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VOLUME X. i
thjs mountain democrat. rCBLISKD *VK*T .ATltDAT MORSIKO. BT O»t"*rroii« m a , V. •Kt.vtcu, W * *• >m| inHTinr-1 ■■ **— •*: W* ***^ ™;Th"* Maeths. $1 id; <»ae to the Car Her). Mtmm Ma#l DnptM Mh •***. APTKKTlMHiO Ode •feare. «* •*" *••"*«*> F*; ntkiakMmtiattrtlM.il *> Be«tee*a Card., of 1« linee mmm rear. $&; Bealee«e Card*. «f l*» liar* nr W*«. VM« maa**. DM. A liberal dieaoaet will Be made oa the iMN nut hr yearly u4 quarterly edrertiecmeau able* MN ilNM«aar«. lOB PlIBTniO.—Oar OfBee U replete witfc all the modern l li iriann hr Ur rut. or* ar aro earn* execution of •nrtSlf niVTIllO.WkM Beak*. raatphlete. Brief*. Po*trrR, HaedbUla, Clrealar*. Ball Ticket!. Pnmnuume*. Cor tllclrr ef Steek er Deao*n, Billhead., Ckr«-I[i, Receipt*, Car4i. UMi, ta plat* er Bart twhrrf iaki. likTirU* BLAWKS.—Abdaeita, Cadertaklara aad Writ* of liliilaiMMr~ T alao. Dtmaai •* «eddid»«l.Ybe meeAonaroalent form laaal M prletad. a —■>*» brm rl XWUA* DV.KI*. ■ kll,lrfn*U T-‘“ HABBUSH CBBTIFfCAr*. t. F. FimWH, Bam * WarMaptea .treat, eppoalte opera Haaae.lathe oat? aathoHaed A«rntf«*rtbellonrTAnf BKMoCBAT. la the city ef Baa Praactaen. All order* for Ike Paper er Adoarthla« left vBfc hha will he promptly at * t«aAe4 te. * L. 11GUIBA la aatberlaed tareeeir* thU 0®ee, ‘ hi taker liptiea. w || BBOWH la the aethorlxed Af*at ofthe DFHDCRaT at OwnlMa Order* far the paper. a«rertU1n«. or for job vertLkft w*i klai. tHTl be promptly attended u>. «rp At. F. JACBHOIC la tM autherieed A«eat of the M«rX- TaIB D1MOCRAT at Rl Dorado. Ordera lea with him will he pre«ptly attended U. m J BIDLRMAH bear aalherlted am»t at Sacrament*.— AU erdet* fee adrertiriag, etc., left with kim will rreel»e laa- I. a. L. DIAS U apeat far the Dutonuv at Vlrglala City. Berada Terrttery. ML WM. nfOX l§ ear aetboHeed aeeot at G?1««1y Plat — All erdert fired him be the Deaeecrat will be proeapUy at waded ta. Oflddt •• Celent Strrel. professional Carts, Etc, THOS. J. OBOON, ATfORKIT • A T • L AW ( II Derado, El Dorado County. (m»1* F. A. HOBNBLOWEB, ATTONUV AND OOtJWELDOS AT LAW, win practice in nil the Court« of the 11th Judicial Mental. OFflCE—At Pilot Hill, El Dorndn Coun ty. ■ayll-Am Eun Haaaroas, Tito*. II. Wtujtu. minroiu) * williamb, ATTORNIYg AMD COCM8ELLOR8-AT-LAW, Me*—Mo. AO, J. atreel, over the fit. Mcholu 8»- wm pra'tic# in the Supreme Court, ami District Cinil if ta!»«■"■• 1 ar- 1 [tool. f. W. lino. K. WiLuana. SANDERSON * WILLIAMS, attorneys-at-law. OtL«, Do«ai*n«»' BuMlny, aut door to tho Cary Hooat, Main street, Flarerrllle. drc 0 O. W. GORDON, ATTORNEY-ATLAW, Tlrtlala City, W. T. OIRce In Colllna’ Ituihlinr, B. at rent. . [n.it JO A- C. ABA-BUS, ATT OE NIT - A T-LA W, OMce la Dooglaea* llulldiny (up-atalra), Main alr*o«, Placcrrlllo. Sn.» acne. I- r atot*. HUMS A 8L08S, ATTORN KYS-AT-LAW, ’ Often In City Bloek, riaorrailla. Will practice Law in tho Courta of El Itorado and adjoiaiaf OMatiea— ta tha Hu promt Court, ami tho Courta of Utah Tarritory. mlt O. D. WAT.T., O. TALE, nietrtWf, .<•!« Fntminn, Practice Law In all tho fonrta of L'tah. OfUoa, at Caraou and Virginia Citj. jeJO-tf At. K. 8HEABEB, AMD COCNSELLOI-AT-LAW, AND NOTAKA' PfBl.IC. fromct. nt Booitonoo. Main ftrrft, three Avars abort Bod ford Arrnuo, Tlaorn illo. aultl E. B. CARSON, NOTART PUBLIC AND CONVEYANCER, OAca la tha Court llonao, Racerville. [nosltf J DB. I. 8. TITU8, ©dee—Pnotodke Block, up-atair*. Books. Stationers, Etr. PLAZA BOOK. STORE, PLACER VILLI, Hu Jtut received a aplendid assortment of Stanfcrt sad KifceUABMoa Work*, STATIONERS. SCHOOL BOOKS. aLacata, am aoou, aucus, eerttar, rorm, onu> me, vtnuea, uetraafl, aoouaaavaa, Wi.ui- anoaa, amt araiana, eve., *’'*• ... Selected expressly far the Country Trade, and telling at greatly reduced ratea. Alto, AGENTS For laerAinauto Union, Alta California, Bulletin, Mirror, etc. ffEWSPAPERS AND PERIODICALS 1 told unusually low. R. 8. HERNANDEZ. Kept constantly on hand, and told unuauatly low. »I coni nmrtt S. HARRIS, Corner </ Main Street and He Plata, _ PLAOIBVILLI, WBOLBALK AND RETAIL DEALER IN Havana Clgaoe, Tnhaooo, Books, Sta tloaery, Cattery, Playing Cards, T alike a Natlams, Fruits, Graeu aid Dried, Nuts and Caudles, AT Ul fBABCUOO filCU. Alio,receives by every Steamer the latest Atlantic and European Mewtpapera, Mngaalnea and Perlodl- w WEEKLY CALIFORNIA NEW8PA eala, and all the 1 PIR8 aM MAGAZINES. marts Great Inducements to Purchase ! ' •rr •. SELLING OTP AT COST ! XTAXUQcoeclpded to change our business loca- JnIttO»inWufcrfcr sale, at IAN FRAMCIBCO WHOLESALE PBIOES1 Our largo sod well-aelecte d stock of STATIOlrZRT, blank books “ APS — MIS OKIdLAN BODS WOBK8I Also, tho largest and best assorted stuck of SCHOOL HOOKS! Id Utls City .which wo win close oat at tho tame rates. advantage to call aoon and make thlrt/daym*^"* *********° clo,eout *Mhln We also Oder at tha same rate* some fine brands of HA.TAJTA. Am DOMESTIC CIGARS MBBBSOHAUMS, “‘ FINE ODTLEBT, ' J PaNOT GOODS. ETC. W. M. BRADSHAW A CO., PottoflQce Block, 1’lzcerfille. THE MOUNTAIN DEMOCRAT. “What a Pretty Little Hand.” I am not a bashful man. Generally speaking, I am fully as confident and for ward as most of my sex. I dress well; dance well; sing well; I don’t tread on ladies’ dresses when I make my bow; I have not the trick of coloring to the roots of my hair when I am spoken to. Yet there was one period of my life when all my merits seemed, to my own eyes, in significant, and i felt very modest, not to say bashful. It was when I was in lore. Sometimes, I did not know where to put my hands and feet Did I mention that in the same hands and feet consists my great beauty? They are r.ot small. — Three years ago I fell in love. I-did not go into it quietly, weighing M/r H.W ** perfections against her defects; I fell in head and ears, two seconds after the in troduction. “ Mr. Haynes, Miss Arnold,” said a mutual friend, and lo I I was desperately in love. She was a fairy-like figure, with long brown curls floating over a snowy neck and shoulders, and falling down on the n aist of an enchanting sky-blue dress.— Her large, dark-blue eyes were full of saucy light, yet, how tender and loving they could look. (This I found out later.) Of all the provoking, tantalizing little coquettes that ever teased the heart of a poor man, Susy Arnold was the most bewitching. I would pass an evening with her, and go home certain that one more interview would make me the hap piest of men ; but the next time I met her a cold nod and indifferent glance threw down all my castlea She was very cautioua Not a word did she drop to make me believe that she loved me ; and yet her hand would linger in mine, her color rose if 1 looked my feelings, and her eyes dropped to be raised in a mo ment, full of laughing defiance. She de clared her intentions to be an old maid most emphatically, and in the next sen tence would add: “ I never did love; but if I should take a notion to anybody, I should love him like a house afire. Though,” she would say carelessly, “I never knew anybody yet, worth setting my thoughts upon.” I tried in a thousand wars to make her betray some interest in myself. Propose outright 1 could not. She had a way, whenever I tried it, of looking at my face with an air of grave attention,of profound interest, that was equivalent in its effects to knocking me down; it took all the breath out of me. One evening, while there, I had the headache, and the gipsey, putting on a grave face, gave me a leciurc on the sub ject of health, winding up with— “The best thing you can do, is to get a wife to take care of you, and to keep you from over-study. 1 advise you to get married, if you can get anybody to have you." “ Indeed," I said, rather piqued, “there arc only too many. I refrain from selec tion for fear of breaking other hearts.— How fond all the ladies are of me!" I add ed, conceitedly, “though I cannot see that I am particularly fascinating.” “ Neither can I," said Susy, with an air of perfect simplicity. “Can'tyou?”said I. I hoped—hoped ." (>h 1 that attentive face of hers. “That is. Miss Susy, I thought, per haps—oh! my head! my head!” and 1 buried my face in the cushion. “ Does it ache very badly ?” she asked, putting her cool tittle hand among my curls. I felt the thrill her fingers gave me all the way to the toes of my lioots. My head being really very painful, I was obliged lo leave; but all the way home, the soft cool touch of those little fingers lingered upon my brow. Moon after this it became necessary for me to leave the city on business. An of fer of a lucrative partnership at a dis tance, in the office of a lawyer friend, made me decide to extend my trip and see how the “ land lay.” One thing was certain,1 could not leave hotuu for some months, perhaps, without some answer from Susy. So, full of hope, I went to Mr. Arnold's. Susy was in the parlor, at the piano,alone. She was play ing—“ I’ve something 6weet to tell you,” and at the words “I love you I I adore you!” she gave me such a glance that I was ready to prostrate myself; but throw ing back her curls she laughingly war bled, “ But I am talking in iny sleep.” “Then,” I said, “you love me when you sleep? May I think so?” “ Oh! yes, if you choose, for Rory O’More says that dreams go by contra ries, you know." I sat down beside her. “Ah!" said I, sighing, “ Rory’s idol dreamed she hated him.” “ Yes,” said Susy, “ that's the differ ence between his case and yours.” We chatted away for a time. At last I began, “ Miss Susy, I came up this even ing to tell you that I—I ” IIow she was listening! A thought struck me; I would tell her of my jour ney and in the emotion she was sure to betray, it would bo easy to declare my love. “Miss Susy,” I said, “I am going South, to-morrow.” She swept her hands across the keys of the piano into a stormy polka ; I tried to see her face, but her curls fell over it. I was prepared to catch her if she fainted, or comfort her if she wept. I listened for the sobs,I fancied the music was intended to conceal; but throwing back the curls with a sudden toss, as she struck the last chord of the piano, she said gaily : “ Going away ?” “Yes ; for some months,” I replied. “ Dear me, bow distressing 1 Stop at Levy’s, as you go home, and order me some extra pocket handkerchiefs for this melancholy occasion,—will you ?” “ You do not seem to require them,” I said, rather piqued. “ I shall stay some mouths." “Well, write to Pa, wont you? And if you get married, or die, or anything, let us know.” “ I have an offer to be a partner in a law office in Kentucky,” I said, deter mined to try her, “ and, if I accept it, as I bate some thoughts of doing, I shall never return." Her lace did not change. Tho old sau cy look was there is I spoke ; but I no ticed that one little band closed convul sively over her watch-cbain,and the other fell upon the keys, making for the first time a discord. “Going away forever?" she said with a PLACEKVILLE, EL DORADO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA, SATURDAY, APRIL 4, 1863. sad tone, that made my heart throb. “ Miss Susy, I hoped yo it, at least, would miss me, and sorrow in my ab sence.” She opened her eyes with an expression of profound astonishment “ 11" she exclaimed. “ Yes, it might change all my plans, if my absence would grieve you.” “ Change all your plans?” “ Yes, I hoped—thought ” Oh! that earnest, grave face. My cheeks burned, my hands and feet seemed to swell, and felt cold chills all over me. I broke down for the third time. There was an awkward silence. I glanced at Susey. Her eyes were resting on my hand* which lay on the arm of the sofa. The contrast between the black horse* hair and the flesh seemed to strike her. *• What a pretty little hand!” she said. A brilliant idea passed through my brain. “ You may have it if you will,” said I, offering it. She took it between her own and said. “ May I ?” “ Yes, if you will give this one,” and I raised her beautiful hand to my lips. She looked into ray face. What she read there I cannot say ; but if ever eyes tried to talk, mine. did. Her color rose, the white lids fell over the glorious eyes, and the tiny band struggled to free itself. Was I fool enough to release it? What I said I know not; hut I daresay my wife can tell you. Five minutes la ter, my arm encircled the bluo dress, the brown curls fell upon my breast, and my lips were in contact with—you know what! K>c* Open. Our minister said in his sermon last evening, said Mrs. Beach, the wife of a prosperous wholesale dry goods merchant on Market street, as she dusted her man tle of porcelain and marble on Monday morning, that he that wanted to be good must be on the constant look out for op portunities ; that God does not find our work, and bring it ready fitted and pre pared to our hands; but spreads the world bolore us, and we are to walk through it as Christ and the Apostles did with eyes open, looking for the sick and suffering, poor and oppressed. Now, I am certain, continued the lady, as she replaced a marble Diana in the centre of the mantle, I should like to do some good every day—one feels so much better when they go to rest at night, and I’lljust keep my eyes open to-day, and see if I come across any opportunities that under ordinary circumstances I should let slip. Half an hour later Mrs. Reach was in her nursery with the washer-woman, who had come for the clothes. ‘I wish, Mrs. Simms, ’ said she, as she heaped the soiled linen into the basket, ‘that you would get Tommy’s aprons done for Wednesday; we are going out of town to remain until Saturday, and I shall want a good supply on hand for such a careless little scamp as be. ‘Well, I'll try, ma’am,’ said the washer woman ; ‘I’ve got behind hand a good deal since Sammy got the whooping cough —but now that he is better, 1 must try to make up for lost time.’ 'Has he had the whooping cough ? Poor little fellow, flow old is he V asked the lady. ‘lie was three last April, ma’am.’ And Tom is four, mused the lady. ‘Rook here, Mrs. Simms, won’t you just open the lower drawer of that bureau, and take out those four green worsted dresses in tlio corner* Tom’s out grown them, you see, since last winter, but they arc almost as good as new. Now, if you want them for little Sammy they’ll do nicely without altering, I think.’ ‘Want them, Mrs. Reach !’ answered the washer-woinan, with tears starting into her dim eyes, ‘I haven’t any words to thank you or tell you what a treasure they’ll be. Why, they will keep the little fellow as warm as toast, all winter.’ ‘Well, I will place them on top of the clothes,' said the lady, smiling to herself as she thought ‘my eyes have been open onco to-day.' Not long afterwards Mrs. Beach was on her way to market, (for she was a notable housekeeper,) when she met a bey who bad lived a short time in her family the year belore, to do errands, wait on the door, Ac. He was a bright, good hearted, merry faced boy, and had been a great favorite with the family, and Mrs. Reach had been interested in him ; but this morning she was in quite a hurry, and would hare passed the child with a cordial but hasty, ‘How are you, Joseph, my hoy ? Do come and sec us ; ’ hut it struck her that Joseph’s face did not bear its usual happy expres sion. She paused as the memory of lost night’s sermon flashed through, and she asked, ‘Is anything the matter with you, Joseph* You do not look as happy as you used to.’ The hoy looked up a moment, with a half doubting, half confiding expression, into the lady’s face; and the latter tri umphed. ‘Mr. Anderson’s moved out of town,’he said, pushing back his worn but neatly brushed cap, from his hair; ‘so I’ve lost my place, and little Mary’s sick, and it makes it very bad just now.’ ‘So it does,’ answered Mrs. Beach, her sympathies warmly enlisted. ‘But never mind, Joseph; I remember only night be fore last my brother said he would want a new errand boy, in a few days, for his store, and he’d give a good one two dol lars a week. Now, I’ll see him to-day, and surely get the situation for you if you like.’ The boy’s white face brightened. ‘0, I should bo so very, very glad of it, Mrs. Beach.’ ‘And see here, Joseph, I’m going to market, and, perhaps, I can find some thing nice for little Mary.’ The lady remembered that Joseph’s mother, though a poor seamstress, was a very proud woman, and felt that this would be a delicate way of presenting her a gift. - So she found some delicious pears and grapes, and a nice chicken to make some broth for Mary, who she learned was ill with fever, before she proceeded to do her own marketing. But it was a pity that the lady did not see Joseph, as ho sprung into the cham ber, where little Mary lay wearily moan ingon her hcd.whilcUer mother sat busily X aud held up tbe chicken ami the fruit, crying: ‘Good news! good news! I’ve got all these nice things for Mary, and a place at two dollars a week !’ O ! how little Mary’s hot fingers closed over the bunches of white grapes, while the sewing dropped from her mother’s Ungers, as the grateful tears ran down her cheeks. It was evening, and Mrs. Reach sat in the library, absorbed in some new book, when she heard her husband's step in the hall. Though the morning had been so pleasant, the afternoon was cloudy, and the day had gone down in a low, sullen, \KivetraUi*K rain. avow arnr. never) lareaner iniaarmi wren the love of a true wife, but he was nut a demonstrative man, and the first beauty and poetry of their married life had set tled down into a somewhat bare, every day, matter of fact existence. But her heart was warm to night; warm with the good deeds of the day, and re membering her resolution of the morning, she throw down her book, and ran down stairs. ‘Henry, dear,' said the soft voice of the wife, ‘has tbe rain wet you, at all ? Let me take off your coat for you.' ‘Thank you, Mary, 1 don’t believe I'm anywise injured, but you may help me, just for the pleasure of it;’ and he stood still, while she removed the heavy coat, with all the softness of touch and move ment which belong to a woman. She hung it up, and then the husband drew her to his heart with all the old lover tenderness. ‘You are very thoughtful of me, Mary, my wife,' he said. And there was music in Mrs. Reach's heart as she went up stairs—music set to the words : ‘Eyes open 1 eyes open I' — — »» - — Immoutai-s uv Accident.— Heroes, re marks a writer in the Dublin University Magazine, have lived since Agemennon, and have been known, too, even in mod ern times, w ho have gained little by their heroism. Tbe reason is obvious; they have want ed a divine poet—they had no one to make them immortal. Europe has been filled with them for the last hundred years.— Our own armies and navies could reckon them by the score. They were named in a dispatch, and died. One or two of them found a bard. There was amber for Kem perfeldt, for Nelson, for Sir John Moore, for the “ Six Hundred,” for some few oth ers besides. Where will the rest be when the present becomes the past, when news becomes known, when telegrams become history ? • So far as man goes, they sink into the strata on which futurity will be raised, affording stability and permanence to the foundation to society, which will but rest upon them and crush them down. We have named Sir John Moore. Look at his case —never was there anything less prob able than that his ill luck should have been his passport to fame. He had fought as other Generals had—he had had his successes as his reverses, and had just kept his head above water before the ad vancing forces of Soult. On the walls of Corunna he met his fate; and might have lain there, as hun dreds of others did, in an unrecorded grave, to this hour, and to all future ages, had not an ordinary, unnoticed Irish par son, from a remote country parish, and from amid common prosaic pursuits, caught a glance in imagination of the life less warrior, as he was hurried to a hasty grave in the silence of the night, within sound of the advancing enemy's guns.— That look was enough—the picture was taken, with its full significance of pathos, into the heart of the poet; and when it reappeared it was found to have been en crusted with amber, thereafter never to pass away. It is true little ceremony was observed at that burial — 11 Not a drum was heard, rot a funeral note.*’ Rut the lyre was struck ; and the echoes went forth to the end of the earth; and so Sir John Moore passed, by the narrow channel of those few hasty and careless stanzas, from the shores of oblivion — where he would have wandered until doomsduy with thousands of brave but unrecorded commanders, to those Isles of the Ulest, wherein the favorite heroes of ages have pitched their tents and exalted their standard. » ■■ — Bkai tifi i. I’kavehs.—The prayers are beautiful that reach Cod’s ear. The fer vent prayer of the righteous man availeth much, nod is beautiful. The prayer of the widow and intherless, who have no helper, is beautiful. The prayer of the infant, who takes Cod’s promise in tiis ‘moist, implicit grasp,’ as he does his mother’s hand, is beautiful. The prayer of the lowly saint, unlettered and ungrnm mntical, :s beautiful. The prayer of the poor man when ‘God heard him and de livered him out of his troubles,’ was beau tiful. The prayer of the publican who smote upon his breast and said, ‘Cod be merciful to me a sinner,’ was beautiful. The prayer of Stephen, when amid the storm of stones he cried just before he ‘fell asleep,’ ‘lay not this sin to their charge,’ was beautiful. There is a grammar and a rhetoric of heaven; but it is foreign to the culture cf this world. The courtiers there wear ‘wedding garments,' and they speak the celestial language; but sometimes they seem ragged and Ignorant to the eyes that arc blinded with the clay and dust of our earth roadsteads. We caunot always dis cern the fashions of heaven. There is a frippery that sometimes claims to be the garb divine, but is mere tinsel. There is an ‘excellency of speech’ which is jargon and mockery in the ear of God. There is ‘sounding brass and tinkling cymbal’— mere clatter, and not celestial music at all. There arc ‘beautiful prayers’ that are un lovely and abominable before the Searcher of hearts. ■ ■ ■ ■■« — ' Rigid Honkstv.—Patrick O'Brien was one day strolling with a friend through a grave yard, when his eye was arrested by an epitaph which shocked his senses of propriety and veracity. It ran thus : " Weep not for me. my children dear, I am not dead, but sleeping here.” “ Well,” said Paddy, “ f I was dead, I would be honest enough to own it.” Did you ever see a woman who did not want a few more dry goods, or a young lady who did not look upon a shawl that cost under ten dollars, as “a perfect fright.” The Reason 1 Separated from My Wife. My name is Tubbs and I am separated from iny wife. The latter is not, be it understood, a consequence of the former; for although I admit that Tubbs is not a very cuphonius name, still it suits me, and so far as I know, was always satis factory to Augustine. Her mother did, I believe, at the earliest stage of my infancy with her daughter, sniff disdainfully when it was pronounced ; but my good conduct and the steadiness of my devo tion overcame her objections, if she had any, and Tubbs, by maternal consent, was added to Augustine Clarissa. No! the cause of our separation grew up in our (amilv. Could I have looked into fu icmcy—ciaa i /wiTtttif/-- out i/a Augustine is with her mother, and as that old lady is up to the average of mother-in-laws, she is very likely to stay there. I will be concise in my statement. I am not fond of cats. Candidly, I de-' test them. My consternation can there fore he imagined when upon returning home one evening I saw slumbering se renely in the lap of Augurftine a young specimen of this species. I mildly pro tested—my mother-in-law’s statement to the contrary notwithstanding. I repre sented as well as I was able the treachery of the animal, its immorality, its prone ness to dissipation and late hours, and ex pressed it as my unalterable opinion that no well-regulated family should tolerate them, liut no “ I wished to deprive her of every comfort,” and the inevitable mother, who was present, added, that “ I was jealous of the cal.” I yielded. Un der my wife’s care the beast prospered. Its power for mischief rapidly matured. I’ll say nothing ofits forays upon the milk jug, ofits sampling every article of food before 1 partook of it, but come at once to the catastrophe thai desolated my home. The cat grew dissolute as 1 knew it would. Absent all night, and com pletely done up in the morning. I was shocked and objected strenuously. Au gustine wept and restrained it of its lib erty. Always confident in the integrity of the animal, she resented my expressed doubts of its purity of character. Our estrangement began here. We had re tired belligerently. We slept. F was aroused suddenly by Augustine exclaim ing: " They arc murdering a child some where !” I listened. It was a cat. A male cat beneath our window. I said so. Whether our interesting feline had made an en gagement that she was unable to keep, or that the gentleman below was merely wai tiling his attachment to her, I cannot say. There was a vigor in his squalling that suggested broken promises, and a finish that stamped him as an old perfor mer. ilis initial note was terrific, and he ruse by low stages a grandeur that curled the blood. A brick would have been of incalculable value. My proposi tion to throw out our cat to appease him, turned on the tears, and I abandoned the idea. I resolved to expend the water pitcher. The movement was arrested by a squall so rasping, so defiant, that Au gustine shrieked. The minstrel below hud been joined by another cat. - There was a short, fierce colloquy—a noise like an engineer testing the water in his boiler, and a combat ensued. I conceived an idea. I had seen on the stage the he roine of the piece throw hersel* between two rivals, and crying “ forbear” spoil a very pretty fight. I acted on this I tore from her nightly resting place the cause of the contention outside, and hur ried to the window. Augustine divined my intention, and threw herself upon her favorite. “ Let go!” “Never!” We both pulled. Augustine had the tail. It was n strongly united one, and stood the pressure. An idea. 1 let go the agitated quadruped, who immediately established the truthfulness of my pre vious assertion by’corrugating her bene factress. Augustine clinging convulsive ly to the tail furthered the execution. I am here accused of fiendish cruelty, of regaining possession of the cat and throw ing it, with a portion of Augustine at tached, out of the window. To those who know me, denial is unnecessary. Augus tine threw herself into the maiernal arms next morning, whereupon the maternal arms threw a bench at me. I have done inv cooking since. Am likely to do so. Rut I wish it distinctly understood, that if, from the deprivation of my society, the unhappy woman finds an early gravo it is not I who did it. It’s her mother. Let the finger of scorn be pointed at her. She can stand it. Personal observation will prove that sbe can stand anything. Rut, thank God, the cat is dead. I smile when I think of that. IIardkmxr op tup Riiain.—Softening of the brain is not unfrequently the result of overtasking that delicate and wonderful organ. Southey, the poet, died of the dis ease, and it is sometimes produced by sensual excess as well as mental labor.— Rut, according to a distinguished modern anatomist, hardening of the brain is more common than its opposite. Nothing can be more easy than to indurate the organ of thought. It can be done cither by soaking the contents of a dead man’s cra nium in alcohol, or by the introduction of liquor into the skull of the living subject in the form of drains. In short, drunken ness sometimes hardens the brain during life os effectually as a bath of fourth proof spirits could solidify it after death. llvrth, the celebrated physiologist, de clared that he could distinguish in the dark, by the resistance it offered to the knife, the brain of a drunkard from that of a person who had lived soberly ; and, when he found a hardened brain in the dissecting room, was accustomed to con gratulate the students in his class on ob taining a specimen so thoroughly prepared for preservation and for the purposes of demonstration, “ \Y jtat do you think of that?” ex claimed Mr. Potiphar Croesus to Jones, as he poured him out a sample of his best. “ Cobwebbed" Maderia ; “ wbat do you think-of that, now ?” “ Humph I" returned the waggish Jones, after a taste—and as he held the unfinished glass off from his eye, with the air of a connoisseur—“ Well, if it is meant for vinegar, it’s d—d fine ; but.jf it is intended to be wine I should say it was a failure!” Junes was shown the door. ., . Last Words. Surely there is something very pathet ic in those last words ol I)r. Adams, of Edinburgh, Scotland, the High-school head master: “It grows dark, boys, you may go.” As the shades of death were fast closing around him, the master's thoughts were still with his work ; and thus regarding the shades of death as but the waning twilight of the earthly day, ho gave the signal of dismissal to his imaginary scholars, and was himself at the same instant “dismissed from work, to his eternal rest 1 Evory one knows that the ffcw last words which Goethe uttered were truly memorable: “ Draw 'back the curtains,” .said he. “ and let in more light." At me trine of tfumboiai s cfeacn, (fie sun was shining brilliantly into the room in which he was lying, and it is stated that his last words, addressed to his niece, were these: Wie hcrrlicll diese Strahlen, sie schcincn'dic Erdc zuin Ilira mel zu rufen. “ How grand these rays ; they seem to hcckon earth to heaven.” Sir Walter Scott, during his last illness, more than once turned to Lockhart, and exclaimed with great fervor to him, “be a good man, my dear!” When we re collect the character of the man who ut tered them, is there not a little sermon in these words ? Judge Talfourd, !t will he remembered, died suddenly, whilst delivering the charge to the Grand Jury at the Stratford assizes. This last sentence which he ut tered before his head fell forward upon his breast, is pregnant with wisdom ; and from the eternal truth which it so nobly enunciates, forms a fitting conclusion to Talfourd’a benevolent and useful career. “ That,” said he, “ which is wanted to bind together the bursting bonds of the different classes of this country, is not kindness, but sympathy.” And so, with that last word “ sympathy,” yet trem bling upon his lips, poor Talfourd passed away. Dr. Johnson's Inst words, addressed to a young lady standing by his bedside, were : “ God bless you, my dear.” “ God bless you 1 . . Is that you, Dora?” were Wordworth’s last words. There is a singular identity, also, be tween the last utterances of Mrs. Hannah Moore and of the historian, Sir James Mackintosh, the last exclamation of both consisted of one word, and both alike breathe the same spirit of happiness. “ Joy 1” was the last utterance of the for mer ; and “ Happy 1” that of the latter. “ I am ready,” were the last words of the great actor, Charles Mathews. John Knox, about eleven o’clock on the night of his death, gave a deep sigh, and exclaimed, “Now it is come!” These were his last words, for in a few mo ments after he expired.' General Washington’s last words were firm, cool, and reliant as himself. “I am about to die,” said he, “ and I am not afraid to die.” Noble words, these 1 There is something in them which re minds us of Addison’s celebrated request to those around him, “ to mark how a Christian can die.” Etty, the great painter, quietly marked the progress of dissolution going on within his frame, and coolly moralized thereon. Ilis last words were : “ Won derful, wonderful!—this death I” And he uttered them with perfect calmness. Thomas Hood’s last words were : “ Dy ing, dying as though, says his biogra pher, he was glad to realize the sense of rest implied in thertt. Amongst the last utterances of another great wit, Douglas Jerrold, was the re ply which he made to the question, “How he felt?” Jerrold’s reply was quick and terse, as his conversation al ways was. He felt, ho said, “ as ouc who was waiting, and waited for.” When we remember Charlotte Bronte’s stormy and sorrowful life, lightened for only a few brief months towards its close, by her marriage with her father’s curate, Mr. Nicholls, there is a melancholy plain tivencss in her last words. Addressing her husband, she said : “ I am not go ing to die, am I ? lie will not separate us ; we have been so happy." 1’oor Oliver Goldsmith’s farewell words are also very plaintive. “ Is your mind at case ?” asked his doctor. “ No, it is not," was Goldsmith’s melancholy reply. This is tho last sentence he ever uttered, and it is sorrowful, like his life. One of Real's latest uttcrarccs is full of a singular pathos and beauty. “ I feel," be said, on his death bed, “ I feel the flowers growing over me !’’ Tasso’s last words, In tnaiius tuasDom ini', “ Into thy hands 1 commit my spirit,” are eminently religious. They were uttered by him with extreme difti eulty, and immediately afterwards he ex pired. King Charles II. died witli a joke upon Iiis lips; his death had bean expected for some time before it occurred, and thus many of his courtiers had been kept up all night, lie apologized to those who stood round his bed for the trouble he had caused them ; he had been, he said, a most unconscionable time in dying, but he hoped they would excuse it. “ This was the last glimpse," remarks Lord Macauly, “ of that exquisite urbanity so often found potent to charm away the scseutment of a justly incensed nation.’’ - ■ . "4 -♦« »» Bkskvolknt Gf.kman.—An eccentric German was noted for making and keep ing good cider, and for extreme stingi ness in dispensing it to his neighbors when they called on him. A traveling Yankee, who had heard this of him, re solved to try his hand on the old boy, and coax a pitcher of cider out of him. Ho made a call, praised up his cattle, and speaking of his orchard, casually said: “I hear, Mr. Von Dam, that you make excellent cider.” “ Yesh, yesh, I dosh. Hans, bring me dc cider shug." The Yankee was at his suc cess, and smacked his lips in anticipation of what was to come. Hans brought up a quart jug of cider, and placed it on the table before his father. The old farmer raised it with both hands, and glueing his lips to the brim, drained it to the bot tom; then, handing tho empty jug to the dry, thirsty Yankee, he quietly observed: “ Yell, dens, if you don’t p’lieve dat is goot cider, shust you shmell de shug.” Wnv is the pretty foot of a lady like a romance of olden times? Because it is an interesting leg-end. I NUMBER U. Memory. —But we need not go hey—d our own familiar experience to rarity thin view. Itetvdk wcv" <om tjl *>? life, from which you have been absent twenty, thirty Or forty years, and what iaUoiely vivid rempinhrnnccs take shape, hoe end voice ! Thu faces and tones of the long forgotten, the very trees and atones now dislodged, the prattle and the day dreams of infancy, every evanescent frame of thought and feeling will be recalled, end , you find yourself again a child. There ie not a reverie that ever flitted aareae ear minds, not a dream that over haunted oar pillows, which has gone beyond return. Nor is there a single day, when strange and isolated facts, fragments of aeorsfaw tion, vague, floating images of ancfmtaah fwtgonv'Ytiiiags, do not thus r— yr»,- us like ghosts of the unburied. . Thu# the past never dies, though in the common routine of life, wc have to a degree the keys of memory in our own hands, and may admit or exclude recollections at pleasure. But there arj seasons, and those not rare, when the keys are taken from us, and without the power of choice, we ere liable to inundations from the good or aril, the sweet or bitter, of the past promiscu ously. Indeed, thoso seasons are so frequent with ms all, that a large part of our happi ness is placed irrevocably out of our own keeping—transferred from our present to our past selves. Of the power of memory for good or evil wc have in this life ample experience, from the torn and scattered leaves of' its book, with which recollection furnishes ua. What anguish can be compared with the remorse that gnaws the breast of the be trayer of innocence—of him whose profli gacy has brought the gray hairs of parents with sorrow to the grave— of him whose every retrospect is rayless and guilt-stain ed ? We recollect our childish foHiee, and ties chiding and the pain which attended them; but if they were outgrown, forsaken end forgiven, and if, while they lie beck in the dim distance of many years, we have built fair and pleasing structures lu the foreground, these so occupy the view as to provent tho eye from resting painfully on earlier guilt. Memory is a blessing to the good, ■ ■ ' ' - Artemys Ward’s Toast. —Woman,— Tu yure sex, knmmonly kalled the phair sex, we are indebted for our bornin, aa well as many other blessing in these to growns of sorro. Some poor sperroted fools blaim yure sex for tho difficulty in the gardin; but I know men area de scteful set, and when tho appels had ho kum plum ripe, [ have no dowt but Adam would have rigged a cider press, and like as not went into a big bust, end been driv off onnware. Yure first mother was a lady, and her dawters ia ditto, sod nun but a lofin cuss would say anyth teg agin yu. Ilopin that no waive of tram ble may ever ride akroas your peaceful brests, I konclude these remarks with tho following centvroent: Woman—She is a good egg, ... . ... »...!■ ■■■■ “Such is Life.” —During hie days of youthful enthusiasm every man promisee himself a career of perfect happiness — of stainless respectability— of matchless honor. We flatter ourselves that the world will reform itself for our sake. We anticipate a faultless partner in our fu ture bride, and cheat ourselves with the expectation that the current of our desti ny will flow over sands of gold. Alas! the first self-deception wc are compelled to resign becomes a Mtter trial to our for titude ; but as one after another we aee these cherished visions fade away we inure ourselves to the degree of medioc rity which is our allotted portion — and finally, learn to be contented with each dirty scraps as the charity of fortune throws in our way. A Poser. —A Mr. N. was about com pleting the sale of a horse which he waa very anxious to dispose of, when a little urchin appeared and very innocently in quired ; “Grandpa, which horse are you goin’ to sell, dat one you built a fire under yea terday to make him draw ?" The bargain was at an end. A W esterm editor speaks of the cir cumstance of a bird building its neat upon a lodge over the door of a doctor’s office, as an attempt to rear its young in the very jaws of death. “ Biddy," said a lady to her Irish serv ant, “ 1 wish you would step over and see how old Mrs. Jones is this morning.” In a few minutes Biddy returned with the information that Mrs. Jones was ex actly-seventy two years, seven mouths and two days old. Mike yesterday said he was going to move from the house he then occupied. Scaley asked him, “what for?” Mike’a answer was: “ I don’t iiko the vicinity.” Tucker then ejaculated : “ Don’t like the vice in it eh ?” Mike thought Tucker personal. I.itti.e Tkyisms often give the clue to long, deep, intricate, UQdisplayed trains of thought, which have been going on in silence and secrecy for a long time before the common place in which most medita tions end is expressed. An anecdote is related of a running foot man, (rather half witted,) who was sent from Glasgow to Edinburgh for two doc tors to come and sec his sick master. He was interrupted on the road by the in quiry : “ How is your master now?” “He’s no deud yet," was the reply, “but lie’ll Soon be, for I’m fast on the way for two Edinburgh doctors to come and viait him.” ' < Purpose is the edge and point of char acter, it is tho superscription on the latter of talent. Character without it is bloat and torpid; genius without it ia bullioo— splendid and uncirculating. Sorrow, pains aDd troubles, equaQy di vided among community greatly djiata- Uhes them; while the good fortune of aa individual is immeasurably increased kg’ the participations of many. What animal baa the greatest quantity of brains ? The bog, of count, tar m has a hogshead full ? The most intolerant and final— of human beings is your philanthropist bf trade.