OCR Interpretation


New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, April 17, 1864, Image 6

Image and text provided by Library of Congress, Washington, DC

Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85026214/1864-04-17/ed-1/seq-6/

What is OCR?


Thumbnail for 6

6
WIND MUSIC.
A tunc tnai keeps id earthly time or measure,
Rfe-ingand along at the w nd’ri wild pleasure ;
Jfew quick in taste, now slow in languid leisure,
Jfrt always verv musically sweet,
And always sad. No little childish feet
To iw sol t «ar euce dance along the street
Mo little ebi dish veiee breaks into singing,
By a R l ad impulse like a wild bird dinging
An echo to the tcund ihi w nd fa bringing.
Rather the chlid althon'b rcarce knowing why,
Hearing t*'B mofie,paes-8 slowly by.
And breath* s its iear and wonder in a sigh.
fWittten for the New York Dtepatohj
ffl FfflElfil BABKHPr.'
08,
JtfVEUTIONS IF A RIINEB MEDICAL MAN,
B'S OK. A. H. HOBINWON.
It has been said that no history is so inter
esting or instructive as personal narrative.
Ages since Cicero, the Latin orator, wrote.
“ Mam homo et alienum puti,” &c., which in
free translation means he as a man was inter
ested in everything, human. The private cor
respondence, the memories and heart effusions
•f the great, derive their interest from this
cause and make all feel under the same gene
ral laws and hold the same passions and in
terest.
When we detect the secret motives, the
sources of the great or little, the good or the
evil acts of men, and what would otherwise
he inexplicable, clouded with mystery or hid
den in darkness, is cleared up, referred to their
true causes, and become undisguised revela
tions of hnwran character.
The struggles of the world's heroes, whether
•vil or good, their successes or failures, with
their causes, are here discovered, and the pas
sions, ever varying, ever coloring, ever chang
ing the motives and deeds of men, are held up
to the “ mirror of nature,” not darkly, but ra
diant with nature’slight. Anri conscience, that
something from which we cannot escape, de
stroy or fully comprehend, with its curious
♦ontradietions, attempted suppressions and
strange inconsistencies, with its sudden flashes
of authority, its terrible anathemas, and final
ami generally successful teachings, is so pre
sented, that the good are strengthened and the
bad are terrified and often reformed.
True, men may make evil good, turn night
into day, and for a long period walk by false
fights, and strive to conceal even from them
selves the enormity of their deeds'; the light at
last breaks in upon them. Th® time of reve
lation comes to even themselves. It may take
years—long, prosperous, untroubled years—
but the revelations come. It may come
through the smallest crevice into our tight
built house, but it is enough to reveal the
darkness and hideousness of our hiding places.
A familiar face, a foolish dream, a dark night,
a cloudy day, a brief confinement to our sick
room, a conversation—the merest trifle, fires
our secure house of refuge, reveals our secrets
to ourselves in their enormity, and we shud
der—horribly shudder. Then strength is
weakness ; virtue, blackest vice ; principles, .
mere policies, and happiness, pleasure, re- :
joicings, a snare, a cheat, a delutWn—a nernc
w of misery and sorrow.
‘jlFiat jnstieia ruat caelum,” said" the old
Homan, and “ Ignothi seaton,” Cried fbe old
G reek ; “Do right at any arid every expense, ’'
and “ &'n<ar lAyrcf/’,” are two sentiments, fhe
ignoring of which or the repudiation of which’ >
bring untold misery in their train.
Such was the case, and such the ways of Doo
tor M—■ —y, who shall speak for himself pres
'TOs R educated Irish gen
tleman, and about m7 _ Ttar « the .
writer saw him, amid the profess,?'* 4l Cuties ot
a city practice. He had been a man'Oi
form and feature, excepting only ono thing—
the club foot, or Byronic malformation—what
ever that was, which neither Byron nor his
biographers enlightens ns upon.
A druggist friend had requested our attend
ance in a great emergency. Dr. M——y had
fallen in a fit in the little back compounding
office of the druggist. Thither we hastily re
paired. He had just called in to rest himself.
While in full conversation he fell from his
•hair on the floor, foaming at the mouth,
breathing stentoriously and shaking terribly.
■ « You will bleed him,” said the druggist.
" There is my pulling a fine new
One out of his pocket—said A young >
atudent, who had just come iu from the lust I
medical lecture for the day. “Itis an apo- ■
pleetic fit,” continued the student, just ready
*o gr aduate.
•* No !” eaid the druggist (himself a student
©f medicine), “ it is an epileptic fit, I fear.”
All Die restrictions of neckcloths and other
bandages removed, and the subject’s head
placed as upright as was fitting, we poured
forth, not the blood from his veins, by the
me of the lancet, but the cold-water upon
bis head, three great pitchers full in all, from
a high stool, upon which we stood, holding
♦be pitcher as high up as our strength and arm
•cnld reach.
We did what the engineer of a locomotive
would call "reversing the engine;” and, to
help in the reversal, we placed the stove-lid) it
was winter), wrapt in a heavy wet cloth, to his
feet.
He speedily came to, looked up at me, then
around at the water on the floor, and then on
his wet clothes, and said :
“ What the d 1 are you doing ?' ’
We removed him to the settee., gave him
some quieting medkane, and sal" down l-y hie
aide.
“Are yon subject to these little troubles,
Doctor ?” I asked, endeavoring, bath by voice
and language, not to offend him.
• ‘ Yes —no ; not very often, sir. I —l—be
lie ve this is the—ah—ye»—-the third or fourth
time.”
He made a sudden start and gave a wild
stare at mo, and in an instant his right-hand
fore-finger was irnbeilded in his neck, over the
jugular vein, and as near the left carotid artery as
possible, with the thumb pressing the opposite |
part of his neck. He then, examined his pulse, |
also, at the wrist, ha«tily, and. looking at me
with doubt and fear, exclaimed :
•• Another one. eh ? What think you ?
«y God ! I feel awful. What 1” he exclaimed,
" you prefer drowning to bleeding, ch ?. New
practice —like the old best; but—but —obey
your doctor, eh ?”
“ That’s practical; I always exact it, from
high or low.”
“ Keep up the profession, doctor, certainly.”
*• By all means; keep up the profession,
sir.”
“ What think, eh, doctor ? Get over this,
_ «h ?”
He shook his head doubtfully, and looked
inquiringly Into my fooe.
"I hope so,” I.replied; "but ”
“ I paused, and was embarrassed. He stw
it, and instantly said :
" Out with it; don’t fear offending ; duty,
duty—a physician’s duty to his patient, eh ?”
"I fear, sir, your habits •”
I paused again.
"Oh! ah! yes,” he interruptingly said,
*• must be changed, eh t' ’
I nodded assent.
“ Well, well,” he musingly said : dosed his
•yes slowly, then opening them on me, con
tinued : “ Hard to change habits at fifty—
habits of long standing, with the causes still
m active as ever. But you're right, right,
right—quite right, sir! I’m certainly obliged
to yon for your frankness—your honesty.
Well meant, no doubt; but too late—too late,
sir.”
Suddenly as thought, he started almost to
his feet, and gave a most unearthly scream.
I placed him in a sitting position. It was
I could do, such was his momentary strength.
"Look! look!” he screamed, "the devil!
<i<> devil!” and continuing to gaze at the win
dow, which hud been left open to let iu all the
air possible.
“ There, there he is !!’ A mastiff dog had
come to the open window, from an adjoining
y*rd. and with his huge paws, placed on the
window, was staring at him. “Only an in
offensive dog,” I said, placing' him horizons
tally.
“ Imagination ! imagination !” he smiling
ly replied, " for optical illusion. The brain
plays us such trick-, eh !”
"Well, well, mind,” he said, tapping his
forehead with his finger, “weak, body;,
spreading out both his hands, and throwing
his arms feebly outward, “joying and font;”
laying his right hi; nd upon his breast " soon
to go, soon to go, but the hereafter—oh, me.”
We closed bis eyes again, and I thought I
heard the faint breathings of coming sleep;
but no, it was the shutting out of earth, by
objects, and the concentration of mental
Images.
" I have lived long enough, seen enough
traveled enough, suffered enough, did enough
—enough ovU, and the drama, in the fifth act
and the last scene is before the audienoe, the
plot etflminuting, and tire hero appears’ too
I bright to weep, to look back, to'look forward,
! and to dfe.”
“ But,” raising himself up on his elbows,
and speaking in a low, intense, subdued, and
yet mournful voice, that made my blood chill,
"My audienoe are strangers—no wife, or
children, to soothe, caress, or weep over me.
My curtain goes down away from home throe
: thousand miles. God’s great looking-glass
! rolling between me and it—would I had sunk
' into its caverns when I crossed it. My epi
’ logue, will bo the silence of the grave, the
quiet of the circumanbient air,and around my
tomb the voiceless stars looking do wn upon
me.
“But what is death? Aye, what is it?”
Echo answers what is it ? To die, to sleep—
perchance to dream. Aye, there’s the rub,”
said Bhakfpeare, the poet of the world.
“Death is the end of all. The end—no
more existence; no more speech; no love ;
hate, joy, sorrow, passions, interest, nothing.
So the Humes et id omne genus tell us. But
is it so?” . . ._ x .
But what is life ? Organization ? Human
organs ? blood ? muscle ? nerres ? bones ?
brains ? Is that life ? If so, then an arm
taken off, a limb removed, part of the brain
paralyzed, or destroyed and removed, by just
so much as is removed, takes away, removes
just so much of life.
"But is it so? Let us see. Do men love
life less ? enjoy life less ? love, bate, fear, re
joice, know, appreciate, understand less when
armless, limbless, than when possessed of
these inestimable adjuncts of comfort, and lo
comotion? We think not. Bishop Butler
tells us the telescope is to the human eye,
what the human eye is to the human soul.
Without the soul you see nothing. It is
the seeing eml that gives perception, knowl
edge, sight to tho eye.
Is there any more likelihood that the egg
of the bird, the chrysallis of the worm, dumb,
dead, inert, shall fly through the air, roam on
poised wing, o’er hills and dales, chirp, sing,
or suck nectared sweets from beautiful flowers,
than that the human soul shall leave its chry
salis, burst its shell, and roam at will through
eternal space, and live deathless, and forever?
If the one takes place, why not the other ?
If we know not in what death inheres, upon
what it acts, what it destroys, how can we know
it will end man’s existence ? " Tell me, ye
sages! Tell me, ye human gods!” True,
life’s functions in death are suspended, but are
they therefore destroyed ?
"And, as in a trance, in suspended anima
tion, life’s functions are suspended, nof de
itroyed, and life again exhibits its vitality, its
powejs. So the suspended funetions of the
soul; in death, may resume 'their powers in an
other state, analogous to the change birds And
reptiles pass through in this life. ”
“What say you, doctor, eh ? But we know
nothing of the soul’s futuieexistence. Neither
did men know of natural transfer matters until
observation, fact and philosophy revealed them
to the wondering eyes of men at first. Colum
bus and the egg again, eh, doctor ?”
" Why you are quite a philosopher,” I said,
wondering at and admiring his flashes of men
tal power, to which I do but- feeble justice.
“The dying swan, doctor—feeble,-flicker
j fng—nearly dead,” he replied. “I am.a Ro
man Catholic,” he said, "a bigoted'one, too,
when confronted with a bigoted Protestant;
but when my controversial lance is in rest, I
am—well, yes—a believer in and a worshiper
of the spirit, the missions, and the object of
God-man, Christ, which all true religionists
follow, and worship. ’ ’
I suggested'to him the sending for a priest.
. He replied:
“ No, no, no. Just like the profession,” he
continued. "No bigotry.in the profession,
eh ? I have lived without the clergy for twen
ty yertrs, and I will, die without them. What
can a man do for mewhen the Great Priest
and Advocate is on high ?”
I suggested the necessity of my withdrawal,
■ < added I would return in as brief a period
as possw... y j ie , , <ert or jt
will be uteless-tho' ro6eof doc
tor, eh ?" , -
“ I hope not, sir,” I replied, .“ M »
“ One word more,” said he.
He requested me to hand him his C* ia *i
which I gave him. Pulling out of the breast
pocket a package, he handed it to me.
“ That,” said he, " will tell yon all. I en
trust it .to your hands, to do with it as you
please. A scrap of history, doctor. Come
back soon.”
Jn two hours I stoxl lieside his deal body.
He had died In my absence.
(Here is the scrap of history he gave me. I
give it as he left it :)
"HVMANUN EST EBABE.”
j. raw i-Mxvßs vbom toe book or run missfk.vt
LIVB OF A RL'fSBD MBBrCAi MAN.
*tt ww on tlo ton ot a Incur.i2.ic high,
A gem that shoiw like fire by night;
It fecmed & tur that had left die say,
M nd cropped ta sleep on the monntalnfa bight
I climbed the peak, and I found it soon
A lump ot iee in the clear cold moon.
Canst thou its hidden tense impart?
A cheerful look and a broken heart.”
My parents were wealthy country farmers,
and gave me a most excellent education. I
graduated in Trinity College at the age of nine
teen, and choso the profession Of medicine.
My father <ame with me to my new residence
—Dublin—where for many years I resiiled. I
was lame. My father bought me a young
hbise to expedite my travel and to place me on
an equality with many of my fellow-students
—the gentry.
I was a superior horseman, and should have
entered the British cavalry but for my lame,
or, vulgarly speaking, club-foot; wbicii, how
ever, I always skillfully concealed by a pecu
liar shape of boot I invt nted myself.
My days passed delightfully in ’study,’ hear
ing medical lectures, afternoon rides oh my
beautiful little pony, and evenings at the thea
tres, or out in company.
In my frequent afternoon rides around the
College Green, amid the gay equipages to be
seen, there, was always one which atrra/ted
unusual attention and admiration. Four beau-
I tiful pie-bald grays, with two postilions and
I an outiider and groom, might be seen thun
dering along before a beautiful phaetou, on
any pleasant afternoon. You invariably saw
an aged gentleman, aristocratic in his bearing,
with a Wellington nose, silver gray hair, high
mas-ire forehead, deeply set blue eyes, with a
gold-rinjmea eye-glass, suspended- by a gold
chain, attached, to the top button,of his im
maculate waistcoat. Beside him, as invariably
Blight l>e seen.a lady of the three " F's,” fat,
fair, and forty, elegantly attired in the most
costly fabrics, made in the latest Paris or Lon
don fashions. And while the old gentleman
would curiously scrutinize every passer, nod
ding,-at acquaintances, and telegraphing to the
other inmates of the phaeton--especj;illy the
lady of forty, who always sat by ms side—she
was as assiduously examining her brood bosom,
adjusting the-folds of it, smoothing it geqtly
and tapping it, spreading her ample shoulders
broader and higher, and seemingly, her eyes
were always imbedded within its deep and
swelling mysteries. She was always unable to
take her eyes off the bosom in time to return!
the recognition of friends on foot, horseback,
or in carriages.
There were two others in the phaeton gen
erally, though not always—a young army offi
cer, sometimes in civilian’s dress or military
undress, and a superbly beautiful young girl.
She was what, in Ireland, we call the Irish-
Spanish order of beauty—the raven hair and;
eyes of the Spapfeh and the beautiful white:
skin of the Irish. Her eyes Hterally danoddi
in her head, and varied bj in LLeir expressive
ness that from a piercing, froa-ning look to a
Madonna-like expression as a token of recog
nition, it was but an instant in time and a
turn of that wonderful eye. Her eye spoke
oftener, quicker and more th,in her tongue,
which, in woman, was wonderful. She was
rather small in stature, but finely formed.
We had now met nearly every day for six
months. They in their phaeton and' lon my
little pony. We had often—the yiiiing lady
and I—exchanged glances, and twice I r&issd
my hand to my liat involuntarily, to recognize!
her, but instantly recollected our being total,
strangers, and finished off my mistake by
taking off my hat and pretending to adjust «nv
hair or do some other trifling thing in a very
embarrassed manner. I observed when I was
about to salute her she smiled, and when I dal,
not, she rather frowned and- turned away her
head in a disdainful manner.
I admired her exceedingly—her beauty,
grtree, liveliness charmed me : and her eye !
oh, that bright, flashing, expressive eye—ms, Id
me a captive; I now remember it, but ! was
then only conscious of a thrill of pleasure, joy
—a sort of picasing madness. lio voi.to revel
in. and timidly dared to retain the memory
of it.
I saw the phaeton one day in the distance;
I galloped up to it. She was not there. If
news of my dear father’s death had been an
nounced, I could not have been more grieved.
Was she sick or absent ?—and if absent, would
she net return ? Was sue dead ? No, that was
imp<.s.-il>le, the presence of the carriage settle I
that question. But she might be married—
oh, horror !—to the young officer 1 I stopped
suddenly beside the phaeton, as I rode pas?,
looked at the old couple, who qulzzingly gazed
at me. I was about to inquire, but suddenly
galloped off, reflecting on the absurdity of my
conduct.
1 I had never yet inquired if any one knew
them, and if the thought hail entered my
mind of following them to their home to
know who she was and where she lived, I hod
dismissed the thought as unbecoming a gentle
man.
“ Pshaw ! pshaw ! what is she to me?” I
musingly said. “ A beautiful stranger, a
pretty butterfly on the wing, a * poet’s dream,’
a fairy pantom of beauty, grace and loveliness,
* the wonder of an hour.’ “ Ugh ! no ; yet
why is she not out to-day ?” And a strange
sadness crept over my whole frame. I felt as
if the day, otherwise cloudless, was now sun
less, the ride joyless, the gay throng spiritless,
sad and moody.
In this state I rapidly rode home, and re
tired to my room and sat down and wept.
Oh, imagination 1 I threw myself on my
couch in my little alcove. I took up a book
to read—did not look at the title —ran over a
page, tried to remember what I had read, but
could not—threw it down and tried to sleep,
but. in vain. I arose, sat by the window, tried
to remember Doctor Gray’s lecture ou diseases
of the spine, with no better result.
Time now hung heavy, study was a drudge
ry, life a burden, and sleep almost departed
frtun me. I seemed as I now look back on
that period of my young life living in an ideal
world, with only one thought, one aspiration,
oue desire to look upon and to possess the ob
ject of my intense affection, and she a total
stranger and bejond my reach. I sold my
little pony and rode ont no more, and I’m
sorry now to say it. fell into the bad habU of
late hours and drinking wine and champagne
too freely.
In my letters home, replying to those sent
me, I often felt unhappy when reflecting upon
what my mother’s thoughts would be, if she
but knew all this.
Some three months after this I was walking
with my dear friend and college chum Costello
to the ten o’clock lecture. We had passed
through College Green and were at cross
streets, and were leisurely strolling along
Snckford street on our way to the college.
There was a crowd in the distance. We hast
ened to it. “A lady run over!” “Accident!”
“ Beelers got him 1” “ Drug store 1” were the
Incoherent expressions we heard.
Surging along with the crowd we soon came
to the large fine drug store of Messrs. .Jordan
A. Wells. We entered, knowing the head
clerk. In the back office was a young lady,
the proprietor applying restoratives to her and
l athing her lace with a liquid, os she lly oa a
sofa. IVe could only sec her back as we en
tered.
We advanced. Heavens! i‘ was she, the
nameless, long since seen, forgotten (no, not
forgotten) little beauty of my abandoned after
noon rides. She recognized me at onoe. I
Lowed and felt a choking sensation.
“ I hope you are not much injured, miss,”
I stammered ont, rather than gracefully said,
as I never wished so before to lie able to say.
'"Not much, I hope,” she gracefully re
plied, “thank you.”
“ She came very near it, though,” said the
attendant druggist.
I obtained a carriage ami accompanied her
home.
“ Heavens ! what a lucky accident. Strange,
very strange,” she said, timidly, “our meet
ing as w have. And where have you bean all
the while ? I have not seen you for a long
time ont on horseback.”
“ Anil I have not seen you for over a whole
fortnight concluded you were sick, or away,
or-—or married to the oh ! the handsome offi
cer. So I sold my pony and forsook the drive,
because—yes, because you were not there.
And yet here we are face to face, and those
eyes I behold once mere, thank Heaven!”
There and then we plighted our faith—there
and then looked into each other’s eyes, into
each other’s hearts, joined hands with each
other, and vowed, come weal or woe, come
clouds of sorrow or pleasures and joys, we
would be one.
•i‘ Strange,” she said, “I know not your
name, your family, your character, or your po
sition, nof sm I known to you.”
“ 'There is my card, dearest,” I said.
“ There is my miniature, and in the fnune
in the back my card and name,” she trem-
saLd, handing them " And
now, as I am heat home, let me, dearest, go
there alone. Sir Robert Spriugstone, the aged
gentleman yon saw, is my guardian, has the
care of my estate, and is very jealous of all
suitors, but the officer, his nephew, whom you
saw. Resume your horseback rides, and yon
may be mygroom sometimes,” she said, laugh
ingly.
We drove to a hotel, dismissed the carriage,
and I parted with her.
Next day saw ns both on riding
side by side; an;’, rh? ixercis’e and pleasure
w.’. t TCjteated—oh 1 how often !
Three years of delightful day-dreams and
night-revels— what with courtship, and its tor
tuousness of light and shade, parental and
gnardian settlements, deeds of dowry, travels
in France and Italy, and final settlement in
our new home in her possessed estate in Done
gal—brought us to the cvmuaenoement of the
realities of life, with its responsibilities, cares,
and trials.
One year brought also a con, a large medi
cal practice, and placed me also at the head of
the highest medical hospital in tho county,
though all else. save, the dear little one was
against the wishes, the pride and. the tastes of
my pretty little heiress.
And here began all our sorrows.
■ Seven years of family bickerings, beginning
in trifles, ending in trifles, but producing tears,
heart aches, and increased bitterness, until
drink, drink, drink, drink—my poor country
man’s curse—ruined character and all self-re
spect : end now, pride set the sails for a foreign
land—America
With a few friends oWshipboard, the night
I left Old Ireland, I sang Bums’ farewell to
bis Masonic brethren, when about to leave for
India.
With no wifo, no child, friends, but still
strangers, the ship’s sails set, the land reced
ing, my soul overwhelmed with sorrow, a (low
ing bowl In hand, I sang, when tears and an
guish did not choke me :
" T'nohgh I to foreign lends must hie.
Pursuing fortunes slippery ba’.
With a melting heart anti a brimfu’ eye,
I 'll mind you still, thongh far aw a’.”
One hundred pounds, the gift of a wea’thy
brother in Ixmdon, and the surgeoncy of the
ship, with my surgical instruments, was my
outfit, aiid New Orleans my destination.
“ The sea, the sea, the open sea 1” Whit
majesty is in it 1 what boundlessness 1. what
sublimity ! How like Gori’s eternity ! how
like Itis lev e, when calm ! how like his power
and wrath, when, in a storm ! It is the bro
therhood of natiofis. the civilizer of all races,
the treasure-house of the world, toe reservoir
of all waters, the bosom of the swelling’na
tional emotions of all peoples, toe mistress of
the moon, and the mirror of Deity 1
A burial at sea—what emotions it awakens !
Our first one was a babe. For two weeks it
lay on its mother’s bosom, or the lap of its
nurse, bleaching out. Like a beautiful rose
bud nipped by the frost, or broken off the
parent stem, it bleached, faded, withered, un
til it died. Nestling on its mother’s bosom,
its gentle head laid close to its mother’s pale,
cold cheek, it plumed its little wings for its
flight over the waste of waters, over toe air,
and up to the Father of all !
Our next death was . a man, who died the
same evening. He was an invalid traveler,
with an only daughter, and she motherless.
That night she mournfully 'ung, accompanying
her voice on her guitar. Bhe was the picture
of despair.
“And now I’m in the world alone,
Upon the ■wide, wide sea,
And why should I for others eare.
When no one carte for mo.”
“Mi«s,” said I, when she had concluded
her singing, “there are seventy-five men on
board of this ship, and there is not one of
them but would die rather than see yon in
jured or suffering.”
She sobbed ont, rather than spoke :
“ Thank you, thank you, sir.”
We had had what we . landsmen would call
rough weather, but the sailors called it only
■' a freshening, "and good sailing breeze. But
next morning the sea was calm.
The bright sun came up out of the deep
blue sea, dripping with golden globules, and
scattering the threads of his: golden hair like a
slow moving sun in a piece of firework-?, and
. then contracting more and more, and''rising,
Venus-like, until he sat in his zenith. The
blue' heavens above, reflected in the! bright
green of the waters beneath, intermin
gled with the sun’s rays, produced a feel
ing of beauty and sadness. And the dead bod
ies of two human beings, at the two extremes
of human life—youth and age—sewed np in
NEW YORK DISPATCH.
canvas, with their heavy weights attached to
tl cm, to be buried away from home, brought
. tears to all eyes
With no coffin but the caverns of the deep,
no throud but the green sea-weed, no requie a
but the eternal bass of eld ocean, we buri id
them, and all hearts responded “Amen,’as
the captain concluded the burial service for
the dead, in its beautiful allusions to the last
resurrection, when the “ sei shall give up its
dead.” The plunge into the water reminded
me of the first dirt thrown on the coffin on
land, and the deep agony of the mother and
the loud wail of this lonely daughter con
firmed the impression.
Four weeks and five days brought us to
New Orleans. The cholera was then raging.
Terror filled all hearts. Streets were barricaded,
horses closed, families flying to the country.
While at the St. Charles Hotel, a commit
tee of the city council wafted on me, and after
examining my credentials and letters, offered
such inducements as led me to take charge
of one of the hospitals within the city limits.
Three months of New Orleans life, cholera
life, fast Southern life, high life, low life, mis-‘
eiable life, drinking life, gambling life, thea
tre life, convinced me New Orleans life was
not the sort of life suited for me, and I left it
against all persausions, to the injury of splen
did prospects, to the grief of boon and pot
companions, but in hops of reform.
I traveled on the Mississippi, with negro
traders, and cotton lords, the professional
gamblers and the gamblers for pleasure, with
the Southron belles and mammas, with elegi
ble daughters and their pistol,bowie-knife and
sword-cane carrying sons.
I saw the slave in his chains, aud the South
ron people in their bonds, of passion, barbar
ism and pride—they are a noble people, with
unbridled passions—aud visited their cities,
and saw their plantations, negro-drivers, mas
ters and genuine hospitality.
I visited various cities and towns, stood on
the bluffs of Vicksburgh and Port Hudson;
counted the islands from one hundred
back to one, on the river, the Father of Wa
ters, as they call it, supped at Cairo, kicked
up the white dust of St. Louis, slept in that
wonder--Jonah’s gourd of a city—Chicago,
and settled down iu Cincinnati in my profes
sion, after six months wanderings, with a heart
breaking with grief, and a mini! diseased with
care.
Ten years of toil professionally brought
fame, comparative independence, with a few
—alas, too many—relapses back to the fire
demon.
But now with a liable God like Bishop
at my back, my little heiress and son by my
side, and friends without number surrounding
me, what have I to fear ?”
One thing only-—the old love of drink.
My destiny is sealed. My home is desolate.
My life is a blank, my soul a horror of con
flicting passions.
My wife and son are now on the briny deep,
and soon thousands of miles will separate us.
Oh, God! the cause, ths cause. Name it
not. I struck her—yes, struck her in my in
famy of rage, urged on by the demon drink
which has pursued me, tortured me, and has
now destroyed me.
lam a Cain—a murderer ; the brand is on
my brow, the iron in my soul, and the stony
chains of enslavement encircling every limb.
I roam from city to city, restless, forsaken
of God, despised of men, and a horror to my
self. Whither shall I flee? Would that,
the earth would swallow me. Curses, curses,
curses on my own head.”
Here the biography abruptly terminates.
Wc learned, however, that for many years
he had been supported by a rich brother in
London, his wife and son refusing all com
merce with him.
He had come into the druggist’s,expecting a
letter with remittances from his brother. It
was to this place his letter came, having him
self no permanent habitation. And from
this place he was carried by a few friends, to
Greenwood Cemetery. He there sleeps in a
dishonored grave, having squandered two for
tunes, and embittered his own life, and the
lives of his wife and son, brothers and sisters.
(Written for the New York Dlsaatoh.)
LUCY VA.UGHH.
A PHOTOGRAPH OF WAR.
BY WM. W. BVISHNEI.I>.
“ Lucy, come in, child.”
She was watching the glitter of trappings,
the waving sea of plumes, the flashing of the
semi-crimson uniform, listening to the stirring
music of the band and the chanting of a thou
sand voices, keeping time with both step and
lip, as they sung the well-known strains,
“ We’re marching along,” and heard not the
kind mother calling.
“Lucy, child.”
Wrapt in the brilliant scene—the gorgoous
pageant that was passing by—she had neither
eye or ear for other sights or sounds. Her
yeung heart beat as swiftly and almost as aud
ibly as the drum, and the flashing of her eye
was as fitful and vivid as the starry banner
that glittered and floated in the bright sun
shine.
"Lucy, do you not hear me?” And the
mother advanced and laid her hand gently ou
her daughter’s aria.
“ Mother 1” came answered bock from pale
and trembling lips, though the browand cheek
were crimson. But no other sound escaped
her. save a deep, long-drawn sigh.
“What will the soldiers think of you?”
persisted Mrs. Vaughn. “Do you think it is
maidenly or becoming to stand staring thus at
these men?”
1 ‘ But they are going to war, and perhaps I
wt'? ue - 'er see them again.”.
' Well, what of itl It ain’t anything to
you, and I am not going to have my daughter
a talk and a laughing-stock for the whole
town." And the niatter-of fact woman fairly
dragged her within the house.
But the girl had seen all she wished to see,
had learned all she desired,to kuow ; and wil
lingly screened herself from all curious eyes.
A rose, red as her own soft cheeks, was blush
ing on the breast of a young officer. She had
seen it taken from the button-hole and pressed
to his lips as he passed along—had seen the
waving of his handkerchief, and that was suf
ficient for her hi ait, and to fill it with the. rosy
dreams of love for many a long day.
The little bower where her mother—a wid
ow-resided soon settled down again to ..its
usual dullness. “ All quiet on the Potonaoc,”
headed the news column of the paper day
after day and week after week, until even a
report of battle ami bloodshed would have
been a relief. The v tut appeared more like a
grand encampment— one for drill and display,
rather than for a stern, unwavering, aud nev
er-to-bc-relinquished purpose—and those at
home fretted at what they, in the plenitude of
their wisdom, called “useless delay.”
Lucy Vaughn continued her occupation of
school mistress, whii.lt was the sole support of
her mother and herself, though they owned
the little cottage homestead in which they re
sided, a- shade more subdued, perhaps, than
usual. The secret of her love was unknown to
any one, even her mother, and all her fears
for him who had gone to battle for his coun
try’s honor and his native flag had to be hid
den in her own heart. Faithful to her duties,
she banished the loved one during the school
hours ; but when they were over, and she sit
on the vine-shaded doorstep in the gloaming,
or watched the stars as they flashed in at her
little window at night, thought ran riot, and
when sleep came at last, she was ever wander
ing amid the dead and dying—threading with
her delicate feet the gory battle-field, in search
cf him to whom her young heart had gone out
in devotion.
The army awoke from its lethargy at length,
and a great battle bad been fought, but scant
ily and slowly the news came. Imperfect, not
to be relied upon, were the published lists of
the dead, wounded and missing. To-day the
heart was wild with hope, anil to-morrow sunk
to the lowest depths of despair. Ah! then,
indeed, all realized how much more fearful
was uncertainty than even a knowledge of the
worst.
Mechanically, Lucy Vaughn straggled to
and fro’from the little school-house and per
foimed her duties there. Her step became
less active, her cheeks lost their roses and her
merry laugh was no longer heard. She liyel
no longer in the sunshine of Die past, but in
the shadow of the future. Her young heart
was crushed as by the nether millstone, and
yet she neither fainted or faltered.
" Lucy,” said the gray-headed, infirm and
spectacled old postmaster,” as be hobbled into
the schoolhouse just as her onerous task for
the day was finished, “Lucy, here is a letter
for you. It hain’t often that you get one, and
I thought I would bring it myself.”
“Oh, thank you—thank you!” and she
glanced hurried at the superscription, and
added : " but I don’t know the writing.”
In truth, she had never seen it before, but
it needed no clairvoyant to tell her who it was
hem. Her heart was sufficiently gifted with
“ second sight” for that
“Well, I do, Lucy. It is a wondrous fair
hand, though somewhat shaky now, I should
say. He is a brave boy and a good one, and
used to help me often. Yes, yes, many a day
he saved my poor, old eyes by writing for me.
Bnt he has gone now—gone to the war ; and
so I thought I’d just bring the letter to you
before any one saw it, even my wife, for she is
a master hand at finding out things, and I
didn’t know what might be betwixt you young
folks. There, there, don’t blush, Lucy. It’s
all right,.all right, and nobody will ever know
anything about it from Paul Rogers.”
With cheeks like a paeny and wildly flutter
ing bosom, the girl was glad to escape from
the garrulous, though kind-hearted, old man,
and in the retirement of her chamber read her
first love-letter. With trembling hands she
tore open the envelope. The words and story
were old as youth and beauty itself, and yet
new to her- —new and dear as they will be to
young hearts, though repeated ten thousand
score of times, lie loved her, and when he
came back again wearing the victor’s laurels,
or the war was ended, “ would she bless him
with her hand and be an earth angel to him ?”
But, ah I he was wounded, and
“Lucy, darling?”
“Mother!” and Captain Graham’s letter
found a safe hiding-place nearest to her heart,
as she hurried to her mother’s side. ■
“ Lncy.”
“ Mother, dear mother, what is the matter
with j ou?” The pale face and trembling,
ashy lips struck such a terror to her heart that
she could scarcely articulate the words as she
sank on her knees by the bedside.
‘ 1 The doctor—quick ! lam very sick. ’ ’
But no human physician had power to avert
the flat of death. No cunningly prepared
drugs could, stay the soul from its upward
flight. No earthly prayer keep the angels
from bearing away to God the priceless jewel
that was to be re-set in unfading glory.
The star-lights in the mosaieal floor of
heaven flashed out, and another was added to
their number. The moon rose, and its silver
light shone through the snowy curtains of the
window upon a corpse, pale and holy in its
sleeping. The night wind stole in through the
clustering vines and lifted the curls from the
brow of one who sat in stony silence, with her
young head resting on the coffin. The wid
owed mother had “gone on before,” and the
orphaned daughter was left alone in the
world.
The mother was buried and her school was
given up. (She could teach it no longer The
P r ymg and lynx-like eyes of creditors found
means (aided by an unholy law) to rob her of
the little home that had’ kmg sheltered her.
To whom should she turn now ? Ah ! had it
not been for the old postmaster, sMe might, in
the hour of her deep despair, have forgotten
there was a God who is a father to the
fatherless. Like a good shepherd, he gathered
up the little, shelterless lamb in his strong
arms and bore it to the fold that the wolves of
sickness had lone before left desolate.
" Lucy, my poor pet lamb, here is another
letter for you. But it is Isn’t in the same
hand write that the other was, and I fear—”
The good old man drew his wrinkled hand
across his eyes as he saw hers surcharged with
tears and hurriedly hobbled away.
A letter! In her deep grief at her great
loss she hod never finished the former one.
She had read that him she loved was “wound
ed and”—that was all. And now months had
passed and another had come—come, but not
written by his hand ! With a prayer to God
to give her strength she tried to read it, but
for a long time the tears blinded her so that
she could not.
“ Wounded—in a hospital—dying of fever!”
Thus far her aching eyes saw the writing, and
her bewildered brain caught the sense,and then
she fell heavily to the floor.
If politicians and shoddy contractors, gos
siping old maids and flirting young ones failed
to receive their mail in due time that day,
small blame could be attached to Paul Rogers,
the old postmaster of , or his good
wife, “ Aunt Charity,” for they were minis
tering to one that angels hovered about in pity
and in love.
“ Yes, I must go !”
It was the first words that had escaped from
the pallid lips of Lucy Vaughn when reason
again resumed its sway—when she had mas
tered the contents of the letter by a mighty
effort, and her all-absorbing love broke the
shackles of an iron despair.
“Go? what amongst those great, roogh
men?”
And Aunt Charity took off her spectacles,
wiped them on her apron, and held up her
hands in holy horror.
“Yes, go! They will be kind to me, an—•
an—orphan, and —and he is all that I have to
love.”
11 The child Is crazy.”
“Think of him dying, dying !”
“ Well, I never heard tell of such a thing
in all my bom days! I’d just as soon think
of sending my cosset lamb into a den ehock
full of hungry wolves.”
“ But it is my duty.”
“Duty? How you do talk !”
" Yes, duty. Kind as you have been to me
and much as I love both you and Uncle Paul,
yet I feel that I must go. Only think of the
brave ones that are giving their lives for their
country while I am doing nothing.”
“ But you are nothing but a little girl.”
“No matter, I can surely do something. I
may not go out to the battle-field, but I can
help tend the sick—bind up their wounds—
give drink to the fevered ones and pray by the
dying.”
Vainly Uncle Paul “pshawed” and Aunt
Charily declared that she “never heard the
beat of it,” for love carried the day and Lucy
Vaughn smoothed back her luxuriant curls
and confined them from wantoning in their
dark brown glossiness and beauty about her
pale face. The question once settled, the
kind old couple did all in their power to as
sist her, and when she turned her back on '
their quiet, cosy home, prayers and blesriugs
followed her way.
“ Died last night. ”
“ Are you sure ?”
“Certainly. There can be no mistake. I
was in the same company and knew him welL”
“ Then it must be so. Poor Graham !”
Clutching to the door post of the hospital
at , Lucy Vaughn heard two crippled,
war-worn soldiers whisper thus as they passed
cut. A month before she would have fainted,
but she had oome prepared—had nerved her
heart for the worst She would see his corpse
and then go home—and die !
But even that melancholy satisfaction was
denied her. There was “ red tape” in all the j
departments of government except that where
the grim King of Terrors was dictator. There,
was no delay and “insolence of office”
there!
“Graham was buried this morning.”
’ 1 Edward Graham, sir ?”
“Ter be sure. Ther hain’t more’n one of
that name in ther company, I gees. But go
erlong and don’t bother me, young woman.
Don’t yer see I’m as busy as kin be ?” ami the
gruff, brave-hearted minion of death left her
to hurry other brave forms beneath the cold
clay of the grave-yard.
Ah ! what woman, frail and delicate though
they may be, will do and dare —brave and suf
fer ! A little month and Lucy Vaughn, thanks
to the care of kind friends to whom tire good
old Postmaster of and his wife had con-
signed her, was able to begin the duties to
.which she had, henceforward, devoted her life.
lie was a soldier — he had died for his country,
and she would be the soldier’s friend and
muse until the dark dream of her life was lost
in the glories of another and better world.
How many a fevered lip was cooled by her
soft hands —how many a parting soul was
soothed by her words of holy import, God
and his holy angels only know.
Slowly and yet surely the dropping of the
water will wear away the flinty rock and so
the broken-hearted (for there are such in the
world let the scoffers say what they may)
though they linger on will pine and fade
away. Not long could so frail an organization
as that of Lucy Vaughn bear the shocks and
fat igue incident to a hospital life. Like the
passing of a summer day her life wore, away—
like a summer sun she was slowly sinking to
her rest. At the summons of her friends,
good Paul Rogers an<khis wife left theirhome .
for the first time in many years and hastened
to her bed-side. Watching and contagion had
done their work but too well. She was fol
lowing her heart through the dark, shadowy
land of death to the clime where there should
be no more parting forever.
“Lucy,” and the old Postmaster laid hip
hand reverently on her burning forehead and
smoothed back the damp hair.
“Don’t pity me, Uncle Paul—don’t weep
for me, Aunt Charity, I am going to him.”
“ Don’t talk so, child. Bless my old heart
but it ’pears to me as if you was my own dar
ter,” and hoi teal’s ran down the time-jflaned
furrows of her motherly face and fell upon the
seft hand she held in her own.
‘ * Doctor, is there no hope ? Must she die ?”
questioned the old man in a voice tremulous
both with age and emotion. “ Can she—will
the not be spared to us ?”
“ I fear not, and yet were her heart happy
and her mind at rest I should care but little
for her bodily ailments. In fact, there is no
thing the matter but what perfect quiet and
careful nursing would soon make right again
if her soul had gone out from her in love.”
“ Then all we can do for her is to pray.”
“ Better let the petitions ascend for those
who are to remain behind. If we were all as
well prepared to meet death as this poor child,
it would need no baptism of the grave to
make us angels.”
“ Doctor.”
The words came from the lips of the dying
girl like the soft fluttering of a summer’s eve
ning zephyer through the red leaves of a new
bom rose. She strove to raise her head from
the pillow and support it on her emaciated,
hand, but the effort was too great, and, ex
hausted, she sank back again like one dead.
“My child! My poor child ! Oh ! Doc
tor, she is gone!” and Aunt Charity sobbed
as she did over the cradle death of her first
born.
“No,” and the physician laid his fingers on
the expiring pulse. “No, the golden gates of
Heaven are not yet open for her, though they
are turning on their hinges. But the end will
soon come,” and he placed a restorative to the
half open lips.
“ Doctor I”
Feeble as the wailing of an infant was the
voice of the dying girl as life fluttered baek
and memory again asserted its power, and
thought triumphed over the palsying touch of
dissolution.
“ Doctor !”
‘ ‘ Speak to her, mother, ’ ’ whispered he, turn
ing to the post-mistress. “ Speak to her—
you know her—l cannot,” and he turned
away.
‘ ‘ When lam gone-; ’ ’
“Hush, child ! ’ ’ and the voice of the woman
was lost in her sobs, while her husband kneeled
by the bed side and buried his face in the
covering.
" When - 1 am gone, lay me by him—him.”
“Yes, darling. ’ ’
“ I loved him so— so well. Promise me that
you will do as I wish —that you w’ill——”
“Yes—yes.”
“ Kiss me. Kiss me, Uncle Paul. If I had
lived, I would have tried to have been a kind
friend to the poor soldiers, for his sake, and a
good daughter to yen. But, now lam going
—going. Oh ! I am so happy—happy ! I can
see him—see ”
“ Oh ! do not talk thus.”
“ Yes, I see ; my own mother ! I see—Oh !
how beautiful !”
“ See what, child !”
“ ‘ A pure river of water of life, clear as
crystal, proceeding out of the- throne of God
and of the Lamb.’ ”
“ My blessed angel.”
“Air! air! I’m fainting-dy ”
“Hark ! What noise is that?” whispered
the physician.
“I will go in ! Let him who dares stop
me!” came in loud tones to the ears of the
weeping ones —the door was flung open, and
through a group of servants, gathered without,
a naan in the uniform of a captain forced his
way.
“ Where is she—where is ”
“Edward Graham !” burst from the lips of
the astonished old couple.
“Great God! is she dead?” and he bent
over the seeming corpse.
“ Edward ! Ed——” was whispered back,
almost inaudibly.
He raised her in his strong arms and kissed
back the blushes to her pallid cheek. Love,
strong, deep and passionate, brought back the
fleeting angel of life, and, baffled of their prey,
the dark ones of death unfolded their wings
and fled away.
fWrltten forth« New York Dlspateli.l
SAD HOURS.
By Mts. Sarah A. Wright;
Alas! I’ve le«rn’i to wile aw Ay
The cad ai d lonely hours,
And wander thro’ life's dreary talo,
Away ’mid woodland bowers ;
Where I can view the humming bird
As it Hits from tree to tree;
And also watch the starry flower,
And the busy little bee.
For It is nature and its Ged,
That can our souls inspire
With love, which forever win last,
Overwhelm us with desire.
atlas 1 obc« more I have quell’d
A passion raging high ;
For ah I knew but toe well
Man’s love will surely die 1
far
The Fashions of Gentlemen.—Once
again wo find oureelvea within the limits of the
•harmed circle—amid the busy whispering, the
merry mueio of sweet voices, and familiar rustle
of perfumed robes. We have the best of rea
sons to consider ourselves ihvorod particularly
in these little weekly reunions, suggested an en
vious knight of the quill who paid us a visit not
long since, upon remarking the forbearance of
the fair sex toward ourselves; well, we do ; ve
are fully aware of the prestige resulting from
being established in the good graces of our gen
tle friends, and we are not very mortally sur
prised at discovering that the green-eyed mon
ster jealousy—ancient as the aroh-fiend himself,
and, by the way, quite a near relative of that
dangerous individual, numbers among his vic
tims, a few of our masculine acquaintances. It
is no matter of use for the latter individuals to
make themselves ungallant, by screwing up
their faces, and protesting against their own
consciences they don’t care a ng for the ladies;
it is of no use for them to rush to the solace of
Rotten stews and champagne.
We konw better than to believe the first, and
do not need any one to tell us how soon the lat
ter will pall upon the taste, without the living
remembrance of roguish smiles, and bewitching
glances byway. of seasoning. Poor fellows—
ow they will relinquish all that folly some day
or another, and as these are military times we
might offer the suggestion that they consolidate
themselves into a body—a brigade, to be known
to lame as the Chevaliers of the rueful counte
nance.
We pity them serenely, but the spice of s-lHih
nets in oiir composition will not admit of relin
quishing our own comfortable quarters for their
benefit. Shakepore, the immortal bard,.recom
mends each individual to take himself first into
consideration after the manner of the following :
“Beive thyself first and best of all.” The ad
vice has been taken to heart by a vast majority
of the present day. It is the device upon the
escutcheon of Shoddyism waving before the
gaunt faces of the starving poor; it is engraven
upon the chariot with which it rides mercilesc
ly over the miserable victims of toil and despair,
it is upon the lips of many with their arms elbow
deep in the Government purse. It is the daily
and nightly thought of the vast mushroom ele
ment that has suddenly sprung up in our midst,
confronting us at our very hearthstones. The
very air is tainted with it. Now when the envy
of the acquaintances, before mentioned, insinu
ates a little aid from us in the sphere in ques
tion, it would be humane and charitable,although
it wouldn’t be imitating the example of a good
Samaritan, still we shouldn’t be any worse than
our neighbors, if we turned a deaf ear to their
call, and comforted ourselves with that accepted
motto of the. nineteenth century, and satisfied
with being tolerated ourselves by the ladies, re
fused to say the smallest good word for anybody
else. From the heading of this “ item” it will bo
perceived we are again upon the theme that has
been before our readers for some time back—wo
have found the subject not quite exhausted. Wo
are also happy to record further installments of
billets cotev.r de rose and true blue, happy to an
neunce we are still inhaling the fragrance of the
inimitable “ N. B. C.’”with the sweet breath of
mignionette. Angc-l visitants—bewildering in
toxicating perfume! We recognize once more
the delicate characters of the Lady “ Thalia,”
who discourses as before, very prettily, desiring
to present to the notice of her fair sisters a little
extract she has discovered in her researches, en
titled “ Male Fashions.” We cheerfully give it
room, refraining from comment, since it is so ex
piesrive in itself:
“ The men of every generation have had their
laugh at the fashions of the ladies : but the ladies
have had their opportunities of triumph in re
turn. If the women once bore horned head
dresses that made them look like human cows,
did not the men till very lately wear huge peri
wigs and long tails or queues that made them
look like lions ? If the women, with their hoops
or faithingales or crinolines, have occupied a
space in the world disproportioned to their real
size, have not the men, With their bags and
queues and enormous browsers, stuffed out like
mammoth bolsters with horsehair or cotton, and
doublets puckered and distended, looked four
times their natural size, and scarcely like hum in
beings? In Henry the Eighth’s reign, a scaffold
was erected round the Parliament house for the
of such members as carried the
fashion W magnitude in dress to an extreme.
Even in point of cost, the dresses of the gentle-,
men have often been more extravagant than
those of the fairer sex. Sir Walter Raleigh’s
doublet was embroidered with pearls. His buff
shoes were »overed wife precious stones of the
Sundav WLltion.
1 - ■ - ■■■ . .
value of £6,000. His armor blazed with diamonds
and pearls. The Duke of Buckingham, King
James’ favorite, sometimes had his diamonds su
loosely put on his garments that when he pleased
he could, with a sudden shake, sprinkle that
ground with them, that the Dames de la Cone
might pick them up. He had a suit of white vel
vet, embroidered with diamonds, ths value of
£BO,OOO. Some of the English nobles, at the
Field of the Cloth of Gold, carried their whole
fortunes on their backs.”
We should like to have the opinion of the ladies
upon that. It appears to us, from close observ
ance, that now, as in the olden time, the English;
masculine element supersedes the rest of tha
world in its subservience to drees. As tha faiS
sex watch for on tits from the gay court of Eu
genie, so fashionable fops wait for the extrava
gancies of a London Beau Brummel, content ia
disguise themselves as daneing-jacke or poodles
at the divine creatures’ sweet will. Among the>
latest intelligence from this quarter we have tha
following interesting facte from the correspond
ence of the New York Tribune:
“ Apropos of the Prince of Wales, it is reported!
that the young man aspires to emulate the farms
of an illustrious defunct who once owned this
same title—in becoming the acknowledged leader!
of fashion. The first, you know—“ it was in this
vigor of his intellect”—invented a shoe-bnckla
which almost covered the foot, extending front
side to side, as may be seen in old old engrav
ings. The second intends reforming the style of
evening costume, which for upward of fifteen off
twenty years has exposed the British swell to tins
not unfrequent experience of being mistaken fog
a waiter. After an immense amount of experi
ment, he has— so they say at the clubs—designed
a marvelous garment of black silk velvet, of tha
coat kind, but without tails, which he intends tta
“sport” on a fconvenient opportunity, for the ex
ample of his future subjects, during the coming;
season. Other particulars are added, suggestive
of even more startling innovations. There cer
tainly must be something sartorial in the Saxe-
Coburg and Gotha blood ; you may recollect the
early attempt of the late Prince Consort to *• bon
net” the British soldier with an inverted flower
pot, under the title of the albert Hat. I shouldn’t;
wonder, if one went back far enough in tha
genealogy of the family, if the tailor might ba
discovered, whose nature occasionally appears its
his descendants, just as a certain Malay’s did int
the family of an honest gentleman of whom I
have heard. One of his ancestors had married!
the objectionable savage, and whenever any
thing he disliked manifested iteelf in the pos
ferity, he always attributed it to “ that oon.
founded Malay.” It was vi xatious, but inevita
ble. So may the sartorial tendency be in tha
Prince. At the same iime, I would not adviea
the “ swells ” of New York to defer getting theiff
Spring styles until the “sweet thing in <1 wests
coats” of " Wales’s” introduction comes over. It
may not take. Changes of the kind have beet!
attempted before, failing most completely.
Count D’Orsay, for instance, “ brought out” a>
new coat, twenty years ago, but the tailors wars
adamant, and he had to take it in again. Bul
wer Lytton, too, when in the full glory of Pel
ham-hoed, “ a padded man who wore the stays,”
tried several inventions in dress, but nobsdy
imitated him. DTsraeli, again, in the days of his
youth, evinced yearnings in a similar direction,
and toward the very same material adopted by
the Prince—black velvet. To have done wltlx
the sartorial question, I think inat the Princa
must secure the concurrence of the tailors before;
he can aspire to setting the fashion.”
Position and Dress fob Photographs.’
—lt is a nine days’ wondt r to your friends int
these days of photographs and the admirable;
carte de visile, if you hare not had your likeness
taken. After the first burst of amazement fes
over, you are coaxed, teazel, or forced into nn
dergoing the. infliction. Eversbody but tha
many times initiated, naturally feels undecided!
and ill at ease respecting dress, position, and then
little etceteras appertaining to the important;
operation. The Portland Transcript, out of com
passion, has furnished to its readers the annexed'
hints upon the subject, which we think ara
worthy of being taken into consideration : Noth
ing comes out better than a black silk, mada
long, full, and graceful. If tha wearer is young,
and taken titling, a border of black over whita
round the skirt, is very effective. A lady not so
young, looks well in a black moire antique with
out trimming. If the lady’s figure is not good,
she may wear a black lace shawl, elegantly ar
ranged, or, if of a nervous disposition, she hail
perhaps better be seated, as a timid or frightened
air looks ill in a standing figure, end she may
feel more at ease. A light linsey woolsey takes
well, and we have seen a tartan rep eome out;
charmingly upon a small figure when colored.
Blue and orange are colors always to be avoided 5
the former looks white, the latter black. With;
regard to position, it must depend entirely oa
herself which attitude gives the most ogreeablo
view of her features, whether full face, ttasa
quarters, or profile. She should get some friend
who has good taste, to accompany her to the ar
tist’s, to arrange her dress and attitude and t®
amuse and make her smile at the right moment.
Some individuals never get injustice done thens
in a photograph, and a few—a very few—are sa
fortunate as to astonish their friends by appear
ingmuch better thaninlife. Nervous people ares
difficult to take ; where the face happens to ba
thin, it should be thickly dusted with white pow
der. (?) This mode is adopted by one of our first;
photographers. But the pose needs an artist,
not a mechanic ; and it does not always happens
that the man of positives and negatives is also a;
man of taste and art; so he takes his sitters just;
as they tumble into, or plump into a chair, lock
ing ill at ease, anxious, or Beared, and sendai
them forth stamped on cards, " with all their im
perfections on their heads.” Photographs ara
very much improved by the tinting iar
nicely and clearly done, and Hoe eyes well marked
out. Some colorists make them heavy and lead
like, in which case they are belter in their primi
tive condition.
Dancing in Paris.—There are every
day during the season IGO private halls given aS
Paris. This does not include bale masque, pub
lic balls, nor mere dancing parties. On an
age, 250 persons are invited to every ball, making
a total of 82,500 and the season lasts 30 daysj
Accordingly, 4 680 private balls are given during
the season. Each costs, on an average, 900 f.
making a total of 4,212,000 f ; add to this 25,003
carriage drives per day, reckoned each at
there and back, makes 2,700,000 f. per
Take the ball dresses at 200t a piece, allowing
them to be worn four times; this will give a,
number of 116,250 ball dresses f>r 16,250 ladies,
and- occasion the outlay of 29 250,000 f. Th*
head-dresses of 16,250 ladies would amount ta
500,000 f. per day, making 1,800,000 f. in the season.
Ribbons, bouquets, gloves, fans, eta., are reck
oned cheap at 30f. alady per night, which comes
to 487,500 f. for one evening, or 17,550.0001’, pee
season. By a rough calculation,, then, the ladies
would spend during a Paris season GO, 084 OX® j
the gentlemen 5,000 OOOf. for fheir toilet, and ths
hosts of the entertainment 4,212,0001., making a,
sum total of 69,296,000 f., or foKou jl,000,090?. peg
day.
Theatricals and chiromancy are tha
fashion in Paris. The theatres are fined eveic?
night. Private theatricals, in which the parts,
are all played by noble ladies and by young as
pirators to fame and fashion—this for the grea-6
houses, and acting charades and tableaux in tha
smaller. Chironlancy, the art of teding fortunes,
or, rather, reading character by the lines of tha
hand, is quite the rage. Ever? one seeks ta
know something of this wonderful science, wiiielz
its votaries declare to be far above that of phre
nology, which had great vogue not so very long
ago, and which is now quite thrown into ths;
shade.
The imports of foreign dry goods
New York for the month of M&tah, are one-tfiircl
larger than for the same month of last year, aid!
twice as large as for the corresponding period ini
either of the two preceding years. The total re
ceipts for March, 18G1, were $5,836,076: Marell.
1862, $6,471,901; March, 1863, Midi
now for March, 1864. sl2 635.127. These values
are the foreign cost reckoned in gold, to whlclu
duty, freight and exchange must be added t*a
make the total paid by consumers here. Reck
oned in this way, the twelve and a half mllliona
will swell to over thirty million dollars.
Wedded Bliss.—A Detroit paper tells
of an amiable man and wife, in that city, wha
have just become reconciled after living to
gether five years without speaking a word to one
another. The wife mad" the rash vow that ska
would not speak to her husband until he apolo
gized for having reproved her quite harshly for!
giving an expensive party in his absence, s.ndl
she kept her promise for the length of lima
named.
an— bwm—ik m m nwiw
The Comfort of Ugliness.—We can
not say—and in truth it is a ticklish question to
ask of those who are best qualified to an answer
—if there really be not a comfort in substantial
ugliness—in ugliness that, unchanged, will last a
man his life—a good granite fact, in which there;
shall be no wear and tear ? A mao so appointed
is saved many alarms, many spasins of pride.'
Time cannot wound his vanity through his fea
tures ; he eats, drinks and is merry, in despite of
mirrors. No aequaintanoes start at snlden al
teration, hinting, in much sunrise, decay andl
the final tomb. He grows cider with no former!
intimates, churchyard voices, crying: “ How
you’re altered 1” How many a man might hivef
been a truer husband, a better father, firmer*
friend, more valuable citizen, had he, when ho
arrived at legal maturity, cut off-say, an inon OK
his nose!
Influence of Singing.—Singing is a
great inetitutlon. It oils the wheels of care—
supplies the place of sunshine. . A naan when
sings has a good heart under hia shirt-front*
Such a man not only works more willingly, but
he works more constantly. A singing c.obweC
will earn as much money again as a cobbles
who gives way to low spirits and indigestion*
Avaricious men never sing. The man who at*
tacks singing throws a stone at the head of nuax<
ity, and would, if he could, rob June of its roses>
or August of its meadow larks.

xml | txt