hiDirERTIBTNG - RATE B.
31. 1 Mo. J mos. 6 molt. 1 yr.
1.110 1.74 3.70 11.00 1(1110
3.00 3.30 3.70 10.01 16.00
4.60 13.60 8.01 13,00 20.00
8.03 1200 80.00 33.00
1060 01.10 31.60 moo
13.10. 01.00 80.011
23.03 60.00 • 80.00 130.00
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WILLS ,& IREDELL, PUBLISHERS.
ALLENTOWN, PA
HIDE AND SEEK
=EI
As I sit and watch at the window-pane
The light In the sunset skies,
The pictures rise in my heart and brain,
As the stars do in the skies.
Among the rest , doth rise and pass,
With th blue smoke curling o'er,
The housa was born In, with the grass
And roses round the door.
I see the well-sweep, rough and brown,
And I hear the creaking tell
Of the bucket going up and down
On the stony sides of the well.
I see the cows, bythe water-elde,—
Red Llly, and Pink, and Star,—
And the oxen with their borne Bo wide,
Close locked In playful war.
I see the field where the mowers stand
In the clover-flowers, knee-deep;
And the ono WWI his head upon his hand,
In the locust-shade asleep.
I see beneath his shady brim,
The heavy eyelids sealed,
And the mowers stopping to look at him,
As they mow across the field.
I bear the bluebird's twit-to-tweet !
And the robin's whistle blithe;
And then Nee him spring to his feet,
And take up his shining scythe..
I see the barn with the door swung out,—
Still dark with its mildew streak,—
And the stacks and the bushes all about,
Where we played at Tilde and Seek
I see and count the rafters o'er,
'Neat!' which the swallow sails, •
And I see the sheaves on the threshlng-floor,
And the threshers with their flails.
I hear the merry shout and laugh
Of the careless boys and girls,
As the wind-mill drops the golden chaff,
;Like sunshine In their curls.
The shadow of the years that stand
'Twixt me and my childhood's day,—
I strip like a glove from off my hand,
And am there with the rest at play.
Out there, half hid In Its leafy screen,
I can see a rose-bud check,
And up In the hay-mow I catch the sheen
Of the darling head I seek.
Just where that whoop was smothered low,
I have seen the branches stir ;
It Is there that Margaret hides, I know,
And away I chase for her!
And now with the curls that toss so wide,
They shade his eyes like a brim,
Runs hick for a safer place to bide,
And I turn and chase for him !
And rounding close by the Jutting stack,
Where it hangs in a rustling sheet,
In spite of the body that presses back,
I espy two tell-tale feet !
Now, all at once, with a reckless shout,
Alphonse from his.covert sptings,
And whizzes by, with his elbows out,
Like a pair of 'sturdy wings. •
Then Charley leaps from the cattle-rack,
And spins at so wild a pace,
The grass seems fairly swimming hack
- As he shouts, "I am home! Base ! Base I"
While modest Mary, shy as a nun,
Keeps close by the grape-vine wall,
And Waits, and waits, till our game Is done,
And never Is found at alt."
But, suddenly, at my crimson pane,
The lights grow dim and die,
And the pictures fade from heart and brain,
As the stars do from the sky.
The bundles slide from the threshing-floor,
Aud the mill no longer whirls,
And I find my playmates now no more
By their shining cheeks and curls.
I call theM fdr, and I call them wide,
From the prairie and over the sea,
"0 why do you tarry and where do you hide !"
But they may not answer me.
God grant that when the sunset sky
Of my life shall cease to glow,
I may find them waiting me on high,
As I waited them below.
—Riverside Magazine.
BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER
AN EPISODE OF THE LATE REBELLION
Twelve months before the first and fatal gun
was fired at Fort Sumter, bad blood had begu .
to show itself—even in good society. at
only . was it causing strife between cousins • nd
other kindred; but in many instances wea en
ing the tics of affection in the family circle 't
acit'. Fathers were divided in opinion agains
their sons; brothers disputed in bitterness';
and even sisters took sides on a question,
among fashionable people hitherto unheard of.
It was the question of Northern or Southern
ascendency, with the negro for its nucleus.
A dark shadow had come over the domestic
hearths of the poor, that could not be kept out
of the drawing-rooms of the rich; and into
many a home,.erst happy and cheerful, a grim
skeleton was preparing to enter.
Places of fashionable resort were not • free
from the iffreetion ; and perhaps nowhere
more than at Newport were these dread ideas
prevailing. The •peaceful isle of Aquidnec,
for long years a sort of neutral ground, where
the best society of North and South had been
accustomed to meet in friendly intimacy, be
came an arena of bitterness. It was a sad
change from the pleasant intercourse hitherto
held between them.
The children of Boston bore it with a cer
tain rational calmness ; while the sons of the
South too frequently exhibited a temper of the
opposite kind. It is ever thus with those who
are in the wrong 1
"But do you mean it, Walter Devereux
I'm Bore you do not 1"
"If ever I meant anything, Miss Winthrop
I do."
" And you would absolutely fight against
the old Stars and Stripes? That flag, which,
if it hasn't 'Waved a thousand years the battle
and the breeze,' telt!! I'm sure it will!"
"if borne much longer as it is now, I'd bo
first to drag it down." -
"Oh, mercy me I Where is your patriot
ism? Mr. Devereux, you offend me by saying
that. Do you know, sir, that my ancestors
were among the first to raise that flag ; and ho
can never be friend of mine who talks about
dragging it down !"
The two individuals thus differing in politi
cal opinions, were a young lady of Boston;
and a young gentleman of Virginia, both of
the best blood in their respective sections of
the country : for both were descended from
"Signers."
They were alone in the piazza of a pretty
villa overlooking Narragansett Bay, where
Miss Adeline Winthrop was at home, and
Walter Devercux but a visitor. Ile was no
stranger, for all this : as it was not the first
season that their families had met in friendly
reunion on the neutral ground of Newport—
the younger members of both walking, dining,
and dancing together.
Anil It was far from being the first time that
the handsome Virginian had held tete-a-tete
with ono of the most beautiful girls of Boston
—a city.fatned for its "ladyes faire."
It would have sorely' grieved him to think
it should be the last—aye, cut him to the heart
of hearts : •for this was In the keeping of Ade
line Winthrop ; as he supposed hers was cap
tive to him.
In this ho might have been mistaken ; but
whether or not, he little dreamt, at that mo;
ment, how near he was to knowing the truth.
Fancying himself in full possession, the last
speech of the young lady nettled him. The
emphasis on' the word " friend " was signifi
cant of a relationship nearer and dearer; and
pointed directly to himself. So thought he ;
and so thinking, his rejoinder, instead of be
ing conciliatory, was tinged with defiance.
~~~ ~r~hz~~ e~z~~e~:
VOL. XXIII
"Indeed I" lie replied pettishly, "I believe
my ancestors had also something to do with
the raising of that flag. What matters, now
that it is becoming soiled by rank abolition
ism, and carried by your hem of Puritans—"
"Hold, Mr. Devereux 1" The young girl
blushed red as she interrupted "You
forget that I have myself some of that blood'
In my veins ; though we may have changed
far from the simple Puritan standard. neir
cause, at least, was a good one. And was it
not the same as that of the Huguenots, from
whom you claim descent 4"
"Ali I the Huguenots were gentlemen."
"You do well to use the past tense, Walter
Devereux, while thus speuki'iig of our fore
fathers I I shall not be so severe upon yours,
as to say their sons have all degenerated.
There are still gentlemen among them. Yon
der comes one I"
The Virginian turned quickly on his, heel,
with a black look upon his brow. He Wield
a young officer, wearing the shoulderltgivi of
a lieutenant, and the uniform of the United
States artillery—a corps of which was at the
time stationed at Newport. It was his own
brother !
Strange to say the shadow upon Walter
Devereux's brow did not disappear; even
when his brother stepped Into the piazza, and
saluted the lady by his side.
It became darker as the conversation con
tinned.
"I'm sure the lieutenant does not share
your sentiments. Do you, Harry 4"
" What sentiments ?" asked the youth new
ly arrived.
"Oh I the old story between North and
South. Walter says, if things go much further
he'd take pleasure in pulling down our flag.
Nat, he'd be the first to do it I You would
lie the last. Would you not, Harry 4"
"bliss Winthrop, the button upon my coat
should be a sufficient answer to your question.
I'll stay true to that, if it should lose me eve'ry
friend I've got."
"Bravo I" cried the Boston beauty, spring
ing from her rocking-chair and stamping her
little foot triumphantly on the planks of the
piazza, "There's one you won't lose by it, and
that's Adeline Winthrop !"
"Since you're so well agreed," said the
elder brother, biting his lips with chagrin, " I
can't do better than leave you alone. It would
spoil the sport of such a pair of negro-loving
lambs were n Southern wolf to remain in your
company. Good-day, Miss Winthrop. I hope
you won't make my brother quite as ' black'
as yourself !"
A cry of Indignation came from the girl.
"For shame, Walter I If you were not my
own brother—"
Walter did not want to hear the threat.
With a sombre scowl he had hurried down
the steps, and on over the lawn, in the direc
tion of the cliffs.
On reaching them, at the head of a sloping
ravine, he did not go down ; only so far as to
conceal the lower part of his person. There,
behind some bushes, with an opera glass to his
eye, he remained watching those on the piazza
from whom he had parted
Still darker grew his face—still whiter his
lips—as he saw his brother take hold of Ade
line. Winthrop's hand, and imprint upon it a
kiss 1 ' . •
There was no sign of resistance. The soft
tapering fingers had been yielded ; and with
blank thoughts in his breast, and a curse upon
his tongue, Walter Devereux strode back to
his hotel.
* * *
" Y have sent for me, general ?"
"I ha e, Captain Devercux. I have reason
to suspect, hat the enemy is not far off in our
front - ut
.'t is necessary for me to be sure of
it. tis o • the utmost importance to ascertain
ss exact p sition ; and I want you to discover
it, if you an. I've been told, captain, that
you are vell acquainted with the country
aroutrfi sere. Is that so ?"
" I was born in it, eneral ; and have hunted
it all over."
"It ou reason for my not employ
ing you n this delicate duty," rejoined the
general, with a significant smile, "but from
what I've heard, I think I may trust you."
The young officer bowed, but without mak
ing other answer. had the general known
the sacrifices he had already suldained by fight
ing on the Union side—a complete ostra
cism from friends, family, and home—he would
tave had no scruples about reposing confidence
in him.
Nor did he : for, without requiring any
promises, he proceeded :
" You will take twenty mounted men with
you, your own artillerists, and ride up the
main road. Steal quietly •out of camp, and
feel your way with caution. Go as far as you
can with safety and take care of being cap
tured b3l a picket." •
The young officer smiled assuringly.
• "Not much danger of that, general," he
answered. " I may be killed, but not captured.
In my case death would be preferable to being
made prisoner." -
" I understand you, Captain Devereux. No
doubt you will act with due discretion. Get
as near the enemy's lines as you can, and,
when you have finished your reconnoissance,
lose no time in reporting. Good-night, and
God speed you I" '
It was at night the above dialogue occurred,
and in a tent—the marquee of a commander
in -chief, noted for great "strategy," and
greater caution. With less of the latter; he
might have taken Richmond twelve months
after the war commenced ; and now been Pres
ident, actual or elect, of these United States.
Perhaps it Is better as It is I
The night was not favorable for a stolen
scout, such as that Captain Devereux had been
commanded to make. There was a clear
moonlight, to thendvantage of a picket in am
bush, and against a party making approach.
And the moon being in the zenith flung her
beams upon the broad road, along which the
artillery officer had been directed to make re
connoissance. "A little later and the tall trees
growing on each side, would throw their shad
ows over it, making the passage safer:
Observing this, the young officer liad halted
his little troop at a corner : and was thinking,
whether he should not stay till the moon sank
a little lower down, when a sound coming
from the opposite side, broke abruptly on, his
reflections. It was'the tramp of horses' hoofs,
as of a troop going at a trot ; and that they
were armed men, could be told by the clash of
steel scabbards striking against the stirrups.
"A patrolling party of Confederate cavalry!"
About this there could be no doubt. The
.direction fr?im which they were coming made
the thing certain.
Halted upon higher ground, the artillery
officer commanded a view of the approaching
horsemen. As near as he could tell, they
numbered about fifty sabres. Though with
only twenty men at his back, Devereux 'did
not think of retreating. Instead of being sur
prised by a picket,le was himself the party in
ALLENTOWN, PA., WEDNESDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 3, 1869
ambush ; and this advantage encouraged him
to keep his ground.
The Confederates came on without fear.
Knowing themselves nearly three miles from
the Federal lines, they had no expectation of
encountering an enemy.
They were only made aware of it, when a
horse " whighered" loudly in their front, his
neigh being quickly followed by some half.
dozen others, and responded to by the horses
they were riding. And then,beforc the shrill
echoes had died away in the woods, they were
taken .up by sounds more indicative of deadly
strife—by a volley from each side, continued
in straggling shots.
Several Confederate saddles were emptied;.
and the " cavaliers" in gray were inclined to'
turn round and retreat, when one who appear
ed to be their leader, and whose actions proved .
him to have the right, drawing his sabre, and
standing vp in the stirrups, cried out,:
" Cowards ! would ye dare to go back ?
cut down the first that turns tail on me. Don't
you bear by their shots there's not more than
a dozen of them ? 'After me ; and let your cry
be Death to all Yankee abolitionists "
• "The same to traitors and rebels I" shouted
Captain Devereux, as with sabre sloped and
shining in the moonlight, he spurred boldly
out into the road, closely followed by his ex
artillerists.
In ten seconds' time the opposing parties
were face to face ; and after a rapid el:change
of pistol-shots, came the clashing of their
sa
bres.
It would have been an unequal contest—
twenty against, twice their number, and both
equally brave. But the first volley from the
artillerists, aimed with the advantage of an
ambush, had thinned the ranks of the Confed
erates, and otherwise disconcerted them.
When the strife came hand-to-hand, they
fought feebly, and under a foreboding of de
feat.
" To this there was an exception—their
.chief
who had shouted the defiant speech, and led
them on to. the encounter. Mounted upon a
powerful.horie, he had shot far in front of his
followers, and looked for the leader of the op
posing troop—as if he alone were worthy of
his steel !
lle had no difficulty in finding him: for at
the moment Devereux, stirred * by the same
instinct, was searching for him.
• Their horses, spurred to the charge, dashed
against one another ; recoiled from the shock ;
and then, at the second meeting, the sabres of
their riders, • striking together, commenced
their deadly play. And while sparks flew from
both blades, that mocked the pale shimmer of
the moon, their supporters closed alongside in
strife equally engrossing.
The combatants, at first clumped together,
soon spread into a wider circle, extending
along the road and the broad waste that bor
dered it.. Each with hiS own antagonist had
enough to do, and the leaders were left to
themselves.
Between them, it was in truth a duel ; only
of a somewhat original kind: with sabres,
and on horseback ! And with death-like ear .
neatness- was it for some minutes kept up ;
each so striving to kill the other that not a
word was spoken between them. They had
neither time nor inclination for talk.
1 All at once came a pause in the combat.
aptain Devereux, hitherto fighting with his
face to the moon, and under a disadvantage,
had spurred past his antagonist, and wheeling
suddenly around, obtained a superior position.
With his sabre drawn back for a stroke, he
was about lounging down on the neck of the
Confederate officer, when his blow was sud
denly stayed, as if his arm had become stricken
with palsy !
The moonlight shining full upon his adver
sary's face, told a terrible tale. Ile was fight
ing with his own brother ! •
"My God !" he gasped, ." Walter ? Broth
er, is it you ?"
"No!" cried the Confederate leader. "It
is. Walter Devereux ; but not 'your brother,
nor the brother of any- man who wears the
accursed blue. Dismount, and take it off; or
I shall rip it from you with my sword !"
"0 Walter, dear-Walter ! do not talk thus !
I cannot do as, you
,rty—l will not ! Send
your blade through my breast—l cannot kill
you !"
" Cannot, cur ! You could not if you tried.
Walter Devereux was not born to be killed by
a renegade to his country—least of all by a
Yankee abolitionist."
"I'm that same," shouted a man on horse
back, who had suddenly spurred out from
among the trees ; and simultaneously with his
shout came the report of a pistol.
For a moment the combatants, with their
horses, were shrouded in smoke. When it
drifted away, the Confederate captain Was
seen lying lifeless in the road, his horse going
at a scared gallop through the trees—along
with a score of others that carried riders upbn
their backs.
The fall of their leader had completed the
panic of the Confederates ; and those still in
the saddle, wheeling to the .right about, went
off in retreat. Besides a dozen killed, ten of
their - i?innber iemained prisoners to the recon
noitering party.
Henry Devereux looked as if he had himself
received the shot. Dropping down from hi%
saddle, he staggered toward the spot where
the body lay, and bent overit with a heart full
of agony. He had no need touching it to tell
him-it was a.corpse. A streak of moonlight,
slanting between a break between two branch
ea, fell upon glassed eyes, and teeth clencheil
in the set expression of death
The Union soldiers, at the command of their
beloved leader, gave the last rites of burial to
the body of his erring brother; and as they
followed him back to camp, with hearts full of
sympathy for his suffering, they looked more
like men returning from a defeat, than a vic
tory I
* * * •
No doubt, reader, you wish to know more
of Captain Devereux, and what became of him.
I hope you do ; and so hoping, I will tell you
—not all that I know, but enough to satisfy
your curiosity. Of course if I had given you
his real name you could go to the army list,
and find out everything, without thanking me
for further information. And then you would
look up that fine old chart, upon which are
registered the names of those line old worthies,
the " Signerh of the Declaration," who gave
you your political independence—and along
with it much of the independence of thought
and spirit you are now possessed of.
And with that endeared document in your
hands—a thousand times more important than
• the Magna Charts—you will seek for another
name besides that of Devereux ; for I know
you will still bo thinking of that beautiful Bos
ton
. girl,,who was not ashamed of having Pur
itan forefathers: ' '
If I have also deceived you as to her name,
it don't much matter. At all events she cared
so little about it, that after the rebellion came
!,E, an end, she changdAtifor another—that
other belonging to the Mali, 'who had sworn
to be true to the nag of her forefathers, and
the emblem on the buttons of his coat.
There was then but' single row of them,
with a shoulder-strap showing but one bar.
Now the breast buttons are not only double,
but more gorgeously gilt, while the chevron
on the shoulder displays a trio of stars. It is
his reward for being truo to thorn and the Re
public—a distinction his children will appreci
date, more than crosses, garters, and other
gifts from kingly hands, that so far from being
badges of honor, are too often the sure stamps
of a well-earned Infamy.
FAULTS OF INEXPERIENCED
WRITERS
I=
We promised in this article to give some of
the faults into which young Writers are very
-apt to fall.
Tile first is, a sort of loose, wordy indefinite
ness. ,This comes from not having an exact
and clear conception of what they wish to say.
They may feel interested, and even strongly
excited about a particular subject, and have a
general, vague desire to say many things about
it ; but their thoughts of it are brought to no
precise, clearly defined point. Consequently,
they go on with a loose, uncertain, rambling
talk about it, as if they were trying to make
their own minds clear.
Such writing may be useful to the person
himself as a private exercise—it may serve a
strong and unpracticed mind in the same man
ner that the fermentating process does to beer ;
it may enable it to work itself clear.
But writers must not expect to force readers
to follow them through the process by which
they get at their results.
If you wish to tell a stranger where Mr.
Simeon Allen's house is, you do not describe
all the huckleberry-bushes and sumacs and
mullein-stalks that grow on the road thither,
nor dwell on the mistakes and turnings and
windings by which you at last obtained to n.
knowledge of the topographical fact. But
you put the fact itself in a dozen distinct
words.
• Now, this faculty of saying one distinct thing
at a time, in a pure and simple form, unencum
bered by unnecessary words, lies at the foun
dation of all good writing. It is one of the
rarest faculties in the world, one of the last
results of culture and self-discipline ; and for
which a person who intends to write cannot
too soon begin to aim.
We were once traveling in a chaise through
New-England, wishing to find a village which
we will call West-Sutton. Seven or eight
different times we were obliged to stop and
propound - to n man laboring in the fields the
question :
• S' Which is the road to West-Sutton ?"
Out of the seven to whom the question was
put, only about three appeared to have culti
vated the faculty of answering exactly the
question that was asked of them, without un
necessary and confusing adjuncts:
One man would describe all the wrong roads
with great prolixness, and tell you that when
you had rid a little away, you'd come to a
left hand road that would take you down to
Josh Peter's mill, and then wound up by Tom
Smith's huckleberry-pastor'—but that air
wa'n't thy rnn.l7^,re.nri--no - nn Die perlutp3 n
quarter of an hour.
Two or three hard-visaged, clear=headed
men took the question up, made a pause for a
moment, its, if arranging their thoughts, and
told us precisely, without an unnecessary
word, exactly where the road lay.
These were the men, other things being
equal, who ought to be sent to the Legislature.
They had the foundation element of good
ivriting and good speaking.
The next fault against which we caution our
young writer, is to avoid what is called "fine
writing."
Many people seem to think, when they take' .
a pen into their hands, or when they go into
ultra•refined society, that the ordinany good
English which they have been in the habit of
using in conversation is not good enough, and
forthwith proceed to speak of everything in
terms as far as possible removed front common
use. They cannot think of saying "a house"
—it must always be "a residence" or "a man
sion." A man's mother becomes " maternal
parent."
In old-fashioned times, young writers, in
this phase of their education, never spoke of
the sun, except as " Plorbus," or the moon as
"Luna." Now, however, they, call the sun
"the good of day" and the moon "the fair
empress of the night."
They could not for the life of them say that
a bird flies through the air, but it " cleaves the
liquid blue."
In khort, young writers are very much in
danger of stumbling into what has been popu
larly called the "hifalutin" style.
Now, it is a fact that the simple language of
ordinary conversation, purified from gram
matical inaccuracies and conversational care
lessness, is the best that can be got for the
expression of ideas.
There is no better model of pure, good writ
ing than the best part of John . Bunyan ;
such, for instance, as his description of the
" Delectable Mountains" of the Land of Beu
lah, and the ascent .of the pilgrims into the
celestial city. '
The reason of the excellence of these pas
sages is that the ideas are vivid and poetical,
but expressd with a solid, plain, homely sim
plicity.
It is to be remarked that that part of our
language which comes from the Latin, though
it is more high-sounding and harmonious, is
generally less simple and definite, and appeals
less directly to the heart, than that which
comes from the Saxon portion.
The " paternal mansion," for example, is a
Latinized phrase ; " home" is a Saxon word.
" Maternal ancestor" is Latin ; " mother" is
Saxon. "The domestic circle" is Latin ; "our
folk," Saxon ; " our house," Saxon. Cannot
the reader feel in a moment how much ne , arer
the heart the homely Saxdri always eeuches
The old English Bible which is the book
most nearly appealing to the heart—the book,
o n the whole, of the most perfect expression,
for Ml valuable purposes, of which the Eng
lish language is capable, is almost entirely
Saxon.
In like manner, that book which comes next
to the Bible in its tender relation to the human
heart—the Book of Common Prayer—ls largely
Saxon, and owes much of its power to the
simple, solemn homeliness of language, now,
grown quaint with antiquity, and mossed over
with the associations of ages: And I would
say, that one who wishes to form a rich and
simple style, ought to become very familiar
both with the Bible and Prayer-book. Their
influence for literary culture on the mind in as
great as Melt influence on our moral nature.
A kindred fault with the one which we have
just been considering, is the employment by
young writers of what we will call steirt,yped
phrases—phrasee that go floating arohnd\ the
community, and belong to everybody anti
nobody ; such fii" flashing eye," "eagle eye,"
"noble brow," " marble brow," "radiant
charms," "silken tresses," - "herculean
strength," and so on, ad infinitum.
In regard to all this class of phrases, we
would ask a young writer to read- through
some finished work' of a real artist, and see
how quite possible it is to do without them.
Take Hawthorne's House of the Sesen Ga
bles, for instance -;
notice how clearly and Mi
nutely he paints all his pictures of objects, and
yet how entirely free it is from shop-work
finery ; how every epithet and every expres
sion is chosen exactly because it is the• one
best fitted to represent the idea for which it is
put.
When he is describing a wicked man in
Judge Pyncheon, see how nicely he avoids all
those melo-dramatic, wholesale expressions
with which unskilful writers pile up the agony
on their villains. One is an exquisite portrait,
wrought in by a thousand touches; the other
a rough daub, with terrifying whiskers of
burnt-cork
Another fault to be avoided, especially for
lively and sympathetic young writers, is in
sensible imitation. A certain great controlling
author with a very pronounced mannerism of
style and obvious defects, often so completely
occupies the public mind, and strikes - so many
sympathetic chords, that all the young writers
arc in danger of falling into his faults through
sheer insensible sympathy. What is to be re
gretted in this is, that nothing but the faults
are reproduced.
Thus Byron, for a time, spoiled all the young
verse-writers, who could no nothing but turn
down their collars, strike on their foreheinls,
and declare their scorn of mankind, and their
intense sense of their own superiority.
Then we had Carlyle, who imitated German
writers and he Germanized his own style, and
spoiled the English style of nearly all life
sophoniores and many of the young clergy
men' in this country.
Now, as n general rule, a writer should
take this caution : keep yourself from those
authors who impress you too powerfully. If
there is a general style that is running loose
through all the literature of your country and
Is coloring all the magazines and stories, try
as much as possible to lift yourself out of it, by
choosing for yourself resolutely, quite another
circle of reading. You may be quite sure that
the style formed by sympathetic hilitation of
any one will be a bad one for you. A style
which is very tolerable in the original writer,
of whose individual genius it may be the ex
pression, becomes perfectly intolerable when
seen diluted through imitations.
In this place it may be well to caution the
young writer to avoid all imitations of French
literature. Madame George Sand says, very
justly, that the rendering of ideas from one
language to another is like undertaking to play
on one instrument mugn which has been
written for another. The same remark holds
good with regard to imitating in one language
the graces of another. The French language
has a peculiar genius of its own but a genius
so entirely different from that.of the English,
that the best French literature is entirely un
translatable into the English. The attempt
to imitate French in English, generally speak
ing, produces the most detestable of all litera
ry mixtures.
That Which in Yrentlialatagae nalliTilnex- -
pressible and airy charm of graceful, brilliant
wit becomes in English mere vulgar flippancy ;
and an English mind undertaking to imitate
it reminds one of the fable of the horse wli",
thought to make himself delightful by meet
ing his master with the airy capers of a lapdog.
A good English style must be studied from
pure English models.
There are certain authors that you may
study, admire, and even learn by heart, with
out being in any danger of sympathetic imita
tion. The reason of this Is, that they cannot
be imitated. They are wholly free from man
nerism. Like a perfectly well-bred person,
there is no peculiarity about them that can be
copied ; everything is felicitous and just in the
right place.
Such a style you may find, page after page
in Thackeray—simple, limpid, pure, with
every word in its right place, and every word
bearing the individual, peculiar shading that
belongs to its usage in that place.
So, also, with many passages of Hawthorne,
of Washington Irving, and Oliver Wendell
Holmes.
Another very common fault of inexperienced
writers comes from their not knowing how to
dispose of their sentences. Their sentences
arc a tangled, confused labyrinth, with a jum
ble of ideas in them which had.better be brok
en and disposed intotwo or three.
The habit of introducing parentheses is one
that young writers eniknot be too, notch cau
tioned to avoid. As a general thing, it may
be said that a parenthesis is never necessary ;
at any rate; the student should always look at
it as a permitted defect, and make every effort
to rearrange his sentence so as to do without it.
Filially, we will say that a young writer
cannot do better than to study those rules in
Dr. Blair's Rhetoric which treat of style and
the structure of sentences. Like many old
things, they are better than many new ones ;
and the writer who will thoroughly =she
those rules will take a long step toward be
coming a solidly good writer.
Lastly, whenever, in writing, you come to
the end of what you have to say, STOP, Dahl
and there, as we at this moment close this
article.
DOW A MAN MADE lIIS FOR
TUNE BY A PIN.'
[The two grand elements of a successful start
in,life arc industry and economy. The young
man who exhibits them can scarcely •fail to
win approval and early advancement. An
illustration in point is the early history of a
distinguished Frenchman, which is epitomized
in the following brief narrative.]
"Many people have inherited a great name
from their parents and friends ; why can not I
make ar great reputation by my own industry
and perseverance 1"
These words were spoken by a young man
of sespectable appearance, yet really In want,
as he walked, one autumn morning in the year
1781, up AUtin Street, in Paris, and approach
ed the stately house of a great banker. On
ringing the door-bell, his heart beat with fear
and anxiety when be was met by a servant in
livery who asked him rather bluntly what he
wanted.
I Wish to speak to Mr: Perregaux," replied
the young man. "' Is he at home 1" •
The answer was affirmative and the porter
led him.up the broad marble stairway to the
upper story, where the young man was ad
mitted into a splendid ante-room, ornaniented
with paintings andistatues. lie quietly took a
seat in a corner, and had hardly the courage
to face the great men who went in and out of
the banker's room. lie thought of his home
in the country, of his departure from his be
loved parents, of their . prayers and their bless
ings. He recalled his mother's last words :
" What 1011 you do in Paris, my son 4—stay
here. You have your home, though It is a
poor one." And then he thought hie own
answer : " Let me try my fortune, dear moth
er, in order that I may share it with 'you and
my dear friends.?' "But," nnsweted she,
" Fortune does not always visit those who
seek it." To this he replied : " But it never
seeks those who never Beek it." " Well, go,"
said the tender-hearted mother, "go, end if
you don't succeed, do not be ashamed to return
to us. Your father's house end the arms of
your mother will always be open to you."
Mr. Perregaux was reading a letter when
the young mnn was admitted tolls presence,
and hardly noticed the unassuming stranger.
" Do you wish to speak tome, young man ?"
said the banker in a friendly way. "If so, tell
me in what respect I can serve you."
" Mr. Perregatix, " said the' young man,
looking plainly and calmly in his fiicc, " I
have neither fame, nor rank, nor fortune-;but
industry, strength, and a strong will to work.
Can you not give men place In your great
business house ?—even the most insignificent
one would suit me."
" What is your name asked Mr. Perre
gaux, who could not keep his eyes front the
attractive features of his young applicant, and
read in his clear eye discretion and fidelity.
"Jacques Lalitte," was the answer.
"lour age ?"
"Eighteen years," replied the young man.
" I was born on the 20th of October, 1709."
" Are you a PariSian ?" inquired the banker.
"yo, sir, lam from Bayonne. My father
is a carpepter, 'and has ten children to
care for. My object is to find a place where'
shall be able to support my father's family."
knoble undertaking, young mm," replied
the banker ; "but I regret to say that I have
no place vacant for you. I ant sorry fur this.
Perhaps a later application would find me able
to receive you." •
Everything seemed to swim before Latitte's
eyes. Ile scarcely knew how to reach the door.
His knees trembled as he descended the mar
ble staircase, and with a slow step lie went
down into the street. The refusal was almost
more than he could hear. Yet he summoned
courage and started off.
Just as he reached the street, lie saw some
thing shining in the sand that had collected
near the steps. It was only is pin, yet he took
it up and stuck it in his coat. This little act,
apparently unseen by anybody else in the
world, decided his whole future. Mr. Perre
.gnux stood at the window, and, without de
signing it, happened to see the refused appli
cant pick something up, and wondered what
it was. When the young man stuck it in the
left breast of his coat, the banker thought it
was a pin. Men who have great knowledge
of human nature, like Mr. Perregaux, under
stand the meaning of seemingly, insignificant
things, and how far small actions go toward
the interpretration of character. So he said
to himself: "The man who will not refuse to
pick up a phi must certainly have some habits
that will be of great use if lie ever have iiii-O
portunity to enjoy them."
Ile quickly opened the window and called
young JacqUes.
The young man quickly returned, hastened
up stairs, and was soon again in the presence
of the banker.
"ThTimihave the goodness," said Jacques,
"to comply with my request ?"
" What makes you so decided ?" replied the
banker.
" From the fact that you have recalled me,"
was the answer. "I believe you would not
haw done it, if you had not wished to accept
my application."
" Quick powers of observation, love of or
der and economy," replied Mr..Perre.glitilt;in
a iliendly way, " will make a good business
man. Go into my counting-house ; I will de
scend as soon as possible and give you a little
business to attend to."
From this hour young Latitte was in Perre
gaux's counting-house. his industry and
fidelity' helped him in every respect. His
punctuality won him the confidence of his
employer. Ills zeal and progress increased
from day to day, so that he soon excited the
attention and admiration of his companions.
'ln a few years he became a book-keeper, and
afterward a cashier.
The French revolution broke out, and the
new order of things. which died Perregaux
to the Senate, compelled him to Commit his
business largely to the hands of sonic co-la
borer. Ile took Lafitte in as his partner, and
as the sphere of the latter was now larger, he
had more opportunity to exhibit his business
tact energy. In the last years of the empire
a new sphere of life was opened to him. In
1809 he was appointed director of the bank of
France. After that he was made President of
the Chamber of Commerce, and thus he came
into intimate relations with the most iniluen
tial people of the country.
The decline of Napoleon's power brought
him into honorable political positions. He
acquired the confidence of the entire city, and
indeed of the entire country, in consequence
of his wise and judicious counsel for the gov
ernment of the city. Ilis dear parents in Ba
3.onne were still living, and he supported them
all the time in the most handsome way possi
ble ; and after his mother became a widow he
took her to his home in Paris. ➢Zany young
men of talent owed their prosperity to him, as
he started them in business. Ile supported a
)17scitsnany in their studies at his own expense.
Mien Lquis XVIII. was compelled, td ' llee
before the advance of Napoleon nt the begin
ning of the "hundred Days," he com
mitted his entire private fortuhe to Lafitte;
and Napoleon, too, placed his fortunes in
Lafitte's hands. Thus the great banker had
for some time in his own keeping the property
of both rivals to the French throne.
After Paris was captured, in the year 181 k
lie advanced two millions of francs to the state,
which was compelled to give that much to the
allied hosts. One hundred thousand frolics
were appropriated to him as director of the
bank of Prance, but Imfitte refused to receive
It during thelaborious years of the adminis
tration.
Nearly. the whole time of the restoration lie
was a member of the Chamber of Deputies,
and one of the most worthy of the number.
His parliamentary activity was distinguished
by his warm patriotism, nobility of character,
and accuto understanding. He always sub
jected his own interest to the general good.
In spite of the displeasure in which the family
of Marshal Ney were, he permitted his only
daughteito marry Ney's son, the Prince of
Modena.
Ik reached the climax of his political prom
inence in the July revolution. Without him,
Louis-Philippe would never have. ascended
the throne. His political opinions were very
decided, ankl if we can not approve of some of
welertainly qan not help admiring his
honor and \Antegrity. He.was a member of
Louis Phillipe's ministry, and had charge of
the finances of Prance ; yet this lasted but a
short time, as his views did not agree with
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those of the king. He offered lils resignation,
and retired with dignity as a simple citizen of
the country. •
•Lafltte died on Easter-day, 1844; amid uni
versal regret. The French peoplo had found
in him a true friend, and Ids name will ever
be hold by them In great respect.
A MAIDE'N'S " PSALM OF LIFE."
Tell us not In Idle Jingle,
Marriage In an empty dream I"
For the girl Is dead that's single,
And girls are not what they seem.
Life Is real ! life Is earnest !
Single blessedness a till !
"Mau thou art, to man retail !"
Ilan been spoken of the rib.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Plods us nearer tuarriago.day.
Life is long, and youth to fleeting.
And our hearts, though light and gay
Still, like pleasant drums are beating
Wedding-marches all the way.
In the world's broad geld of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Lie not like dumb, driven cattle! „
Ile n heroine wife!
Trust no future, however pleasant
Lot the dead Past bury Its dead!
Act—act to the living Present !
Heart within and hope ahead!
Liven of married folks remind us
We can live our lives ns well;
And, depa'rting, leave behind no
Such examples an Khali tell."
Such example., that another.
Wagllng time in Idle sport,
A forlorn, untonrrled brother,
Seeing xltall take heart and court
Let us, then, bo oP and doing,
With it heart on triumph set;
Still contriving, still pursuing,
And each one n husband Rel.
PERFECTION IN A MIL CII COW.
We seek in a mulch cow, above all other
qualities, rich milk in abundance ; everything
else is wecondarp The more milk, if it be
rich, the better ; and the richer, the better, if
there be enough of it. Such a cow is a ma
chine formed for converting fodder into milk
and butter, chiefly " by art and man's device."
The original cow was very different; Bile fed,
and laid on flesh and fat, and bore calves, and
produced milk, and roughed it in all weathers,
and was half-starved half the time, Man's
necessities and the art-of breeding have pro
duced the change. ,Where shall we stop ?
What is the limit of milk production and but
ter yielding ? There is a liniit in the nature
of things ; and if that be reached in one case,
we shall strive to breed so as to bring the
average given by ap cows of the breed as near
as possible to it. "'
Several months since Charles L. Sharpless,
of Philadelphia, an enthusiastic admirer of
Jersey cattle, sent us a magnificent " imperial
photograph" of his beautiful cow " Duchess,"
the finest picture of a mulch cow we ever saw.
The cow is eight years old and was imported
last spring with eight others. She calved on
shipboard two weeks before landing, and two,
weeks after landing, gave 21 quarts of milk
per day, on grass alone, and in two separate
trials of a week each, on the same feed, made
13 pounds of butter. Many a cow may be fed
up to give more milk, and a few may snake
more butter, with all the oat-meal, roots, and
grass, they can eat, but we have never known
it done on grass alone. She is therefore a
good roan and her picture flows her to be no
less beautiful than good. Wegive Mr. Sharp
less' enthusiastic, and we believe truthful de
scription: "Size, below medium--would be
called small ; color seas dark, but has been
growing lighter, and is nose fawn ; skin, yel
low and mellow ; hair soft, with satiny coat ;
inside of ears,. bag, and teats, deep orange ;
horns, semi-transparent, not amber, but but
ter-colored; hoofs, yellow; eyes, Tull and
soft; neck, very thin ; crops, thin and sharp ;
capacity of the barrel enormous, In contrast
with her fine head, neck, tail and legs ; and
she has a docile, fine, nervous organization."
Such an animal must come very' near the
standard of perfection in Jersey cows. Some
good breeders have marked her fully up to it.
—American Agriculturist.
—WANTED-1 life-boat that will float on a
sea of twubles."
—" Professor of the aectimnlative art" is the
California term for thief.
—All men who do anything must expect a
depreciation of their efforts. It is the dirt
which their chariot wheels throw up.
—A man front the verdant regions y'ester
day went Into one of our Fire Hose Company's
houses to get a pair of stockings.
—" Pray, madam, why do you name your
lien Medoff ?" "Because, sir, I want her to
lay on I"
•:-SMART REri.v.-=An old woman driving
a four-footed troop into a city was accosted by
a young man with, "Good morning, mother
of donkeys." The dame meekly but smartly
replied, " Good morning to you, my son."
—Poor Fm,tow !—A young gentleman of
our acquaintance, on being asked, a day or
two ago, .whether ho didn't very much admire
Dickens's " Carol," said that he greatly pre
ferred his own Carol-ine
—Repose beautifies the heart and adorns the
life. It is to labor what the shadow is to the
sun. It is there one will find the views of
nature sparkling and pure, if he finds them at
all.
—"Please accept a lock of my hair," said
an old bachelor to a widow, handing,her a
large curl. " Sir, you had better give me the
whole wig." " Madame, you are very biting,
indeed, considering that your teeth are por
celain."
—" Let mo show you how to drive it," said
a carpenter to a little boy, who was about to
put a nail in the top of his sled, which had be
come loose. But the boy refused the kind
offer, set the nail wrong, and Split the board.
Too much conceit spoils many a good effort.
—When men used to be caught with black
eyes or bruised noses, they ascribed the phe
nomenon to an accidental hit of the pump
handle, but the pump liaving gone out of use
hereabouts, it is the custom now for such per
sona to say, " Oh, t- was caught 491 the last
ferry-boat accident!"
Greek prisoner confined by Turks
in a fortress in Crete, having got into the
powder magazine, threatened to blow the
whole place to atoms unless he were fed sump
tuously, and finally compelled the Turkish
commander to come down to the magazine
and dance a hornpipzfor his amusement every
morning.
—Don't be ashamed, my lad, if you have 'a
patch on your elbow.. It is no mark of dis
grace. It speaks well of your industrious
mother. For our part, we would rather see a
dozen patches on your jacket than hear one
profane or vulgar word escape your lips. No
good boy will shun you because you cannot
dress as well as he can ; . and if. a bad boy
laughs at your appearance, say nothing, but
walk on. We know many a rich and good
Men who was once as poor as you.