Newspaper Page Text
GEORGETOWN NEWS. A WEEKLY NEWSPAPER, PUBLISHED EVERY THURS DAY MORNING BY i’l/ttt cfc Sliaxv. D.TLe, Main St., nearly opposite Masonic Hall. ‘TKHMK IWAHIAHI.V I.V AIIVA\CK. ■Tor one year $5 oo For six months 3 00 For three months 2 qq Rates of Advertising. For first insertion of 1 square, or 10 lines. ,|3 00 For each subsequent insertion I 50 iberal deductions for quarterly advertisements. BUSINESS CARDS. "Wm. Ewing, ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LaW. ■Office at Lower Johntown, El Dorado Co., Cal. November 12th, 1855. [3-4t* P RODGER, J. C. Manufacturer of all kinds of Jewelry, Maiden Lane, Georgetown, two doors south of J. J. Lewis' Bowling Saloon. November Ist, 1855. [2-tf. Grrnli/vm cb Co., (branch OF GRAHAM A CO. GEORGETOWN.) MAIN STREET, BOTTLE HILL. Dealers in Groceries, Provisions, Cigars, Li quors, Bfr. The hie\est price paid at all times for Gold Dust. F. ittle Hill, April 23d, 1855. [2B-tf Xj. C. Royburn, •Justice of the Pence. OFFICE on Church st., head of Maiden Lane, one door south of Bollen & Ritter's Gun and Blacksmith establishment. Office open every day of the week from 9 tot o’clock; Sunday exepted. Georgetown, May 24th, 1855. * [32-tf. DRAGOO, DR. M,J., late of Johntown, would inform the citizens of Bottle Hill that hav ing permanently located in that place, he would respectfully tender to them his professional ser vices as Surgeon and Physician. Bottle Hill. Dec. 15 1854. 9-tf KAY, DP. F. G., Main street, Georgetown.— 11 dice opposite Adams & Co. Oct. 26, 1854. 2-tf U TELLS, FARGO & CO., Express Agents, Gold Dust Shippers, and Bankers, George ’ ■Win I See advertisement.] 2-tf I- O. of <Zt. F. Memento Lodge, No. 37, Tnstitu -sted, March 22ud, 1855. Meets on ■ Thursday of each week, at the Ma eonic Hall, at 7 o'clock. P. M. Transient Brothers, in good standing, are cor dially invited to attend. J. J. LEWIS, N. G. S. Knox, Sec’y. of T —Georgetown Division, No. 42, - Suns of Temperance, meets every Tues- day evening, at 7 o’clock, in their Hall on Main street, Georgetown. All brethren in good standing are invited to at tend. WM. T. GIBBS, W. P. J. T. Noel, R. S. Divine Worship. Ret. DAVID McCLURE, of the Presbytery of San Francisco, preaches every Sabbath morning and evening .u the Town Hall, Georgetown. Ser vices commencing at 10* o'clock A. M., and S P. M. Also, every Sabbath afternoon at Bottle Hill, at 3 o’clock. Prayer meeting at the Par t on Wednesday evenings. Public Worship. There will be preaching at the Town Hall, every Thursday evening, at 7 o’clock, P. M.; ul t ■> upon every other Sabbath, 3 at o'clock, P. M. by Rev. R. R. Brookshiek, of the Methodist E piscopal Church South. Public Worship, —At the School House, Georgetown. Regular appointments of Rev. Jxo. Shad ?, of M. E. Church, 10$ A. M. and 7 P. M,, every Sabbath. Occasional supplies by other Ministers. Prayer meetings, Wednesday even ings at 7P. M. Sabbath School 94 A. M. California Stage Company Notice. STAGES for Sacramento City, leave the “Nevada House,” t jTSSILT Georgetown, every morning, at three o’clock, A. M.. and the “ Buckeye Exchange," Greenwood Valley, at four o’clock, A. M., arriving in Sacra mento in time to connect with the steamboats for San Francisco. J. HAWORTH, Pres. Cal. S. Co. Per M. A. MERCHANT, Agent. March 28th, 1855. [24-tf. ACCOMMODATION Stage Line FROM BOTTLE HILL TO COLOMA. THE subscriber having extended his Line to Bottle Hill, will run a four-horse coach dai ly between the above places, via of Georgetown and Johutown. Leaving Bottle Hill at o'clock A. M., arriv ing at Coloma at 10 o’clock A. M. Returning, will leave Coloma at 3 o’clock, P. arriving at Bottle Hill at 6 o’clock P. M. Having run a line of stages for the past two years and a half between Georgetown and Colu mn, the undersigned feels confident that in ex tending his line to Bottle Hill, he can offer such accommodations as to merit the patronage of the P u bßc. ROBERT ELLIS. June 27th, 1855. [37-tf. Books & Stationery. A Literary Depot, is opened by the under signed, on Main Street, Bottle Hill, at which, BOOKS, MAGAZINES and NEWSPAPERS of very variety, and of the latest date, can be had “pon application. D t JAMISON & CALDW Bottle Hill, April 18th, 1855. [ Turning LATHE. —The undersigned 1 leave to inform the citizens of Grorget “* dt , he is prepared to do all kinds of Turnin 1,(8 best manner and at the shortest notice. L M. A. WOODS ID Gorgetown, Oct ID, 1851. j. GEORGETOWN, EL DORADO COUNTY, CAL., DEC. 27, 1855. From Ballou’s Pictorial. To my Mother. BY MIKA L. DONNELSON. Does home seem lonely now mother, Without my presence there? And dost thou often think of me, When thou seest ray vacant chair? Dost thou yet miss the merry laugh That erst rang free and wild? Or listen to the footstep light Of thy long absent cliild? I’ve counted, one by one, mother, The bright months that have passed Like bubbles on time’s changeful stream, Since the morn I saw thee last; I’ve counted every waning moon, Slow fading from the sky, And sighed to see the sands of time So swiftly gliding by. The sweet spring died in giving birth To summer’s floral reign— Now summer lies asleep beneath The autumn's golden train; The winds are wailing sad and wild Upon her fading track, Yet bring not to the ingle-nook Thine absent darling back 1 O I'm not happy now, mother, My heart has lost its glee, And bitter tears my eyes have wept, Since last they gazed on thee; I've grown so weary of the strife Upon life's desert wild— 0, mother, pray sweet peace may come To bless thy youngest child! From Harper's Magazine. DISINTERESTED FRIENDSHIP. BY A BACHELOR. It is the fashion to marry. It is the fash | ion to abuse those who do not. It is the j fashion with many who do, to regret that | that they ever did what can not be undone, i But this fashion belongs to the occult mys | teries of an institution which was the first I of the ‘‘Know Nothing” order ever estab | lished. Those of the uninitiated are the I wiser who mitigate their curiosity, and choose rather “To hear the ills they have, Than fly to others which they know not of.” I am a bachelor, and, of course, am not in the fashion. lam an old bachelor, and my habits are fixed—fixed as fate, for, of course, 1 shall never marry now. Since I did not marry when such an act could be carried to the credit of juvenile indiscretion, 1 shall not verify the coarse proverb, that “There is no fool like an old fool.” My ex perience has been ample and various enough. lam too old to turn over a new leaf. The common destiny of the race seems to sweep all, or nearly all, into the hymeneal vortex. If I have escaped, is it the wrong I did in escaping that encourages calumny and bitterness against me? Or is it envy that incites the married multitude to speak with affected pity of the unmarried? Do they really despise my loneliness, or, under assumed contempt, do they conceal covet ousness of my negative felicity? It is com manded, “Thou shalt not covet thy neigh bor’s wife.” I don't. But do they not covet ray no wife? They talk of the de lights of mutual confidence. But can there be no mutual confidence unless one of the parties wears flowing drapery, and the other is encased in bifurcated continuations? Can not there bo friendship—can not there be even love under broadcloth—love of a man for a man, I mean? To deny it is prepos terous. There is my old friend James Hay den. lam sure he loves me. lam sure *1 love him. lam sure ho is disinterested, 1 am disinterested, we are disinterested.— There is none of the pounds-shillings-and pence selfishness of housekeeping between us. 'There is none of the selfish manage ment and jealousy of the loves of the sexes. We were schooled together. When I was puzzled he telegraphed relief. When he was pauled I signaled the world that un locked him. Wo transacted business to gether. If I lost, his winnings made it up, and vice versa. He never betrayed or took any advantage or preference of me. He never deceived me, and he never will,— What husband can say that of his wife? What wife can say it of her husband? There is only one venture in which we have not shared. He took a wife. Here could be no joint-stock interest; and 1 wanted none. J pitied his weakness, and resolved to make allowance for it, though with some misgivings. It is safer to trust one than two. Yet never has my confidence been betrayed; and I am not jealous of James’s wife, though she is of me. My friend’s mis fortune has put his virtues in a stronger light. He can be true to friendship in spite of matrimony. My house has always offered him a daily refuge from the storms, which, though they clear the atmosphere of the household, demand a shelter; even as the most welcome “growing rains” are best appreciated under an umbrella. lam an uncle. All bachelors are uncles. It is their destiny and vocation. Perhaps —I say perhaps—for with my friend James’ melancholy experience before me, I cannot say what might have been my weakness— perhaps had 1 not been an uncle, I might have been a husband. Here is an old let ter—tear-stained, and worn in the folds from frequent opening. It was written by an early love—a true love—an unselfish love—my sister. Head it: “My dear Brother—l think there is more than a half reproach in the tone in which you answer my invitation. If you only knew what a struggle it cost me* to write it! But I would not suffer you to be invited to my wedding with the polite for mality in which gilt-edged notes were sent to mere acquaintances. I cannot endure that you should think, as you seem to think, that there can be no room in a sister’s heart for an only brother, because she has opened it to receive a husband. We are orphans. We have been lonely. Why should wo persist in keeping ourselves apart from all the rest of the world? I am sure that when you will permit yourself to know the gentleman for whom you seem now to have no feeling but suspicious distrust, you will love him as a brother should; for, will you not be brothers?” There is more of it. But though 1 can not read it without tears, it is not to be ex pected that others will feel the same inter est in it. So I spare the rest. My sister was half grieved, half angry, because I would not be pleased when she was about to surrender her whole life, hopes, happiness to a stranger. How could Ibe pleased? / had never thought of marrying; why should she? lint she did. I submitted. I witnessed the ceremony. I even gave away the bride. And 1 felt, while 1 did so, that 1 was giving away—losing—my only sister. And so it proved. Her husband was no better or worse than most men. He died, and left her no wealth save live children. She was not endued with physical strength to manage such a bequest. The sister whom 1 had given away 1 took home again. Heaven forgive me! But 1 thought less of his death and her sorrow than of my gain; fur my sister was once more under the same roof with me. But my sad pleasure was brief. She followed her husband, and her children became mine entirely. James Hayden said they were well pro vided for. So they are. "“But,” he said, ‘v/ I had only a wife, now, to be their mother.” I came as near quarreling with him as I could for saying such a thing.— A ith such a charge on my hands, what time have 1 to think of marrying? And how can I be sure that my wife would be their mother? The fact seems to be, that some of us must keep our senses to repair the damage done by the loss of their wits in others. lam determined to be a father to my sister’s little ones, now my own; and not to risk the distraction of being husband to somebody who might cause me to be come recreant to my trust, by making me a father on my own account. lam too old a business man for that, and James Hayden knows it. Haven't we discharged more than one cashier for doing paper in his own behalf ? The cases are parallel. The little rogues have wound themselves round me. They could not be more mv own if they wore my name. But all love in this world is troublesome comfort. Such perils as they have exposed me to! Yes, jverils; but I have survived them. lam myself still, and will keep so. Such an up setting of my bachelor menage / Such en counters with teachers, and governesses, and housekeepers! Such mistakes as trades people are constantly making! 1 am con tinually “fathered” in spite of myself; but that 1 care nothing about. There is one thing I can not stand. I have sent away six housekeepers, because each was mista ken for the mother of the children, and each was nothing loth, for they all under stood what that implied. And so did I. There was but one guess where such mis takes could end—if not corrected. That end 1 have guarded against by installing Madam Fickle in the housekeeper’s room. Nobody could mistake her for the wife of any thing except the kitchen range. But such a housekeeper is no companion for the children. I asked James Hayden what I should do. He said, engage a gov erness, and I did. She came highly recom mended, ami lias not belied her good char acter. The children have improved under her instruction and example. Their man ners are subdued and polite. Their pro gress in the branches they have studied is notable. Their respectful attention to me is most remarkable. Come, now, thought I, after a few months’ experience, this "be ing at the head of a family is not so bad a thing after all! Such pleasant thricc-daily meetings as were our repasts! There was no keeping the children away in the nursery, to feed them like little pensioners, and let their manners form as it pleased fate and the cook. "They were brought square to the table, and taught how to demean them selves. And after tea they had always something so pleasant to say to Uncle-pa, as they called me, that their stay was pro tracted till I gave certain understood sig nals that I had had enough of them. When 1 unfolded the paper, or looked at my watch, or put away my tooth-pick, with the air of one who has tritied long enough, and now intends to do something to the purpose, our governess took the hand of the youngest.— r i he rest followed—not without some little rehearsal of Romeo. Parting is such sweet sorrow, that they would have continued it till midnight at least— “ Still signing to go, and still loth to depart.” Miss Amity was sometimes obliged to re turn for some little mutter which the chil dren had forgotten in their prolonged hurry of departure. Politeness would not suflbr me to see here enter and depart without a word. The dear children were a never tiring topic for me; and Miss Amity, while as sensible as I was to their remarkable per fection, never failed to remember to whom they owed it—their kind and paternal un cle. What she said upon this head—rather by implication and innuendo than in direct words—l could not but feel the justice of. I feebly parried her praises, and thus gave a pleasant little piquancy and prolongation to the door-knob-in-hand conversation. And it came to pass that these conversa tions—at first held occasionally with Miss Amity as a standing interlocutor—became of daily repetition. And then, at my re quest, Miss Amity ventured to sit a mo ment, though always in the chair nearest the door. And then, being attracted by something over the fire-place, she advanced to that point to continue her remarks. And then it became natural to her always to I stand, with some waif belonging to the | | children (it was wonderful how invariably i something was left behind when they went ] ! out.) directly opposite mv chair, on the 1 I other side ot the grate. And then she would j unconsciously rest in unrest on the outer ! edge ol a chair, like one ready to flit from a forbidden perch. And then she learned I to sit a few moments, gracefully and at | case, as il there were no harm in it. And j then — One night the nurse asked, peeping in at the door, " Please, Miss Amity, mayn’t I | put the children to bed before you come up? j I should like to go out, if you please, miss.” “Oh, yes—no matter—l’ll go now.” But | the nurse wont, and Miss Amity did not , make haste to follow. And so, by nice de grees, the nurse was taught to come to the parlor and take away the children herself, and Miss Amity waited till her own hour for retiring—except when the door-bell rang, when she disappeared before the caller was ushered in. And at length some par ticular friends, like James Hayden, tor in stance, calling very often, Miss Amity be came familiar with their approach, and lost her terror of it. By-and-by another ad vance was made. Miss Amity paused to bid her patron’s friends good evening be fore she withdrew. The next amelioration in her condition was to wait and talk with them a moment about education in general and the dear children in particular. When this topic became exhausted we found oth ers, which took up more time; and Miss Amity certainly made a very pleasant im pression on all my friends—on James Hay den in particular. He would even inquire for her if she happened not to be present— which inquiry would be a very great liber ty in any one else; but he is my most inti mate friend, and stands not on conventional etiquette. Everything went on delightfully. Never was a better ordered and more quiet house and family. Never had I been so placidly content with bachelorhood; so fixed in my determination that nothing should ever in duce me to forego my independence and change my state. Here was perfect com fort. The presence of Miss Amity was sun shine in the house. A perfect being in her manners—delicacy and refinement in her thoughts—virtue incarnate—the best possi ble guardians for the dear orphans—and so charmingly unsophisticated, childlike, and unobtrusive. And I had to thank James Hayden for it all. Poor fellow—it's a pity he s married! A\ e might make a joint es tablishment of it; for i have satisfied myself that entire happiness can be secured with out matrimonial chains. The children sallied out for their daily walks or rides so delightfully happy that I once caught myself wishing that they were mine indeed, and that I were father instead of uncle. But 1 checked my foolish thought at once. AY ere they not mine? And was not I myself mine, my own. besides, with nobody to claim proprietorship in me, or assert over me any right to domination on the plea of being the mother of my children? Had I not all the comforts of home without any of its disadvantages? i put the question one day to my old friend James Hayden, who had dined with me. Miss Amity and the children had left us, and we were taking the second cigar.— There might have been something of tri umph in my tone, for his wife is a litte acid, and the subject is a tender one. “T ou are very comfortable, my dear fel low,” he said; and pausing to puff, added, "of course you will soon make permanent arrangements.” “Pe-ma-nent ar-range-ments!” “Don t repeat after me, nor look so wron derstruck. Don’t deny to an old friend that you intend to marry Carry—ah—Miss Amity!” “1 never dreamed of such a thing!” “ * hen your sleep must be very sound in deed,” said my friend, laughing. “Every body is lull ot it, and we only wonder that you have waited so long. It is a very em barrassing situation to keep the young lady in.” “Embarrassing! Why, she is only the children’s governess. Bhe was educated precisely to that expectation, and I venture to say entertains no other.” My friend whistled, and took his hat.— M hat plague was in it? What had I done? What should 1 do? After lea came the old comedy. Children dismissed. Me with evening newspaper. Miss Amity opposite. And now behold a new thing under the gas-light! I, so calm the night before, nay, at dinner that day, so free from care or vex ation, now perturbed, and with nobody to tell it to. There was no speaking to Miss Amity on that subject, for there was no telling where to begin it, or where it would i t co, dd talk of nothing else.— And I must speak—or burst. The silent fete a tcie was very awkward—to me. Miss Amity worked away at embroidery or ciochet, as unconscious and unconcerned as the spoiled cat on the hearth-rug. As J peeped over my paper at her, I could not help regretting that such a fine vis-d-vis as we presented must soon, in all human prob ability, lie spoiled forever. A caller relieved my perplexity. It was my pertinacious friend, James Hayden. 1 was always glad to see him—never more so than this very evening. Miss Amity had seemed unusually disposed to stay, and there is no knowing what folly I might have been guilty of. 1 tremble now when I think of it; but, thank fortune! the danger is over. I breathe freer and deeper! Miss Amity soon withdrew after Hayden entered. Though, as 1 said just now, there was only one thing of which I could think, I was determined not to talk of that. 11 tried Sebastopol, it was stale. 1 said it never would be taken. James said “ lie didn't know. Quite as obstinate resistance had been conquered by regular approach es.” What did the man mean? 1 would not see any equivoque, and turned the theme to Kansas. Jiut it was of no use. We gabbled commonplaces for a while, till at last our heads drew nearer together, and we talked long and earnestly in an undertone. M hat we talked of may be inferred from Hayden's parting remarks: “If it is really as you say, and you have no intention ol proposing; or if it is not really as you say, though you think it is, but don’t know that you do really mean—” I rose, for 1 was becoming excited. James Hayden abrupt ly concluded. “ In any case, it will not an swer for Miss Amity to retain her present position.” “Hut what is to become of the children?” “That is a difficulty. But there are abun dance of good schools in where you can place them, and your house will resume its old comfort and quiet.” Old comfort and quiet! I winced under it. Why did he not tell me to board up the windows, and shut out the day? What is a house good for without children? “Grant all you say,” I replied at length, “grant all you say, and how am I to man age it? How shall I tell that contented and unsuspecting young woman that she must go? What reason shall 1 give for dis missing her? It will not do to put it upon the ground you state.” “Oh ! well,” said my friend, “trust to for tune, and wait. You will not need to wail long, I fancy, for female delicacy and tact will get you out of the difficulty, and that soon, or 1 am mistaken.” “Out of the difficulty 1” thought I, as the door closed after him. A plague of these disinterested advisers, who can prescribe with such perfect composure when the blis ter does not touch their own epidermis 1 — 'flic first disturbed rest which 1 had endur ed for years was mine that night. The more I studied my quandary, the more of a quandary it seemed to me. and the less a; pearance of solution presented itself. Even the mirth of the children at break fast did not relieve or inspirit me. They were in delightful spirits—tip-top! Phi losophic little rogues—they can enjoy the present, undisturbed either hy gloomy re trospcctions or melancholy forebodings.— But Miss Amity: there was an air of con straint over her manner which I had never observed before. It quite spoiled my breakfast. Her charming naivete was gone entirely. When she rose to leave the table she put in my hands a note. I read the superscrip tion—looked up—and she was gone, chil dren and all. It was a politely-couched no tice, advising me that she found hersell obliged to desire me to fill her place in a house which she must leave with the deep est regret, and should ever remember with pleasure, etc., etc. Übiquitous James Hayden! Why did he drop in just then? Simply to walk down in the city with me, as he has done daily for—no matter how many years. It is well he is not a woman. Had he been female, one of the best old bachelors who ever lived—your humble servant, to wit— would have been nipped in his twenties, il not in his teens. “ Now, James,” said I. handing him the note, “what’s to be done next?’’ “What’s to be done? Why, it is done! The very thing you were punishing your foolish head about last night is completed to your hand, it's only to inclose her sala ry, with a remembrance from the children in a tangible form, regret, etc., and there’s an end of it. But after dinner will do.— Come; we're late.” As we walked through the hall I heard a doleful noise up stairs. The change had been announced, and the children were howling over it. Perhaps they will be best at school. Now, Mr. Harper, I know you don't ad vertise; but can't you let me say here, that if any lady—fit for nobody’s wife, and a bove suspicion of fitness—but still lit to teach any body’s children, as well in man ners and morals as in mind—an attractive piece of feminine repulsiveness, and a re pulsive specimen of female loveliness—if such an one wants a situation, in the fami ly of a single gentleman of large family— she may address “Charles” at your office. [Note by the Eiutor. —After the foregoing was in type, we received the following. But it is absurd to think our “forms” can be delayed by any whim of our correspondent's. He must settle matters with his disinterested friend in the best manner that he can. Instead of suppress ing Ids first communication we print both.] Please don’t print ray nonsense about our late governess, now the recognized head ol the household. Marriage is not so very dreadful after all: “A ring’s put mi, a prayer or two is said, And—nothing more.” Mv friend, James Hayden, gave away the bride, and I received her. The children co d not do without her. and I married mere ly to please them. It would not do for her to hear that, I suppose: but 1 am new to matrimonial etiquette, and bachelors are proverbially free-spoken. 1 suppose 1 must say, with Benedick: “When 1 said I would die a bachelor, 1 did not think 1 should live to be married I” Our lute governess and present lady is (f good family. She is James Hayden’s niece. It’s very remarkable that he never mentioned it while she was a dependent.— 1 did not think so noble a fellow had among his weak points so much foolish pride.— Heigho! The vis-a-vis is resumed. I can’t discharge her now, if I would. Well, I sup pose it’s destiny, and we must all submit. Perhaps it is better to yield while you are young, with a good grace, than to fight fate till you can’t any longer. lam now in the fashion ! More Flllllmsterlng. AVe heard it confidently asserted yester day by one who ought to know, says the Alta California, that a movement is on foot in this city in connection with ACalker, for the conquest ot Guatemala, which State it is well known, is about declaring war, or has already done so, against Nicaragua and the new government. She is already at war with Honduras, and has perpetrated on the unprotected frontier of Gracias some of the most infamous outrages—sacking and burning towns, stealing cattle, and carrying away women and children into captivity. The plan appears to be, to proceed with sailing vessel or steamer to the port of Ista pa, the only seaport of Guatemala on the Pacific side, and there disembark a few hundred men, who will join a large number of insurrectionists now on the coast, and march at once upon the City of Guatemala, situated directly east of the port, at a dis tance of something less than forty miles. Guatemala is the largest and richest city in all Central America, and is now the resi dence of Carrera, the celebrated Indian Chieftain, at present President of the Re public. Stephens, in his ‘lncidents of Trav el,’ represents Istapa as an unsafe landing place. Here the famous Alvarado pro posed fitting out an expedition for the dis covery of another continent to the west ward,which plan was afterwards abandoned. poet Longfellow, in bis ‘Hype rion, ’ makes one of his characters convey the following consolation to another who has been rejected by his sweet-heart; whose ‘bright star has waned,’ and the course of whose true love lias been running roughly: “That is the way with all young men.— You see a sweet face, or something, you know not what, and flickering Reason says ‘Good night!—amen to common sense!’ I was once as desperately in love as you are now, and went through all the “ ‘Delicious deaths, soft exhalations Of soul; dear and divine annihilations, A thousand unknown rites, Of joys and rarefied delights.’ “I adored, and was—rejected! “ ‘You are in love with certain attri butes,’said the lady. “ ‘Confound your attributes, madam,’ said I: ‘I know nothing about attributes.’ “ ‘Sir,’ said she, with dignity, ‘you have been drinking!’ “So we parted. She was married after ward to another, who knew something about attributes, I suppose. 1 have seen her once since, and only once. She had a baby in a yellow gown. 1 hate a baby in a yellow gown. How glad lam she didn’t marry me! One of these days you'll be glad that you have been rejected. Take my word for it.” Such advice, however, always fall very coldly upon the heart of a discarded swain. Overcome. —Miss Eliza Logan was play ing an engagement at Albany, and one eve ning during the play of the “Hunchback,’ just as she said, “Clifford, why don’t you speak to me?” one of the spectators replied in an audible voice, “Do, Clifford; 1 would if she'd talk to me in that way.” Good—Yerv Good.—A letter writer from Cincinnati says that the common peo ple of that city are those who kill pigs now. The aristocracy are those whose fathers killed pigs formerly, and who of course re gard the present pigicides as persons with out honorable antecedents. Touch the question of pigs to them and they bristle vp immediately. NO. 9.