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The mountain Democrat. [volume] (Placerville, El Dorado County, Calif.) 1863-1943, April 04, 1863, Image 1

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn82014487/1863-04-04/ed-1/seq-1/

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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.

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