artiste, who issues his orders with a grand air and con siders himself prime minister of the whole concern, which he is. It is not at all sur prising that the married members of such an institution as this, hurried away from the grizzled chop and soggy biscuit served by “Bridget,” and announce that they will dine at the club; but it is a pity and a shame that women, too, have not some such resort as a relief to washing-day horrors and cold-meat dinners. Men have the best of it here, that is cer tain, but it is possible that our turn will come, and then—well, may-be we won’t have clubs and good dinners. Cholera Remedy.—After testing it for fif teen years, in probably a thousand cases, we suggest to our readers to at once procure from the druggist the following simple mixture: Laudanum, 2 oz; spirits of camphor 2 oz.; tincture ot capsicum, % oz 1 tincture of ginger, 1 oz.; essence of peppermint, 2 oz.; Hoffman’s anodyne, 2 oz. If the anodyne cannot be readi ly obtained, substitute sulphuric aether— half the quantity. Mix thoroughly and shake well every time it is used. Give or take from ten to twenty-five drops, according to age, condition, or violeucc of attack. Repeat every twenty minutes tHI relief is obtained. In a desperate case take a tablespoonful at once. Take it in an equal quan ty of water, and lie on the back qnietly, or in an easy sitting posture with the back supported, till it has full opportunity to work. Carry a small phial iu the pocket, with a few lumps of white sugar upon which to drop it, to be used in sudden emergencies. One of the new inventions of the day is a plan of drj-ing soaked cotton in the bale with out unpacking. It is done by i( superheated steam, without pressure,” and It is said that a soaked balg weighing over 1,000 pounds was, by this process, reduced to a little over 400 pounds. It is.also said that cotton dried in this way is superior to that dried in any other mode, being more soft and silky. A company at New Orleans is about to build a floating dryer, that can be transported to the wrecks of cotton vessels and dry the bales at the places where they may be taken from the water. An old negro woman accounts for the lack of discipline among youngsters from-the fact that their mothers wear gaiters. “Ye see when we wear low shoes an’ the children wanted a whippin, we jus took off a shoe, mighty quick, an gave ’em a good spankin ; but now how’s a body to git a gaiter off in lime ? So the chil’en gits no whippen at all now-a-days.” Greeley on Stanton. —We have another batch of rumors about Mr. Stanton. Some say that he will resign, others that he will be re moved. We discredit them. Mr. Stanton be ! longs to the class that rarely dies, and never resign. As to his political sympathies, they | may be expressed by saying that there are i three parties in the country now —the Demo crats, the Republicans and Mr. Stanton. [New York Tribune. Fight at Franklin, Tennessee.— Wc learn from passengers who arrived here Y*® . morning, that there was a fight at a public m 1 ing at Franklin, Tennessee, on the 6th insL, in 1 which some 15 men were killed and a large number wounded. No P^ticular^g
