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‘‘ I do,” answered the girl, in a low and sweet voice. “ It is your own desire to eschew the vani ties of the outer world, and live a life of unin terrupted devotion ?” “ Yes, Father.” “You have considered well of all these things, have you ? You have resolved on this step, only after much reflection and prayer ?” “ I have, good Father.” she replied. “ Then you may take your present farewell of home and friends,” said he. Gabriella looked up inquiringly into his face. “We are ready to go with you this moment,” said he, explaining it to her. “ Ah!” exclaimed she, as if she for the first time comprehended. “My daughter! My child!” said the beau tiful Lady Monimia, extending her arms for an embrace. “ You are strong in your heart, are you not ?” “ Yes, mother,” cried Gabriella, rushing to her proffered embrace, and laying her head nfleetionately upon her breast. IMph were affected for a moment too deeply -.to Swcr a WoiJ. ‘ have*, counted all the /cost, child?” ttreyrfnjther, controlling herse’lf. “ I have—l Save !” answered Gabriella. “ And know what you sacrifice in tearing yourself from me ?” “ Oh, mother! that is the hardest of all! I could well bear all else but that!” “ Yet it is quite as bitter a draught for me, my child.” “ I know—l know it!” “ And I make the sacrifice willingly.” “Yes, mother, you do.” “ Because I know it is for your lasting happi ness.” “ Oh, mother! mother! when shall I repay you for giving up so much of your happiness for mine! When shall I have it in my power to make you even the least return for your great kindness!” “ You may do it at once, Gabriella,” re sponded her mother. “ How! How, my mother ?” eagerly asked the tearful child. “In your daily life, which you are now to enter upon.” “ Can I?” “ Yes ; you must enter with a true and deep zeal into the objects of your new life, and exert yourself only the more to create and diffuse happiness, because you know that you have sacrificed so much yourself.” “ That I will, my dear mother.” “ And now, my child, I have no farther words of counsel to give.” “No more, mother? I could listen all through the day to the sweet tones of your beloved voice!” “ All, child, but that is only one of the temp tations which the world still holds out to you at this last moment. It follows you to the very threshold of your new home. You should rebuke such wordly advances, child, and put them far behind you.” “So I will, mother! So I will. I will do all I can to reject such tempting illusions at this time.” “ Yes, a&l at all times.” “ I will,wren at all times, mother.” “And sfc you will bo the happier, as you f 11 ’ i. you are obliged to make. You ’will gropv strong in contemplation of tire trial you have passed through. A self-imposed trial, too!” “ Heaven grant it may be so, mother, re sponded the girl. “Farewell, my child, then!” said the Lady Monimia, again pressing her to her bosom. “ Farewell to you'! Only be calm, —be watch ful,—be wary,—be sober and thoughtful, and you will be strong! You will feel a strength growing up within your heart, each day of your life. You must bo happy; for your heart will be full to overflowing with pure and un mixed joy!” “ Oh, my mother!—my mother!” exclaimed Gabriella, amid her stifling sobs and tears. She could say no more then. For another moment she hung upon the Lady Monimia’s neck, and then there gushed tears from her dark eyes plenteously. Her long, silken lashes glistened with the drops as with pearls. Another pressure,—a fond, long, struggling kiss, —a single whisper of farewell, — and mother and daughter were separated—per haps forever. The Lady Monimia was left in her mansion all alone. The carriage containing the youthful Gabri ella then rolled away to the mountain acclivi ties that hedge in the plain of Florence, and she went to anew home, and entered upon a new life. But as she emerged from the carriage to pass within the outer walls of the nunnery, there stood a figure not far off, partially con cealed in the bushes, and gazing with all the anxiety which it is possible for a pair of fierce eyes to concentrate within themselves. It was Juliette, —the faithful waiting-maid of Gabriella! Iler devotion lived till the last moment. While the ambitious step-mother sat in her apartment, and contemplated the undisturbed field she had cleared for herself, she pressed her jewelled hands thaidtfuilv together, and already felt herself a queen ! Certainly, she had planned and executed with wonderful precision and success. CHAPTER XIII. THE NOTARY AT LENGTH SHOWS HIS HAND. The night following the departure of Gabri ella, was indeed a night full of thought and dreams to the triumphant Lady Monimia. She retired not to rest until quite a late hour, and even long after that was her head filled with fancies and speculations. The whole matter had been concerted and completed in so brief a time, and almost be yond the possibility of her expectations, too, that she needed some time in which to recover from the bewilderment into which it had thrown her. She counted now, as the night-bells tolled on the weary hours to the morning, the hopes that were strung along upon her plan, as thickly as the beads in her rosary. She looked forward to the time, now, when she should have consummated all that she had conceved, and the arts of the wily notary should begin to be counted as of some practi cal profit. Then her mind run along, as easily as if she were wandering in the mazes of a rosy dream upon the things she would have done, when everything was at length clearly and satisfac torily in her hands, and also upon the many things she determined should not bo done. There were very many of both. She finally wearied with this watching. She felt her brain burning and swimming. That cold, g! itering forehead of hers grew hot. She couid scarcely lay her white hand across its marble surface. Just as the light of the morning began to gleam upward through the tinted horizon, she closed her eyes in slumber. She slept long and deeply. And she had dreams. For dreams were not yet forbidden to such as she. But it could not always be dreams to her, and especially such pleasurable ones. The hours rolled on. Juliette, twice or thrice en tered her apartment, alarmed that she should sleep to so late an hour, yet afraid as yet to waken her. The morning slipped far away, and it was quite late. Juliette looked again. She was still sleeping soundly. This time, however, she took courage, and went to her bedside. She laid her hand lightly upon her shoulder, and called her. Lady Monimia awoke, and looked around the room in great amazement, and with an expression of alarm. “You sleep so late, mistress, I thought I must waken you,” said the maid. “ is tfhe. hour, J.uliette ?” asked the Lady Monimia. * j / “ Nearly noon.” “ Impossible ! But I was restless nearly all night, Juliette, and could not sleep. I got no sleep till toward morning, for thinking of Gabriella.” “ What made her go away from her home, sweet mistress ?” innocently asked the maid ; “ and how long will she stay?” “I cannot tell if she will ever come back again.” “ Never ?” repeated the maid, mournfully. “ She way not,” returned the Lady Monimia; “ but I cannot tell when. So ask no more questions about it. Leave me now, and I will arise!” Juliette left the apartment, but her heart was full for her departed young mistress. The proud Lady Monimia’s mind was full of fears lest she should have visitors ere she could prepare herself to receive them. She dressed herself in great haste, and partook at once of her first meal for the day. She had been in her reception-room but a very short time, when, as she had already feared, the maid came to usher in a morning visitor. It was the notary—Bertani. She received him with unaffected cordiality, and motioned him to be seated. The cunning notary accepted her silent in vitation, and rested his person in the thick coating of a rich chair. “ I have news to tell you, sir notary!” began the Lady Monimia. “ I am glad.” “ Good news !” said she. “ That is always welcome,” replied he. “ My plans—” “ Ha! have they succeeded ?” impulsively interrupted he, temporarily losing his accus tomed caution. “ Yes, Signor.” “ All ?” Do you say all, madam ?” “ Yes.” “ And the girl ?” said he. “ She fell in with my wish.” A j < “ More ; she'has fully resolved in her mind.” “ Better and better!” triumphantly exclaimed he. “ More than this “ More ?’’ “ Yes ; she has already gone 1” said she. “ Gone ! Did you say—” “ Yes—gone.” “ You amaze me, madam! I have never heard the like before.” For once, it seemed, as if the scheming no tary had lost his proper equilibrium, so deep was his delight. “ Yes, Signor, she has retired from the world into the walls of a convent. I have nothing to fear now /” “ No, madam, nothing ,” repeated he. “ And when she shall finally have taken the vail, which will be her last—her very last farewell to the world, then my power will be complete 1” “Yes,” replied the notary. “ But inasmuch as the matter looks so favor able now, Signor Bertani, we may as well per form our arrangements respecting the will of my late husband at time.” “ I have come prepared to do so,” said he. “So much the better, then. You think, Sig nor, that after this is at last settled, and after the girl concludes to become a recluse alto gether by the taking of the vail—you think that no further obstacle stands in my way, do you not ?” “ I know of none, madam,” replied he, thoughtfully. “ I can be the mistress of the entire estate, and its large income.” The notary only bowed to this. “ That is all at which I have aimed, Signor- I shall reward you liberally for your part in the matter, and never shall have a fear that you will betray the secret you have already kept so faithfully.” “ My reward will be not what you expect,” replied the notary. “ What then ? Shall I return your favor by any single* one of myoivn!” “ That is all I could wish, my Lady.” “ Pray, tell me what remains for me to do in requital for your invaluable services ? Any thing that I can do, I will. “ Madam, you can do me one favor, which will more than repay me,” slowly spake the notary, fastening his eyes fixedly upon hers. “ What, Signor ?” “ I ask only for your hand /” A confusion momentarily seized her mind, from which she could not extricate herself. “ That is the reward, and the only reward I would ask for my services in this matter,” con turned he. “ But, Signor—” protested she. “ Are you not willing, madam?” “ Indeed, you do but surprise me by your unexpectA demand,” said she, gradually recov ering herself, as the hot blood flowed back again from her surcharged heart, and colored her cheeks and temples. “I hardly know how I answer you, it is all so sudden—so un looked for. I should want time in which to reflect on the matter.” “ That I would give you,” said he. “Then you shall have a satisfactory answer at another time.” “ Satisfactory, said you, my Lady ?” “ A definite —a final one, I should havo said,” replied she. “Ah ! that makes the difference!” dryly exclaimed the cool notary. “ But it is all I would take, madam,” continued he, “ for my poor services. It is all I would have for the keeping of- this important secret. I ask no greater boon. It is dearer to me than all things else. Nay, my Lady, why may you not give me an answer now ?” With thinking the matter over, he had grown more impatient and urgent. He would have had the matter settled at once. “Signor Bertani,” said she, after a moment’s thought, “ I fear that I have it not in my power ever to requite you thus for your efficient aid and sympathy ; above all, for your invaluable truthfulness to my cause. I fear I never can do it.” “ May I ask why, my Lady ?” “I have but lately become widowed, as you know—” “ Yes—yes!” “ And I would not again enter upon the mar ried state.” “ Would you not at all ?” “ No, I think not,” replied she. “At least for the present, I -would decline all such thoughts. They are not essential to my hap piness, and I must decline them. I would pay you, Signor Bertani, most fully, most liberally, for your great service to me. I would not leave a whit of that duty undone.” “ But Ido not ask any money!” suggested he ijfgain. . / e “ Will you not accept it from me ?” “ Not a single coin.” “ But w-hat then ?” “ Madam, I love you,” said he. “ I would be loved in return. I sue for your hand —I would make you my wife. I must—l must! Do not put off my suit, my Lady! I must be heard!” “ But it will be impossible!” replied she, gathering resolution and courage as she saw his advance; “it will be impossible ! I cannot bestow my hand on any one /” “ Do you discard me, then ?” asked he. “ I cannot accept your offer, Signor. I am abundantly grateful for all your official ser vices, and I shall see that they are fully repaid to you. That I shall take care of. But this favor which you ask of me—oh, no, no! —it cannot—it cannot be!” “ Madam,” said the notary, “ I have long loved you.” “T ou have been peculiarly unfortunate, Signor,” said she, in a vein of irony. “I knew what you would say,” replied he, “ I know what your hint means. You would tell me that while I have so long and sincerely loved you, you have not so much as bestowed a thought on me /” -“I certainly never have, in the way of affec tion, Signor,” frankly said she. “Is that so, madam ?” “ Understand me. I have always had the deepest feelings of gratitude te you, Signor, and always shall have—” “ Ah! but gratitude is not love /” said he. “ Yet you cannot expect one to love you, Signor, whether she will or not!” “ I would have you love me,” said he. “ I am not regardless of you, I believe.” “ That is not it. I would be loved !” “ I cannot promise, that, Slgno.” “ Never?” “ No. It is beyond my power. I will, nev ertheless, abundantly reward you.” “ With your hand ?” “ Why, no, Signor!” replied she, with some little sharpness. y‘ I cannot do it.” “ You must do j/t, madam !” f- NVhvu l” inriTicr astonishment. ■ “ I say you must give me your hand !” “You amaze me!” said she. “ But that is not so bad as it might be, he very cooly replied. “ There are worse feelings for the heart than astonishment!” “ What would you say, Signor? Ido not at all comprehend you.” “ I mean only this—that the condition of my keeping this matter a secret, and of keeping your husband’s estate in your power, is my marriage with you /” “ Impossible!” exclaimed she. The color came and went quickly to and from her face. “It is my last offer, madam,” said he, mo tioning as if to rise. “ Will you accept it ?” “ No, Signor,” answered she resolutely. “ My lady, do you remember an old suitor of yours, in Ravenna, named Marini ?” She turned pale. “ Perfectly,” she answered. “ Then see him before you again!” “ You!” exclaimed the Lady Monimia, in great affright and confusion. “ Yes, madam ; look, and see for yourself if I am not the one!” Forthwith he removed his wig from his head and his glasses from his eyes, and thus presented quite another appearance to her. She regarded him with feelings too deep for utterance. “Yes, my fair Lady Monimia,” said he, “I am an old suitor for your hand! This demand of mine is no new one, believe me! You have spurned me before!” “ You should leave this house, Signor!” cried she, in a burst of uncontrollable rage. “You have spurned me before,” continued he, as if he did not regard her hasty words; “it is no new thing. I have become quite used to it. I have followed your fortunes with my watchful eyes—” “ A spy!” cried she, indignantly. “ And have ever watched the opportunity when you should be forced to do what you would not doTZillingly /” “A monster! A cruel, cowardly monster!” ejaculated she, her voice trembling with the excess of her rage. “ Do not thus give way to your passion, madam. I have more to tell you before I leave you.” “ I wish you to leave me ! Shall I have to order you to go from my presence ? I will see to it at once that you are paid for all your pro fessional services in my behalf—paid liberally and well. Leave me, I ask you!” “ Wait a moment. Not so fast. I must say a few words more.” “ I will not hear them !” cried she. “ Nay, madam, but I know you will! You will be obliged to listen to every syllable I utter in your hearing; because it concerns your future so deeply.” “ Then say on, sir notary 1” replied she, sud denly controlling her anger and assuming an attitude of defiant coolness. “ You should know, my lady fair—” “ Call me by no such endearments!” quickly reproved she. “ You should know, then, that the entire disposition of your fortune as far as it is con nected with the estate left by your late hus band, rests in my hands.” “ How do you go to work to prove such a paradox as that, I would bo glad to know ?” questioned she proudly, and still keeping down the ebullition of her rage with an effort of her strong will. “ You do not perhaps know, then, madam, that your husband left a codicil to his will ?” “No, I do not,” replied she. But she could not hold the wonted color in her face, even though she could keep down her feeling. Her countenance was overspread suddenly with a pallor as of death. [to be continued.] THE TRAD ISMAN’S CRISIS. “ Then let [s begin at once.” It will he sufficier , for the reader’s purpose it, passing over the eroine’s early history, we observe that, at the >eriod our narrative com mences, MaryNortoi *the soul and sunshine of her parental home, a as entertaining the very serious intention o leaving it—“ How her father and mother a\ II ever bring their minds to part with her, Ici n’t think!” was the some what concerned: Se Sark of a neighbor, and h§rc our story mtistiproceed in the words of a narrator: “ Poor Mary, herself, felt it would be a very hard thing to leavA*tho dear little cottage in which she had jgifsed so many happy days, and above all, to liv> no longer under the same roof with her parents. But then she loved Edward Norris vciy much, and she was sure he would be a good, find husband, for he had always been so stead? and such a dutiful son and affectionate brother.” And so hope chased the tear from Mary’s eye, and the pass ing pang from her hqtpt. It was the eve ofTjbr wedding day, and she was sitting in the a|hor, talking with Edward about their future plans and prospects. They were alone; Mrs. Ijforton was in the house busily making preparations for . the next day, anj£ Mr. Norton . “Mary dear so afTrajd you wont be able Sj-econcile yourself to liv ing in a town, after TbeSng used all your life to this pretty, quiet ( cottage. C is such a bustling place, too ; a great deal more so than L . It will make such a change. “Never fear, Edward,” replied Mary, “I think I could make myself happy anywhere, with someone to love ; aqd besides I shall find so much to do, that I shall have no time to waste upon discontented musiugs. And Mary’s eyes looked so bright and hope-s ful, that Edward’s misgivings passed away, and he thought if love could make her happy, it should not be wanting. He was rather disposed to be despond cast down by difficul ties; but, since engagements with Mary, he had been often reassured by her calm, hopeful spirit, and cheered by-her encouraging words. * The next day they were married, and in a week were settled in their new home at C . There Mary found she had said) plenty to employ her time and thoughts. Edward who had served his apprenticeship to a bookseller and stationer, was now a, shopman in the establishment, and much esteemed by the principal of the lonian for his uniform stead iness and attention to business. His house was near the shop, so that he always came home to his meals'; and very comfortable meals they were, for Mary was an excellent housewife, and though they had only a slender income, she was determined that what they had should be laid out to the best advantage, as far as she was concerned. Edward loved his wife dearly and increasingly, and he had reason to do so; for a “ good wife is from the Lord,” and is among the most precious and valuable of His earthly gifts. And Mary was a good wife in the best sense of the word for she was a Christian, and had learned to make the Word of God her guide and counsellor, believing that the Lord alone could enable her faithfully and diligently to perform her new (duties. Regulated and controlled by Divine grace, her .natfirally rcheerful temper was a and her husband, Sd >to all whocaHtwitliip the sphere of its influence. Five years passed away and Mary was the mother of three children, while death had de prived her of her kind good parents. Edward had taken a small shop in a country town, a few miles from C , and had commenced businesss for himself. But ho soon found that a young tradesman had many difficulties and struggles to surmount before he can be fairly established. Instead of the small but certain salary which he had hitherto punctually re ceived, he found that there were considerable expenses to meet in stocking and altering the shop, while at the same time the returns were scanty and uncertain. What could be done ? He dreaded getting into debt, which ho had hitherto scrupulously avoided. The only alternative seemed to be to retrench their ex penses, and yet he hardly knew how to do that, since theyhad already lived as prudently and economicall; off possible. Their present establishment ccßsted of himself and wife, three children, (aS-ery young,) an experienced servant who with them ever since their marriage, a*young girl who acted as nurse, and a shopboy. It seemed to Edward out of the question to part with one of their three assistants, tnd y r et there appeared no other way of saving. Mary had but recently recovered from Iter last confinement, and he was unwilling toMistress her with fears that perplexed his owl mind. It was late one! evening, when, after having closed his shop fir the night, he entered theii small sitting roon with a weight on his heart and a cloud on his brow, which he could not conceal from liis wife’s observant eye. “ You are notwell to-night, Edward,” said she, tenderly! “you look tired and worn out!” “ A little perhaps, but I’m quite well,” he answered, sndeaving, but ineffectually, to brighten up. “ W ell, try and forget business, and all its cares,” saidiiarly cheerfully. “ I want to to-night; do come and read lonic so enjoy it.” With a melaucloly smile he complied with his wife’s requed, and taking a book from the shelf, began to read. But the words fell mechanically fjom his lips, while other thoughts crowded into his mind. He looked at the baby in the cradle by Mary’s side, and he remembered the other two children who were asleep upstairs. Here was an increas ing family, ana consequently increasing ex penses ; while it the same time he appeared to be losing ground every day. At last his wife suddenly put her hand on his arm, and said, “ Dear Edward! what is the matter ? lam sure something disturbs you: do tell me all I can bear anything better than seeing you look so miserable without knowing the riason. Thus urged, Edward was obliged at last to reveal the cause of his abstraction. Mary attentively listened till he had con cluded, and tiking his hand, she said, affec tionately, “ P-ior, dear Edward, you have been brooding over your troubles in secret, till I can venture to say, things appear a great deal worse than they really are. You are not in debt you say, at present ?” “ No, thank God!” replied Edward, earnestly. “ But then, Mary, love, if we cannot manage to save, some way, we shall get into debt, that is, unless my business brings in more than it does now.” “ Then let us begin to save at once!” said Mary, energetically. “ But in what way can wo do so ?” asked Edward. “We are not living extravagantly in any respect. I don’t sec, at present, in what way we can retrench.” “0, I’ve thought of several ways already,” said Mary', smiling, and looking so hopeful and happy that the mere sight of her bright, ani mated countenance, raised her husband’s spirits, and made him feel more sanguine than he had done for many days past. Then followed a long conversation, carried on in a low voice, interspersed occasionally with a sigh from Edward, followed by an en couraging Avord from his wife. Next morning Mary rose full of her new plans for saving and economizing. Her youngest child was only six Aveeks old, the next could run alone, and the eldest was four years of age. They made plenty of work, as Mary knew very well; but she determined, in the present state of affairs, to discharge the girl AV'ho had acted as nurse, and to manage Avith one ser vant. This was no sooner determined thai. acted upon, though Edward remonstrated against it in very strong terms, telling his wife that she was undertaking too much—that she would overdo herself, and be laid up. But Mary pleasantly combatted all his fears by/ telling him that exercise always agreed Avitlij her, and that it Avould bfe no hardship to her’ be. In a day w two, Edwam’Hrseo’fared ■ Tom, the shop-boy, was of A'ery little use tc/ him ; that during a great part of the day lie was idle, and therefore in mischief. He w 7 as accordingly installed in a similar situation, which Edw'ard easily procured for him at a neighboring grocers, and thus tAvo considera ble items Avere at once substracted from the Aveekly expenditure. Mary seemed at no loss to discover ways , and means to lessen the general expenses, and bore her amount of extra Avork so cheerfully 1 and uncomplainingly, that her husband loved her better than CA’cr. When he Avas obliged (as lie occasionally was) to leave the shop foi a short time, Mary Avas ahvays ready to take his place, and with pleasant manner and active hand to Avait upon the customers. And during all this time the household affairs Avere carried on Avith as much care and regularity’ as ever. There was nothing like disorder and neglect, but all Avas in its place, and everything done at the right time. “ I can’t think how’ you manage,” said Ed ward, one day', w'hen he came into the neat little sitting-room, and sat doAvn to a comforta ble dressed dinner, at a time when he knew that Mary w?as in the midst of a large wash. “ God helps me,” said Mary kissing his cheek, “by giving me strength and fore thought.” In the course of a feAv months, from the effect of incessant care and attention, Edward’s business began sensibly to increase ; and in a year or two, from a struggling beginner, he found himself a Avell-established tradesman. And he felt and acknoAvledged that this pros perous turn in his affairs was mainly attributed to the influence and exertions of his Avife, who, instead of lamenting her hard fate in being obliged to economize and exert herself in every possible way, had resolutely set to work, and by her cheerful industry and careful manage ment, had averted a melangholy crisis oi, failure and disgrace. (j PUGILISM^R^THE^MM^ LY ART OF| A European or stranger in our midst, says c, New York cotemporary', taking his impression/] of our habits and the spirit of our society from certain leading journals in this city,'’ would very naturally conclude that pugilism, or the “ manly art of self-defense,” as it n called in England, Avas a national “ institution,’ and a natural offspring of our social condition. But though reports of the Heenan-Morrisey affair of some months ago, as well as the more recent fight of Price and Kelly?, and the many similar brutalities, hav'e had a Avide circulation through the press, and great numbers of peo ple seem to take an active interest in them, it is very certain that these things are wholly foreign in their origin, and equally so that they never will take root or flourish on Americai soil. Pugilism is an unmixed brutality, A'astly. immeasurably more degraded than the old Roman gladitorial combats, of which it is a base imitation, and never could originate in a Democratic society, or anywhere except in countries like England, where the “ loAver orders’’have reached the loAvcst and most brutalized condition that the nature of the white race admits of. The Roman gladiators were slaves, and their combats Avere ordered by their masters to amuse the multitude, but bloody and ferocious as were their combats, the lofty and magnanimous Roman spirit de manded that they should contest Avitli weapons like men, and not descend to the grade Ci brute beasts, to tear or pound themselves Avith their hands or fists. And to this day, of all the descendants of the Romans among the entire population of southern Europe, such a revolting brutality and degraded animalism as pugilism is totally unknoAvn, Avhile in Russia, in northern Germany, and especially in Eng land, it is thought to be a “ manly sport ” to fight like beasts. About half a century ago, it was, in a sense, fashionable in England, and patronized by statesmen and others of the highest rank in the kingdom. The late George JV and the members of the Carleton Club wer. its especial patrons’ and Cribb, the great “ bruiser ” of the day, Avas on the most intimate and confidential terms with these titled and distinguished people. Another of the fraternity of brutes, as they should be termed, for they imitate their natures and habits, made such an impression on the “ manly’ ” instincts of the A'oters of one of the English constituencies, that he was elected to the Parliament, and if there were any repre sentation in that body at all, it might have been said that he represented the animals of the country. A paper in this city, commenting on the late fatal affair in San Francisco, sought to place dueling and pugilism in the same cat egory ; but Avhile the former is undoubtedly’ a barbarism, the latter is a brutalism, and there is therefore just the same difference between them that there is between a man and a beast. But there is no danger of this “ English sport” taking root on our soil. The men engaged in it are all British subjects, or men born and reared as such ; and though Ameri cans may be ready enough, perhaps, at times, with knife or pistols, they are surely incapable of publicly descending to the role of beasts. The story that obtained currency in some quarters in regard to the title of the Mount Vernon estate, is denied by authority. The patriotic ladies of the Association have, from the beginning of their enterprise, acted under the direction of eminent gentlemen of the legal profession, and there Avill bo no diffi culty whatever about securing a clear title to the “ Home of Washington.” FUNNYGRAPHS. There is a blind phrenologist in St. Louis, who is great on examining bumps. A wag or two got one of the distinguished judges, who thinks a great deal of himself, and has a very bald head, which he generally covers with a wig, to go to his rooms the other day, and have his head examined. Wags and judge arrive. “ Mr. B.” said one, “we have now brought you for examination a head as is a head ; -we wish to tost your science.” “ Very well,” said the phrenologist; “ place the head under my hand.” “He wears a wig,” said one. “Can’t examine with that on,” replieef* the professor. Wig was accordingly taken off, and the bald head of the highly-expectant judge was placed under manipulation of the “What’s this? what’s this?” said the phrenologist; and pressing his hand on the top of the head, he said, somewhat ruffled. 1 Gentlemen, God has visited me with afflic tion ; I have lost my eyesight, but I am no iool; you can't pass this off on me for a head /” .... A Yorksliireman, whose orchard had oeen frequently pilfered, grafted some very sour apple stems on the lower limbs of the trees. 1 lie result, as described by’ himself, was as follows : —“ Now, the boys, seem’ sich yrod-lookiii’ apples handy, jump the fence, the first fair one they can reach, take ■■■bite- —hut ‘gfter, one bite they never wait rt ‘ *as .egs can carry them to my neighbor Simmons’ orchard, to get one of his large Ribstons to take the sour taste out of their mouths. My orchard certainly has no good reputation—but 1 save my fruit.” ....“Why, Bridget,” said her mistress, who wished to rally her for the amusement of Aer company upon the fantastic ornamenting of a huge pie. “ Why, Bridget, did you do ‘ -his ? You are quite an artist. llow did you lo it?” “ Indade, mum, it was meself that did it,” replied Bridget. “ Isn’t it pretty mum ? I did it with your false teeth, mum.” .... W hat do you know of the defendant, Mr. Thompson ?” asked the counsel of a wit ness. “Do you consider him a good musician ?” On that point I wish to bo particular,” re plied Thompson. “ I don’t wish to insinuate that Mr. Slopes is not a good musician. Not it all. But I could not not help observing that after he commenced playing on the clar ionet, a saw-filer, who lived next door, left home, and has never since been heard of!” .... Indignant and much injured wife —So, ui, out all night. Now I should like to know where you have been. Delinquent and very erratic husband —Been, my dear—ah, yes well ah—you see—Brown came to the city, and wanted to see the sights. I took him to see the city from the spire of Trinity, and the sex i ton forgot us and locked us in, and we were obliged to remain up there all night. (Os course his wife believes him.) .... A farce was produced in Bannister’s time under the title of “Fire and Water.” “I predict its fate,” said he. “ What late ?” whis pered the anxious author, at his side. “ What fiate!” said Bannister; “ why, what can fire sand water produce but a hiss?” j Old Gent —Waiter! Waiter —Yes, sir! 1 Old Gent —Basin of soup, rare! Waiter —On a Vprk, sir, or in a paper ? Old Gent —Tie it in pny handkerchief, and don’t break the edge. I (Exit waiter in of to-morrow’s paper.) J an ordinary roller rule on I up, and inquiring its use, was answered“ It was a rule for counting-houses.” Too well bred, as he construed politeness, to ask un necessary questions, he turned it over and over, and up and down repeatedly, and at last, n a . paroxysm of baffled curiosity, inquired, How is the name of wonder do you count houses with this ?” A young man in California, under sen tence of death by hanging, asked the sheriff, on the evening previous to his execution : ‘ I say, sheriff, at what time is that little affair of mine coming off?” .... “ The influence of the charming Zan retta is very intoxicating,” said Dr. Spooner, reaching over and speaking to Old Roger. ‘ Yes,” was the reply, “ very ; and I see that even the rope she dances upon is tight.” A correspondent of a Methodist paper at the southwest thus describes the oratory of a preacher with whom he was evidently quite captivated: “ I have repeatedly heard the most famed men in America, but there are times when the flame of his pathos licks the •everlasting hills with a roar that moves your soul to depths fathomed by few other men! ENGLISH VERACITY. Anew history of the United States, by an Englishman, contains the following :—“ Before I went to America, I had heard much of American natural scenery; but I confess I was sadly disappointed when I came to see it myself. I have traversed the country from the colonial dependence of Her Most Gracious Majesty, in Canada, to the Rocky Mountains, and I saw nothing that could be called worthy of the artist’s or poet’s observation. It is true that Canada had some charming scenery, which has been much improved by British taste and art—the natural consequence of the refinement and cultivation of the inhabitants ; but whenever one crosses into the States, the 1 country exhibits jpit.her wild fbroate or naked prairies, both of which are dangerous to travel througlipm consequence of the voracious ani mals they contain. A distinguished member es the United States Parliament informed me that a railroad train last year was attacked by a drove of raccoons, while crossing a prairie, and every passenger destroyed. These rac coons are the terror of this wild country, and have depopulated thousands of miles of its surface.” JKgy* Three or four times a couple appeared betore a clergyman for marriage, but the bride groom was drunk, and the reverend gentleman refused to'tie the knot. On the last occasion, he expressed surprise that so respectable a looking girl was not ashamed to appear at the altar w r ith a man in such a state. The poor girl broke into tears, and said she could not help it. “ And why, pray ?” “ Because, sir, he won’t come when he is sober!” BkS'” A splendid “ run ” was made at a bil liard saloon the other evening, by a promising young amateur. After playing and losing six games, he ran out of the room without paying for them —a “run” which startled the good natured proprietor. ss?'’ A wine merchant, in extolling “an ex cellent article of port,” says in his advertise ment : “It is as pure as the tears which be reaved affection drops upon a new-made grave.” S? ““ •% .... History tells us of illustrious villains, but there never was an illustrious miser. The greatest man living rqav stand in need of- the meanest, as much as the meanest does of him. .... Envy is a passion so full of cowardice and shame, that nobody ever had the confi dence to own it. „ .A good word is an easy obligation; but not to speak ill requires only our silence, which costs us nothing. .... Liberality is the best way to gain affec tion ; for we are assured of their friendship, to whom we are obliged. A wise man will desire no more than what he may get justly, use soberly, distribute cheerfully, and live contentedly. .... The triumph of wit is to make your good nature subdue your censure; to be quick in seeing faults, and slow in exposing them. .... 11l nature is afcontradiction to the laws of providence and tl/e interest ; it is a iJTless )fani a fiMfclKteie that have it. .... Heaven and earth, advantages and ob stacles, conspire to educate genius. .... If well-respected honor bid me on, I hold as little counsel with weak fear as you. .... One of the most important rules of the science of manners is an almost absolute silence in regard to yourself. The generous who is alw’ays just, and the just who is always generous, may, unan nounced, approach the throne of heaven. .... Alas ! if the principles of contentment arc not within us, the height of station and worldly grandeur will as soon add a cubit to a man’s stature as to his happiness. .... The great blessings of mankind are within us, and within our reach, but we shut our eyes, and like peoplo in the dark we fall foul upon the very thing we search for, with out finding it. .... If the minds bo consonant, the best friendship is between different fortunes. .... The conflict of patience is such that the vanquished is better than the vanquisher. .... When things are plain of themselves, a set argument does but perplex and confound them. .... It is better to judge between strangers than between intimates ; for by the first one is sure to gain a friend, and by the other an enemy. .... Virtue is reproached as design, and re ligion as only interest. The best of qualities must not pass without a but to allay their merit and abate their praises. .... In conversation, a man of good sense will seem to be less knowing, more obliging, and choose to be on a level with others,rather than oppress with the superiority of his genius. .... The light here is not the true, I await a better. .... Riches amassed in haste will diminish ; rfrpr-jlrtji- if^Wtqfcfa^iJinnr 1 - will multiply. .... Envy pierces more in llie restriction of praises than in the exaggeration of its criti cisms. .... The order of the Eternal manifests it self in the sun which rises and the heavens which fall. There are some minds like cither con vex or concave mirrors, who represent objects such as they receive them, but they never re ceive them as they are. .... It is much easier to meet with error than to find truth ; error is on the surface, and can be more easily met with; truth is hid in great depths, and the way to seek does not appear to all the world. fallibility leads to mediocrity. “ SOLD.” Neighbor Jauber weighs about two hun dred, and has a decided objection to being cheated. When he buys a pound of tea, he is careful to get good weight. One day he went to the wharf to get a ton of coal, and he in sisted, after assuring himself that the scales were well adjusted, upon seeing it weighed, for coal-dealers sometimes make mistakes. The team was driven upon the platform scales. Sauber stood by to watch the figures. “ Twenty-two hundred weight of coal,” said the dealer, with a wink to the bystanders. “ Rather short,” haggled the buyer. “ Throw in a little more, and I will take the load.” The obliging dealer complied, and the scale was again examined. “ All right—l am satisfied with that. You coal-dealers don’t always give good weight,’ grinned Jauber. “ Drive on, John; stop in the street,” added the seller, and he took Jauber into the count ing-room, where the bill was paid. “ Are you pei-fectly satisfied ?” “Perfectly; T like to look aftejf tbqge thiujjS myself.” “ Well, sir, I should say you had cheated yourself out of two hundred pounds of coal by looking after these things yourself.” “ What do you mean ?” The dealer ordered his teamster to back on the scales again; and to the astonishment of Jauber, the words were verified. “ I don’t understand it,” added the buyer. “ I do; you stood on the scales yourself while you were watching mo, and I have sold you for so much coal. But you are satified; don’t bo so sharp next time,” laughed the dealer. Jauber was confounded, but had not the assurance to demand a revision of the tran saction. An eccentric friend of ours, says the Litchfield (Ct.) Enquirer, stepped into a store in the village, which shall be nameless, where some “ colored brethren ” wero doing a little trading. “Ah! Mr. ,” said our friend, “ you have your cousins in, I see.” The young merchant said nothing but looked mad. Our friend stepped out, but in a few minutes re turned, after the sable customers had depart ed. “I hope you won’t take any offense at what I remarked here just now,” said he. “Oh no,” says the merchant, “ I never take offense at anything you say.” “Glad of it,” replied our quizzer, “ tho niggers are as mad as the d—11” And then he sloped, narrowly missing a flying yardstick.