Fir til Agitator.
“It does not Pay.”
AbeMcMmah tfllb'sHvery hair,' 'i
A palsied hpnd arid l)Tow of;cani,; j; .
Sale in theshs'de pn a •““>“*'“!? f; ■ ■ ,
Arid (ie'Musingly raid srtihftebW dll'—
**u ioet'nrit pay 1 -I’’ 1 ’’ ■'
Tit veiirttie hadtriiiMd hi thb wtldttirinoi!
Of-Buriy lltti riftd with tattW toll
Ba'd battled many a.wcdfy.day; .
Andeyerthoworld waj(atiif bit ftil—
It dIS not pay. ( ' . ' |
P»rtner« Had'urindlpd and friend* betrayed j .
Those he had succored refined their' aid,
. When arfyerte'MlWnb rode dver'the'way.
Ife Onlysaid aahe sst in the
u li dodsnot priy ft
Ho bltlMll* Irirkeddn file Old (ntnV
Btk¥cly and" well hehgd played hie part
In the game of life, and well might-say.
At he backward looted on the troubled chart—
“It doee not pay!"
Ucrtfully, peacefully sate'b* there,
The thin, white hair,
Or tb'to' (ho leaves did whUperirigly play}
Be only said With'* IrriobWd air—
••lt dries ntil t»y r
Eighty summers their Mosstmirhad shed,
Eigbfcy wWrter* had whrteried hit beaid s
Be trailed Bis summons day by day j
“Life is a feverish dream,’ he raid,—,
"ft docs not pay !"’ <5. W. Saaks.
Fir thf ytgU'alßT.
Hope’* Whispering*.
BT MIKt.
A child had broken it* glittering toy,
And'lhis sadden grief hod damped its joy;
But Hope flitted past and raid, as she smil'd,
“Thou shall have a belter to-tn or row, child.”
O'er the pages doll of a tiaCsorrie book,
An nreliin was poring with weary look:
But hope eheeringly whispered, “why so sad 7
Thou shall play to-morrow, cheer up my lad.”
The student while burning the midnight oil,
Was ncllishly saying, “Why thus tpil ?"
Cried Hope in his ear, “Thou Shalt gain a name.
Thou shalt wear on thy brow the wreath of Fame.”
A 'youth had been jihed by a coquette,
His heart from tove’s arrow was bleeding yet;
Hone'said in bland tones, “Away with sorrow !
Thv bride ahe shall be, and that to-morrow.”
Despondingly sat a care-wofn man.
Who had struggled lung under Fortune's ban ;
Hope spake but these words, from care he was free,
'To-morrow the goddess shall eraile on thee,”
On hie dying couch lay tire aged sire,
Yet Hope hovered near his heart to inspire ;
•“Ah, Hope, thy cheer to me has been ram i n
■•Not so said Hope, “thou shall live again.”
SELMf MrSCELUNY.
From Diclcen't Houtekold War (it
TWO NEPHEWS.
At the parlor window of a pretty villa near
Walton-on-Thames sat, one evening at dusk,
an old man and a young woman. The age
of the man might be some seventy ; while
his companion had certainly not reached
nineteen. Her beautiful, blooming face and
active, light and upright figure were in strong
contrast with the worn countenance and bent
frame of the old man ; hot in his eye, and
in the corners of his mouth were indications
of a gay self-confidence, which age and suf
fering had damped, but not extinguished.
■No use looking anymore Mary,’ said he;
•neither John Meade nor Peter Finch will be
here before dark. Very hard that, when a
sick uncle asks his two nephews to come and
see him, they can'l come at once. The duty
n simple in ihe extreme, —only to help me 10
die, and take what I choose to leave them in
mv will ' Pooh ! when I was s young man,
I’d have done it for my uncle with the utmost
celenu. Bui the world’s getting quite heart
ies;, '
‘Oh, Sir!’ said Mar}
‘And whai docs ‘Oh, Sir!’ mean ?’ aaid
nt. ‘D'ye think I sha’n’l die’ I know bet
let. A little more, and there’ll be an end of
old Billy Collett. He’ll have left this dirty
world for a cleaner —to the great sorrow (and
advantage! of his affectionate relatives !
Ugh . Give me a glass of (he doctor’s
slur
The girl poured some medicine into a glass,
and Collett, after having contemplated it for
a moment with infinite disgust, managed to
gel it down
‘1 tell you whal, Miss Mary Sutton,” said
ne, ‘I don’t by any means approve of your
‘Oh, Sir and ‘Dear Sir,’ and the rest of it,
when I've told you how I hale to be called
Sir at al.. Why you couldn’t be more res
pectful If you were a charity girl and I a
beadle in a gold-laced hat I None of your
nonsense, Mary Sutton, if you please. I’ve
been vourlawftil guardian now for six months,
and vou ought to know my likings and dis
liktnet.
“My poor father often told me how you
disliked ceremony,’ said Mary.
•Your poor father told you quite right,’
said Mr. Collet., ‘Fred Sutton was a man
of talent—a capital fellow ! His only fault
was a natural inability to keep a farthing in
his pocket. Poor Fred I he loved me —I’m
sure he did. He bequeathed me his only
chilo—and it isn’t every friend who would
do that ’
‘A kind and generous protector you have
been ’
'Well, I don’t know; I've tried not to be a
brute, but I dare say I have been. Don’t I
speait roughly to you sometimes I Haven’t
1 given you good, prudent worldly advice
about John Meade, and made myself quite
disagreeable, and like a guardian I Come,
coniess your love this penniless nephew of
mine.'
'Penniless indeed !’ said Mary.
•Ah, there it is !’ said Mr. Collett. 'And
what business has a poor devil of an artist to
fall in love with my ward 1 And what busi
ness has my ward to fall in love with a poor
devil of an artist? But that’s Fred Sutton’s
daughter all over! Hav’n’t I two nephews 7
Why couldn’t you fall in love with (he dis
creet one-the thriving one 7 Peter Finch
considering he’s an attorney —is a worthy
young man. He is monstrious in the ex
treme, and attends to other people’s business
only when he’s paid for it. He despises sen
ttmenl, and always looks to the main chance.
But John Meade, my dear Mary, may spoil
canvas for ever and not grow rich. He’s all
for art, and truth, and social reform, and
spiritual elevation, and the Lord knows what.
Peter Finch will ride in his carriage, and
splash phot Jofin Meade as he trudges on
fool!’
The harangue was here interrupted by a
ting at the gate, and Mr. Peter Finch was
announced. He bad scarcely taken his seat
* nen another pull at the bell was heard, and
John Meade was announced,
J : i•:!-* ,t! !,.,i i
v«.
‘.■-...1..- 1 .< j w -H >' vf 1 i'-'\ - ,-..-u.Ul,.i i'Mj iu..u .u.lljj '
COBB, BTHRROGK & CO.,
VOL. 2.
Mr. Collett eyed his two nephews with a
queer sort of Smile, while they’mSde speech
es Expressive of sorrow at the nature tif their'
visit.. At last, stopping them. " ‘
“Enough, boys. EnOUgh!’ ‘Let ns find
soma better subject to discuss than the state
of an old man’s health. I wanrto ktfdw a
little more about you bbth. i hS'v’h't seen
much of you uj> to tlie'presepf tlritb, add, for
anything I knbW,- jldU hahy 1 be rogties 6>
fools.* . • ’’
John Meade secnped rather to wince under
this address ; but Pkelr Finch sat calra and
confident. •• • .
•To put a case now, ’ said Mr v Collett ; ‘this
morning a poor wretch of'ft gardener dame
begging Here. He could' gel nb Wo r rk,it
seems, and said he was starving. Well, 1
knew something about'the' felloW, and I be
lieve he only told the truth; so I gave him a
shilling, to get rid of him. Now, I’m afraid
I did wrong. What reason had 1 for giving
him a shilling I What claim had he on
What claim has he oh anybody I The val*
ue of his labor in the market is all that a
working man htfs a right to; and when'his
labor is of no value, why then he must go to
the Devil or wherever else he can. Eh, Pe
ter 1 Thai’s ray philosophy—What do you
think V
•I quite agree with you, Sir,’ said Mr.
Finch; ‘perfectly agree with you. The val
ue of their labor in the market is all that la
borers can pretend to —all that (hey should
have. Nothing acts more perniciously than
the absurd extraneous support called char*
ity.’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Mr. Collett. ‘You’re a
clever fellow, Peter. Go on, my dear boy,
go on I’
‘What results from charitable aid V con
tinued Peter. ‘The value of labor is kept at
an unnatural level. Stale charity is state
robbery : private charity is public wrong.’ 1
‘That’s it, Peter!’ said Mr. Collett. ‘What
do you think of our philosophy, John I’
‘I don’t like It ! I don’t believe it!’ said
John. ‘You were quite right to give the man
a shilling : I’d have given him a shilling my
self.’
‘Oh, you would—would you 1’ said Mr.
Collett. ‘You’re very generous with your
shillings. Would you fly in the face of all
orthodox political economy, vou Vandal!’
‘Yes,’ said John: ‘as the Vandals flew in
the face of Rome and destroyed what had
become a falsehood and a nuisance.’
‘Poor John I’ said Mr. Collett. ‘Wo shall
never make anything of him, Peter. Really,
we’d better talk of something else. John,
(ell us about Ihe last new novel.’
They conversed on various topics until the
arrival of the invalid’s early bedtime parted
uncle and nephews for the night.
Mary Sutton seized an opportunity the
next piuming after breaktasl to speak with
John Meade alone.
‘John,’ said she, ‘do think more of your
o<vn interest —of our interest. What occas
ion for you to be so violent, last night, and
conljadict Mr. Collett so shockingly ? I
saw Peter Finch laughing to himself. John,
you must be more careful, or we shall never
be married.’
‘Well, Mary dear, I’ll do my best,’ said
John. ‘lt was that confounded Peter, with
his chain of iron maxims, that made me fly
out. I’m not an iceberg, Mary.’
‘Thank heaven, you’re not I’ said Mpry ;
‘but an iceberg floats—think of that, John. —
Remember—every time you offend Mr. Col
lett, you please Mr. Finch.’
‘So Ido !’ said John. ‘Yes ; I’ll remem
ber that.’
‘lf you would only try to be a little mekn
and hard-hearted,’ said Mary ; ‘just a little,
to begin with. You would only sloop to con
quer, John —and you deserve to conquer.’
‘May I gain my deserts, then !” said John.
‘Are you not to be my loving wife, Mary 7”
And arc you not to sit at needle-work in my
studio while I paint my great historical pic
ture? How con this come to pass if Mr. Col
let will do nothing for us?’
‘Ah, how indeed V said Mary. ‘But here’s
our friend Pete? Finch,‘coming through the
gate from his walk. 1 leave you together.’
And so saying, she withdrew,
‘What, Meade!’ said Peter Finch, as ha
entered. ‘Skulking in doors on a fine morn
ing like this! I’ve been all through the vil
lage. Not an ugly place—but wants look
ing after sadly. Roads shamefully muddy I
Pigs allowed to walk on the fool path !’
‘Dreadful!’ exclaimed John.
‘I say—you come out pretty strong last
night," said Peter. ‘Quite defied the. old
man! But I like your spirit.’
'I have no doubt you do, 1 thought John.
'Oh, when I was a youih, I was a little
that way myself,’ said Peter. ‘But the world
—the world, my dear Sir—soon cures us of
all romantic notions. I regret, of course, to
see poor people miserable; but what’s the
use of regretting? It's no part of the busi
ness of the superior classes'to interfere with
the laws of sppply and demand ; poor people
must he miserable. What can’t be cured
must be endured.
‘That is to say,’ returned John, ‘what we
can’t cure, they must endure.’
‘Exactly so,’ said Peter.
Mr. Collett this day was too ill to leave his
bed. About noon he rexuesled to see his
nephews in his bedroom. They found'him
propped up by pillows, lookmgvery weak,
but in good spirits, os usual.
•Well, boys,’ said he, ‘here I am, you,see*
brought to an anchor at last! The doctor
will be herfi soon, I suppose, to shake his
head and write recipes. Humbug, tnyb&ys I
Patients can do ns much for themselkes, I
believe, as doctors can do for them; they’re
all in the dark together—the onlydiffbrence
is that the patients grope in English, and the
doctors grope in Latih I’’
5!l )
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.rVj'^yVf"^ r. i_k_, 2 ‘ : "''' ° s*<'im-j;. -/r %■)
“J■ ■ l *.».,- .• *,!*/}<> t HV. ;ir . " M * ‘
; ‘Vou are lob,aKeplioat,'. John
M?ii,dp., . ... '
‘Pooh ! said Mr. Collotl. Let- m change
the subject, i want your -advice, Peter and
John, on a fhatier lhit fcoribbtns VoUrihle
rests. I’m going' th; sofc'ip l y l “yujlf tp-dpy—
ana I dooU.kflfiw'how .to act- pbout.-y.bur
cousin, Emma-Brigg*. tuEmmadisgracedus
by dilrta’ni ,, " : - ■■-■ t ■-
/Afa'pijijiait^^!^eilcjtfinietf,'Jph)i;,. , '
•A Vulgar, shpckingo.ilwW■!*.iaj4&r.'(Jol
iet* la.wreich, who nqtpiilysold pi|,.buieoap,
candles, turpentine,. black-lead, and„ birch
brooms.' ...it; was-a, dreadful blow |otbe/amit
ly- Herpoor grandmother never got-oyer it,
and.a maiden aunt turned Methodist in despair;
Well! Brigga the oilman died last weeki.il
seerrts ; aad his-widow has -written to-me,
asking for assistance. Now, 1 have thought
of leavingiher'a hundred a-year in'fny will.
What do you think of it T I’m afrqjd she
don’t deserve it. What right had sVie to mar
ry agajnsl, the advice of hef. friends'? What
have 1 to do with her misfortunes?’
, ‘My mind is quite made up,* said Peter
Pinch, no notice ought to be, taken of,’tier.
She made an obstinate qnd unworthy match
-—and .let her abide the consequences I”
‘Now lor your opinion, John,’, said Mr.
Collotl.
‘Upon my word, 1 Ihiok I say the
same,’ said Johp Meade, bracing himself up
boldly fur the part of the worldly man.
‘What right bad, she to marry—as you ob
served with great justice, Sir? Let her
abide the consequences—as you very properly
remarked, Finch. Don’t she carry on the
oilman’s business ? 1 dare say it will support
her very well.”
‘Why»,'no,’said Mr. Collett J ‘Briggs died
a bankrupt, and his widow and children are
destitute.’
‘That does not alter the question,’ said Pe
ter Finch. ‘Let Brigg’s family do something
for her.’
‘To be sura I’ said Mr. Collett. ‘Brigg’s
family arc the people to (Jo something (or
her. She mustn’t expect anything from us
—must she, John ?”
‘Destitute, is she?’ said John, ‘Withchil
dren, tool Why, this is another case, Sir.
You surely ought to notice her—to assist her.
Confound it, I’m for letting her havo the hun
dred a-year.’
‘Oh, John, John'! "Whaifa break-down I’
said Mr. Collett. ‘So you were trying to fol
low Peter Finch through Stony Arabia, and
turned back at the second step I Here’s n
brave traveler for you, Peter! John, John,
keep to your Arabia Felix, and leave sterner
ways to very different men. 1 Good bye, both
of you, I’ve no voice to tain any more.
I’ll think over all you have said.’.
He pressed their hands, and they left the
room. The old man was too weak to speak
next day, and in three days after (hat he
calmly breathed his last.
Aa soon os Ihe funeral was over the will
was read by the confidential man of business,
who hud always attended to Mr. Collett’s af
fairs. The group -thaljsat around him pre
served a decorous appearance of disinterested
ness ; and the usual-preamble to the will hav
ing been listened to-with breathless attention,
the man of business read the following in a
clear voice:
•I bequeath to my niece, Emma Briggs,
notwithstanding that she shocked her family
by marrying an oilman, the sum of four thou
sand pounds ; being fully persuaded that her
lost dignity, if she could even find it again,
would do nothing to provide her with food, or
or clothing, or shelter.’
John Meade smiled and Peter Finch ground
his teeth—but in a quiet respectable manner.
The. man of business weal on with in*
reading.
'Having always held the opinion that wo
man should be rendered a rational and inde
pendent being—and having duly considered
the fuct that society practically denies her the
right of earning her own living—l hereby
bequeath to Mary Sutton, the only child of
my bid friend Frederick Sutton, the sum of
ten thousand pounds, which will enable her to
marry or to remain single, as she may prefer.’
John Mebde gave a prodigious start upon
hearing this, and Peter Fihch ground his
teeth again—b.ul in,a manner hardly respec
table. Both, however, by a vjolent effort
kept silent.
The man of business went on with his
redding.
•I have paid'some attention to the charac
ter of my nephew, John Meade, and have
been grieved to find him much possessed with
a feeling of philanthropy, and wilh a general
preference for 'whatever is noble and true
over whatever is base ’ and false. As these
tendencies are by no means such as can ad
vance him in the world, 'I bequeath him the
sum of ten thousand pounds—hoping that he
will thus be kepi but of the workhouse, and
be enabled to paint his great historical picture
—which as yet, he has only talked about.
‘flis for my other riephbw, Peter Finch, lie
views all things in so sdgaciobs and selfish a
Way, and is do certain to get on in life, that
I should only insult him by offering an aid
which he does not require; yet, from his af
fectionate uncle, and entirely as a testimony
of admiration for his mental acuteness, I ven
ture to hope that he will accept a bequest of
five hundred pounds toward the completion of
his extensive library ol law books."
How Peter FinOh stormed, and called names
u_how John Meade broke into info a delirium
of joy—}iow Mary Sutton cried first, and
then laughed,'Arid' then cried and laughed to
getber j n|l these matters I shall, not allejnpt
to describe, , Sutton is now Mrs, Xohn
Meade; ,andW, husband has actually begun
the grant .historical picture, Finch has
’ taken (bills, and Bringing ac
tions .0n.%•» ; and drives nbpulin |ii| bfoug
ham already.
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A; CAUtOC T-VLE-*—PKOM Tftß KtISSIA.It.
A tick oilman, who resided aUhepftrem
uy of Ihe cajnp; quite apart .from tbe.reati
bad-three daughter*, theynungest of. wbpm,
darned Kookju.wasi aa Bochdistinguishedfor
hW beauty; of ,for wisdom,
oaiile for iisafe to the Chbnfc market pladeihe
bagged hie daughter* to teH hlin what pres
ents they'wished hirrrtd bring tothemonhfe
reWnii- -: The thio eldest asked him for tfift
kefs, but lfte handsome aird wise Kookjusaid
that she Waited hO'prtsetittibdUHarehe had
»■ requeatto thaVd’Wfiicff itwoutdM'difficult
ahd eVen d%dr»d«T6niim fo execute; hp
on which (fie fatfier. whb loved here 'more
than the other'two, sWore that he would do
her wish, though jt were m the pried of his
life.
“If It be so,” replied'Kookju, “I beg' 'you
do ns follows : Sell all your cable except the
short-tailed ox, and ap po other price for it
except the Chan’s Left Eye.” The old man
was startled ; however, remembering his oath,
'antj, confiding in. his daughter’s wisdom, he
resolved to do as she bade hinq.
After haying sold all his. cattle, and being
asked for the price of the short-tailed ox, he
would sell it for nothing else but the Chan’s
left eye. The report of this, singular end
daring request soon- reached the cars of the
Chan’s courtiers. At first they admoished
him not to use such -an' offensive speech
against (he sovereign; but when (hey found
that he persevered in his strange demand,
they bound him and carried him as a mad
man before the Chan, The old man threw
himself at the Princels feel, and confessed
that his demand had been made at (he request
of his daughter, of whose motives he was to
tally ignorant; and the Chan, suspecting that
■some secret must be hidden under the condi
tion asked, that he would bring him that daugh
ter who had made it.
Kookju appeared, and the Chan asked :
“Why didst Uiou irisfrucflhy father to de
ntand my left 1 fe'yb ?”
“Because I expected, my Prince,'that after
so strange a request, curioshy would urge
thee ,lo send for me.” '
“And wherefore dost thou desire to bee
md?"
“I wish to (ell 'thee a truth important to
thyself and thy people.”
“Name it.”
“Prince,” replied Kookju, when (wo persons
appear before then in a cause, the wealthy
and noble generally stand on the right hand,
whilst the' poor and humble stand on the left.
i uutoVwvJ’lh dvmwre Hjtn ursu umai '
frequently favorest the noble and rich. ' This
is the reason that I persuaded my father to
ask for thy left eye— it being of no use to
thee, since thou never seest the poor and un
protected.”
The Chan, incensed and surprised at the
daring of this maiden, commanded his Court
to try her. The Court was opened, and the
President, who was the eldest Lama, pro
posed that they should try whether her strange
proceedings was the effect of malice, or of
wisdom.
Their first step was to send to Kookju a
log-of wood, cut even, on all sides, ordering
her to find out which was the root and which
the top, Kookju threw it into the water, and
soon knew the answer on.seeing the root
sinking, whilst the lop rose to the surface.
After this they sent her two snakes, in or
der to determine which was a male and which
a female. The wise maiden laid them on cot
ton, and dn seeing (hal one coiled herself up
in a ring, whilst the other crept away, she
judged that (he latter was a male and the for
iher a female.
From these trials the Court was convinced
that Kookju had not offended the Chan from
motives of malice, bpt the inspiration of wis
dom gramedher from above. But not so (he
Chan ; his vanity was'hun, and he resolved
to puzzle her with questions, in order to
prove that she was not 'Wise. He therefore
Ordered her before him, and asked :
“On sending a number of maidens into (he
wood to gather apples, which of them will
bring home most!"
“She,” replied Kookju, “who, instead of
climbing up the trees, remains below, and
picks up those which have fallen off from
maturity or the shaking of the branches.”
The Chan then led her to a fen, and asked
.her which would be the readiest way, to get
over it; and Kookju said, “to cross it would
•be the farthest, going round nearest.” The
Chan felt vexed m the readiness and propri
ety of her replies ; and, after having reflec
ted for some time, he again inquired;-
“Which is the safest means of becoming
known to many 1”
■ “By assisting many that are unknown,’’
“Which is the'surest mbans of always
leading a virtubus^life 7” "
“To begin'every morning with prayed, and
conclude every with a good action.”
“Who is truly wise T” 1 '
“He who does hot belibve himself so.”
“Whatare the requisites of a.good wile?"
“She should be beautiful as n’peahen, gen
tle as a lamb, prudent ns a mouse, just as a
faithful mirror, pure as.the scales of a fish;
she must mourn lor her husband. like a she
camel, and live in her widowhood like a bird
which has lost its wings.”
■ The Ghan was astonished at the wisdom
■of the fairKookju ; yet enraged at her hav
ing reproached him with injustice, he still
wished to destroy her.
Alter a few day he thought ho had found
(he means for attaining his object. Ho sent
for her and psktsd her to determine the true
worth of all his treasures, alter which he
promised absolve her from tndlice in quest
ioning his justice, and admit that she intended
as a wise wdnian, merely to tfafii him.
in «f Jt*
}s
Uf in r v
' : PUBLISHERS -
• v' The-maidep consented* yet under thecon
diiion that the Ghanwouldpromise her implh
cit obedience lb her commands for four days.
She requested that be would dot no food.' du
ringihit tinw, : On lhe lest day she .placed
* di«i? Woj. and , said, ‘son.
fess, O,, phan, lhpt all ihy treasures qrelioi
w as.
: . ,Tbp£w-«j|r.SB. I struck with the
truth o£,her jpimnrk,,t|ial,f>e con/pssed it, ac.
knowledged bet as wis?, married her ; |o his
son, and perrmitted her constantly to remind
him to use hislefl ere. -
1 : .Mi. i .jj. t. -
. . flew dn iea de. . .
Naliqna) forms of salutation,tire'true indi
ces of qatiqnal characfer. Thetvhole histo
ry of a rqce may be found in the dictionary
of.its language. Words and phrases'are the
offsprings of previously existing objects,
thoughts and circumstances, and paternity is
readily traced.
Thus among all savage and warlike peo
ple, the common salutation conveys a wish or
a prayer that the person saluted rpay. enjoy
peace —the greatest' good of individuals, and
of nations, and the boon most frequently
withheld in that phrase of -life. Throughout
the Bible this is the invariable blessing—sha
lum! And lhe of the
desert havelb-this dnylhesamo’ Ihrm of salu
tation. Another phrase of theirs —“ If God
will, thou art well —betrays the fatalism of
Islam.
“Peace be upon thee,” says the fluent and
facile Persian; “I make prayers for thy
greatness 1” “May thy shadow never be
less!” This last form smacks of summer
and the South. Such a salutation would
makea'Northernman shiver! It shows too,
a great respect for fat —for a dignified alder
manic-rotundity.
-The Greeks, a joyful people# full of the
vigor of a life of action, expressed (heir sal
utation in a single word—“rejoice.”
The commercial and enterprising Genoese
of the middle ages, used lossy Sontta egued
ugno—“Health and gain,” than which.no
phrase could be more characteristic. Ib a
similar spirit the “swag-bellied Hollander”
salutes you with Hoc Vaarl's ge —“How
fare you?” The easy, phlegmatic Gernpan
says, Leben sie icohl? —"Live thou well?”
The Frenchman's Comment tout porten
tous?" “How do you carry yourself?” re
veals the very soul of the French character.'
How is (he formoiar,nnd not what; and then
the portex-totis, how well it expressess the
eager restlessness and vivacious manners of
the nation I Comment ca va-t-il ?—how goes
-li of flip enme tone and .chatocter.
John Bull and Brother Jonathan, in a beany
but business-like lone, greet you with “How
are you?” “How do you do?” What could
be mdfe characteristic of the great and po
lenliat Apgio-Saxon race ? To do ? You do,
of course—of this there is no question—if it
is the hll of life, hut how do you do? “How
nreyoul This embraces all—health, wealth,
knowledge, power; » hut could one say more?
and here it is all in three words—“ How are
you? It may be answered in three more—
"l am well.” “How do you do?” Again the
answer is,“Well,’’ Ido well? Reader, “How
do you do ."—Life Illustrated.
Feeling on the Battle Field
The Crimea correspondent of the N. Y.
Sun, writing from Balaklava, gives from (he
experience of a wounded Frenchman, an
opinion with regard to that which is fell by
the soldiers in conflict, which is something as
follows:
Before the battle begins it is usual to feel
no little tremor, ond many cheeks, which are
known to be in communication with stout
hearts, blanch visibly. As the conflict be
comes imminent, courage returns, and with
the first flow of blood an enthusiasm is raised
wlych constantly increases, and very seldom
flags in the least until the last shot is fired.
The, effect of seeing a comrade shot down is
generally to excite an unappeasable thirst for
vengeance against the foe, though in (he end
one “gets used, to it.”
When wounded less than mortally, it is
not usual for the soldier to be immediately
aware of tho fact, unless some bones are bro
ken, A sabre may be run through any
fleshy part of the body, and even a bullet
lodge in dangerous proximity to the vitals,
and be for some time be totally unconscious
of even a scratch.
When life is taken by a blow, the effect is
varied with the nature of the wound, as well
as with the temperament of the man. Some
times the. poor fellow will leap high in the
hir, giving a piercing scream, and again he
will'lay 'down quietly. Oftener. however he
Simply falls without a struggle. .In most
cases the' features of the' kilied remain un
changed for along time afier death —eyes are
open and brilliant, and, perchance, a smile
illuminating the face. To see such a one it
is difficult indeed to realize the presence of
the grini monster Death.
Be Aiavays Buav.—The more a man ac
complishes, the more he may. You always
find those men who are (he most forward to
do good, nr to improve the limes and manners,
always busy. ' Who starts our railroads, or
steamboats, our machine shops; and our man
ufactories ? Men of industry and enterprise.
As long ns they live they work—doing some
thing tb benefit themselves and others. It is
just so with 1 a 1 man who is benevolenl—the
' more be give’s, the more ho feels like giving.
We go for body, in mind, in ev
ery thipg. Let the gold grow not dim, nor
the thought become stole.
I* think it must be somewhere written, that
thb virtue of mothers shall, occasiohally, be
visited bn their children, os wcllas the sins
of fathers.
As the cars were about leaving a village in
aUkti towafdathetfeptttj
"•"cH he fiVne l6 , 'stett
as 4 boot felvingi l "JAlfer a : mo»
rtießt 1 drt Wiijjfhreail h, 1 WhittAtO-hktfi = lost iti
tffe rafeii 'JohaihOki 'walkW boldly itturotteof
the ebtoe twenty 1W thirty
passengers,’and 'frtfshing dtrwltftffohg/tite
gahliy Strides,- Seated hifhaelfbytHe fctovo
OOd'after taking o ; S(are tit 'the’ pisktigelrS.
commenced warming himself. ! :
Among the' passenger's in the car, wars *
young-man belongmgio'-that class'generally
k'n6wrt ; ps ‘‘city'datidfedi" ’ His pertOSwia
small nod (hin| yet' he was dresado in Ibe Ox*
I'remd‘Of dfty fashion, his tipper lipwaa.aa/ti
portion of his ftce, covered with a gtoWthof
saiidycoloydd Hair, while s atuffly starched
collar reached neariyfo' the top’ 6f hishead.
Indee'dhehad a most etfqiiisite air/'and whek
He spiolsti his woidti wet 1 © pecUliarly-mittc
inti. ' ••••■!'■.-■ ■■ .. u ~i
The' dafidy sat listlessly otit ofiHe
windowis Jooaihhh 'enierfid ! the cir.’ Turn
ing’round; and Observing' the intruderihb
seemed convinced 'that there WasW rarO' dp 1 -
pbrtunity for fdfi.-Which he determined not to
let' pads, and Jonathan suddenly found himf
self the subject bflhe r dandy's witi Buthti
Bore ialmlythe taunts ahd jeers of the ; dan
dy, and seetned, in fact,u»c6nscioui of what
was going on, until the latter had nearly'ex
hausted his fountain of blackguardism, when
Jonathan for the first time looked towards the
seat occupied by the dandy. As his eyes fell
on that personage, he looked surprised, his
face grew radiant, and relaxing his bronze
features into a sort of grin, he arose and
strode across the car toward him. ' -
k- 1-*}.. •*<'>.
<•/ I ' ■}
■ KO, I
“Wall, 1 Vwow 1” commenced (he 'Ver
monter, as he grasped the dandy's skmny
hand within his own, and gave.it a tremend
ous squeeze—“ Who’d a thought it I didn’t
hardly know you at first. I say, old fellow,
how dye du ! I’m really glpd to see ye I”
Here a shriek from the dandy, followed Vv
a loud volley of curses, as he drew his now
almost crushed hand from his grasp; caused
Jonathan to halt suddenly ip his exclamations,
and be commenced apologising for bis rude
ness.
“I s-vow I didn’t mean to hurt your hand
but it does me good to meet old acquaintan
ces, ’specially among strangers ; perhaps,
though you don’t remember me, ball do you,
and that’s jest as well.”
“What do you mean, you impudent pup?
exclaimed the dandy, his face crimsoned
with anger.
“Ob, Mister, there's no use in dashing up,
you can’t deny it.”
“Deay what T demanded the dandy em
phatically.
“ I say, Mister.” continued Jonathan, not
heeding the interruption, and with a knowing
wink of the eye, ‘how lone is it since you
got out 7”
“Do you mean to insult a gentleman I”
shouted the dandy, springing from his seat.
“Be quiet, friend,” said Jonathan, and con
tinued ‘didn’t they (ise you well there—didn’t
they give you good fodder, chi or warn’t
your cage large qhough 7”
“Begone, you scoundrel I” Shouted the
dandy, huskily.” ' j
“I say, Mislerj’ have you got that ring off
your neck yell" continued Jonathan, seizing
hold of the stiffly starched collar of the oth
er, and pulling it back to examine the neck,
with such force as to cause it to hang by one
corner down the dandy’s back. This was
100 much ; Ihe dandy could not endure it ;
pale and trembling with anger, be attempted
to speak, but words failed him.
“Look 'ere friends,” said Jonathan, ad
dressing (he amazed passengers; while he
look the dandy by the arm and turning'hVtn
round two or three times, so as to expose
him to iheir view, "perhaps you don’t know
it; but this is the very same Ourang Oularig
that was exhibited in the menagerie that came
to Vermont a spell ago.”
The roars of laughter that rung, thro’ the
cars at this announcement, were really alarm
ing ; every one was seized with convulsions ;
and the conductor, startled by the universal
noise, rushed in (o seo what was the matter.
The train stopped at this moment at a way
station, and the last that was seen of fhecitist
fulled dandy he was clearing the train, mut
tering curses too fearful to repeal.
Coot Impudence.—-“ Will you oblige me
with a light, sir!” “Certainly, with the
greatest pleasure,” says stranger, knocking
off the ashes with his little finger, and pre
senting the burning end with a graceful bow.
Smith commenced'fumbling in his boat pock
et; takes out his handkerchief; shakes it;
feels in his vest with a- desperate energy ;
looks blank. “Well! Ido declare, I haven't
got one, true ns the world. Have you an
other you could spare?” “Certainly, (says
stranger, with a smile,) and I beg you will
accept it." There is a puff, puffing, till the
fresh cigar ignites, when they separate with
a suave bow and wave of the hand. Smith
chucks his friend, who was near splitting with
laughter, under the ribs with—“ There! didn’t
I tell you I would get it ? That’s the way to
gel along in the World. Nothing like cool,
polite impudence.” We thought so too.
A Stubborn- Jury. —The Portland Tran
script tells a good story of a Col. M- ■— ,
living in Washington county, Maine, who
had a great aptitude for serving as a juror,-*-
When thus serving, he had a very great anx
iety that his opinion should be largely con
sulted in making up a verdict. Some years
ago, while upon a case, after many hours'
trial to agree, but failing, he marshalled the
delinquent jury from the room to their seats
in the court, where the impatient crowd awai
ted the result of the trial.
“Have you agreed upon a verdict?” inqui
red (heclerk.
Col. M—- —arose, turned a withering
glance upon his brother jurors, and ex
claimed :
“May it please the court, wo havo not ; I
have-done the best I could do, but hero-are
eleven of the most contrary devils I ever had
any dealings with.”
“I can marry any .girl I please,” soi4 a
young fellow, boaslingly. “Very,true,” ite
plied liia waggish companion, cant
please any." j,
rsvsstf!
BBHBE
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