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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1861-1863, January 04, 1863, Image 7

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THE CLOSING YEAR.
BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.
’Tia midnight’s holy hour—and silence now
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er
The still, pulseless world. Hark I on the winds
The bells’ deep tones are swelling—’tis the knoll
Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past—yet on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred
As by a mourner’s sigh—and on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through Heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand.
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn’s solemn
. form,
And Winter, with his aged locks—and breathe,
In mournful cadences that come abroad
Like the far wind-harp’s wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o’er the dead year,
Gone from the earth forever.
’Tis a time
For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time,
Heard from the tomb of Ages, pointsdtS cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have passed away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life.
That spectre lifts
’The coflin lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love ;
And bending mournfully above the pale,
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead
flowers
O’er what has passed to nothingness. The year
Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its sc«ptre o’er the beautiful—
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man—and tile haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous—and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones is heard,‘while erst the song
And reckless shout resounded. It passed o’er
The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and
shield
Flashed in the light of mid-day—and the strength
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
lithe crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;
Yet’ere it melted in the viewless air,
It heralded its millions to their home
In the dim land of dreams.
Remorseless Time—
Fierce Spirit of the Glass and Scythe—what
power
Can stay him on his silent course, or melt
His iron heart to pity ! On. still on
He presses, and forever. The proud bird,
The Condor of the Andes, that can soar
Through Heaven’s unfathomable depths, orbrave
The fury of the Northern hurricane,
And bathe his plumage in the thunder’s home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks
down
To rest upon his mountain crag—but Time
Knows not the weight o? sleep or weariness,
And night’s deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep
O’er earth, like troubled visions o’er the breast
Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the water; flery isles
Spring, blazing from the ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns ; mountains rear
To Heaven their tall and blackened cliffs, and
bow
Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter awhile in their eternal depths,
And, like the Pleiades, loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass
away
To darkle in the trackless void ; yet Time,
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not,
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other Conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought-. .
RAILROAD LIFE.
There exists in this country a race of men
whose life is a perfect paradox. They pass
their existence in a whirl of the wildest excite
ment and danger, which is, at the same time,
to them, but wearisome monotony. They
have homes and firesides, and wives and chil
dren, yet they are ever wandering to and fro,
dashing along by cities, villages, quiet country
fields, and dark forests, as if they had no rest
ing-place. Seen daily by thousands of their
fellow-beings,^they are personally known to
but very few. Though holding responsibilities
the very contemplation of which are fearful,
they are scarcely thought of by even those who
place themselves within their power. Until
the present season of war, there were none in
this country who had the lives of others so ut
terly in their power. Day by day, though they
never see or speak to the procession of travelers
■which follows Irresistingly in their wake, they
yet have that procession completely in their
power. With the spirit in “ Manfred,” they
can almost say :
“ Our hands contain the hearts of men,
Onr footsteps are their grave. ’ ’
These anomalous beings are they who “run”
the railroad trains—the engineers, conductor,
and brakemen.
They have,” says a writer, “ been too long
looked upon as the rougher kind of humanity,
have been the subjects of severe condemnation
and reproach upon the occurrence of every dis
aster, while their skill, bravery and presence of
mind have scarcely ever found a chronicler.
Yet, if the records of their noble deeds were all
gathered and presented in their true light, it
would be found that these rough, weather-worn
men were entitled to as high a place and as
lofty a fame as has been allotted to any other
class who cope with disaster.”
The writer from whom we quote is one of
these very men —an engineer who has long run
locomotives on some of our principal railroads,
though now, we believe, serving his country in
the army. Some time ago he prepared a few
sketches and reminiscences of “ the dangers he
had passed,” which are published in book rorm
by J. Bradburn, of N n . 49 Walker street, He
relates some fearful accidents, and certainly his
“hair breadth ’scapes” are such as few others
can record. Describing his feeling when on
the engine one foggy morning, he says.:
“ I thought of the poor estimate in which
the class to which I belonged was held by the
people generally, who, seated in the easy-cush
ioned seats of the train, read of battles far
away—of deeds of heroism performed amid
the smoke and din of bloody war—and their
hearts swell with pride—they glow with glad
ness to think that their own species are capa
ble of such daring acts (iiitf ftll th© While thesq
very readers are skirting the edges of preci
pices, to look down which would appall the
stoutest heart and make the strongest-nerved
man thrill with terror ; they are crossing deep,
narrow gorges on gossamer-like bridges; they
are passing switches at terrific speed, where
there is but an inch of space between smooth-
Tbiiing prosperity and quick destruction ; they
arc, darting through dark, gloomy tunnels,
which would be turned into graves for them,
were a single stone to be detached from the
roof in front of the thundering train; they are
dragged by a fiery-lunged, smoke-belching
monster, in whose form are imprisoned death
dealing forces the most terrific. And mounted
upon tins fire-fiend sits the engineer, controll
ing its every motion, holding in his hand the
thread of every life on the train, which a sin
gle act —a false move--a deceived eye, an in
stant’s relaxation of thought or care on his
part, would cut, to be united nevermore ; and
the train thunders on, crossing bridges, gul
lies and roads,'passing through tunnels and
cuts, and over embankments. The engineer,
firm to his post, still regulates the breath of
his steam-demon and keeps his eye upon tlie
track ahead, with a thousand things upon his
mind, the neglector a wrong thought of either
of which would run the risk of a thousand
lives ; and these readers in the cars are still
absorbed with the daring deeds of the Zouaves
under the warm sun of Italy, but pay not a
thought to the Zouave upon the engine, who
every day rides down into the ‘ valley of
death,’ and charges a bridge of Magenta.”
Here is a stirring account of the end of
A BBAVE ENGINEER.
George D was rimiyng the night ex-
press, and was some thirty minutes behind
time. My freight train was waiting on the
switch for him to pass He came on, at about
thirty-five miles an hour, as near as I could
judge, and I was watching him all the time.
He was within about three times .the length
of his train of the switch.—was blowin or his
whistle-.-when I saw, and he saw the switch
man run madly out of his ‘ shanty,’ grab the
switch and turn it so that it would’ lead him
directly into the hind end of my train. I
jumped, instinctively, to start my engine—l
heard him whistle for brakes, and those that
stoed near said that he reversed his engine
hut my train was too heavy for me to move
quickly, and he was toonear to do much good
by reversing, so I soon felt a heavy concussion,
and knew that he had struck hard, for, at the
other < nd of forty-five cars, it knocked me
down, and the jar broke my engine loose from
the train. He might have jumped from his
engine with comparative safety, after he saw
toe swi ch changed, for the ground was sandy
there and free from obstructions, and h* could
easily have jumped clear of the trick and
< scaped with slight bruises. But no I Be
hind him, trusting to him, and resttig in com
parative security, were hundreds whom life
vas as dear as to him; his post was at the
head ; to the great law of self-prrservation, that
most people put first in their code of practice,
his stern duty required him to forswear alle
giance, and to act on the principle, * others
fust, myself afterwards.’ So, with a bravery
of heart such as is seldom found in other ranks
of men, he stuck to his iron steed, transformed
then into the white steed of death, and spent
the last energies of his life, the strength of his
last pulse, striving to mitigate the suffering
which would follow the collision. His death
was instantaneous ; he had no time for regrets
at leaving life, and the friends he loved so
dearly. When we found him, one hand
grasped the throttle, his engine was reversed ;
and with the other hand he still held on to
the handle of the sand-box lever. The whole
middle and lower portion of his body was
crushed, but his head and arms were un
touched, and his face still wore a resolute, self
sacrificing expression, such as must have lit up
the countenance of Arnold Winkleried, when
crying, • Make way for liberty,’ he threw him
self upon a sheaf of Austrian spears and broke
the column of his enemies.”
HOW A FRIEND WAS KILLED.
There is among the remembrances of my
life as a railroad man, one of such sadness, that
I never think of it without a sigh. Every
man, unless lie be so morose that he cannot
keep a dog, has his particular friends; thoso
in whom he confides, and to whom he is always
cheerful; whose society he delights in, and
tlie possibility of whose death he will never
• allow himself to admit.
Such a friend had lin George H . We
were inseparable—both of us unmarried ; we
would always manage to board together, and
on all possible occasions to be. together. Did
George’s engine lay up for the Sunday at one
end of the road and mine at the other, one of
us was sure to go over the road “extra,” in
order that we might be together.
George and I differed in many respects, but
more especially in this, that whereas I was one
of the “fast” school of runners, who are
never so contented with running as when
mounted on a fast engine,- with au express
train, and it behind time, George preferred a
slow train, where, as ho said, his occupation
was “killing time,” not “ making” it. So,
while I had the “Baltic,” a fast engine, with
drivers six feet and a half in diameter, and
usually ran express trains, George had the
“Essex," a freight engine, with four feet
drivers.
One Saturday night I took the last run north,
and was to ‘ 1 lay over'' with my engine for the
Sunday at the northern terminus of the road,
until two o’clock Monday, P. M. George had
to run the “Night Freight” down that night,
and as we wished particularly to be together
the next day. I concluded to go “down the
line” with him, Starting time came, and off
westarted. I rode for awhile in the “caboose,”
as. the passenger car attached to a freight train
is called, but as the night was warm and balmy,
the moon shining brightly, tinging with silvery
white the great fleecy clouds that swept
through the heaven, like monstrous floating
islands of snow drifting over the fathomless
waters of the sea, I went out and rode with
George on the engine. Tlie night was indeed
most beautiful, the moonlight shimmering
across the river, which the wind disturbed and
broke into many ripples, made it to glow and
shine like a sea of molten silver. The trees
beside the track* waved and beckoned their
leafy tops, looking sombre and weird in the
half darkness of the night. The vessels we
saw upon the river, gliding before the freshen
ing breeze, with their signal lights glimmering
dimly, and the occasional steamers with light
streaming from every window, and the red
light of their fires casting an unearthly glare
upon the waters; these all combined to make
the scene spread before Us,as we rushed shriek
ing and howling over jjhe road, one of unex
celled beauty. We both gazed at it, and said
that if all scenes in the life of a railroad man
. were as beautiful as this we. would wish no
oilier life. .
But something ailed George's engine. Her
pumps would not work. After tinkering with
them awhie, he asked the fireman if there was
plenty of water in the tank ; the fireman said
there was, but to make assurance doubly sure I
went and looked, and lo I there was not a
drop! Before passing through the station
George had asked the fireman if there was
plenty of water. He replied that there was;
so George had run through the station, it not
being a regular stopping place for the train,
and here we were in a fix. George thought
he could run from where we had stopped to the
next water station, so he cut loose from the
train and started. We had stopped on the
outside of a long curve, to the other end of
Which we could see ; it was fully a half-mile,
but the view was straight across the water—a
bay of the river sweeping in there, around
which the track went.
In about twenty minutes after George had
left we saw him coming around the farthest
point of the curve ; the brakeman at once took
his station with his light at the end of the
cars, to show George precisely where the train
stood. The engine came swiftly toward us, and
I soon saw he was getting so near that he could
not stop without a collision, unless he reversed
his engine at once, so I snatched the lamp from
out the brakeman’s hands and swung it wildly
across the track, but it was of no avail. On
came the engine, not slackening her speed the
least. We saw somebody jump from the fire
man’s side, and in the instant of time allowed
us, we looked to see George jump, but no! he
stuck to his post, and there came a shock as of
ft pjountain fhe heavy freight engine
running, as it was, at as high a rate of speed
as it could make, crashed into the train; thir
teen cars were piled into a mass cf ruins, the
like of which is seldom seen. The tender was
turned bottom side up, witli the engine lying
atop of it, on its side. The escaping steam
shrieked and howled ; the water, pouring in on
to the fire, crackled and hissed; the stock
(sheep and cattle) that were in the cars bellow
ed and bleated in their agony, and it seemed
as if all the legions of hells were there striving
to make a pandemonium of that quiet place
by the river-side. As soon as we recovered
front too rhoek and g-ot used io too din, irliich
ftt first struck terror to our hearts—and I
think no sound can be more terrible than the
bellowing of a lot of cattle that are crushed in
a railroad smash up—wa went to work to see
if George was alive, and to get him out, dead
or alive. We found him tinder his tender, but
one side of the tank lay across his body, so that
he could not move. We got rails and lifted
and pried, until we raised the tender and got
him out. We took one of the doors from the
wrecked cars, laid it beside the track, and made
a bed on it with our coats and the cushions
from the caboose; for poor George said he
wanted to pass the few moments left him on
earth beneath the open sky. and with the cool
breeze to fan his cheek. Of course we des
patched a man to the nearest station for aid,
and to telegraph from there for an engine ; but
it was late at night, everybody was asleep, and
it was more than three hours before any one
arrived, and all that time George lingered, oc
casionally whispering a word to me as I bent
over him and moistened his lips.
He told me while Ijing there the reason why
he did not stop sooner. Something had got
loose on the inside trottie gearing, and he
could not shut off steam, nor, owing to some
unaccountable complicity of evil, could he re
verse his engine. So on he had to come, pell
well, and both of them were killed ; for the
fireman had jumped on some rocks, and must
have died instantly, as he was most horribly
mangled.
The night wind moaned through the wreck,
the dripping water yet hissed upon the still
hot iron of the engine, the waves of the river
guiglcd and rippled among the rocks of the
shore, and an occasional uellow of agonv was
beard from amidst the cattle cars, where all
the rest of the hands were at work releasing the
poor aratures; but I sat there, in sad and
solemn silence, waiting for him to die that had
been as a brother to me. At last, just as we
heard the whistle of the approaching engine,
and just as the rising sun had begun to gild
and bespangle the purpling east, George open
ed his eyes, gave my Land a faint grasp, and
was no more. I stood aloue with the dead
man I had loved so in life, but. from whom
death had now separated me.
Postage Album.—lt is said that Lady
Herbert, a great-grand-daughter of Lord Clive,
has a postage-stamp album, which is a great
curiosity. It contains undefaced specimens of
every postage-stamp in the world, and is illus
trated with maps of the countries, and por
traits and autographs of the respective rulers.
It is richly bound, and is the most complete
thing of the sort ever got up.
SUNDAY DISPATCH, JANUARY 4, 1863.
[Written for the Sunder Dlspateh.l
TN E NEW YEAR.
BY WM. J. M’fILUBZ.
At tlie grave of the withered Past,
The bright New Year arises,
Tis welcomed ’mid bleak Winter’s blast,
That summer bloom disguises.
O, jocund is the bright New Year,
Tresh Hope illumes each bosom dear,
Ihe leaves are hid, to offer cheer,
When spring-time’s rain baptizes.
Okl Time gives to the rolling earth
Another offspring brightly;
All mankind hail its ready birth,
And sorrows rest more lightly.
The Eastern and the Western world,
So long in revolution whirled.
Rejoice as one, though often hurled
In conflict grim, unsightly.
The New Year comes with gladn’ing chimes,
Sweet joy each brow adorning;
And yet the thoughts of bygone times
Arise with tender warning.
O, jocund is the bright New Year,
So full of Hope, and visions dear,
The Past is memory’s—see, appear
The New Year’s radiant morning.
[Written for the Sunday Dispatch.]
THOUCHT-COINS FROM MY MIND-MINT.
No. III.—WHAT I LIKE AND DISLIKE
AT A THEATRE.
BT JAMES A. 0. O’CONNOR.
Despite tlie melancholy fact that the war
god reigns—that taxes now raw on most every
thing and everybody—that Brennan is Comp
troller elect, (a very dirge in itself alone to
pleasures and to expenditures of monetary
items therefor) —that Winter is setting in—that
business everywhere is partially prostrated—
money “tight”-—and food, fuel, raiment,
house-rent, &c., are more costly now than for
years before —still the people must have and
will pay for their relaxations and amusements.
Hence the theatre, the opera, the concert, the
lecture, the exhibition, &c., are all fairly pa
tronised by the respective lovers of each. And
the few words arid hints contained in this arti
cle will apply equally well to the opera, con
cert, &c., as well as to the theatre. Tragedy
shouldn't be unnaturally tragic, comedy un
naturally comic, mc-10-drama too melo-dra
ttatic, or farce too farcical; hut amusement,
instruction and relaxation should bo the mis
sion of the drama and opera ever.
What I like at a theatre are (among other
things which I may forget to mention now) —
first, a nice, comfortable and eligible seat near
the stage, a good, sensible and companionable
companion ; if in Winter a warm, or in Sum
mer a cool and well-ventilated house, a well
printed programme ; a good opera glass; a full,
respectable and quiet audience, with a beau
teous and refreshing sprinkling of ladies fair,
&c.—roses among thorns ; a good, full and ef
ficient orchestra-band, who play and discourse
correctly and with good execution pleasurable
music gems, under the baton of a good leader ;
aprezpi “ringing up” of the curtain and
commencement of performances at not later
than fifteen minutes after the advertised time
and as set down on the bill; a nice drop-cur
tain ; a well and generously lighted up house ;
polite and attentive ushers; prompt entrance
of performers in their various scenes ; intelli
gible articulation and pronunciation, having
Webster as the standard; decency, common
sense and taste as to dress and costume by act
ors and actresses ; moderate use of paint, chalk,
ily-white, rouge and all cosmetics; abolish-
Iment of certain old wigs (not whigs!) and
odious artificial immense red noses, &c. I like
to see common etiquette on the stage—for in
stance (in this «ne behalf), when a gent enters
a room-scene to remove his hat, or if he be in
a street or garden scene to have one on ; to
hear a good speech or sentiment applauded ; a
good song or dance (rarely) encored; to see
merit in author, actor and manager appreci
ated and rewarded ; to see a great actor receive
a house full of genuine and really felt as well
as merited applause, (joy to the actor’s soul) ;
to hear the “institution” of “hissing” whole
somely and unstintedly applied where merited,
(tenor and death to the actor’s heart!; to see
a star like.Forrcst, or the like, in his happiest
moods and ably supported.
I dislike (among .other things) a bad seat, a
poor companion, a poor and stingily-lighted
house, (turn on tlie gas, Mr. Manager—give
us more “light on the subject” and the play);
a small, miscellaneous, and mixed audience;
a miserable programme, both as to paper and
print, as well as to pieces to be played ; a hot
house in Summer, in Winter a frigid one ; a
poor (borrowed) opera-glass; a small and in
efficient orchestra—murdering melody ; a very
tardy commencement of performances ; a ras
cally. noisy lot of ragamuffins or loafers in
“gallery” or “pit”—(not the “bottomless”
pit, at present, however, though we say no
thing as to the future) —who have bullied and
spoiled, by making him rant, rant, bant, per
petually, many an otherwise good actor ; who
are ever annoying us with “ cat-calls,” whis
tling, talking, peanut-eating, stamping, quar
relling, fighting, coming in and going out times
almost without number; encoring songs and
dances every now and then,; who yell out
“Hey, Patsey!” “ Fwhsr are yez, Mickv?”
Boots!” “Nigger in the pit!” (the pro-slav
ery, anti-Seward young- reprobates!) “Hoist
that rag !” (a splendidpieessof canvass-painted
’scenery, mayhap); “ Shift that scene !” “ Hats
off!—down in front!” “ Louder, there—loud
er!” “ Speech !_ speech ! fetch’ini out!” &c.,
&c. I also dislike a tardy ringing-up of the
curtain, excuses by actors or managers, a
change or curtailment of performances, an un
successful debut, bad playing, bad “casting,”
bad grammar, “gagging” (putting in that
which the author didn’t) ; bad articulation,
gesticulation, walking of stage, fencing, foil
ing, thojifc; immo
rality, pro.aihty, Or ais-uniou sentiments, or
the like; an ugly drep-fwfolfi ; piserablij
daubings and scarcity of good and Appropriate
and necessary scenery ; impudent, inattentive,
auddevil-me-care-about-youorany-other-man
sir ushers. I dislike an utter abolishment of
Nature and of common sense on the stage ; to
see a good speech or a telling “point” by an
actor unappreciated by a dull, stupid audience ;
or to see an empty or foolish thing applauded
to the very echo ; to see an actor playing only
for a few regular “ points;” to see tuid hear a
“Tragedian (?)” tear, rant, rave, howl, fume,
bellow, sweat, tremble, shake, squint, strut,
and malto an ass of himself generally ; to see
the low comedian be unnatural and anything
but comical; to hear the painted and curly
haired (wigged) “ pretty (?)” young man who
“does” the lover, and hero parts, out-spout
his capacity—spout till his throat is like
raw beef—spout till he is weak and hoarse,
and then speak love to the heroine, in a
monotonous, sing-song style of elocution for
pathos and sentiment; to hear the heroine
of the play Zis/> poll-parrot-like So much
mere text meaningless]y ; to see a premature
or tardy entrance or exit; a house. (in the
scenery) split in pieces on a shifting of the
scenes; bad machinery-working, and general
faulty stage-management; too much red fire
and blue light ; stinginess in “mounting”
pieces ; a poor “ star,” and a worse than poor
“stock” company; actors putting on airs;
rascality of managers in many ways, ‘ 1 too nu
merous to mention,” but of wliich actors and
theater-goers are as well cognizant as are we ;
a noisy neighbor; a squalling baby; clogs,
beys,, boobies and loafers;, swells, sharpers,
critics, “dead-heads;” disreputable females,
shark-like, prowling around ; ncises or opening
ing and shutting of doors during the progress
of the play ; leaving the theater while (for ex
ample) Forrest as Hamlet is dying; to lie
quizzed “half to death” by anybody or ev
eiybody on or off the stage ; to get one’s
pocket picked at the theater; an accident at.
the theater : chattering and Airing young la
dies, and snickering old grannies ; fops, dan
dies, beaux and exquisites within ear-shot or
eye-range ; affectation or egotism of actors ;
imitators; glaring lack and want of proper
study and careful rehearsal; a “distinguished
arrival;’ ’ to see meh and women on the stage .
whom nature never intended for the stage ;
Forrest as Claude Melnotte; an intoxicated
actor;.artistes (?). who seem never to have read
Hamlet’s short but wise instructions to the
players; careless actors ; a silly speech before
the curtain ; petty jealousies among actors ; a
bad.actor “big lettered” and a good actor
meanly cast; to see (as I have seen) an actor
tumble heels over head into the orchestra; to
hear too much of the “prompter;” hired
bands of hissers and applauders; loafers in the
lobbies and vestibules; a man with the ca
tarrh asleep in front of you snoring ‘ ‘ old hun
dred ;” to leave your opera-glass, overcoat,
cane, umbrella, gloves, or the like, in the the
ater after you ? to be button-holed by (for in
stance) William Shakspere Simpson, tragedian
to buy a dozen orchestra tickets for his semi
annual benefit; to buy your ticket and enter,
and find “standing room only;” to buy a
“book of the play,” and find the play cut,”
the scenes transposed ; and many other things
to dislike without being too captious aid crit
ical
FETE DAY IN PARIS?
Richard IZ-noir, after whom the Enperor
has named the new Boulevard, was h>rn in
1765, and was in early life a porter in ; linen
warehouse at Rouen. He came to Paris,where
he was at first waiter in a cafe, duringwliich
time, by his economies, he saved the aim. of
one thousand francs, which was the basil of an
immense fortune. With this small sun he
opened a little shop, wliich he gradualy en
larged. Having been successful iu all lis en
terprises, he determined to devote his attention
not only to the sale but to the manufacure of
cotton goods, saying that he was resolvd that
England should not monopolize the fabication
of cotton tissues. He took a lease of in old
building which, previous to the Rcvcution,
was occupied as a conveut of Benedictin nuns.
Here he established his first cotton fetory,
and by his intelligence, industry, and jrobity
conducted it with great success. In 808 ho
employed twenty thousand workmen, aid his
expenses were ‘5200,000 .a month. le also
made great efforts to introduce the cotton
plant into Europe. The seed which h. found
in the bales of cotton from America he ent to
Italy to be planted, and received from lis first
year’s crop 50,0 0 lbs. Napoleon I. hmored
this successful manufacturer with the Cross of
the Legion of Honor, saying to him at the
same time, “We have botji of us ragd rude
war with England, but up to the presmt mo
menta must confess that the manufactirer has
been more fortunate than the Emieror.”
Richard Lenoir continued his prosperoui career
until 1814, when he was reined by tie sup
pression of the duties. When Paris wis sur
rounded by the allied armies he put hinself at
the head of his workmen and defemed the
entrance of tlie Faubourg St. Antone. Ho
spent all of his fortune in charitable woks and
in benefitting the people he had employed, and
died in great poverty'in 1839. It is, th-refore,
an act of justice as well as a stroke oi policy
on the part of the present Emperor, o give
the name of this man to the new etreel which
passes through tlie part of the city ir which
he spent so honorable a portion of his career.
The Paris correspondent of the Wortd.of this
city, writes : “ Paris, the great city ofjtes and
pageants, has seldom given a more irilliant
exhibition than that of Sunday last,, tfe inau
guration of the new Boulevard Prince lugene.
A story had got abroad—how, no on knows
—that the grand ceremony was to be turned
into a sad catastrophe by some ‘infenal’ at
tempt upon the life of the Emperor. Tie cor
respondents of foreign journals had givn cur
rency to tlie rumor ; and there was uiite a
general feeling of anxiety, not to call .t fear,
among all classes. Some of the high iunilics
ucl-uaiiy pnnked their truuk« on Saturdiy to be
ready for flight in own of emergency. It was
said the very spot on which the pavilon was
erected was undermined, and that the explosion
would occur while the Emperor was deivering
his speech. Of the 600,000 people whiso eyes
u ere concentrated on that spot, not a few, I
believe, breathed easier when the perfomance
was over, and the imperial party wee safe
back in the Tuileries. But the Empeior is a
fatalist, and knows no fear. I had th; good
luck to get a seat near the pavilion, am. when
Najioleon had finished speaking, afuid fries of
‘ 1 ■ tee VEinpenttr,’ from the ministers o state
and the body of senators, mayors, &<., who
.surrounded him, I could not but adnirc the
cool and fearless manner and position he
assumed in mounting his beautiful ‘Solferino,’
and dashing out a few rods in front of the
‘Cent Gardes’ to take an admiring view of the
triumphal arch, a stupendous work of art,
erected on the very spot where he entered
Paris on his return from Italy. He is looking
a little thinner and paler than when I saw him
last, some ten months ago, but the occasion
was one to give to the face of the bravest ‘ the
pale cast of thought,’ and the speech he had
just pronounced was delivered with as much
emotion as it was received. I will not stop to
praise it, beyond saying that it seems to me to
comprehend not only the spirit of France but
the very spirit and wisdom of the age. I have
said the spectacle was a brilliant one. The
display of the military was uncommonly fine—
a regular dress parade of the troops of Paris,
they lined the Boulevard as far as' the eye
could see ; and the cortege, consisting of the
court and of the diplomatic and municipal
dignitaries, was splendid beyond description.
All eyes, oi course, were concentrated on the
Emperor, and his beautiful sorrel charger
looked as if conscious of the majesty that be
strode him. Prince Jerome and Prince Murat
rode nearest to the ‘ august presence.’ The
Empress rode in a covered carriage, a sort of
glass case, accompanied by the Duchess Bas
sano, and looked as lovely and gracious as
usual in her little white lily of a bonnet, at
which probably every modiste in Paris was
straining to get a glimpse. The cut and color
of the trimming is carefully noted in the
papers ; and what the first lady in Europe wore
on Sunday last is to-day the mode of the world.
Tlie question will naturally be asked : Why
this apprehension for the safety of the Em
peror ? The only answer I can give is that the
Mazzini-Garibaldi element is at work, and the
I talian question is at the bottom of tlie mis
chief. The Emperor does not go fest enough to
satisfy the radicals in one direction, nor fast
enough in the other to satisfy tlie Church.
tout! His position is a difficult one, but
I still believe that he is ‘master of the situa
tion.’ The new Italian ministry, which has
just been formed, may possibly assist in solving
the Roman problem.' M. Emile de Girardin
comes out with a strong article in favor of
separating Church and State in France, (phis
is fas remedy for all the trouble,”
THE MAN mTITTnER.
Of course, says a Parisian journalist, you
know the Rue de la Paix, so called because it
celebrates war in the shape of a column. In
that street lives an Englishman, who enjoys a
very different popularity in the world of frip
pery from that of a Lent preacher. This Eng
lishman, it must be admitted, han created a
new kind of art, the art of screwing in a wo
man’s figure with a precision hitherto un
known. He has the inspiration of the scissors,
the geniua of the- gore. He knows the exact
spot at which the stuff should fit tightly, and
where it should float around at will. He un
derstands at a glance, by the whole context of
the woman, what should be shown and what
concealed. Providence has created him from
ail eternity to discover the law of crinoline and
the true curve of the petticoat. He is a perfect
gentleman, always fresh and clean shaved, al
ways curled, black coat, white cravat, cambric
sleeves, fastened at the wrist with a gold but
ton. He officiates with all the gravity of a
diplomatist who carribs the future of the world
shut up in one of the compartments of his
brain. When he tries a dress upon a live doll
of the Chaussee d’Autin. it is with the most
profound contemplation that he touches, fits,
measures, and marks with chalk the defective
fold in the stuff. Anon he steps back, and,
the better to judge the effect of ids handiwork
at a distance, he holds his hand before his eye
like an opera-glass, and resumes, with an in
spired finger, the work of modelling the dress
on the body of his customer. Sometimes he
plants a flower here, or tries on a ribbon there,
in order to test the general harmony of the
toilette, and all this time the Eve in process of
manufacture stands motionless aud resigned,
and allows her creator to proceed with the
work of her creating in silence. At last, when
he has moulded the silk as if it were clay, and
when he has modeled the figure according to his
idea, he takes his place at the other end of the
room, and seats himself upon a sofa with his
head thrown back, and conducts his work as
with a conductor’s baton. “To the right,
madam!” and the lady turns accordingly.
“To the left!” and round she goes. “Face
me!” and she looks straight at the artist.
“ Right about face !” and the obverse is pre
sented. In this manner, a German Princess,
acclimated at Paris, executes, at the orders of a
man, a complete course of drill. After which,
he dismisses her with a Royal gesture, “That
will do, madam.” The fashionable ladies of
Paris, enchanted with the splendid fashions of
their trousered drcss-maker, have come to be
lieve that a man who can make a dress so beau
tifully ought to be able to put it on better than
any one else, and set upon it the seal of the
master. Therefore, whenever a court ball
takes place, or a ball at the Hotel de Ville, or
even a grand reception at the Palais Royal, or
the Luxemburg, you may see drawn up,' about
ten o’clock at night, before the door of the
foreign dressmaker, .a long string of carriages,
the wretched coachmen sitting on boxes buried
in their great coats. The mistresses have
mounted the stairs into this Temple of the
Toilet. As they enter, they receive a card
bearing the number of their turn, and they
pass on into the waiting-room. As they can
only appear one by one before this pontiff of
I the petticoat, the latecomers have occasionally
to wait a long time ; hut a delicate piece of at
tention on the part of the master of the house
enables them to relieve as much as possible the
fatigues of the ante-chamber. A sideboard,
richly provided, offers to the fair expectants
the positive consolations of tiro choicest dishes
and pastry, and here the ethereal little dames
of the Paris drawing-rooms fortify themselves
for the polka, by partaking of unlimited pate
de foie gras, washed down with abundant Malm
sey. Thus refreshed at the expense of the es
tablishment, they brave with an intrepid spirit
the operation of the toilette. The master dis
patches them one after another, and with con
siderable celerity. He examines ; turns them
about; a final touch ; a pin here and there,
and madam has realized the prototype of ele
gance.
ADELINA PATTI’S "BAPTISM" IN PARIS.
The Paris correspondent of the London Mu
sical World gives this account of the debut in
Paris, on the evening of November 16, of Ade
lina Patti. The opera was “ Somnambula,"
and the Lisa of the evening was warmly ap
plauded :
At length, with elastic stop and artless in
nocence of mien, Amina tripped before the
lamps. Not a hand, not a voice hade her wel
come —not a bit of encouragement, however
trifling, made her feel that she was in the pres
ence of an assembly of ladies and gentlemen to
whom she had never given cause of offense,
and whom she was about to make her best ef
forts to please. “Uh accu. il vraiment glacial,”
said a critic, (a Frenchman,)'whose mind had
already been made up, to an amateur, (an En
glishman,) who, with the “ pldegme" attrib
uted to his countrymen, looked on with cool
indifference, and merely replied “Keoutons.”
However disconcerted by such a cavalier re
ception, the young singer, apparently uncon
cerned, began her recitative. A phrase or two
sufficed to melt the ice in which the affectedly
stern but really generous public had, with ill
assumed cynicism, embedded themselves. The
“Come per me sereno” speedily followed; and
here a “ son file” (as only in the present day
Mdlle. Patti can perform this particular feat)
scattered all prejudice to the wind, and “Hra»u !
brara! brmissima!” rang through the house.
At the end of the slow movement the triumph
of the new comer was a, fait accompli.
I shall not intrude (my readers) my criticism
of an Amina, with the manifold beauties of
which they are so well acquainted. The co-
M.ittv. was as successful as the andante; and
that after the duct with Elvino, which brings
down the curtain upon Act I, Mdle. Patti was
Jed on by »Sig. Gardoni, and hailed with reit
erated acclamations, which would not sub
side until she came forward again and agntu.
In the “foyer,” between the first and second
acts, all musical and critical Paris is congregat
ed ; and a Babel of indistinguishable clamor
proclaimed the excitement the new reputation
faitea V Anglaiee’ had created. The second act
was the scene of a still greater triumph. The
former cold and ascetic audience were now be
side themselves with enthusiasm. The dra
matic and intense finale, dramatically and in
tensely portrayed, brought down the curtain
amid applause that must have made the heart
of the young singer glad, as it plainly made
her dark eyes glisten.
Three more recalls ensued, the devoted “El
vine” (Gardoni) gallantly leading on his
“ Amina" on each occasion. It is scarcely
requisite fot me to say that the last act—the
descent from thd mill, and the 11 Ah non Cte
dea,” and tho “Ah non griunge"—was the
culminating point, the Finis coronal opus,
Again thrice recalled, overwhelmed with plau
dits, and oppressed with magnificent boquets
(one might have imagined that summer had
come back to witness the “ solemnity”—spring
consigned by autumn to the care of winter)
the “ Amina” of the evening retired, to sleep,
no doubt, u.pon a bed of roses. She came, she
saw, she conquered ; they came, they saw, they
yielded—-not recreant, but sennleurs devouvs.
Thus Adelina Patti has received the baptism of
Paris—which, moreover, has pronounced her
a great actress.
WONDERS OF THE ATMOSPHERE.
The atmosphere rises above us with its cath
edral dome arching toward heaven, of which .
it is the most perfect synonym and symbol. It
floats around us like that grand object which
the apostle John saw in his vision—” a sea of
glass like unto a crystal.” So massive is it
that when it begins to stir it tosses great ships
like playthings, and sweeps city and forest like
snowflakes to destruction before it.
And yet is so mobile that we have lived for
years in it before we can be persuaded that it
exists at all, and the great bulk of mankind
never realize the truth that they are bathed in
an ocean of air. Its weight is so enormous
that iron shivers before it like glass, yet a soap
ball sails through it with impunity, ansi the
tiniest insect waves it aside with his’wing;.. It
ministers lavishly to all our senses. We touch
it not, but it touches us. Its warm south wind
brings back color to the pale face of the inva
lid ; its cool west winds refresh the fevered
brow and make the blood nlantle to our
cheeks ; even its north blasts brace into new
vigor the hardened children of our rugged cli
mate.
The eye is indebted to it for all the magnifi
cence of sunrise, the brightness of midday, the
chastened radiance of the morning, and the
clouds that cradle near the setting sun. But
for it, the rainbow would want its ‘ ‘ trium
phant arch,” and the wind would not send
the fleecy messengers on errands around the
heavens; the cold ether would not shed gnow
feathers on the earth, nor would drops of dew
gather on the flowers. The kindly rain would
never fall, nor hali-stOTSI HOT fog diversify the
face of the sky ; our naked gloto Would turn
its tanned and unshadowed forehead to the
sun, and one dreary, monotonous blaze of light
and heat dazzle and bum up all things.
Were there no atmosphere, the evening sun
would in a moment set, and, without warning,
plunge the earth into darkness. But the air
keeps in herjband a nf her ruj-o, «n.<i ivts
them slip but slowly through her fingers, so
that the shadaws of evening are gathered by
degrees, and the flowers have time to bow their
heads, and each creature space to find a place
of rest, and to nestle to repose. In the morn
ing, the garish sun would at one bound burst
from the bosom of the night, and blaze above
the horizon ; but the air watches of his coming,
and sends first but one little ray to announce
his approach, and then another, and then a
handful; and so gently draws aside the curtain
of night, and slowly lets the light fall on the
face of the sleeping earth, till her eyelids open,
and like man she goes forth again- to labor
until evening.— Quarterly Review.
Tragic Death of Madame Farini. —An
exchange gives the following thrilling particu
lars of the death of the wife of Farini, the
celebrated rope-walker, who is well remember
ed by our citizens:
A terrible and heart-rending catastrophe oc
curred in Havana on the Sth ult., at the Plaza
Torres—Bull Hing. M. Farini, the celebrated
tight-rope walker, and rival of Blondin, adver
tised, among the many wonders that he would
perform on the tight-rope, the carrying of his
wife across the rope stretched from one side .
the ring to the other,, at a hight of about sixty .
feet, upon his back—a feat he had performed
in other places. He started with the lady upon
his back, and had nearly finished his journey
across, within about four feet, when the audi
ence applauded the daring act, it seemingly
being completed ; and the lady, in acknowl
edgment for that applause, loosened her hold
upon her husband’s neck and -waved ■ her
hands, and, on the instant of doing so she dis
covered that she had lost her balance, and
called to her husband to catch her as she was
falling.. This he attempted to do, and caught
her by the skirt of her dress, but the frail fab
ric was not of sufficient strength to sustain her
with the impetus given to her descent by the
fall, and the dress gave way, leaving apiece
in the unfortunate man’s hand as he hung sus
pended from the rope, sustaining himself by
the joint of his knee, by means of which he
had saved himself, and she went down crash
ing upon the seats that ascend from the curb
of the ring to the top of tire enclosure. She
was taken up for dead, ' but she showed, after
seme little time, 'signs of returning life, and
lingered from Sunday until Thursday morning,
when death put an end to her suffering. She
was taken in hand by the ladies of the neigh
borhood, and everything that could be done
was done. The wealthiest ladies of Havana
were at her bedside and soothed her dying pil
low. She was embalmed and placed in one
of the niches of the bury ground. It is said
that from SIO,OOO to $20,000 will be raised
by subscription for the child she has left be
hind.
(Written for the Sun.l»vDlu>at«lt.p
•’ IN MEMORIAM."
BY rr.ANCIS B. MURTHA.
In the cold dark grave they laid him,
t Near the spot wfapre he fighting fell;
Nor sheet, nor box enclosed him,
Save the flag he loved so well.
Few and short were the prayers they said
As they knelt on the lonely sod,
But they prayed Heaven to guard the spot
Where but now the rebels trod.
Ho died as soldiers lovo to die,
Watching the foes retreat,
With cries of victory in his oars,
And the drums loud welcome beat.
He feared not death nor danger,
Nor hunger, thirst nor pain,
Bo the Union, strong and lasting,
Should be restored again.
He stood the foremost ’mong the brave
That fought and bled that day,
For Freedom’s cause he proudly bore
Through battle’s wild array.
But the pulse is still, the tongue is mute,
No sound can wake him more,
Not e’en the cry, “ To arms I” “ To arms!’’
And the cannon’s fretful roar.
ln Perthshire it is a custom for
servants to call any cow or calf that their fiias
ters may chance to purchase, .either by the name
of the town from which it came, or by the name
and surname of its previous owner. The fol
lowing is & good illustration of this practice. A
fine specimen of the British farmer once lived
not far from the lively village of St. Martin’s.
This worthy old gentleman bought a calf from an
elderly neighbor named Storer, but before he
reached home with his purchase, the shades of
evening'had closed arqund him. and liis family
and domestic servants had retired to rest. Dis
daining to disturb either family or servants, he
Eroccoded to the byre, and bo'und the calf with
is own hands. On entering tho house lie in
formed bis elder son of what he had done, and
observed that he would see it in the morning.
On the following morning the son went to tho
byre to see the calf, but was surprised to find
that it was dead. He immediately wont to his
father, and with a sorrowful face informed him
that Jamie Storer was dead. “ Oh, never mind,”
said the sire; “ Jamie was an oddish sort of a
man ; you couldna look for anything else. In
fact, 1 aye thocht ho wad gang awa like the
snuffing o’ a candle. Never mind, never mind.”
“ Ay, but father,” exclaimed tho son “ it's Jamie
Storer the calf that’s dead!” “Jamie Storer the
calf!” shouted the venerable sire; “that alters
the case. Bring mo my slippers!” an order
which was speedily obeyed. In company they
rcached the byre, only to And the sad’ tale veri
fied. Poor Jamie had boon rather slack bound,
and in his struggles to free himself he was
choked. The »•» leiv -«>v-oyre,-muttering
to himself, “Ah. week- ah, weel; it’s but warld’s
gear. lie maybe better tho way it is. Auld
Jamie is a nice kind o’ a chield!”
One day as Popo was engaged in
translating the “Hiad,” he camo to a passage
which neither he nor his assistant could inter
pret. A-stranger who stood bv, in his humble
garb, very modestly suggested, that as he had
some little acquaintance with Greek, perhaps
ho could assist them. “Try it, try. it!” said
Pope, with the ah- of a boy who is encouraging a
monkey to oat red pepper. “There is an error
in the print,” said the stranger, looking at the
text. “ Head as if there was an interrogation
point at the end of tho line, and you have the
meaning at once.” Pope's assistant improved
upon this hint, and rendered the passage with
out difficulty. Popo was chagrined, he could
never endure to be surpassed in a-nvthin". Turn
ing tQ the stranger, he said, in a 7arcasTic tone •
“WillyCii plcaw tell me ffhat iui interrogation
is?” “Why, Sir,’’said the stranger, scanning
the ill-shaped poet, “it is a little crooked, con
temptible thing that asks questions.”
ln the reign of Charles 11. it was
customary, when a gentleman drank a lady’s
health to throw some article of dross into the
flames in her honor, and all his companions
were obliged to sacrifice a similar article, what
ever it might be. One of Sir Charles Sedley’s
friends, perceiving that he wore a very rich lace
cravat, drank to the health af a certain lady, and '
threw his own cravat into the fire. Sir Charles
followed the example very good naturediv, but
skid he would have his joke in return. After
wards, when ho dined with tho same party, he
filled a bumper to some reigning beauty, and
called on a dentist to extract a decayed tooth
which had long pained him. Etiquette demand
ed that every one of the party should have a
tooth extracted and thrown into tho fire; to
which they all yielded, after many murmurs
about the cruelty ofthe thing.
“ What arc you digging there
for ?” said an idle fellow to a steady laborer who
was at work on a piece of waste land. “lam
digging for money.” The news flew— the idlers
collected. “We are told you are digging for
money.” “ Well, I ain’t digging for anythin"
else.” “ Have you had any luck?” “First-rate
luck: bays.well. You had better take hold.”
All doffed their coats and laid on most vigorously
for awhile. After tin-owing out some cartloads
the question arose: “When did you get any
money last ?” “ Saturday night.” “ Why how
much did you get?” (‘Eighteen shillings.”
“Why that’s rather small.” “It’s pretty well.
Three shillings a day is tho regular price for
digging all over this ere district.”
A Frenchman thus gives his ex
perience of English baths: “I go: it is not a
very nice place; small, and, I think, not very
clean; but! go in. I say to a man there, ‘I
want a bath.’ ‘ Yes sir ; what eat, sir? I look
at him. Mon Lieu, I think how foolish is this
man. Isay, ‘No, thank you, not now; affair.’
‘ What eat, sir—what eat ?’ I begin to got rather
angry. I did not think the English so barbaric
a people to eat just before the bath. In France
we eat aftair the bath. It is bad, it derange the
stomach to go in hot water aftair one has eaten.
The man turned red, angry, I think; he say
some rude word. Thon he ’ come back with a
thermomotair in his hand; he calls out loud
enough to make me deaf, ‘ What oat for your
bath, sir ? Show with your flngare
At a country meeting as to edu
cation at the parish schools, a well-to-do and well
intentioned farmer expostulated with some
warmth on the absurdity, as he considered it, of
TeaC. lun g geography to ploughboys, an opinion I
which recViyed the general concurrence of tho !
meeting. A quizzical person who was present,
affected, however, to dintr from tho general
opinion and proceeded to argue the matter over,
concluding that although it might not be expe
dient to teach geography in its fullest amplifies-
HOD, lie COIIISKICrCU XIU Tktlliivx' -rro-vilrl Oljject
to his ploughboys having some knowledge of tuu
subject—at any rate as far as,“ Geo O.” A shout
of laughter seemed to imply assent to that ex
tent of a ploughboy’s proficiency.
A dignified clergyman, possessor
of a coal mine, respecting which he was’likely to
have a lawsuit, sent for an attorney in order to
have his advice. The lawyer was curious to seo
a coal pit, and was let down by a rope. Before
he was lowered, he said to the parson: “ Doctor,
your knowledge is not confined to the surface of
tho world, but [you have likewise penetrated to
its inmost recesses. How far may it be from this
to hell?” “I don’t know exactly,” answered he,
gravely, “ but if you let go your hold, you’ll be
there in a minute.”
A bishop, some little while past,
got into conversation with a little Irish boy who
was cleaning his windows. Finding he was a
Boman Catholic, the following colloquy took
place : “ You believe, then, that I shall be lost?”
said tho bishop. “No sir,” said tho boy. “You
believe that those who die out of your Church
are lost, do you not?” “Yes, sir.” “Weil, if I
were to die now I should die out of your church.”
“ Yes,” said the boy, “ but you might be saved
because of your iiiamsaveable ignorance.”
- A hardshell was lately preaching
not far from Bockford, 111., and, while discours
ing about the Christian race, he alluded to the
Olympic games, and astonished his auditors bv
saying : “ The true Christian, my hearers, will
fo straight to the jail; he will never turn a-side.
trust that every one of you is going straight to
tho jail.” In his endeavor, to be elegant as well
as eloquent, he confounded goal, the end of a
race, and jail, a prison fol’ criminals.
- At the time that cock-fighting 1
and game-cock rearing were in vogue in Scot- i
land, an old gentleman was sitting gravely in his ’
seat one Sunday afternoon in St. John’s Chapel,
Edinburgh, when a lady in the same pew moved
up, wishing to speak to him. He kept edging
cautiously away from her, till at last, as she came
nearer, he hastily muttered out, “Sityont—sit
yont! Pinna ye ken ma pouch is fu o’ gemm
eggs?”
“ Pompey, can you tell me why
it am data man can never starve in de Desert ?”
“ Give it up.” “ Well, it’s on account of all de
sand-which-is there.” “Bat’s good, Bam, but
where do they get the ham, bread and mustard
from,-eh?” “Well, you see, when Noah’s Ark
landed on Mount Arrarat, you see, he had a son
named Ham, so he settled in de wihiemcss, and
all his descendants were bre(a)d and mustered
there.” * Yah, yah.”
A poor widow’s little boy wanted
a slate at school, but she couldn’t afford to buy
him one. The next day, seeing one in his hands,
she inquired, in some surprise : “ Why, Tommy,
dear, where did you got that slate?”” “I heard
you say, when papa died,” he replied, “ that now
he has gone we must look above when we wanted
anything, so I went up and got this slate off the
roof. I wish I had a frame for it.”
“ Yen see, grandmamma, we per
forate an aperture in the apex, and a correspond-
ing aperture in tho base ; and by applying th#
<gg to the lips, and forcibly inhaling the breath
the shell is entirely discharged of its contents.
“ Bless my soul/’ cried the otd lady, “what won
derful improvements they do make! Now, in
W, younger days, we just made a hole in each
cud and sucked.”
Ata concert in a small town not
far from London, a few evenings ago, a youth
• was observed to give vent to his pleasurable feel
ings by clapping his hands at the end of one of
the pieces. A man who sat near him, and wh*
uxi . of the proceedings, aaiiL
Hush I I think you would clap if a donkey was
te bray. “Yes,” immediately answered tho
silent b'y*« Tke complainant WM
Recently, while tho court was i»
seeuioa at a certain town in New England th»
sheriff was startled by the following mandate
irom tho Bench :—“ Mr. Sheriff, renovate tho
fire, as the pedal digits of the Court aro becom
ing frigid. Dissolve frigus ligna foco. Larga
reponeiis.” “Yes,your Honor,” replied tho offi
cial addressed,adding after a moment’s refloHioa
I beliete so.”
A gentleman was constantly ia
the habit of calling his servants, before their
“necessary evils.” Ha quarreled with o>»
of them, who left him in a rage, said he was sick
. of service, and vowed that he would never enter
it again. A few days after, his old master moot
ing him in a livery, said, “ Pooh ’ you are gone
into service again after all!” “Ah sir I h»v»
found that masters axe ‘ necessayy evils.’’ ”
Sir William Brown, a pompous
sort of a man, being at a parish meeting, mad#
some proposals, .which were objected to by a
fanner. Highly enraged, he said to the farmer:
“ Sir, do you know that I have been to two u»I
--versities?” “Well,” said tho farmer,what rf
that? I had a calf that sucked two cows, and
tho observation I made was the moreJio sucked
the greater calf he grew.”
Said one student to another, whoni
he caught swinging a scythe most lustily in a
field of stout grass, “ Frank, what makes yo<
work for a living, A follow with your talent and
abilities should not be caught engaged in hard ’
labor. I mean to get my living by my wits."
“ Well, Bill, you can work with duller tools thaw
I can,” was tno reply.
A thick-headed squire beingf
worsted by the Bev. Hydnev Smith in an argu
ment, took liis revenge by exclaiming: “If I had
a son who was an idiot, I would make him a par
son.” “ Very probably,” replied Sydney, “ but I
see your father was of a different opinion.”
lt is related of the French family
of the Duke do Levis that they had a picture te
their chateau iu which Noah is represented going
into the ark, and carrying under his arm a smal ■
trunk, on which is written, “Papers belonging te
the Levis family.”
A sailor dropped out of the
rinsing on a ship-of-war, some fifteen ot twenty
feet, and fell plump on the lieutenant. “ Wretch, 1 *
saia the officer, “ where did you come from r*
“ I came from Ireland, your honor,”
—■ Ap absent-minded gentleman, on
retiring at night, put his dog to bed and kicked
himself down stairs. Ho did not discover his
mistake untH he went to yelp, and the dog tried
to snore.
A widow lady, sitting by a cheer
ful fire in a meditative mood, shortly after her
husband’s death, sighed out, “Poor fellow-how 1
he did like a good fire! I hope he has gon«
where they keep good fires!’’
—We once heard of a Kcntuckia*.
whose amazing strength was attended with fatal
consequences. He was cutting a slice of bread
and butter, when the knife supped, cut- himself
in half and two men behind him.
There is a genius on Lake Cham-,
plain who takes a pair of skates and writes a foui
months’ bill on the ice with such perfection that
in less than an how the sun liquidates it.
Why is going down the Falls of
Schaffhausen like giving away a sum of money
to a needy man? Because 'ties coming downwiUi
the lihine—oh 1
j— “ Are you not afraid your wife
wla get married again when-you die ?” “ I hope
she may, as there will be one man in the worn
who wfil know how to pity me.”
lf a husband and wife are a fast
couple, there is danger in their cases, as'in a fast
team, that the .coupling will break.
—ls the name “ Jack Tar,” for » .
sailor, derived froih the Latin Jactari, to bw
tossed about?
An Irishman being asked whjr
he left Ireland for Amei-ica, replied: “It waaa'fc
for want; I had plenty of that at home.”
When “ distance lends enchant
ment to the view,” to what rate of interest is she
entitled?
Why is a man in a chair like ft -
glutton after dinner? Faith, because he’s
sated.
Why is a retired Clown like ’a
flatterrer? Because he’s sycophantic (sioof
antic).
Beware how you have dealings,
with a man taller than yourself; he can always
overreach you.
Affectionate watch-maker to his
wife—“My little jewel!” Loving wife— “Mr
little jeweler!”
Why is a fashionable lady’s dresa
like an iron-clad ship ? Because it’s hcavilF
plaited.
Stale dry bread is a very effectual
check to juvenile consumption.
“ Daily Evening Mail”—-a lover
calling on his sweetheart,
•“ To which letter of the alphabet
should we look for advice ? The Y’s.
What vegetable is the most ob
jectionable on board a sldp ? A leek.
The Hottentots stand heat better
than Coolies.
What light could not possibly be
seen in a dark room ? An Israe-lite.
The shortness of life is often ow
ing to the iregularities of tho liver.
A Brass Band—A dog’s collar.
The death of Miss Julia Pardoe, the
well known novelist and “ boudoir historian,"
is announced in the English journals, per
Eurspa. She had been suffering some tima
from congestion of the brain, and died at her
residence in Montague street, Portman square,
London, on the 11th ult. Miss Pardoe was
the daughter of a field officer in the army
(whose family was of Spanish extraction), and
was born at' Beverly about the beginning of ’
the present century. At the age of 13, Julia
Pardoe was clever enough to write several
poems, and foolish enough to publish them.
Two years later she produced an historical
novel of the time of William the Conqueror,
called “ Lord Morcar, ‘of Hereward.” Miss
I’ardqe’sfirst historical work was on “Louis
XIV. and the Court of Franco in the 16tli
Century.” This was followed by “ Marie de
Medici,” a . work which elicited severe criti
cisms in some quarters, and which undoubtedly
is disfigured by a mania for “ fine writing,” and.
by inordinate prolixity, although the style is
at times forcible and even agreeable. Besides
these historical works—most of which can.
hardly be expected to live, inasmuch as they
are, generally speaking, compilations—Miss
Pardoe latterly wrote some good novels : ‘ ‘ The ’
Confessions of Pretty Women,” “The Rival ;
Beauties,” “Reginald Lyle,” and “The
Life Struggle,” In her “ Thousand-and-one-
Days,” Miss Pardoe treated the public to an.
admirable selection of Oriental tales (the mat
ter of which was derived from the notes of
Oriental scholars), a work hardly surpassed by
the “Arabian Nights” in interest.
The traveler who has within a few
years sauntered about the streets of London,
has doubtless observed a miserable looking:
creature, inform and feature resembling a man,
who has been squatting ou the pavement be- ,
fore or behind a drawing in various colored,
chalk, representing a ah elementary
or rudimental landscape, a dog, perhaps with.
the amusing addition of a pipe in his mouth.
This drawing is executed on the pavement, or,
in rare cases, on the dead wall, when the sur
face of the latter is of a suitable texture and.
tint: underneath it is usually an inscription,
wherein appears a strange jumble of moral
apothegms*, nunterals, snatches of a chorus, all
concluding with a remark to the effect that “I
do this to support my family,” or “I am starv
ing,” or something equally cheerful. In hir
volume of Christmas Stories Mr. Dickens un
ravels the mystery, which may have puzzled
many, as to how so many men in reduced cir
cumstances happen to have so much artistic
talent. He says that these, beggare keep an •
artist in their employ, who makes their sketoho*
and receives his pay. Their pretence of work
ing with the bit of chalk they hold is an qttec
humbug.
A Brass Band-
7

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