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FRIDAY MORNING, NO. 47.
Iiseellaneous,
A LOVE STORY.
BY HATTIE TYNG.
« All thonghte, all passions, all delights—
Whatever thrills this mortal frame;
Are all but ministers of love
And feeds his sacred flame.”
R_CoLERIDGE.
Eva Stanley was the most superb girl in
Saratoga that season. It was difficult to tell
to what peculiarity she owed her decided
and acknowledged superiority to all others
There were others as tall as she, with as
graceful! a head, as full a bust, as regal
a walk ; and yet everybody said, ** the most
majestic woman in the room.” It must
have been the carriage of her head. There
was something imperial about that, with
which few are gifted by nature, and which
no art ean ever attain. It comes through
long generations of good blood alome. I
venture to say, no peasant’s child ever had
it. It is the peculiar and distinguishing
"mark of aristocracy. That feeling of fam-
ily pride which belongs to nearly all well-
descended people—that serene conscicusness
of one’s position, and that exemption from
all necessity of strugaling to secure or to re-
tain place, and scarcely ever fails to give a
half-haughty and dignified carriage of the
head, which descending through long en-
erations, is discoverable at a glance in any
one who possesses it. You have all seen
persons who bad no pretensions to beauty,
who yet possessed something which you
would infinitely have preferred to beauty—
something which seemed higher and rarer
of attainment than any mere physical beau”
ty. This is what I mean. This certain
air, this indefinable something which dis-
tinguishes those who come of a cultivated
stock, from those who spring from the mass-
es. I sm far from meaning the descendants
of rich families in particular.
may descend through generations of wealth
as easily as through ages of poverty; and
there is far less of genuine cultivation
among many families of the greatest wealth
than in some who possess scarcely a moder-
ate independence. What I mean may be
called essentially the aristocracy of refine-
®aent ; and this may be found as often in the
cottage as the mansion; but in watever
place it is found, it carries uw: fue races
and manners of good society with it, and
draws a circle around itself into which all
Vulgarity
cannot enter.
Eva Stanley had this high-bred air, with
all its untold elegance ; and the charm of it
was not lost upon any one who came within
the circle of her influence. Then she had
one of those faces to which men how down
and do reverence, [ns it were, intuitively.
Pale, with but the slightest dash of color in
the cheeks, and with fine, clear-cut features
and with a blue eye, with a world of thought
sleeping in its dark depths, the whole face
had that highest of all beauties—the beauty
of pas~ion. Then she had a hand and arm
of magic loveliness, and a voice clear as the
tone of a silver bell. Eva Stanley was not
a belle nt Saratoga. She would not bea
belie anywhere. She was not fond enough
of general and indiscriminate admiration
for that ; and sho was too proud of it, too.
She scorned to be admired by the many
and was proud of being liked by only the
few, upon whom she considered it worth her
own while to look. Eva Stanley had a sort
of passion for superior men. Any man
who was distinguished from the world
by any talent, and who united with
this the manners of a man of the
world, was secure of her attention as
soon as he presented himself. But talent,
unless it was very extraordinary, did not
make up for any deficiency of wanuers ;
.and manners, however unexceptionable,
for any deficiency of talent. She treated
ordinary men with the utmost hauteur—a
bauteur all the more freezinfi because it was
patural, and sprung from a total and inher-
ent indiference. Hence. she never could be
a belle; and most men gazed upon her as
they would upon some chiseled flower of
ice, of divine workmanship indeed, but too
cold to touch, and preferred some flower
whose petals had more of life in them, al-
though less exquisite in design und execu-
tion. But when a man approached who
breathed a higher air, who had any of the
odor of superior humanity about him, then
the icy plant was endued with life from
root to blossom. Her own intellect Was of
that subtle order which distinguishes at
once between. genias and its counterfeit;
and when once she discovered genuine ore,
ing. She was, in its modest seuse, a hero
worshiper. Men of genius admired her as
Posy as a flower loves the sunshine.
is the rarest thing in the world to find a
woman who really appreciates fully a man
of genics. Many women have a sort of ad-
miration for them, but it is a blind and un-
preciative admiration, and but little prized
by its recipients. But when once they find
a women with enough of their own nature
to judge them correctly, and admire them at
a true valnation,—to enter into their feel-
ings sufficiently to appreciate the depths of
their nature, with all their wants, and long-
ings, and desires, then such a woman is im-
mortalized in their hearts at once. This is
the trouble too often between men of genius
and their wives. They despair of finding
before they know the wants of their own
natures, and then, afterwards, in the full
maturity of their powers, when their tree of
life is white with blossoms, they suddenly
feel themselves alone in the world, as far as
sympathy or companionship is concerned.
Then the infinite miseries of an uncongeninl
married life begin, and end only with death.
Fortunate indeed is it for such a man
if, in after years, when to love is sin, he
does not find the one who could bave ful-
filled every design of his heart. This is the
great universal tragedy of life—thle tragedy
of hopeless love. '
Eva Stanley had been in Saratoga a week,
and had scarcely spoken a dozen words to
any gentleman present, with the exception
of an eccentric old bachelor uncle of her
own, who formed one of her party. This
Uncle George of Liers was one of those per-
sons whose hearts are so large that they
can give a small portion of them to every-
body they meet, and yet not scem to dimin-
ish the quantity in the least—one of those
persons who everybody loves, pets, and ca-
resses instinctively, and who returns all
such attentions with interest. Eva loved
him rather more than any other person in
the world, and made him the master-confes-
sor of her life.
Eva entered the parlor one evening, about
a weck after their arrival, leaning upon his
arm. Eva understood all the untold mira-
cles of dress, and she knew that it was best
to be dressed as differently as possible from
any other lady in the room. So, while all
the others were fluttering in misty white,
and delicate rose and blue, she appeared in
black, with splendid white flowers for orna-
ments. She was looking magnificently, and
every eye turned upon her as she entered.
They had made half the circuit of the
room, when Eva tightened her grasp upon
ber uncle’s arm, and whispered :
* Uncle George, who is that 2” indicating
with a movement of her fan, a gentlemun
who stood a little in advance of them.
Lven to an ordinary observer, he was the
most noticeable man in the room, and Eva’s
quick eye took him in at a glance.
He was a tall man, and of majestic pro-
portions, with a superb bead, set splendid-
ly upon his massive shoulders, and hewwore
a heavy durk beard, slightly sprinkled with
gray; and his hair which was thrown beau-
rifully and carelessly back from his high
white forehead, was somewhat thin, and
also threaded with silver. Then he bad an
eye with an indefinable peculiarity about it,
which every one studied, and no one ever
made out. It was a grayish eye, with a
drooping lid ; a sofc eye, full of dreams ; an
eye which almost any woman would have
given her hopes of ITeaven to see a love.
gleam in. It was a fascinating eye, an eve
which people looked at, and then turned
away, and soon looked back again, and en-
ed hy fastening their gaze upon, and re-
moving it no more while in his presence.
“My old friend, Herbert Audley, as I
live!” exclaimed Uncle George, his face
brimming over with smiles, as he quicken-
ed his pace, and extended both hands tow-
ards the gentleman.
The hearty greeting of the two friends
over, be turned once ‘more to Eva, and
presented hee in due form to his friend.
Herbert Audley was a man of stupendous
mind—a mind whose intellect grasped in,
as it were the universe, and seemed to dom-
prebend everything short of the Infinite;
a man of such versatility cf talent, that he
was a devoted lover of science, and one who
had been admitted into ber inner chamber,
and was conversant with all her. secrets;
who was a speculative philosopher, as
learned and subtle as any professed meta-
physician ; a thinker upon political econo-
my, second to none in the nation, and who
had all the literature ‘both of the classic
and modern ages, at the end of his tongue.
A subtile disquisitor upon art,. a learned
phylologist, and who knew the poetry of the
world by heart ; he was a man of more va-
ried attainments than almost any other man
in the country, and the versatiliy of whose
genius prevented Lim from rising to fame
in any one department! And fame was
somrethibg of which he never had the most
remote dream—something he would not
have tol could it have been had for the
asking. "To be talked of by the world was
something he would have avoided in every
possible way. He never came before the
public in any capacity, but was simply
known as a highly learned, brilliant and
fascinating man of the world.
Io treated all women alike—politely de-
ferentially, but somewhat ¢oldly—and nev-
er showed distinguishing attention to any
particular one. If Eva Stanley had not
given herself up to him so entirely, he prob
ably might have thought ne mure of her
han of the rest at first. Bu he saw with
this quick intuition, that she was entirely
absorbed in him ; that she spoke to no one
else, and this led him to look at her with a
keen, scrutinizing glance, to study, and see
what thera was of her.
Ile diseovered, at the first glance, that
she was no eommon woman ; that she had
a great deal of irregonlar genius, and a na-
ture which was a peculiar and wonderful
study. So he talked to her as he never
talked to a woman before; talked to her
till he struck upon new veins of thought,
which kad never opened to him before ; till
he grew intensely interested in his own
speculations, and was astonished to see that
such a one, or, perhaps, marry too young,
she was ag interested as himself, till he
found a pleasure in talking, which was as
new as it is bewildering—for he never had
such a listener before—till, at last, he grew
strangely and wonderfully interested in
the woman, as he had always known them.
This interest did not come in a day, it was
a long time fostering itself firmly upon him,
but ere he knew it, it was a spell around
him, which he coald not break.
Eva Stanley gave herself up to the charm
of his presence, without other thougat or
care than to enjoy just 80 much of his soci-
ety, and be just as near to him as possible.
She considered every moment lost when she
was not in his presence, and grew impa-
tient of every interruption of their long and
bewildering interviews. She lived entirely
apart from the world, though in the wildest
rush, and for him, and him alone. Ske
grew to have no life, no being but in his,
and, yet, she lost no particle of her own in-
dividuality , if she bad, his interests in her
would have ceased, as strangely as it had
begun.
When such a man as Herbert Audley
loves, it was as different from the common
loves of commen men, as rare old wines,
from a viotagé a thousand years agone, is
different from the products of last year’s
vines. And a strong bewildering passion
for Eva Stanley took possession of his heart,
with a hold which could never be loosed or
weakened. The days sped by them like
one bewildering dream, and the hours were
all drowned in goblets of love.
So little did the commonplaces of life en-
ter into this strange absorbing passion, that
no words of love were ever passed between
them ; nor did they ever dream that such a
thing wus necessary. Each knew the oth-
er's heart as if they had read it from an
open scroll, and each one was content with
the knowledge, and did not care to profane
it by putting it into common speech.
The bright dream had gone on for weeks,
and Eva had been so given up to it, that, of
the outer world she had almost lost her
cognizance, when oue evening her Uncle
George spoke to her as she came out of her
room, and she stopped half impatiently ;
for she was going to mect Ilerbert, to hear
what he bad to say.
“ Put on your hat and mant e, Eva, and
go out with me this evening.”
Oh, Uncle George, I have not time to-
night 1”?
“Eva there was never a moment before
when you had not a moment to spare to
Uncle George.”
* Well but it’s different now.”
*YesI know it’s different mow. Your
life is no longer a life by itself, it flows like
a river inte the ocean of another person’s.
You are too much given up to this Eva. I
am sorry to see it.”
“ Why sorry Uncle George ?”
* Because I fear something may happen
from it, which will bring you only sorrow.
It is a fearful thing to place all one’s life
in another person’s. keeping—to bave no
other hope or promise, or blessing—but
what comes of connection with that person.
Think Eva, of the possibilities of sorrow
which lie in such a love, and guard your-
self a little more. lave some aims and
purposes, and joy in life aside from this—
then if any stroke should fall upon this ab-
sorbing love, it would not be so terrible.”
©“ What do you mean Uncle George ?—
What can possibly bappen between Iler-
bert and 12”
“That which happens to all.
might seperate you.
Eva put ber hand to her bead with a
quick pang, and shivered from head to foot
as she murmered :
“0 my God! Uncle George I have never
thought of that.”
“ There are other things as bad {as that,
Eva ; the object of your love may prove un-
worthy—is not this thought as terrible as
the other 2’ “And Uncle George took her
hand in his, and looked into her eyes.
“ No, Uncle George ; for thereis no possi
bility of that ; that is something which I
shall never have to dread, thank God !”
* Come out with me this evening, Eva, I
wish very much to have you go with me.”
*“ Where are you going, Uncle ?”’
‘To see a yeung girl about your age.’,
“ One of your numerons protegees 2”
“ Yes ; a young girl who I discovered by
accident, and who interests me more than
any one else I ever met. It will sadden
you, Eva, more than anything you have ev-
er seen. You know the ways of society,
Eva, toward a woman who, in their lan-
guage, has fallen. You know how she is
scorned, avoided and persecuted, even unto
death; you know also how the deceiver,
the base, demon-hearted betrayer, is treated.
You know that no mark of disapprobation is
ever bestowed upon him; no frowns greet
him, even upon the faces of the most sane-
timonious—that is, if he has wealth and po-
sition. You know the. world takes him to
its arms, and, if it does not applaud, cer-
tainly does not cendemn, What do you
think of all this, Eva ?”
“That it is the rankest and most wicked
injustice that eyer cries to heaven for ven-
gence. That any person who would con-
demn the victim and uphold the betrayer,
deserves the judgments of heaven in the
most fearful degree.”
* Brave words, my darling. You are one
of the few women worthy of the name. And
what do you think a young girl should do,
who had given her love unconsciously to
such a demon, and who should afterwards
discover his villainy 1”,
«Death
© *“That she should tear her own heart up
by the roots, and trample it witn a malison
upon the ground, if she could get rid of her
love in no other way.” A
“This is the place.”” And Uncle George
opened the door of a little cottage in the
outskirts of the town, and entered. Eva
followed him into a little room, where, npon
a low bed, lay a young girl, fair as a water
lily, with eyes of radiant, mouraful beauty.
Nestled closely to her breast was a little
babe but a few weeks old, and an aged wo-
man, with the most heart-broken look ever
seen upon a human countenance, completed
the picture.
Uncle George asked the young gir),
whom he called Fanny Clements, to tell her
story to Eva, who ‘sat shuddering almost as
ifan ague. It sas the old story, which
sad young hearts are telling all over the
world, and which angels are busy writing
down in volumes of white and gold, and
blotting with their tears—the story which
‘| has become so common that the world does
not perceive its infinite sadness, and which
many, even with kind hearts, dismiss with
but a single expression of pity. She told
of days of careless girlhood, when, though
poor, she was as gay and happy as a lark;
of gentle nurture and careful culture in her
humble home, and of all the innocent pleas-
ures and delights of early and careless hfe.
Then, how a stranger came with winning
words ‘and subtle smiles, and won a place
for himsgH in her hedrt. Of how gently he
had wooed, and how fondly she had loved
of how bewilderingly he had tempted, and
how trustingly she had fallen into his
snares. Then of the desertion, and all the
after-misery which had worn her young life
almost away, and broken the heart of a do-
ting mother.
Eva wept burning tears from a heart
overflowing with sympathy, and her uncle
stole lis arm gently round her waist, and
took her hand in his, as in a husky voice,
almost choked with emotion, he asked the
girl to tell them the name of her betrayer.
As if every syllable had a thrill of heart-
break in it, she murmured * Herbert Aud-
ley.”
With one shriek, which it seemed would
sever the cords of her life asunder, Eva
Stanley sank her head upon her uncle’s
shoulder; and threw her arms frantically
about his neck. She did not faint ; she lay
thene perfectly conscious, but as motionless
as marble; and when her uncle pressed her
close to his great warm heart, and imprint-
ed a thouszad passionate kisses upon her
lips, she was icy cold in his embrace. Ile
took her home and watched by her bedside
all that night. She did not speak or move,
but lay there with ber eyes wide open, and
her hands pressed hard against her heart.
The next day, she rose up calm, but she did
not leave her room ; and her uncle sat in
the room and talked to her of his plans for
the future ; of how he had taken the young
girl and her child to his heart, and how
from his Kindness to her she had learned to
love him; of how he was going to make her
his wife before the world, and protect her
from its taunts and sneers, by his own
strong arm ; of how bappy they would be
in a cozy cottage-home he told of ; and how
the fatherless child should find a father in
him, and the young girl a father and hus-
band.
Eva listened to all this, and called him
her great-hearted, glorious uncle, and sym-
pathized in all his plans for their future
comfort and happiness—bat all in a perfect-
ly mechanical manner, and with the very
blood around her heart seeming to freeze
all the time. . She was benumbed and fro-
zen by her great sorrow, and seemed not
to have a moiety of life left in her veins.
She passed a week in this way, sending
back no answer tothe rejected and half
frantic messages of 127 3ft Audley; and
then she yielded to the solicitations of her
uncle, and dressed to go down to the parlor
one evening. They took their places bg a
bay-window, which opened upon the colon
nade, and stood half screened from abserva-
tion. © But Herbert Audley felt that she was
in the room and came toward her at once.
Ile put out his hand toward Eva, but she
drew back as {rom a serpent, and retreated
another step as be advanced.
“ Eva—Fva Stanley, what does this
mean 2’ The tone was full of a reproach-
ful tenderness, which went through her
heart like an arrow. She drew herself up
with a scorn that was perfectly regal,.and
with a voice which was the essence of con-
temptuous bitterness, answered :
* It means sir, that I wish to have noth-
ing further to do with so honorable a gen-
| tleman as Mr. Audley. Never dare to
speak to me again, sir; never lovk at me—
to think of me. I consider sir from this
moment, that I never met you, never heard
your name—don’t attempt to answer me,.—
Good night sir.” And she turned with an
air of imperial disdain, and was about to
walk away, when Herbert Audley grasped
ber quickly by the arm, and gasped out:
“For God's sake Eva Stanley, tell me
what this means?”
“ Ask the young girl whose innocence
you have betrayed ; whose life you have
blighted ; whose heart you have broken
what it means sir. Ask Fanny Clements;
ask the victim of your wiles, and her help-
loss child and broken hearted mother.”
« What infamous deception is this, what
infernal falsehoods have some demons been
inventing ?"
er remote from the light.
“ No demons have invented this sir,”
spoke up Uncle George ; *“ we have the sto-
ry from the lips of the young girl herself—
as pure and truthful a girl as ever was de-
ceived.”
* Come with me to her instantly.” And
before either of them could say a word fur
ther be hurried them from the room, and
nothing more was spoken till they entered
the cottage door. Ilerbert Audley advan-
ced into the room and the rest followed. —
The invalid gave no signs of recognition
toward the stranger, and after a moment’s
pause, he asked her to look him in the face
and tell them if she had ever saw him be-
fore. She did so, and replied unhesitating-
ly—
“ No »
IIe turned proudly toward Eva and her
uncle, and they both held out their hands to
bim, and Kva’s head sank in his bosom.
* The infamous scoundrel has made ure
of your name or, possibly owns cane like it,”
said Uncle George, comprehending the
whole thing. * Thank Gud, old friend,
thank God !”
When Eva and Herbert Audley were once
moro in the air, and alone, he whispered to
ber with his thrilling voice : y
“Eva will you ever deubt me again?”
“ Never, Herbert, God helping me.”
“ And you are my Eva.”
“Yours always.”—New York Mercury.
VOTED IT UPSIDEDOWIN,
We have heard of a good story, told by a
son of Erin’s Isle, which is worth repeat-
ing :
Some two years ago there was quite a
struggle between two certain prominent
Democrats of Weaverville, as to which
should go as delegate to the State Conven-
tion. The evening prior to holding the
County Convention, Judge ~ and
Squire J , each had brllots printed-
with the names of their {friends upon them.
The Judges delegates were beaten, and be-
fora retiring he consoled himself by loading
his bat with bricks. Next morning, in good
senson ; acting upon the principle that “a
hair of the dog is good for the bite.” Justas
he called for the decoction, B lly McBlarney
stepped into the saloon and saluted the
Judge, when the following dialogue en.
sued : 4
“The top of 0’ the morning to ye Judge.
And the moutherin’ thaves bate us intirely
—the curse o’ the world light on them.”
“Good morning, Billy. Yesthe Squire
was rather heavy. But Isay Billy, I under-
stand you voted against me. How is that?”
“'Biliy McBlarney voted against ye.
The lying spalpeens | By me sowl, Judge
I'd ratner have my whisitey stopped for a
year than to do that same thing.”
“What ticket did you vote, Billy.”
*“ And sure I voted the ticket with yer
honor’s name on the top uv it.”
* Bat, Billy, my name was last on the
list—at the bottom.”
This was rather a puzzler to Billy, he
scratched his head, for an instant, then sud-
denly exclaimed:
“ Bad luck what a fool T am !
ticket upside down \”?
The Judge immediately ordered an eye
opener for Billy; he bad fairly beat him on
the examination. —Thinity ( Cal.) Journal.
1 voted my
rato SE
A Fussy Casf.—An amusing case was
heard before U. 8. Commissioner Ilvyne, at
Chicago, on Saturday, growing out of a
strange similarity of nawies, Brown vs.
Brown.. The plaintiff, one James Brown
complained of the defendant, another James
Brown, that he had taken a letter out of the
post office, which was the property of the
plaintiff, James Brown, and no way be-
longed to the defendant, James Brown.
Defendant set up that the letter was from
Buffalo, that he expected a letter from there,
that the letter was from Mary Brown, who
was his wife, and he had a right to take the
letter and open it under this state of facts.
Plaintiff insisted that the letter was from
his wife, Mary Brown. It turned out that
both parties had wives living in Buffalo,
whose names were each Mary Brown and
that the affair was a clear mistake. The
Commissioner dismissed the complaint.
—— eel Ge
How a Mops? MaN was Misrakex.—The
Syracuse Standard says: In Lowell, ata
lecture a few evenings since, a gentleman,
the mest modest of his eex, and no less po-
lite than modest, was setting in @ pew rath-
A pretty lady sat
next'to him. Looking at the floor during
the lecture, he espied what he thought was
the lady’s bandkerchief, the lace trimmed
edge just visible under her dress, Turning
to his pew mate he gallantly whispered,
“You have dropped your handkerchief,
madam !” before she could reply, he pro-
ceeded to pick it up. Ilorror! he had seiz-
ed the edge of her pet— skirt, and did not
discover his nmiistake until the top of » gait-
er boot stared him in the face, and the faint
sound of a laugh just nipped in the bud by
the application ofa real handkerchief, warn-
ed him of his mistake. Moral—Don’t at-
tempt fo pick up anything with lace to i
before you know what it is. :
A tins
[7 ‘Pa, didn’t T hear you say the other
day that you wanted a cider press ¥ °°
‘Yes, daughter, where can Iget one ?’
‘Why, you try Zeke Stokes ; he hugged
mo the other evening at the party, and I tell
you he made me grunt’ }
LETTER FROMHAY OR JACK DOWN-
W asHindTof, Oct 20, 1862.
Surs . Wal, the Kernel has been fick
agin. It is astonishing how littel takes him
down, now-a-days His constitushin secms
to be eenamost gone. Old Rye don’t seem
to do much’ good, an I've tried all sorts of
medicen, but nothin seems to work well. —
This time his narves were terribully worked
up, an he was so fidgety that 1 conkluded
to try Godfrey's Cordial. This cobled him
down a good deal but not until he tuk nigh
on to four or five bottles full. The cause of
all this flutter was the recent elections in
Ohio, Lndianny an Pennsylyany. The Ker
nel had been told oy Suwmnure, Greeley an
Andrews that the only way to carry thé
elecshins this fall was to issoo an emanci-
pation proclamation ; that if he didn’t do it
the party would be completely whipped out
in every State. So he koncluded to try it,
but when the returns cum in, yer never did
see such a woe begone looking man. One
nite he heard some bad news from Ohio, an
gettin up in his nite gown, he cum to my
room an axed what I thought about it. 1
struck a light and got out my slate. * The
Kernel had Greeley's last year’s almanac in
his hands. Ses he, ‘Mujer, lets go down to
the telegraf offis and see how the majorities
run an we can be able to give a guess that
will cum as nigh to it as the jump of a rab
bit.” So 1 jist put on my duds an off we
went, The news cum in thick an fast, an
as the feller at the telegrafread off’ the fi_-
gers, 1 put em down on my slate, an the
Kernel compared them with his own majori-
ties in Greeley's primmer. 1 seed he was
turnin ell sorts of colors, an finally, ses he,
‘Majer, we are gone just as kompletely as if
we were up Salt River now instead of bein
here, de jest like to swap places with sum
hoss jockey an go into the hoss contract
line.” Ses he, ‘Majer, let’s go hum, I've
scen all of this elephant that I want to,” so
he crammed his coat tail pocket full of de-
spatches, an off we started. When he got
hum, ses he, ‘Majer, my administration is
the biggest failyure that ever tuk place in
the history of this or eny other country. 1
now see as plain a9 1 see that bottle of old
rye there. I've listened to those infernal
fools, Sumnur an Greeley an a pretty scrape
they have got me in.’
Ses I, ‘Kernel, it ain't my natur to hit a
man wen he is down, or to hurc any body's
feelins by referrin to the past.’ ‘But,’ res
I, ‘don’t you rekollect the story about “Ap-
plyin the Principle ¥’. Ses ke, ‘yes 1 do,
Majer, I rokollect it well. «Wal,' ses I
‘now you'sce the result of applyin no. prin-
ciple. 1 told you then that you'd ge
scorched wus than Zenas Hunspun aid in
meddlin with the/telegraf, if you undertook
to carry out the principle of abolishin, but
you sed the thing must tech the bettous an
you was bound tc put it through. Now,
you see, the people don’t support you.—-
They don't want em freed to be a tax on em.
A few fellers like Greeley, whose brains
seem to run to bran bread, and free luv, or
some other moonstruck nousetise; an some
larned fools, like Sumnure, want fo try the
experiment, but they don’t represent the
people. So you see, Kernel, that inapplyin
the principle you have kicked yoursdlf over,
an T only menshin it to show that if yuu
had followed my advice you would not have
had these great defeats to monrn over.’
The Kernel looked very solemn, and ses
he, ‘Majer, I know Ide bee & great deal
Letter off if I'd followed your advice all thro’
ihese troubles, but yon see I had to go with
my party, an if it carried me to the other
ide of Jordon, I spose I should have gone
whit,
That nite I thought the Kernel would go
into spasins, he was so nervous. I got sum
hot water an soaked his, feet in it, rubbed
his bowels with brandy. and laid flannt! on
em, un bathed bis temples in camfire and
rum. But he grew wus all the time. Fi
nally T began to pour the cordial down him,
an then he commenced to revive, But he
didn’t sleep scarcely a wink all nite. In
the morning he was the most limpsy piece
of mankind T ever did see. I ralely believe
he might have been tied in a knot like an
acl, he was so limber.
Jest a little while after breakfast, who
should come in but Seward. He hadu't
hardly spoken to me sence I blowed him up
so for a tearing the Kern I's Constitushinal
Teliskope, but this morning he was as per-
lite an as clever as he could be, Ses he.
“Majer, the elecshin news is good, and OUR
party is successful.’ Ses 1, “Mr. Seward, I
don’t understand you.” ‘Why, Majer sts
he, an put on one of the queerest swiles 1
ever seen on a man’s face, ‘don’t you know
1 have turned Democrat.” Ses I, ‘you don’t
say so.” ‘Yes,’ ses he, ‘I'm a Democrat
now, an no mistake,” The Kernel looked as
if thunder had struck him. Wall, ses I.
‘Mr. Seward, that reminds me of a story, as
the Kernel would say.’ ‘Wal,’ Séshe, ‘Ma-
jer, what is it. 1 always like to hear your
stories. They are pat.” ‘Wal, ses 1, ‘meb.
by this will tain out a little patter than you
like, but, howsoever, as I never spile a good
story fur acquaintance sake, [will tell it :—
Once on & time it 18 said an old coon went
of a nite to get some fodder among the corn
fislds, an did not return to his hole till near
wornin. When he got hum he saw a skunk
bad taken possession of his hole. Ilo went
up, an ses he, ‘who's there © The skunk
replied, ‘a coon.” ‘Are you a coon ?’ ‘Yes,’
said the skunk, ‘I'm a coon. ‘Wal,’ sed
»
the coon, ‘You don’t look like a coon, you
don’t act like a coon, an L'll be darned of
you smell like a coon.’
* Now,’ ses I, ‘Mr. Seward, you may be a
Democrat, but you don’t look like one, nor
act like one, nor smelllike one, an T'11 fo
darned ef 1 believe you are one.’ ’
Ses he, ‘Major, you are rather perdous!’
‘Wal,’ ses [, ‘I don't mean eny ofle
ses I, ef yon really mean to be a Den
let's take a drink of old rye over the v
tics mn Ohio, Pennsylvany and Indianuy
Soh cam ap and we both" took a good swig
of whiskey, The Kernel looked at us, an
grit his teeth. *Wal,’ ses he, ‘ef yor
zoin to rjoice in my defeat I'll go
call un Stanton an see ef he'ean’t che
up.’ A
gone, Sewa d an 1 tuk another
old rye, an purty soon we fasted of ;
The Secretary is a capital drinker, and he
knows what good licker is as well
feller T ever saw. Finally he gat in a good
tumer, an ses he, ‘Majer, we'v¢ been bad
friends long enough.’ So Le actually hued
me an sed there warnt & man tha! ever lived
that he loved so much as the old
and next to him his friend Majer Downing.
When 1 thovght T had got hian in a good i:
mcr an he was very talkative, ses I, “M;
Scckretary, kin you tell me how John Van
Buren got that letter from Gianeral Scott ¥'
Ses he, ‘Yes, Majer, IT kin. You know
don’t want that teller Wadsworth clecied
for he's my bitter political dnemy, so tho
way the letter got ont was this.
Weed you know is my. chun,
have an understandin that everything that |
can’t tell him T pat inamy right hand cos:
tail pocket. You see then Tecan deny {
made it public. That pocket
pocket, and he always goes to it [or secrets.
he had
£5 t,
: a
So the Kernel went oft.
#3 eny
Ginnera!
Now wg
is Weed's
Wall I put the letter in that pocket an
Weed got it from there, Weed, also, has
just such a pocket. All smart politicians
have such a pocket. Now, Weed's cham is
Ben Welch, Cominissary Giuneral, an Ben
got it out of Weed’s povket. Now,
has long been a chum of Ben’s, and he got
it out of Ben's pocket. That's the way tl
this letter got out, that there is so much
mystery about. '
Rite off, after this, the Keenel came in, an
we had to drop the conversation, for &
gave me the wink as much as to say tha
d dn’t want Linkin to know anything about
it.
Then 1 asked the Kernel what
sed. He sed Stantin was iu favor of |
ing a proclamation, over the great
of the administration in Ohio,
Pennsylvania an Ioway.
Joha
Stantin
Indizny.
He sed the paople
didn’t put any faith in newspapers eny
more, an a proclamashin declarin that the
elecshing had all gone fivorabul woul
believed withont winkin. Stanton iS
there aint nothin as powerful as a prociama-
shin. Seward sed afore it was done,
Cabbynet had better be called together. —
Here the matter dropped, an as the
looked oncommon blue, T left him to his
own reflecshinsaan went up stairs to ry
room. Yours till deth,
Masor Jaci Dowxiya,
» eB OB rem *
HOW & LAWYER HEADED OFF A
DRAFT COMILISSICNEER.
bo
the
Horned
Sass the Reading (Pa.) Times—1t is well
known that Commissioner Kupp was very
precise and exact in his proceedings : al
ways keeping an eye to th¢ interests of the
country, while dealing honorably with all
Now it happened. that among the abicbad
ied men drafted from one of the Heideiberss
there was an obese specimen of humanity,
but whom the chanzes hit as one of the
elect. When he received his “ticket (or
soup,” he hastened to Reading, and now.
ing where lived the cutest specimen of a
lawyer, he went straight to his offic. If
said :
$ I'm drafted U7
+: The deuce you dre ; it wust Faye Loon
a strong man that drafted you !'’
«Well, I'm drafted, and I want to «i
out. Can’vanarch. I'll pay youu well.”
¢ Very well.” >
The twain proteedel to the offic of thn
Comm’ssioner.
«¢ Here,” said the lawyer,
er. [ have got a substitute,
Commissioner hoked at the wheeay spec
imen for som? time. “He won't do ; een’:
march.”
« But he must do,” bhisterad out the law
ver ; ‘and you know he will.” :
“Me can’t march ; he won’! do ;
can’t take him.”
This was what our smart lawyer want.
ed. :
[Te won’t do, eh 2”
‘ No, he won't.”
¢ Well, then, scratch his names off of the
list 5 ke is a drafted man, and warts toh
exempted I” ?
The Commissioner looked at’ the lawyer
for absut a ‘minute ; then regarded the fu
draft, and, without speaking a word serat h
ed cff his name ! :
We don’t voush'for the furegoiug
177 A Banger paper says that a pig lately
walked into a tailor’s shop there, and beory
he was notic:d by the proprietor, made « his
way toward the cutting buard—att luo
doubt by the smell of “‘cabbage’’ in
cality.
“Llommission.
and |
(
GO eee
175= A pedlir being asked by a long, won
dle-shanked wag, if he had any tin ovurdlls,
answered, ‘No, but I have a paiv candle
moulds that will just fit you.’ |