The Fiend's Delight

“One More Unfortunate.”

It was midnight-a black, wet, midnight-in a great city by the sea.  The church clocks were booming the hour, in tones half-smothered by the marching rain, when an officer of the watch saw a female figure glide past him like a ghost in the gloom, and make directly toward a wharf.  The officer felt that some dreadful tragedy was about to be enacted, and started in pursuit.  Through the sleeping city sped those two dark figures like shadows athwart a tomb.  Out along the deserted wharf to its farther end fled the mysterious fugitive, the guardian of the night vainly endeavouring to overtake, and calling to her to stay.  Soon she stood upon the extreme end of the pier, in the scourging rain which lashed her fragile figure and blinded her eyes with other tears than those of grief.  The night wind tossed her tresses wildly in air, and beneath her bare feet the writhing billows struggled blackly upward for their prey.  At this fearful moment the panting officer stumbled and fell!  He was badly bruised; he felt angry and misanthropic.  Instead of rising to his feet, he sat doggedly up and began chafing his abraded shin.  The desperate woman raised her white arms heavenward for the final plunge, and the voice of the gale seemed like the dread roaring of the waters in her ears, as down, down, she went—­in imagination—­to a black death among the spectral piles.  She backed a few paces to secure an impetus, cast a last look upon the stony officer, with a wild shriek sprang to the awful verge and came near losing her balance.  Recovering herself with an effort, she turned her face again to the officer, who was clawing about for his missing club.  Having secured it, he started to leave.

In a cosy, vine-embowered cottage near the sounding sea, lives and suffers a blighted female.  Nothing being known of her past history, she is treated by her neighbours with marked respect.  She never speaks of the past, but it has been remarked that whenever the stalwart form of a certain policeman passes her door, her clean, delicate face assumes an expression which can only be described as frozen profanity.  The Strong Young Man of Colusa.

Professor Cramer conducted a side-show in the wake of a horse-opera, and the same sojourned at Colusa.  Enters unto the side show a powerful young man of the Colusa sort, and would see his money’s worth.  Blandly and with conscious pride the Professor directs the young man’s attention to his fine collection of living snakes.  Lithely the blacksnake uncoils in his sight.  Voluminously the bloated boa convolves before him.  All horrent the cobra exalts his hooded head, and the spanning jaws fly open.  Quivers and chitters the tail of the cheerful rattlesnake; silently slips out the forked tongue, and is as silently absorbed.  The fangless adder warps up the leg of the Professor, lays clammy coils about his neck, and pokes a flattened head curiously into his open mouth.  The young man of Colusa is interested; his feelings transcend expression.  Not a syllable breathes he, but with a deep-drawn sigh he turns his broad back upon the astonishing display, and goes thoughtfully forth into his native wild.  Half an hour later might have been seen that brawny Colusan, emerging from an adjacent forest with a strong faggot.

Then this Colusa young man unto the appalled Professor thus:  “Ther ain’t no good place yer in Kerloosy fur fittin’ out serpence to be subtler than all the beasts o’ the field.  Ther’s enmity atween our seed and ther seed, an’ it shell brooze ther head.”  And with a singleness of purpose and a rapt attention to detail that would have done credit to a lean porker garnering the strewn kernels behind a deaf old man who plants his field with corn, he started in upon that reptilian host, and exterminated it with a careful thoroughness of extermination.

The Glad New Year.

A poor brokendown drunkard returned to his dilapidated domicile early on New Year’s morn.  The great bells of the churches were jarring the creamy moonlight which lay above the soggy undercrust of mud and snow.  As he heard their joyous peals, announcing the birth of a new year, his heart smote his old waistcoat like a remorseful sledge-hammer.

“Why,” soliloquized he, “should not those bells also proclaim the advent of a new resolution?  I have not made one for several weeks, and it’s about time.  I’ll swear off.”

He did it, and at that moment a new light seemed to be shed upon his pathway; his wife came out of the house with a tin lantern.  He rushed frantically to meet her.  She saw the new and holy purpose in his eye.  She recognised it readily-she had seen it before.  They embraced and wept.  Then stretching the wreck of what had once been a manly form to its full length, he raised his eyes to heaven and one hand as near there as he could get it, and there in the pale moonlight, with only his wondering wife, and the angels, and a cow or two, for witnesses, he swore he would from that moment abstain from all intoxicating liquors until death should them part.  Then looking down and tenderly smiling into the eyes of his wife, he said:  “Is it not well, dear one?” With a face beaming all over with a new happiness, she replied: 

“Indeed it is, John-let’s take a drink.”  And they took one, she with sugar and he plain.

The spot is still pointed out to the traveller.  The Late Dowling, Senior.

My friend, Jacob Dowling, Esq., had been spending the day very agreeably in his counting-room with some companions, and at night retired to the domestic circle to ravel out some intricate accounts.  Seated at his parlour table he ordered his wife and children out of the room and addressed himself to business.  While clambering wearily up a column of figures he felt upon his cheek the touch of something that seemed to cling clammily to the skin like the caress of a naked oyster.  Thoughtfully setting down the result of his addition so far as he had proceeded with it, he turned about and looked up.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, “but you have not the advantage of my acquaintance.”

“Why, Jake,” replied the apparition-whom I have thought it useless to describe—­“don’t you know me?”

“I confess that your countenance is familiar,” returned my friend, “but I cannot at this moment recall your name.  I never forget a face, but names I cannot remember.”

“Jake!” rumbled the spectre with sepulchral dignity, a look of displeasure crawling across his pallid features, “you’re foolin’.”

“I give you my word I am quite serious.  Oblige me with your name, and favour me with a statement of your business with me at this hour.”

The disembodied party sank uninvited into a chair, spread out his knees and stared blankly at a Dutch clock with an air of weariness and profound discouragement.  Perceiving that his guest was making himself tolerably comfortable my friend turned again to his figures, and silence reigned supreme.  The fire in the grate burned noiselessly with a mysterious blue light, as if it could do more if it wished; the Dutch clock looked wise, and swung its pendulum with studied exactness, like one who is determined to do his precise duty and shun responsibility; the cat assumed an attitude of intelligent neutrality.  Finally the spectre trained his pale eyes upon his host, pulled in a long breath and remarked: 

“Jake, I’m yur dead father.  I come back to have a talk with ye ’bout the way things is agoin’ on.  I want to know ’f you think it’s right notter recognise yur dead parent?”

“It is a little rough on you, dear,” replied the son without looking up, “but the fact is that [7 and 3 are 10, and 2 are 12, and 6 are 18] it is so long since you have been about [and 3 off are 15] that I had kind of forgotten, and [2 into 4 goes twice, and 7 into 6 you can’t] you know how it is yourself.  May I be permitted to again inquire the precise nature of your present business?”

“Well, yes-if you wont talk anything but shop I s’pose I must come to the p’int.  Isay! you don’t keep any thing to drink ’bout yer, do ye-Jake?”

“14 from 23 are 9-I’ll get you something when we get done.  Please explain how we can serve one another.”

“Jake, I done everything for you, and you ain’t done nothin’ for me since I died.  I want a monument bigger’n Dave Broderick’s, with an eppytaph in gilt letters, by Joaquin Miller.  I can’t git into any kind o’ society till I have ’em.  You’ve no idee how exclusive they are where I am.”

This dutiful son laid down his pencil and effected a stiffly vertical attitude.  He was all attention: 

“Anything else to-day?” he asked-rather sneeringly, I grieve to state.

“No-o-o, I don’t think of anything special,” drawled the ghost reflectively; “I’d like to have an iron fence around it to keep the cows off, but I s’pose that’s included.”

“Of course!  And a gravel walk, and a lot of abalone shells, and fresh posies daily; a marble angel or two for company, and anything else that will add to your comfort.  Have you any other extremely reasonable request to make of me?”

“Yes-since you mention it.  I want you to contest my will.  Horace Hawes is having his’n contested.”

“My fine friend, you did not make any will.”

“That ain’t o’ no consequence.  You forge me a good ’un and contest that.”

“With pleasure, sir; but that will be extra.  Now indulge me in one question.  You spoke of the society where you reside.  Where do you reside?”

The Dutch clock pounded clamorously upon its brazen gong a countless multitude of hours; the glowing coals fell like an avalanche through the grate, spilling all over the cat, who exalted her voice in a squawk like the deathwail of a stuck pig, and dashed affrighted through the window.  A smell of scorching fur pervaded the place, and under cover of it the aged spectre walked into the mirror, vanishing like a dream.  “Love’s Labour Lost.”

Joab was a beef, who was tired of being courted for his clean, smooth skin.  So he backed through a narrow gateway six or eight times, which made his hair stand the wrong way.  He then went and rubbed his fat sides against a charred log.  This made him look untidy.  You never looked worse in your life than Joab did.

“Now,” said he, “I shall be loved for myself alone.  I will change my name, and hie me to pastures new, and all the affection that is then lavished upon me will be pure and disinterested.”

So he strayed off into the woods and came out at old Abner Davis’ ranch.  The two things Abner valued most were a windmill and a scratching-post for hogs.  They were equally beautiful, and the fame of their comeliness had gone widely abroad.  To them Joab naturally paid his attention.  The windmill, who was called Lucille Ashtonbury Clifford, received him with expressions of the liveliest disgust.  His protestations of affection were met by creakings of contempt, and as he turned sadly away he was rewarded by a sound spank from one of her fans.  Like a gentlemanly beef he did not deign to avenge the insult by overturning Lucille Ashtonbury; and it is well for him that he did not, for old Abner stood by with a pitchfork and a trinity of dogs.

Disgusted with the selfish heartlessness of society, Joab shambled off and was passing the scratching-post without noticing her. (Her name was Arabella Cliftonbury Howard.) Suddenly she kicked away a multitude of pigs who were at her feet, and called to the rolling beef of uncanny exterior: 

“Comeer!”

Joab paused, looked at her with his ox-eyes, and gravely marching up, commenced a vigorous scratching against her.

“Arabella,” said he, “do you think you could love a shaggy-hided beef with black hair?  Could you love him for himself alone?”

Arabella had observed that the black rubbed off, and the hair lay sleek when stroked the right way.

“Yes, I think so; could you?”

This was a poser:  Joab had expected her to talk business.  He did not reply.  It was only her arch way; she thought, naturally, that the best way to win any body’s love was to be a fool.  She saw her mistake.  She had associated with hogs all her life, and this fellow was a beef!  Mistakes must be rectified very speedily in these matters.

“Sir, I have for you a peculiar feeling; I may say a tenderness.  Hereafter you, and you only, shall scratch against Arabella Cliftonbury Howard!”

Joab was delighted; he stayed and scratched all day.  He was loved for himself alone, and he did not care for anything but that.  Then he went home, made an elaborate toilet, and returned to astonish her.  Alas! old Abner had been about, and seeing how Joab had worn her smooth and useless, had cut her down for firewood.  Joab gave one glance, then walked solemnly away into a “clearing,” and getting comfortably astride a blazing heap of logs, made a barbacue of himself!

After all, Lucille Ashtonbury Clifford, the light-headed windmill, seems to have got the best of all this.  I have observed that the light-headed commonly get the best of everything in this world; which the wooden-headed and the beef-headed regard as an outrage.  I am not prepared to say if it is or not.  A Comforter.

William Bunker had paid a fine of two hundred dollars for beating his wife.  After getting his receipt he went moodily home and seated himself at the domestic hearth.  Observing his abstracted and melancholy demeanour, the good wife approached and tenderly inquired the cause.  “It’s a delicate subject, dear,” said he, with love-light in his eyes; “let’s talk about something good to eat.”

Then, with true wifely instinct she sought to cheer him up with pleasing prattle of a new bonnet he had promised her.  “Ah! darling,” he sighed, absently picking up the fire-poker and turning it in his hands, “let us change the subject.”

Then his soul’s idol chirped an inspiring ballad, kissed him on the top of his head, and sweetly mentioned that the dressmaker had sent in her bill.  “Let us talk only of love,” returned he, thoughtfully rolling up his dexter sleeve.

And so she spoke of the vine-enfolded cottage in which she fondly hoped they might soon sip together the conjugal sweets.  William became rigidly erect, a look not of earth was in his face, his breast heaved, and the fire-poker quivered with emotion.  William felt deeply.  “Mine own,” said the good woman, now busily irrigating a mass of snowy dough for the evening meal, “do you know that there is not a bite of meat in the house?”

It is a cold, unlovely truth-a sad, heart-sickening fact-but it must be told by the conscientious novelist.  William repaid all this affectionate solicitude-all this womanly devotion, all this trust, confidence, and abnegation in a manner that needs not be particularly specified.

A short, sharp curve in the middle of that iron fire-poker is eloquent of a wrong redressed.  Little Isaac.

Mr. Gobwottle came home from a meeting of the Temperance Legion extremely drunk.  He went to the bed, piled himself loosely atop of it and forgot his identity.  About the middle of the night, his wife, who was sitting up darning stockings, heard a voice from the profoundest depths of the bolster:  “Say, Jane?”

Jane gave a vicious stab with the needle, impaling one of her fingers, and continued her work.  There was a long silence, faintly punctuated by the bark of a distant dog.  Again that voice—­“Say-Jane!”

The lady laid aside her work and wearily, replied:  “Isaac, do go to sleep; they are off.”

Another and longer pause, during which the ticking of the clock became painful in the intensity of the silence it seemed to be measuring.  “Jane, what’s off!” “Why, your boots, to be sure,” replied the petulant woman, losing patience; “I pulled them off when you first lay down.”

Again the prostrate gentleman was still.  Then when the candle of the waking housewife had burned low down to the socket, and the wasted flame on the hearth was expiring bluely in convulsive leaps, the head of the family resumed:  “Jane, who said anything about boots?”

There was no reply.  Apparently none was expected, for the man immediately rose, lengthened himself out like a telescope, and continued:  “Jane, I must have smothered that brat, and I’m ’fernal sorry!”

“What brat?” asked the wife, becoming interested.

“Why, ours-our little Isaac.  I saw you put ’im in bed last week, and I’ve been layin’ right onto ’im!”

“What under the sun do you mean?” asked the good wife; “we haven’t any brat, and never had, and his name should not be Isaac if we had.  I believe you are crazy.”

The man balanced his bulk rather unsteadily, looked hard into the eyes of his companion, and triumphantly emitted the following conundrum:  “Jane, look-a-here!  If we haven’t any brat, what’n thunder’s the use o’ bein’ married!”

Pending the solution of the momentous problem, its author went out and searched the night for a whisky-skin.

The Heels of Her.

Passing down Commercial-street one fine day, I observed a lady standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk, with no obvious business there, but with apparently no intention of going on.  She was outwardly very calm, and seemed at first glance to be lost in some serene philosophical meditation.  A closer examination, however, revealed a peculiar restlessness of attitude, and a barely noticeable uneasiness of expression.  The conviction came upon me that the lady was in distress, and as delicately as possible I inquired of her if such were not the case, intimating at the same time that I should esteem it a great favour to be permitted to do something.  The lady smiled blandly and replied that she was merely waiting for a gentleman.  It was tolerably evident that I was not required, and with a stammered apology I hastened away, passed clear around the block, came up behind her, and took up a position on a dry-goods box; it lacked an hour to dinner time, and I had leisure.  The lady maintained her attitude, but with momently increasing impatience, which found expression in singular wave-like undulations of her lithe figure, and an occasional unmistakeable contortion.  Several gentlemen approached, but were successively and politely dismissed.  Suddenly she experienced a quick convulsion, strode sharply forward one step, stopped short, had another convulsion, and walked rapidly away.  Approaching the spot I found a small iron grating in the sidewalk, and between the bars two little boot heels, riven from their kindred soles, and unsightly with snaggy nails.

Heaven only knows why that entrapped female had declined the proffered assistance of her species-why she had elected to ruin her boots in preference to having them removed from her feet.  Upon that day when the grave shall give up its dead, and the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed, I shall know all about it; but I want to know now.  A Tale of Two Feet.

My friend Zacharias was accustomed to sleep with a heated stone at his feet; for the feet of Mr. Zacharias were as the feet of the dead.  One night he retired as usual, and it chanced that he awoke some hours afterwards with a well-defined smell of burning leather, making it pleasant for his nostrils.

“Mrs. Zacharias,” said he, nudging his snoring spouse, “I wish you would get up and look about.  I think one of the children must have fallen into the fire.”

The lady, who from habit had her own feet stowed comfortably away against the warm stomach of her lord and master, declined to make the investigation demanded, and resumed the nocturnal melody.  Mr. Zacharias was angered; for the first time since she had sworn to love, honour, and obey, this female was in open rebellion.  He decided upon prompt and vigorous action.  He quietly moved over to the back side of the bed and braced his shoulders against the wall.  Drawing up his sinewy knees to a level with his breast, he placed the soles of his feet broadly against the back of the insurgent, with the design of propelling her against the opposite wall.  There was a strangled snort, then a shriek of female agony, and the neighbours came in.

Mutual explanations followed, and Mr. Zacharias walked the streets of Grass Valley next day as if he were treading upon eggs worth a dollar a dozen.  The Scolliver Pig.

One of Thomas Jefferson’s maxims is as follows:  “When angry, count ten before you speak; if very angry, count a hundred.”  I once knew a man to square his conduct by this rule, with a most gratifying result.  Jacob Scolliver, a man prone to bad temper, one day started across the fields to visit his father, whom he generously permitted to till a small corner of the old homestead.  He found the old gentleman behind the barn, bending over a barrel that was canted over at an angle of seventy degrees, and from which issued a cloud of steam.  Scolliver pŠre was evidently scalding one end of a dead pig-an operation essential to the loosening of the hair, that the corpse may be plucked and shaven.

“Good morning, father,” said Mr. Scolliver, approaching, and displaying a long, cheerful smile.  “Got a nice roaster there?” The elder gentleman’s head turned slowly and steadily, as upon a swivel, until his eyes pointed backward; then he drew his arms out of the barrel, and finally, revolving his body till it matched his head, he deliberately mounted upon the supporting block and sat down upon the sharp edge of the barrel in the hot steam.  Then he replied, “Good mornin’ Jacob.  Fine mornin’.”

“A little warm in spots, I should imagine,” returned the son.  “Do you find that a comfortable seat?” “Why-yes-it’s good enough for an old man,” he answered, in a slightly husky voice, and with an uneasy gesture of the legs; “don’t make much difference in this life where we set, if we’re good-does it?  This world ain’t heaven, anyhow, I s’spose.”

“There I do not entirely agree with you,” rejoined the young man, composing his body upon a stump for a philosophical argument.  “I don’t neither,” added the old one, absently, screwing about on the edge of the barrel and constructing a painful grimace.  There was no argument, but a silence instead.  Suddenly the aged party sprang off that barrel with exceeding great haste, as of one who has made up his mind to do a thing and is impatient of delay.  The seat of his trousers was steaming grandly, the barrel upset, and there was a great wash of hot water, leaving a deposit of spotted pig.  In life that pig had belonged to Mr. Scolliver the younger!  Mr. Scolliver the younger was angry, but remembering Jefferson’s maxim, he rattled off the number ten, finishing up with “You—­thief!” Then perceiving himself very angry, he began all over again and ran up to one hundred, as a monkey scampers up a ladder.  As the last syllable shot from his lips he planted a dreadful blow between the old man’s eyes, with a shriek that sounded like—­“You son of a sea-cook!”

Mr. Scolliver the elder went down like a stricken beef, and his son often afterward explained that if he had not counted a hundred, and so given himself time to get thoroughly mad, he did not believe he could ever have licked the old man.  Mr. Hunker’s Mourner.

Strolling through Lone Mountain cemetery one day my attention was arrested by the inconsolable grief of a granite angel bewailing the loss of “Jacob Hunker, aged 67.”  The attitude of utter dejection, the look of matchless misery upon that angel’s face sank into my heart like water into a sponge.  I was about to offer some words of condolence when another man, similarly affected, got in before me, and laying a rather unsteady hand upon the celestial shoulder tipped back a very senile hat, and pointing to the name on the stone remarked with the most exact care and scrupulous accent:  “Friend of yours, perhaps; been dead long?”

There was no reply; he continued:  “Very worthy man, that Jake; knew him up in Tuolumne.  Good feller-Jake.”  No response:  the gentleman settled his hat still farther back, and continued with a trifle less exactness of speech:  “I say, young wom’n, Jake was my pard in the mines.  Goo’ fell’r I ’bserved!”

The last sentence was shot straight into the celestial ear at short range.  It produced no effect.  The gentleman’s patience and rhetorical vigilance were now completely exhausted.  He walked round, and planting himself defiantly in front of the vicarious mourner, he stuck his hands doggedly into his pockets and delivered the following rebuke, like the desultory explosions of a bunch of damaged fire-crackers:  “It wont do, old girl; ef Jake knowed how you’s treatin’ his old pard he’d jest git up and snatch you bald headed-he would!  You ain’t no friend o’ his’n and you ain’t yur fur no good-you bet!  Now you jest ‘sling your swag an’ bolt back to heaven, or I’m hanged ef I don’t have suthin’ worse’n horse-stealin’ to answer fur, this time.”

And he took a step forward.  At this point I interfered.  A Bit of Chivalry.

At Woodward’s Garden, in the city of San Francisco, is a rather badly chiselled statue of Pandora pulling open her casket of ills.  Pandora’s raiment, I grieve to state, has slipped down about her waist in a manner exceedingly reprehensible.  One evening about twilight, I was passing that way, and saw a long gaunt miner, evidently just down from the mountains, and whom I had seen before, standing rather unsteadily in front of Pandora, admiring her shapely figure, but seemingly afraid to approach her.  Seeing me advance, he turned to me with a queer, puzzled expression in his funny eyes, and said with an earnestness that came near defeating its purpose, “Good ev’n’n t’ye, stranger.”  “Good evening, sir,” I replied, after having analyzed his salutation and extracted the sense of it.  Lowering his voice to what was intended for a whisper, the miner, with a jerk of his thumb Pandoraward, continued:  “Stranger, d’ye hap’n t’know ’er?” “Certainly; that is Bridget Pandora, a Greek maiden, in the pay of the Board of Supervisors.”

He straightened himself up with a jerk that threatened the integrity of his neck and made his teeth snap, lurched heavily to the other side, oscillated critically for a few moments, and muttered:  “Brdgtpnd—.”  It was too much for him; he went down into his pocket, fumbled feebly round, and finally drawing out a paper of purely hypothetical tobacco, conveyed it to his mouth and bit off about two-thirds of it, which he masticated with much apparent benefit to his understanding, offering what was left to me.  He then resumed the conversation with the easy familiarity of one who has established a claim to respectful attention: 

“Pardner, couldn’t ye interdooce a fel’r’s wants tknow’er?” “Impossible; I have not the honour of her acquaintance.”  A look of distrust crept into his face, and finally settled into a savage scowl about his eyes.  “Sed ye knew ’er!” he faltered, menacingly.  “So I do, but I am not upon speaking terms with her, and-in fact she declines to recognise me.”  The soul of the honest miner flamed out; he laid his hand threateningly upon his pistol, jerked himself stiff, glared a moment at me with the look of a tiger, and hurled this question at my head as if it had been an iron interrogation point:  “W’at a’ yer ben adoin’ to that gurl?”

I fled, and the last I saw of the chivalrous gold-hunter, he had his arm about Pandora’s stony waist and was endeavouring to soothe her supposed agitation by stroking her granite head.  The Head of the Family.

Our story begins with the death of our hero.  The manner of it was decapitation, the instrument a mowing machine.  A young son of the deceased, dumb with horror, seized the paternal head and ran with it to the house.

“There!” ejaculated the young man, bowling the gory pate across the threshold at his mother’s feet, “look at that, will you?”

The old lady adjusted her spectacles, lifted the dripping head into her lap, wiped the face of it with her apron, and gazed into its fishy eyes with tender curiosity.  “John,” said she, thoughtfully, “is this yours?”

“No, ma, it ain’t none o’ mine.”

“John,” continued she, with a cold, unimpassioned earnestness, “where did you get this thing?”

“Why, ma,” returned the hopeful, “that’s Pap’s.”

“John”—­and there was just a touch of severity in her voice—­“when your mother asks you a question you should answer that particular question.  Where did you get this?”

“Out in the medder, then, if you’re so derned pertikeller,” retorted the youngster, somewhat piqued; “the mowin’ machine lopped it off.”

The old lady rose and restored the head into the hands of the young man.  Then, straightening with some difficulty her aged back, and assuming a matronly dignity of bearing and feature, she emitted the rebuke following: 

“My son, the gentleman whom you hold in your hand-any more pointed allusion to whom would be painful to both of us-has punished you a hundred times for meddling with things lying about the farm.  Take that head back and put it down where you found it, or you will make your mother very angry.”  Deathbed Repentance.

An old man of seventy-five years lay dying.  For a lifetime he had turned a deaf ear to religion, and steeped his soul in every current crime.  He had robbed the orphan and plundered the widow; he had wrested from the hard hands of honest toil the rewards of labour; had lost at the gaming-table the wealth with which he should have endowed churches and Sunday schools; had wasted in riotous living the substance of his patrimony, and left his wife and children without bread.  The intoxicating bowl had been his god-his belly had absorbed his entire attention.  In carnal pleasures passed his days and nights, and to the maddening desires of his heart he had ministered without shame and without remorse.  He was a bad, bad egg!  And now this hardened iniquitor was to meet his Maker!  Feebly and hesitatingly his breath fluttered upon his pallid lips.  Weakly trembled the pulse in his flattened veins!  Wife, children, mother-in-law, friends, who should have hovered lovingly about his couch, cheering his last moments and giving him medicine, he had killed with grief, or driven widely away; and he was now dying alone by the inadequate light of a tallow candle, deserted by heaven and by earth.  No, not by heaven.  Suddenly the door was pushed softly open, and there entered the good minister, whose pious counsel the suffering wretch had in health so often derided.  Solemnly the man of God advanced, Bible in hand.  Long and silently he stood uncovered in the presence of death.  Then with cold and impressive dignity he remarked, “Miserable old sinner!”

Old Jonas Lashworthy looked up.  He sat up.  The voice of that holy man put strength into his aged limbs, and he stood up.  He was reserved for a better fate than to die like a neglected dog:  Mr. Lashworthy was hanged for braining a minister of the Gospel with a boot-jack.  This touching tale has a moral.

MORAL of this touching tale.—­In snatching a brand from the eternal burning, make sure of its condition, and be careful how you lay hold of it.  The New Church that was not Built.

I have a friend who was never a church member, but was, and is, a millionaire-a generous benevolent millionaire-who once went about doing good by stealth, but with a natural preference for doing it at his office.  One day he took it into his thoughtful noddle that he would like to assist in the erection of a new church edifice, to replace the inadequate and shabby structure in which a certain small congregation in his town then worshipped.  So he drew up a subscription paper, modestly headed the list with “Christian, 2000 dollars,” and started one of the Deacons about with it.  In a few days the Deacon came back to him, like the dove to the ark, saying he had succeeded in procuring a few names, but the press of his private business was such that he had felt compelled to intrust the paper to Deacon Smith.

Next day the document was presented to my friend, as nearly blank as when it left his hands.  Brother Smith explained that he (Smith) had started this thing, and a brother calling himself “Christian,” whose name he was not at liberty to disclose, had put down 2000 dollars.  Would our friend aid them with an equal amount?  Our friend took the paper and wrote “Philanthropist, 1000 dollars,” and Brother Smith went away.

In about a week Brother Jones put in an appearance with the subscription paper.  By extraordinary exertions Brother Jones-thinking a handsome new church would be an ornament to the town and increase the value of real estate-had got two brethren, who desired to remain incog., to subscribe:  “Christian” 2000 dollars, and “Philanthropist” 1000 dollars.  Would my friend kindly help along a struggling congregation?  My friend would.  He wrote “Citizen, 500 dollars,” pledging Brother Jones, as he had pledged the others, not to reveal his name until it was time to pay.

Some weeks afterward, a clergyman stepped into my friend’s counting-room, and after smilingly introducing himself, produced that identical subscription list.

“Mr. K.,” said he, “I hope you will pardon the liberty, but I have set on foot a little scheme to erect a new church for our congregation, and three of the brethren have subscribed handsomely.  Would you mind doing something to help along the good work?”

My friend glanced over his spectacles at the proffered paper.  He rose in his wrath!  He towered!  Seizing a loaded pen he dashed at that fair sheet and scrabbled thereon in raging characters, “Impenitent Sinner—­Not one cent, by G—!”

After a brief explanatory conference, the minister thoughtfully went his way.  That struggling congregation still worships devoutly in its original, unpretending temple.  A Tale of the Great Quake.

One glorious morning, after the great earthquake of October 21, 1868, had with some difficulty shaken me into my trousers and boots, I left the house.  I may as well state that I left it immediately, and by an aperture constructed for another purpose.  Arrived in the street, I at once betook myself to saving people.  This I did by remarking closely the occurrence of other shocks, giving the alarm and setting an example fit to be followed.  The example was followed, but owing to the vigour with which it was set was seldom overtaken.  In passing down Clay-street I observed an old rickety brick boarding-house, which seemed to be just on the point of honouring the demands of the earthquake upon its resources.  The last shock had subsided, but the building was slowly and composedly settling into the ground.  As the third story came down to my level, I observed in one of the front rooms a young and lovely female in white, standing at a door trying to get out.  She couldn’t, for the door was locked-I saw her through the key-hole.  With a single blow of my heel I opened that door, and opened my arms at the same time.

“Thank God,” cried I, “I have arrived in time.  Come to these arms.”

The lady in white stopped, drew out an eye-glass, placed it carefully upon her nose, and taking an inventory of me from head to foot, replied: 

“No thank you; I prefer to come to grief in the regular way.”

While the pleasing tones of her voice were still ringing in my ears I noticed a puff of smoke rising from near my left toe.  It came from the chimney of that house.  Johnny.

Johnny is a little four-year-old, of bright, pleasant manners, and remarkable for intelligence.  The other evening his mother took him upon her lap, and after stroking his curly head awhile, asked him if he knew who made him.  I grieve to state that instead of answering “Dod,” as might have been expected, Johnny commenced cramming his face full of ginger-bread, and finally took a fit of coughing that threatened the dissolution of his frame.  Having unloaded his throat and whacked him on the back, his mother propounded the following supplementary conundrum: 

“Johnny, are you not aware that at your age every little boy is expected to say something brilliant in reply to my former question?  How can you so dishonour your parents as to neglect this golden opportunity?  Think again.”

The little urchin cast his eyes upon the floor and meditated a long time.  Suddenly he raised his face and began to move his lips.  There is no knowing what he might have said, but at that moment his mother noted the pressing necessity of wringing and mopping his nose, which she performed with such painful and conscientious singleness of purpose that Johnny set up a war-whoop like that of a night-blooming tomcat.

It may be objected that this little tale is neither instructive nor amusing.  I have never seen any stories of bright children that were.  The Child’s Provider.

Mr. Goboffle had a small child, no wife, a large dog, and a house.  As he was unable to afford the expense of a nurse, he was accustomed to leave the child in the care of the dog, who was much attached to it, while absent at a distant restaurant for his meals, taking the precaution to lock them up together to prevent kidnapping.  One day, while at his dinner, he crowded a large, hard-boiled potato down his neck, and it conducted him into eternity.  His clay was taken to the Coroner’s, and the great world went on, marrying and giving in marriage, lying, cheating, and praying, as if he had never existed.

Meantime the dog had, after several days of neglect, forced an egress through a window, and a neighbouring baker received a call from him daily.  Walking gravely in, he would deposit a piece of silver, and receiving a roll and his change would march off homeward.  As this was a rather unusual proceeding in a cur of his species, the baker one day followed him, and as the dog leaped joyously into the window of the deserted house, the man of dough approached and looked in.  What was his surprise to see the dog deposit his bread calmly upon the floor and fall to tenderly licking the face of a beautiful child!

It is but fair to explain that there was nothing but the face remaining.  But this dog did so love the child!  Boys who Began Wrong.

Two little California boys were arrested at Reno for horse thieving.  They had started from Surprise Valley with a cavalcade of thirty animals, and disposed of them leisurely along their line of march, until they were picked up at Reno, as above explained.  I don’t feel quite easy about those youths-away out there in Nevada without their Testaments!  Where there are no Sunday School books boys are so apt to swear and chew tobacco and rob sluice-boxes; and once a boy begins to do that last he might as well sell out; he’s bound to end by doing something bad!  I knew a boy once who began by robbing sluice-boxes, and he went right on from bad to worse, until the last I heard of him he was in the State Legislature, elected by Democratic votes.  You never saw anybody take on as his poor old mother did when she heard about it.

“Hank,” said she to the boy’s father, who was forging a bank note in the chimney corner, “this all comes o’ not edgercatin’ ’im when he was a baby.  Ef he’d larnt spellin’ and ciferin’ he never could a-ben elected.”

It pains me to state that old Hank didn’t seem to get any thinner under the family disgrace, and his appetite never left him for a minute.  The fact is, the old gentleman wanted to go to the United States Senate.  A Kansas Incident.

An invalid wife in Leavenworth heard her husband make proposals of marriage to the nurse.  The dying woman arose in bed, fixed her large black eyes for a moment upon the face of her heartless spouse with a reproachful intensity that must haunt him through life, and then fell back a corpse.  The remorse of that widower, as he led the blushing nurse to the altar the next week, can be more easily imagined than described.  Such reparation as was in his power he made.  He buried the first wife decently and very deep down, laying a handsome and exceedingly heavy stone upon the sepulchre.  He chiselled upon the stone the following simple and touching line:  “She can’t get back.”  Mr. Grile’s Girl.

In a lecture about girls, Cady Stanton contrasted the buoyant spirit of young males with the dejected sickliness of immature women.  This, she says, is because the latter are keenly sensitive to the fact that they have no aim in life.  This is a sad, sad truth!  No longer ago than last year the writer’s youngest girl-Gloriana, a skin-milk blonde concern of fourteen-came pensively up to her father with big tears in her little eyes, and a forgotten morsel of buttered bread lying unchewed in her mouth.

“Papa,” murmured the poor thing, “I’m gettin’ awful pokey, and my clothes don’t seem to set well in the back.  My days are full of ungratified longin’s, and my nights don’t get any better.  Papa, I think society needs turnin’ inside out and scrapin’.  I haven’t got nothin’ to aspire to-no aim; nor anything!”

The desolate creature spilled herself loosely into a cane-bottom chair, and her sorrow broke “like a great dyke broken.”

The writer lifted her tenderly upon his knee and bit her softly on the neck.

“Gloriana,” said he, “have you chewed up all that toffy in two days?”

A smothered sob was her frank confession.

“Now, see here, Glo,” continued the parent, rather sternly, “don’t let me hear any more about ’aspirations’-which are always adulterated with terra alba-nor ’aims’-which will give you the gripes like anything.  You just take this two shilling-piece and invest every penny of it in lollipops!”

You should have seen the fair, bright smile crawl from one of that innocent’s ears to the other-you should have marked that face sprinkle, all over with dimples-you ought to have beheld the tears of joy jump glittering into her eyes and spill all over her father’s clean shirt that he hadn’t had on more than fifteen minutes!  Cady Stanton is impotent of evil in the Grile family so long as the price of sweets remains unchanged.  His Railway.

The writer remembers, as if it were but yesterday, when he edited the Hang Tree Herald.  For six months he devoted his best talent to advocating the construction of a railway between that place and Jayhawk, thirty miles distant.  The route presented every inducement.  There would be no grading required, and not a single curve would be necessary.  As it lay through an uninhabited alkali flat, the right of way could be easily obtained.  As neither terminus had other than pack-mule communication with civilization, the rolling stock and other material must necessarily be constructed at Hang Tree, because the people at the other end didn’t know enough to do it, and hadn’t any blacksmith.  The benefit to our place was indisputable; it constituted the most seductive charm of the scheme.  After six months of conscientious lying, the company was incorporated, and the first shovelful of alkali turned up and preserved in a museum, when suddenly the devil put it into the head of one of the Directors to inquire publicly what the road was designed to carry.  It is needless to say the question was never satisfactorily answered, and the most daring enterprise of the age was knocked perfectly cold.  That very night a deputation of stockholders waited upon the editor of the Herald and prescribed a change of climate.  They afterward said the change did them good.  Mr. Gish Makes a Present.

In the season for making presents my friend Stockdoddle Gish, Esq., thought he would so far waive his superiority to the insignificant portion of mankind outside his own waistcoat as to follow one of its customs.  Mr. Gish has a friend-a delicate female of the shrinking sort-whom he favours with his esteem as a sort of equivalent for the respect she accords him when he browbeats her.  Our hero numbers among the blessings which his merit has extorted from niggardly Nature a gaunt meathound, between whose head and body there exists about the same proportion as between those of a catfish, which he also resembles in the matter of mouth.  As to sides, this precious pup is not dissimilar to a crockery crate loosely covered with a wet sheet.  In appetite he is liberal and cosmopolitan, loving a dried sheepskin as well in proportion to its weight as a kettle of soap.  The village which Mr. Gish honours by his residence has for some years been kept upon the dizzy verge of financial ruin by the maintenance of this animal.

The reader will have already surmised that it was this beast which our hero selected to testify his toleration of his lady friend.  There never was a greater mistake.  Mr. Gish merely presented her a sheaf of assorted angle-worms, neatly bound with a pink ribbon tied into a simple knot.  The dog is an heirloom and will descend to the Gishes of the next generation, in the direct line of inheritance.  A Cow-County Pleasantry.

About the most ludicrous incident that I remember occurred one day in an ordinarily solemn village in the cow-counties.  A worthy matron, who had been absent looking after a vagrom cow, returned home, and pushing against the door found it obstructed by some heavy substance, which, upon examination, proved to be her husband.  He had been slaughtered by some roving joker, who had wrought upon him with a pick-handle.  To one of his ears was pinned a scrap of greasy paper, upon which were scrambled the following sentiments in pencil-tracks: 

“The inqulosed boddy is that uv old Burker.  Step litely, stranger, fer yer lize the mortil part uv wat you mus be sum da.  Thers arrest for the weery!  If Burker heddenta wurkt agin me fer Corner I wuddenta bed to sit on him.  Ov setch is the kingum of hevvun!  You don’t want to moov this boddy til ime summuns to hold a ninquest.  Orl flesh are gras!”

The ridiculous part of the story is that the lady did not wait to summon the Coroner, but took charge of the remains herself; and in dragging them toward the bed she exploded into her face a shotgun, which had been cunningly contrived to discharge by a string connected with the body.  Thus was she punished for an infraction of the law.  The next day the particulars were told me by the facetious Coroner himself, whose jury had just rendered a verdict of accidental drowning in both cases.  I don’t know when I have enjoyed a heartier laugh.  The Optimist, and What He Died Of.

One summer evening, while strolling with considerable difficulty over Russian Hill, San Francisco, Mr. Grile espied a man standing upon the extreme summit, with a pensive brow and a suit of clothes which seemed to have been handed down through a long line of ancestors from a remote Jew peddler.  Mr. Grile respectfully saluted; a man who has any clothes at all is to him an object of veneration.  The stranger opened the conversation: 

“My son,” said he, in a tone suggestive of strangulation by the Sheriff, “do you behold this wonderful city, its wharves crowded with the shipping of all nations?”

Mr. Grile beheld with amazement.

“Twenty-one years ago-alas! it used to be but twenty,” and he wiped away a tear—­“you might have bought the whole dern thing for a Mexican ounce.”

Mr. Grile hastened to proffer a paper of tobacco, which disappeared like a wisp of oats drawn into a threshing machine.

“I was one among the first who—­”

Mr. Grile hit him on the head with a paving-stone by way of changing the topic.

“Young man,” continued he, “do you feel this bommy breeze?  There isn’t a climit in the world—­”

This melancholy relic broke down in a fit of coughing.  No sooner had he recovered than he leaped into the air, making a frantic clutch at something, but apparently without success.

“Dern it,” hissed he, “there goes my teeth; blowed out again, by hokey!”

A passing cloud of dust hid him for a moment from view, and when he reappeared he was an altered man; a paroxysm of asthma had doubled him up like a nut-cracker.

“Excuse me,” he wheezed, “I’m subject to this; caught it crossin’ the Isthmus in ‘49.  As I was a-sayin’, there’s no country in the world that offers such inducements to the immygrunt as Californy.  With her fertile soil, her unrivalled climit, her magnificent bay, and the rest of it, there is enough for all.”

This venerable pioneer picked a fragmentary biscuit from the street and devoured it.  Mr. Grile thought this had gone on about long enough.  He twisted the head off that hopeful old party, surrendered himself to the authorities, and was at once discharged.  The Root of Education.

A pedagogue in Indiana, who was “had up” for unmercifully waling the back of a little girl, justified his action by explaining that “she persisted in flinging paper pellets at him when his back was turned.”  That is no excuse.  Mr. Grile once taught school up in the mountains, and about every half hour had to remove his coat and scrape off the dried paper wads adhering to the nap.  He never permitted a trifle like this to unsettle his patience; he just kept on wearing that gaberdine until it had no nap and the wads wouldn’t stick.  But when they took to dipping them in mucilage he made a complaint to the Board of Directors.

“Young man,” said the Chairman, “ef you don’t like our ways, you’d better sling your blankets and git.  Prentice Mulford tort skule yer for more’n six months, and he never said a word agin the wads.”

Mr. Grile briefly explained that Mr. Mulford might have been brought up to paper wads, and didn’t mind them.

“It ain’t no use,” said another Director, “the children hev got to be amused.”

Mr. Grile protested that there were other amusements quite as diverting; but the third Director here rose and remarked: 

“I perfeckly agree with the Cheer; this youngster better travel.  I consider as paper wads lies at the root uv popillar edyercation; ther a necessary adjunck uv the skool systim.  Mr. Cheerman, I move and second that this yer skoolmarster be shot.”

Mr. Grile did not remain to observe the result of the voting.  Retribution.

A citizen of Pittsburg, aged sixty, had, by tireless industry and the exercise of rigid economy, accumulated a hoard of frugal dollars, the sight and feel whereof were to his soul a pure delight.  Imagine his sorrow and the heaviness of his aged heart when he learned that the good wife had bestowed thereof upon her brother bountiful largess exceeding his merit.  Sadly and prayerfully while she slept lifted he the retributive mallet and beat in her brittle pate.  Then with the quiet dignity of one who has redressed a grievous wrong, surrendered himself unto the law this worthy old man.  Let him who has never known the great grief of slaughtering a wife judge him harshly.  He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone-and let it be a large heavy stone that shall grind that wicked old man into a powder of exceeding impalpability.  The Faithful Wife.

“A man was sentenced to twenty years’ confinement for a deed of violence.  In the excitement of the moment his wife sought and obtained a divorce.  Thirteen years afterward he was pardoned.  The wife brought the pardon to the gate; the couple left the spot arm in arm; and in less than an hour they were again united in the bonds of wedlock.”

Such is the touching tale narrated by a newspaper correspondent.  It is in every respect true; I knew the parties well, and during that long bitter period of thirteen years it was commonly asked concerning the woman:  “Hasn’t that hag trapped anybody yet?  She’ll have to take back old Jabe when he gets out.”  And she did.  For nearly thirteen weary years she struggled nobly against fate:  she went after every unmarried man in her part of the country; but “No,” said they, “we cannot-indeed we cannot-marry you, after the way you went back on Jabe.  It is likely that under the same circumstances you would play us the same scurvy trick.  G’way, woman!” And so the poor old heartbroken creature had to go to the Governor and get the old man pardoned out.  Bless her for her steadfast fidelity!  Margaret the Childless.

This, therefore, is the story of her:—­Some four years ago her husband brought home a baby, which he said he found lying in the street, and which they concluded to adopt.  About a year after this he brought home another, and the good woman thought she could stand that one too.  A similar period passed away, when one evening he opened the door and fell headlong into the room, swearing with studied correctness at a dog which had tripped him up, but which upon inspection turned out to be another baby.  Margaret’s sus-picion was aroused, but to allay his she hastened to implore him to adopt that darling also, to which, after some slight hesitation, he consented.  Another twelvemonth rolled into eternity, when one evening the lady heard a noise in the back yard, and going out she saw her husband labouring at the windlass of the well with unwonted industry.  As the bucket neared the top he reached down and extracted another infant, exactly like the former ones, and holding it up, explained to the astonished matron:  “Look at this, now; did you ever see such a sweet young one go a-campaignin’ about the country without a lantern and a-tumblin’ into wells?  There, take the poor little thing in to the fire, and get off its wet clothes.”  It suddenly flashed across his mind that he had neglected an obvious precaution-the clothes were not wet-and he hastily added:  “There’s no tellin’ what would have become of it, a-climbin’ down that rope, if I hadn’t seen it afore it got down to the water.”

Silently the good wife took that infant into the house and disrobed it; sorrowfully she laid it alongside its little brothers and sister; long and bitterly she wept over the quartette; and then with one tender look at her lord and master, smoking in solemn silence by the fire, and resembling them with all his might, she gathered her shawl about her bowed shoulders and went away into the night.  The Discomfited Demon.

I never clearly knew why I visited the old cemetery that night.  Perhaps it was to see how the work of removing the bodies was getting on, for they were all being taken up and carted away to a more comfortable place where land was less valuable.  It was well enough; nobody had buried himself there for years, and the skeletons that were now exposed were old mouldy affairs for which it was difficult to feel any respect.  However, I put a few bones in my pocket as souvenirs.  The night was one of those black, gusty ones in March, with great inky clouds driving rapidly across the sky, spilling down sudden showers of rain which as suddenly would cease.  I could barely see my way between the empty graves, and in blundering about among the coffins I tripped and fell headlong.  A peculiar laugh at my side caused me to turn my head, and I saw a singular old gentleman whom I had often noticed hanging about the Coroner’s office, sitting cross-legged upon a prostrate tombstone.

“How are you, sir?” said I, rising awkwardly to my feet; “nice night.”

“Get off my tail,” answered the elderly party, without moving a muscle.

“My eccentric friend,” rejoined I, mockingly, “may I be permitted to inquire your street and number?”

“Certainly,” he replied, “No. 1, Marle Place, Asphalt Avenue, Hades.”

“The devil!” sneered I.

“Exactly,” said he; “oblige me by getting off my tail.”

I was a little staggered, and by way of rallying my somewhat dazed faculties, offered a cigar:  “Smoke?”

“Thank you,” said the singular old gentleman, putting it under his coat; “after dinner.  Drink?”

I was not exactly prepared for this, but did not know if it would be safe to decline, and so putting the proffered flask to my lips pretended to swig elaborately, keeping my mouth tightly closed the while.  “Good article,” said I, returning it.  He simply remarked, “You’re a fool,” and emptied the bottle at a gulp.

“And now,” resumed he, “you will confer a favour I shall highly appreciate by removing your feet from my tail.”

There was a slight shock of earthquake, and all the skeletons in sight arose to their feet, stretched themselves and yawned audibly.  Without moving from his seat, the old gentleman rapped the nearest one across the skull with his gold-headed cane, and they all curled away to sleep again.

“Sire,” I resumed, “indulge me in the impertinence of inquiring your business here at this hour.”

“My business is none of yours,” retorted he, calmly; “what are you up to yourself?”

“I have been picking up some bones,” I replied, carelessly.

“Then you are—­”

I am—­”

“A Ghoul!”

“My good friend, you do me injustice.  You have doubtless read very frequently in the newspapers of the Fiend in Human Shape whose actions and way of life are so generally denounced.  Sire, you see before you that maligned party!”

There was a quick jerk under the soles of my feet, which pitched me prone upon the ground.  Scrambling up, I saw the old gentleman vanishing behind an adjacent sandhill as if the devil were after him.  The Mistake of a Life.

The hotel was in flames.  Mr. Pokeweed was promptly on hand, and tore madly into the burning pile, whence he soon emerged with a nude female.  Depositing her tenderly upon a pile of hot bricks, he mopped his steaming front with his warm coat-tail.

“Now, Mrs. Pokeweed,” said he, “where will I be most likely to find the children?  They will naturally wish to get out.”

The lady assumed a stiffly vertical attitude, and with freezing dignity replied in the words following: 

“Sir, you have saved my life; I presume you are entitled to my thanks.  If you are likewise solicitous regarding the fate of the person you have mentioned, you had better go back and prospect round till you find her; she would probably be delighted to see you.  But while I have a character to maintain unsullied, you shall not stand there and call me Mrs. Pokeweed!”

Just then the front wall toppled outward, and Pokeweed cleared the street at a single bound.  He never learned what became of the strange lady, and to the day of his death he professed an indifference that was simply brutal.  L. S.

Early one evening in the autumn of ’64, a pale girl stood singing Methodist hymns at the summit of Bush Street hill.  She was attired, Spanish fashion, in a loose overcoat and slippers.  Suddenly she broke off her song, a dark-browed young soldier from the Presidio cautiously approached, and seizing her fondly in his arms, snatched away the overcoat, retreating with it to an auction-house on Pacific Street, where it may still be seen by the benighted traveller, just a-going for two-and-half-and never gone!

The poor maiden after this misfortune felt a bitter resentment swelling in her heart, and scorning to remain among her kind in that costume, took her way to the Cliff House, where she arrived, worn and weary, about breakfast-time.

The landlord received her kindly, and offered her a pair of his best trousers; but she was of noble blood, and having been reared in luxury, respectfully declined to receive charity from a low-born stranger.  All efforts to induce her to eat were equally unavailing.  She would stand for hours on the rocks where the road descends to the beach, and gaze at the playful seals in the surf below, who seemed rather flattered by her attention, and would swim about, singing their sweetest songs to her alone.  Passers-by were equally curious as to her, but a broken lyre gives forth no music, and her heart responded not with any more long metre hymns.

After a few weeks of this solitary life she was suddenly missed.  At the same time a strange seal was noted among the rest.  She was remarkable for being always clad in an overcoat, which she had doubtless fished up from the wreck of the French galleon Brignardello, which went ashore there some years afterward.

One tempestuous night, an old hag who had long done business as a hermitess on Helmet Rock came into the bar-room at the Cliff House, and there, amidst the crushing thunders and lightnings spilling all over the horizon, she related that she had seen a young seal in a comfortable overcoat, sitting pensively upon the pinnacle of Seal Rock, and had distinctly heard the familiar words of a Methodist hymn.  Upon inquiry the tale was discovered to be founded upon fact.  The identity of this seal could no longer be denied without downright blasphemy, and in all the old chronicles of that period not a doubt is even implied.

One day a handsome, dark, young lieutenant of infantry, Don Edmundo by name, came out to the Cliff House to celebrate his recent promotion.  While standing upon the verge of the cliff, with his friends all about him, Lady Celia, as visitors had christened her, came swimming below him, and taking off her overcoat, laid it upon a rock.  She then turned up her eyes and sang a Methodist hymn.

No sooner did the brave Don Edmundo hear it than he tore off his gorgeous clothes, and cast himself headlong in the billows.  Lady Celia caught him dexterously by the waist in her mouth, and, swimming to the outer rock, sat up and softly bit him in halves.  She then laid the pieces tenderly in a conspicuous place, put on her overcoat, and plunging into the waters was never seen more.

Many are the wild fabrications of the poets about her subsequent career, but to this day nothing authentic has turned up.  For some months strenuous efforts were made to recover the wicked Lieutenant’s body.  Every appliance which genius could invent and skill could wield was put in requisition; until one night the landlord, fearing these constant efforts might frighten away the seals, had the remains quietly removed and secretly interred.  The Baffled Asian.

One day in ’49 an honest miner up in Calaveras county, California, bit himself with a small snake of the garter variety, and either as a possible antidote, or with a determination to enjoy the brief remnant of a wasted life, applied a brimming jug of whisky to his lips, and kept it there until, like a repleted leech, it fell off.

The man fell off likewise.

The next day, while the body lay in state upon a pine slab, and the bereaved partner of the deceased was unbending in a game of seven-up with a friendly Chinaman, the game was interrupted by a familiar voice which seemed to proceed from the jaws of the corpse:  “I say-Jim!”

Bereaved partner played the king of spades, claimed “high,” and then, looking over his shoulder at the melancholy remains, replied, “Well, what is it, Dave?  I’m busy.”

“I say-Jim!” repeated the corpse in the same measured tone.

With a look of intense annoyance, and muttering something about “people that could never stop dead more’n a minute,” the bereaved partner rose and stood over the body with his cards in his hand.

“Jim,” continued the mighty dead, “how fur’s this thing gone?”

“I’ve paid the Chinaman two-and-a-half to dig the grave,” responded the bereaved.

“Did he strike anything?”

The Chinaman looked up:  “Me strikee pay dirt; me no bury dead ’Melican in ’em grave.  Me keep ’em claim.”

The corpse sat up erect:  “Jim, git my revolver and chase that pig-tail off.  Jump his dam sepulchre, and tax his camp five dollars each fer prospectin’ on the public domain.  These Mungolyun hordes hez got to be got under.  And-I say-Jim! ’f any more serpents come foolin’ round here drive ’em off.  ‘T’aint right to be bitin’ a feller when whisky’s two dollars a gallon.  Dern all foreigners, anyhow!”

And the mortal part pulled on its boots.  TALL talk.  A Call to Dinner.

When the starving peasantry of France were bearing with inimitable fortitude their great bereavement in the death of Louis le Grand, how cheerfully must they have bowed their necks to the easy yoke of Philip of Orleans, who set them an example in eating which he had not the slightest objection to their following.  A monarch skilled in the mysteries of the cuisine must wield the sceptre all the more gently from his schooling in handling the ladle.  In royalty, the delicate manipulation of an omelette souffl‚ is at once an evidence of genius, and an assurance of a tender forbearance in state policy.  All good rulers have been good livers, and if all bad ones have been the same this merely proves that even the worst of men have still something divine in them.

There is more in a good dinner than is disclosed by the removal of the covers.  Where the eye of hunger perceives but a juicy roast, the eye of faith detects a smoking God.  A well-cooked joint is redolent of religion, and a delicate pasty is crisp with charity.  The man who can light his after-dinner Havana without feeling full to the neck with all the cardinal virtues is either steeped in iniquity or has dined badly.  In either case he is no true man.  We stoutly contend that that worthy personage Epicurus has been shamefully misrepresented by abstemious, and hence envious and mendacious, historians.  Either his philosophy was the most gentle, genial, and reverential of antique systems, or he was not an Epicurean, and to call him so is a deceitful flattery.  We hold that it is morally impossible for a man to dine daily upon the fat of the land in courses, and yet deny a future state of existence, beatific with beef, and ecstatic with all edibles.  Another falsity of history is that of Heliogabalus-was it not?-dining off nightingales’ tongues.  No true gourmet would ever send this warbler to the shambles so long as scarcer birds might be obtained.

It is a fine natural instinct that teaches the hungry and cadaverous to avoid the temples of religion, and a short-sighted and misdirected zeal that would gather them into the sanctuary.  Religion is for the oleaginous, the fat-bellied, chylesaturated devotees of the table.  Unless the stomach be lined with good things, the parson may say as many as he likes and his truths shall not be swallowed nor his wisdom inly digested.  Probably the highest, ripest, and most acceptable form of worship is that performed with a knife and fork; and whosoever on the resurrection morning can produce from amongst the lumber of his cast-off flesh a thin-coated and elastic stomach, showing evidences of daily stretchings done in the body, will find it his readiest passport and best credential.  We believe that God will not hold him guiltless who eats with his knife, but if the deadly steel be always well laden with toothsome morsels, divine justice will be tempered with mercy to that man’s soul.  When the author of the “Lost Tales” represented Sisyphus as capturing his guest, the King of Terrors, and stuffing the old glutton with meat and drink until he became “a jolly, rubicund, tun-bellied Death,” he gave us a tale which needs no h‘c fabula docet to point out the moral.

We verily believe that Shakspeare writ down Fat Jack at his last gasp, as babbling, not o’ green fields, but o’ green turtle, and that that starvling Colley Cibber altered the text from sheer envy at a good man’s death.  To die well we must live well, is a familiar platitude.  Morality is, of course, best promoted by the good quality of our fare, but quantitative excellence is by no means to be despised.  C‘teris paribus, the man who eats much is a better Christian than the man who eats little, and he who eats little will pursue a more uninterrupted course of benevolence than he who eats nothing.  On Death and Immortality.

Did it ever strike you, dear reader, that it must be a particularly pleasant thing to be dead?  To say nothing hackneyed about the blessed freedom from the cares and vexations of life—­which we cling to with such tenacity while we can, and which, when we have no longer the power to hold, we let go all at once, with probably a feeling of exquisite relief-and to take no account of this latter probable but totally undemonstrable felicity, it must be what boys call awfully jolly to be dead.

Here you are, lying comfortably upon your back-what is left of it-in the cool dark, and with the smell of the fresh earth all about you.  Your soul goes knocking about amongst an infinity of shadowy things, Lord knows where, making all sorts of silent discoveries in the gloom of what was yesterday an unknown and mysterious future, and which, after centuries of exploration, must still be strangely unfamiliar.  The nomadic thing doubtless comes back occasionally to the old grave-if the body is so fortunate as to possess one-and looks down upon it with big round eyes and a lingering tenderness.

It is hard to conceive a soul entirely cut loose from the old bones, and roving rudderless about eternity.  It was probably this inability to mentally divorce soul from substance that gave us that absurdly satisfactory belief in the resurrection of the flesh.  There is said to be a race of people somewhere in Africa who believe in the immortality of the body, but deny the resurrection of the soul.  The dead will rise refreshed after their long sleep, and in their anxiety to test their rejuvenated powers, will skip bodily away and forget their souls.  Upon returning to look for them, they will find nothing but little blue flames, which can never be extinguished, but may be carried about and used for cooking purposes.  This belief probably originates in some dim perception of the law of compensation.  In this life the body is the drudge of the spirit; in the next the situation is reversed.

The heaven of the Mussulman is not incompatible with this kind of immortality.  Its delights, being merely carnal ones, could be as well or better enjoyed without a soul, and the latter might be booked for the Christian heaven, with only just enough of the body to attach a pair of wings to.  Mr. Solyman Muley Abdul Ben Gazel could thus enjoy a dual immortality and secure a double portion of eternal felicity at no expense to anybody.

In fact, there can be no doubt whatever that this theory of a double heaven is the true one, and needs but to be fairly stated to be universally received, inasmuch as it supposes the maximum of felicity for terrestrial good behaviour.  It is therefore a sensible theory, resting upon quite as solid a foundation of fact as any other theory, and must commend itself at once to the proverbial good sense of Christians everywhere.  The trouble is that some architectural scoundrel of a priest is likely to build a religion upon it; and what the world needs is theory-good, solid, nourishing theory.  Music-Muscular and Mechanical.

One cheerful evidence of the decivilization of the Anglo-Saxon race is the late tendency to return to first principles in art, as manifested in substituting noise for music.  Herein we detect symptoms of a rapid relapse into original barbarism.  The savage who beats his gong or kettledrum until his face is of a delicate blue, and his eyes assert themselves like those of an unterrified snail, believes that musical skill is a mere question of brawn-a matter of muscle.  If not wholly ignorant of technical gymnastics, he has a theory that a deftness at dumb-bells is a prime requisite in a finished artist.  The advance-in a circle-of civilization has only partially unsettled this belief in the human mind, and we are constantly though unconsciously reverting to it.

It is true the modern demand for a great deal of music has outstripped the supply of muscle for its production; but the ingenuity of man has partially made up for his lack of physical strength, and the sublimer harmonies may still be rendered with tolerable effectiveness, and with little actual fatigue to the artist.  As we retrograde towards the condition of Primeval Man-the man with the gong and kettledrum-the blacksmith slowly reasserts his place as the interpreter of the maestro.

But there is a limit beyond which muscle, whether that of the arm or cheek, can no further go, without too great an expenditure of force in proportion to the volume of noise attainable.  And right here the splendid triumphs of modern invention and discovery are made manifest; electricity and gunpowder come to the relief of puny muscle, simple appliance, and orchestras limited by sparse population.  Batteries of artillery thunder exultingly our victory over Primeval Man, beaten at his own game-signally routed and put to shame, pounding his impotent gong and punishing his ridiculous kettledrum in frantic silence, amidst the clash and clang and roar of modern art.  The Good Young Man.

Why is he?  Why defaces he the fair page of creation, and why is he to be continued?  This has never been explained; it is one of those dispensations of Providence the design whereof is wrapped in profoundest obscurity.  The good young man is perhaps not without excuse for his existence, but society is without excuse for permitting it.  At his time of life to be “good” is to insult humanity.  Goodness is proper to the aged; it is their sole glory; why should this milky stripling bring it into disrepute?  Why should he be permitted to defile with the fat of his sleek locks a crown intended to adorn the grizzled pow of his elders?

A young man may be manly, gentle, honourable, noble, tender and true, and nobody will ever think of calling him a good young man.  Your good young man is commonly a sneak, and is very nearly allied to that other social pest, the “nice young lady.”  As applied to the immature male of our kind, the adjective “good” seems to have been perverted from its original and ordinary signification, and to have acquired a dyslogistic one.  It is a term of reproach, and means, as nearly as may be, “characterless.”  That any one should submit to have it applied to him is proof of the essential cowardice of Virtue.

We believe the direst ill afflicting civilization is the good young man.  The next direst is his natural and appointed mate, the nice young lady.  If the two might be tied neck and heels together and flung into the sea, the land would be the fatter for it.  The Average Parson.

Our objection to him is not that he is senseless; this-as it concerns us not-we can patiently endure.  Nor that he is bigoted; this we expect, and have become accustomed to.  Nor that he is small-souled, narrow, and hypocritical; all these qualities become him well, sitting easily and gracefully upon him.  We protest against him because he is always “carrying on.”

To carry on, in one way or another, seems to be the function of his existence, and essential to his health.  When he is not doing it in the pulpit he is at it in the newspapers; when both fail him he resorts to the social circle, the church meeting, the Sunday-school, or even the street corner.  We have known him to disport for half a day upon the kerb-stone, carrying on with all his might to whomsoever would endure it.

No sooner does a young sick-faced theologue get safely through his ordination, as a baby finishes teething, than straightway he casts about him for an opportunity to carry on.  A pretext is soon found, and he goes at it hammer and tongs; and forty years after you shall find him at the same trick with as simple a faith, as exalted an expectation, as vigorous an impotence, as the day he began.

His carryings-on are as diverse in kind, as comprehensive in scope, as those of the most versatile negro minstrel.  He cuts as many capers in a lifetime as there are stars in heaven or grains of sand in a barrel of sugar.  Everything is fish that comes to his net.  If a discovery in science is announced, he will execute you an antic upon it before it gets fairly cold.  Is a new theory advanced-ten to one while you are trying to get it through your head he will stand on his own and make mouths at it.  A great invention provokes him into a whirlwind of flip-flaps absolutely bewildering to the secular eye; while at any exceptional phenomenon of nature, such as an earthquake, he will project himself frog-like into an infinity of lofty gymnastic absurdities.

In short, the slightest agitation of the intellectual atmosphere sets your average parson into a tempest of pumping like the jointed ligneous youth attached to the eccentric of a boy’s whirligig.  His philosophy of life may be boiled down into a single sentence:  Carry on and you will be happy.  Did We Eat One Another?

There is no doubt of it.  The unwelcome truth has long been suppressed by interested parties who find their account in playing sycophant to that self-satisfied tyrant Modern Man; but to the impartial philosopher it is as plain as the nose upon an elephant’s face that our ancestors ate one another.  The custom of the Fiji Islanders, which is their only stock-in-trade, their only claim to notoriety, is a relic of barbarism; but it is a, relic of our barbarism.

Man is naturally a carnivorous animal.  This none but greengrocers will dispute.  That he was formerly less vegetarian in his diet than at present, is clear from the fact that market-gardening increases in the ratio of civilization.  So we may safely assume that at some remote period Man subsisted upon an exclusively flesh diet.  Our uniform vanity has given us the human mind as the ne plus ultra of intelligence, the human face and figure as the standard of beauty.  Of course we cannot deny to human fat and lean an equal superiority over beef, mutton, and pork.  It is plain that our meat-eating ancestors would think in this way, and, being unrestrained by the mawkish sentiment attendant upon high civilization, would act habitually upon the obvious suggestion.  A priori, therefore, it is clear that we ate ourselves.

Philology is about the only thread which connects us with the prehistoric past.  By picking up and piecing out the scattered remnants of language, we form a patchwork of wondrous design.  Oblige us by considering the derivation of the word “sarcophagus,” and see if it be not suggestive of potted meats.  Observe the significance of the phrase “sweet sixteen.”  What a world of meaning lurks in the expression “she is sweet as a peach,” and how suggestive of luncheon are the words “tender youth.”  A kiss itself is but a modified bite, and when a young girl insists upon making a “strawberry mark” upon the back of your hand, she only gives way to an instinct she has not yet learned to control.  The fond mother, when she says her babe is almost “good enough to eat,” merely shows that she herself is only a trifle too good to eat it.

These evidences might be multiplied ad infinitum; but if enough has been said to induce one human being to revert to the diet of his ancestors, the object of this essay is accomplished.  Your Friend’s Friend.

If there is any individual who combines within himself the vices of an entire species it is he.  A mother-in-law has usually been thought a rather satisfactory specimen of total depravity; it has been customary to regard your sweetheart’s brother as tolerably vicious for a young man; there is excellent authority for looking upon your business partner as not wholly without merit as a nuisance-but your friend’s friend is as far ahead of these in all that constitutes a healthy disagreeableness as they themselves are in advance of the average reptile or the conventional pestilence.

We do not propose to illustrate the great truth we have in hand by instances; the experience of the reader will furnish ample evidence in support of our proposition, and any narration of pertinent facts could only quicken into life the dead ghosts of a thousand sheeted annoyances to squeak and gibber through a memory studded thick with the tombstones of happy hours murdered by your friend’s friend.

Also, the animal is too well known to need a description.  Imagine a thing in all essential particulars the exact reverse of a desirable acquaintance, and you have his mental photograph.  How your friend could ever admire so hopeless and unendurable a bore is a problem you are ever seeking to solve.  Perhaps you may be assisted in it by a previous solution of the kindred problem-how he could ever feel affection for yourself?  Perhaps your friend’s friend is equally exercised over that question.  Perhaps from his point of view you are your friend’s friend.  Le Diable est aux Vaches.

If it be that ridicule is the test of truth, as Shaftesbury is reported to have said and didn’t, the doctrine of Woman Suffrage is the truest of all faiths.  The amount of really good ridicule that has been expended upon this thing is appalling, and yet we are compelled to confess that to all appearance “the cause” has been thereby shorn of no material strength, nor bled of its vitality.  And shall it be admitted that this potent argument of little minds is as powerless as the dullards of all ages have steadfastly maintained?  Forbid it, Heaven! the gimlet is as proper a gimlet as any in all Christendom, but the timber is too hard to pierce!  Grant ye that “the movement” is waxing more wondrous with each springing sun, who shall say what it might not have been but for the sharp hatcheting of us wits among its boughs?  If the doctor have not cured his patient by to-morrow he may at least claim that without the physic the man would have died to-day.

And pray who shall search the vitals of a whale with a bodkin-who may reach his jackknife through the superposed bubber?  Pachyderm, thy name is Woman!  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men shall not bend the bow that can despatch a clothyard shaft through thy pearly hide.  The male and female women who nightly howl their social and political grievances into the wide ear of the universe are as insensible to the prickings of ridicule as they are unconscious of logic.  An intellectual Goliah of Gath might spear them with an epigram like unto a weaver’s beam, and the sting thereof would be as but the nipping of a red ant.  Apollo might speed among them his silver arrows, which erst heaped the Phrygian shores with hecatombs of Argive slain, and they would but complain of the mosquito’s beak.  Your female reformer goes smashing through society like a tipsy rhinoceros among the tulip beds, and all the torrent of brickbats rained upon her skin is shed, as globules of mercury might be supposed to run off the back of a dry drake.

One of the rarest amusements in life is to go about with an icicle suspended by a string, letting it down the necks of the unwary.  The sudden shrug, the quick frightened shudder, the yelp of apprehension are sources of a pure, because diabolical, delight.  But these women-you may practise your chilling joke upon one of them, and she will calmly wonder where you got your ice, and will pen with deliberate fingers an ungrammatical resolution denouncing congelation as tyrannical and obsolete.

We despair of ever dispelling these creatures by pungent pleasantries-of routing them by sharp censure.  They are, apparently, to go on practically unmolested to the end.  Meantime we are cast down with a mighty proneness along the dust; our shapely anatomy is clothed in a jaunty suit of sackcloth liberally embellished with the frippery of ashes; our days are vocal with wailing, our nights melodious with snuffle!

Brethren, let us pray that the political sceptre may not pass from us into the jewelled hands which were intended by nature for the clouting of babes and sucklings.  Angels and Angles.

When abandoned to her own devices, the average female has a tendency to “put on her things,” and to contrive the same, in a manner that is not conducive to patience in the male beholder.  Her besetting iniquity in this particular is a fondness for angles, and she is unwavering in her determination to achieve them at whatever cost.

Now we vehemently affirm that in woman’s apparel an angle is an offence to the male eye, and therefore a crime of no small magnitude.  In the masculine garb angles are tolerable-angles of whatever acuteness.  The masculine character and life are rigid and angular, and the apparel should, or at least may, proclaim the man.  But with the soft, rounded nature of woman, her bending flexibility of temper, angles are absolutely incompatible.  In her outward seeming all should be easy and flowing-every fold a nest of graces, and every line a curve.

By close attention to this great truth, and a conscientious striving after its advantages, woman may hope to become rather comely of exterior, and to find considerable favour in the eyes of man.  It is not impossible that, without any abatement of her present usefulness, she may come to be regarded as actually ornamental, and even attractive.  If with her angles she will also renounce some hundreds of other equally harassing absurdities of attire, she may consider her position assured, and her claim to masculine toleration reasonably well grounded.  A Wingless Insect.

It would be profitable in the end if man would take a hint from his lack of wings, and settle down comfortably into the assurance that midair is not his appointed element.  The confession is a humiliating one, but there is a temperate balm in the consciousness that his inability to “shave with level wing” the blue empyrean cannot justly be charged upon himself.  He has done his endeavour, and done it nobly; but he’ll break his precious neck.

In Goldsmith’s veracious “History of Animated Nature” is a sprightly account of one Nicolas, who was called, if our memory be not at fault, the man-fish, and who was endowed by his Creator-the late Mr. Goldsmith aforesaid-with the power of conducting an active existence under the sea.  That equally veracious and instructive work “The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments,” peoples the bottom of old ocean with powerful nations of similarly gifted persons; while in our own day “the Man-Frog” has taught us what may be done in this line when one has once got the knack of it.

Some years since (we do not know if he has yet suffered martyrdom at the hand of the fiendish White) there lived a noted Indian chieftain whose name, being translated, signifies “The-Man-Who-Walks-Under-the-Ground,” probably a lineal descendant of the gnomes.  We have ourselves walked under the ground in wine cellars.

With these notable examples in mind, we are not prepared to assert that, though man has as a rule neither the gills of a fish nor the nose of a mole, he may not enjoy a drive at the bottom of the sea, or a morning ramble under the subsoil.  But with the exception of Peter Wilkins’ Flying Islanders-whose existence we vehemently dispute-and some similar creatures whom it suits our purpose to ignore, there is no record of any person to whom the name of The-Man-Who-Flies-Over-the-Hills may be justly applied.  We make no account of the shallow device of Mongolfier, nor the dubious contrivance of Marriott.  A gentleman of proper aspirations would scorn to employ either, as the Man-Frog would reject a diving-bell, or the subterranean chieftain would sneer at the Mont Cenis tunnel.  These “weak inventions” only emphasize our impotence to strive with the subtle element about and above.  They prove nothing so conclusively as that we can’t fly-a fact still more strikingly proven by the constant thud of people tumbling out of them.  To a Titan of comprehensive ear, who could catch the noises of a world upon his single tympanum as Hector caught Argive javelins upon his shield, the patter of dropping a‰ronauts would sound like the gentle pelting of hailstones upon a dusty highway-so thick and fast they fall.

It is probable that man is no more eager to float free into space than the earth-if it be sentient-is to shake him off; but it would appear that he and it must, like the Siamese twins, consent to endure the disadvantages of a mutually disagreeable intimacy.  We submit that it is hardly worth his while to continue “larding the lean earth” with his carcase in the vain endeavour to emulate angels, whom in no respect he at all resembles.  Pork on the Hoof.

The motto aut C‘sar aut nullus is principally nonsense, we take it.  If one may not be a man, one may, in most cases, be a hog with equal satisfaction to his mind and heart.

There is Thompson Washington Smith, for example (his name is not Thompson, nor Washington, nor yet Smith; we call him so to conceal his real name, which is perhaps Smythe).  Now Thompson, there is reason to believe, tried earnestly for some years to be a man.  Alas! he began while he was a boy, and got exhausted before he arrived at maturity.  He could make no further effort, and manhood is not acquired without a mighty struggle, nor maintained without untiring industry.  So having fatigued himself before reaching the starting-point, Thompson Washington did not re-enter the race for manhood, but contented his simple soul with achieving a modest swinehood.  He became a hog of considerable talent and promise.

Let it not be supposed that Thompson has anything in common with the typical, ideal hog-him who encrusts his hide with clay, and inhumes his muzzle in garbage.  Far from it; he is a cleanly-almost a godly-hog, preternaturally fair of exterior, and eke fastidious of appetite.  He is glossy of coat, stainless of shirt, immaculate of trousers.  He is shiny of beaver and refulgent of boot.  With all, a Hog.  Watch him ten minutes under any circumstances and his face shall seem to lengthen and sharpen away, split at the point, and develop an unmistakeable snout.  A ridge of bristles will struggle for sunlight under the gloss of his coat.  This is your imagination, and that is about as far as it will take you.  So long as Thompson Washington, actual, maintains a vertical attitude, Thompson Washington, unreal, will not assume an horizontal one.  Your fancy cannot “go the whole hog.”

It only remains to state explicitly to whom we are alluding.  Well, there is a stye in the soul of every one of us, in which abides a porker more or less objectionable.  We don’t all let him range at large, like Smith, but he will occasionally exalt his visage above the rails of even the most cleverly constructed pen.  The best of us are they who spend most time repressing the beast by rapping him upon the nose.  The Young Person.

We are prepared, not perhaps to prove, but to maintain, that civilization would be materially aided and abetted by the offer of a liberal reward for the scalps of Young Persons with the ears attached.  Your regular Young Person is a living nuisance, whose every act is a provocation to exterminate her.  We say “her,” not because, physically considered, the Y. P. is necesarily of the she sex; more commonly is it an irreclaimable male; but morally and intellectually it is an unmixed female.  Her virtues are merely milk-and-morality-her intelligence is pure spiritual whey.  Her conversation (to which not even her own virtues and intelligence are in any way related) is three parts rain-water that has stood too long and one part cider that has not stood long enough-a sickening, sweetish compound, one dose of which induces in the mental stomach a colicky qualm, followed, if no correctives be taken, by violent retching, coma, and death.

The Young Person vegetates best in the atmosphere of parlours and ball-rooms; if she infested the fields and roadsides like the squirrels, lizards, and mud-hens, she would be as ruthlessly exterminated as they.  Every passing sportsman would fill her with duck-shot, and every strolling gentleman would step out of his way to smite off her head with his cane, as one decapitates a thistle.  But in the drawing-room one lays off his destructiveness with his hat and gloves, and the Young Person enjoys the same immunity that a sleepy mastiff grants to the worthless kitten campaigning against his nose.

But there is no good reason why the Spider should be destroyed and the Young Person tolerated.  A Certain Popular Fallacy.

The world makes few graver mistakes than in supposing a man must necessarily possess all the cardinal virtues because he has a big dog and some dirty children.

We know a butcher whose children are not merely dirty-they are fearfully and wonderfully besmirched by the hand of an artist.  He has, in addition, a big dog with a tendency to dropsy, who flies at you across the street with such celerity that he outruns his bark by a full second, and you are warned of your danger only after his teeth are buried in your leg.  And yet the owner of these children and father of this dog is no whit better, to all appearance, than a baker who has clean brats and a mild poodle.  He is not even a good butcher; he hacks a rib and lacerates a sirloin.  He talks through his nose, which turns up to such an extent that the voice passes right over your head, and you have to get on a table to tell whether he is slandering his dead wife or swearing at yourself.

If that man possessed a thousand young ones, exaltedly nasty, and dogs enough to make a sub-Atlantic cable of German sausage, you would find it difficult to make us believe in him.  In fact, we look upon the big dog test of morality as a venerable mistake-natural but erroneous; and we regard dirty children as indispensable in no other sense than that they are inevitable.  Pastoral Journalism.

There shall be joy in the household of the country editor what time the rural mind shall no longer crave the unhealthy stimuli afforded by fascinating accounts of corpulent beets, bloated pumpkins, dropsical melons, aspiring maize, and precocious cabbages.  Then the bucolic journalist shall have surcease of toil, and may go out upon the meads to frisk with kindred lambs, frolic familiarly with loose-jointed colts, and exchange grave gambollings with solemn cows.  Then shall the voice of the press, no longer attuned to the praises of the vegetable kingdom, find a more humble, but not less useful, employment in calling the animal kingdom to the evening meal beneath the sanctum window.

To the over-worked editor life will have a fresh zest and a new significance.  The hills shall hump more greenly upward to a bluer sky, the fields blush with a more tender sunshine.  He will go forth at dawn with countless flipflaps of gymnastic joy; and when the white sun shall redden with the blood of dying day, and the hogs shall set up a fine evening hymn of supplication to the Giver of Swill, he will stand upon the editorial head, blissfully conscious that his intellect is a-ripening for the morrow’s work.

The rural newspaper!  We sit with it in hand, running our fingers over the big staring letters, as over the black and white keys of a piano, drumming out of them a mild melody of perfect repose.  With what delight do we disport us in the illimitable void of its nothingness, as who should swim in air!  Here is nothing to startle-nothing to wound.  The very atmosphere is saturated with “the spirit of the rural press;” and even our dog stands by, with pendant tail, slowly dropping the lids over his great eyes; and then, jerking them suddenly up again, tries to look as if he were not sleepy in the least.  A pleasant smell of ploughed ground comes strong upon us.  The tinkle of ghostly cow-bells falls drowsily upon the ear.  Airy figures of phenomenal esculents float dreamily before our half-shut eyes, and vanish ere perfect vision can catch them.  About and above are the drone of bees, and the muffled thunder of milk streams shooting into the foaming pail.  The gabble of distant geese is faintly marked off by the bark of a distant dog.  The city with its noises sinks away from our feet as from one in a balloon, and our senses are steeped in country languor.  We slumber.

God bless the man who first invented the country newspaper!-though Sancho Panza blessed him once before.  Mendicity’s Mistake.

Your famishing beggar is a fish of as sorry aspect as may readily be scared up.  Generally speaking, he is repulsive as to hat, abhorrent as to vesture, squalid of boot, and in tout ensemble unseemly and atrocious.  His appeal for alms falls not more vexingly upon the ear than his offensive personality smites hard upon the eye.  The touching effectiveness of his tale is ever neutralized by the uncomeliness of his raiment and the inartistic besmirchedness of his countenance.  His pleading is like the pathos of some moving ballad from the lips of a negro minstrel; shut your eyes and it shall make you fumble in your pocket for your handkerchief; open them, and you would fain draw out a pistol instead.

It is to be wished that Poverty would garb his body in a clean skin, that Adversity would cultivate a taste for spotless linen, and that Beggary would address himself unto your pocket from beneath a downy hat.  However, we cannot hope to immediately impress these worthy mendicants with the advantage of devoting a portion of their gains to the purchase of purple and fine linen, instead of expending their all upon the pleasures of the table and riotous living; but our duty unto them remains.

The very least that one can do for the offensive needy is to direct them to the nearest clothier.  That, therefore, is the proper course.  Insects.

Every one has observed, a solitary ant breasting a current of his fellows as he retraces his steps to pack off something he has forgotten.  At each meeting with a neighbour there is a mutual pause, and the two confront each other for a moment, reaching out their delicate antenn‘, and making a critical examination of one another’s person.  This the little creature repeats with tireless persistence to the end of his journey.

As with the ant, so with the other insect-the sprightly “female of our species.”  It is really delightful to watch the fine frenzy of her lovely eye as she notes the approach of a woman more gorgeously arrayed than herself, or the triumphant contempt that settles about her lips at the advance of a poorly clad sister.  How contemplatively she lingers upon each detail of attire-with what keen penetration she takes in the general effect at a sweep!

And this suggests the fearful thought-what would the darlings do if they wore no clothes?  One-half their pleasure in walking on the street would vanish like a dream, and an equal proportion of the philosopher’s happiness in watching them would perish in the barren prospect of an inartistic nudity.  Picnicking considered as a Mistake.

Why do people attend public picnics?  We do not wish to be iterative, but why do they?  Heaven help them! it is because they know no better, and no one has had the leisure to enlighten them.

Now your picnic-goer is a muff-an egregious, gregarious muff, and a glutton.  Moreover, a nobody who, if he be male wears, in nine cases in ten, a red necktie and a linen duster to his heel; if she be female hath soiled hose to her calf, and in her face a premonition of colic to come.

We hold it morally impossible to attend a picnic and come home pure in heart and undefiled of cuticle.  For the dust will get in your nose, clog your ears, make clay in your mouth and mortar in your eyes, and so stop up all the natural passages to the soul; whereby the wickedness which that subtle organ doth constantly excrete is balked of its issue, tainting the entire system with a grievous taint.

At picnics, moreover, is engendered an unpleasant perspiration, which the patient must perforce endure until he shall bathe him in a bath.  It is not sweet to reek, and your picnicker must reek.  Should he chance to break a leg, or she a limb, the inevitable exposure of the pedal condition is alarming and eke humiliating.  Thanksgiving Day.

There be those of us whose memories, though vexed with an oyster-rake would not yield matter for gratitude, and whose piety though strained through a sieve would leave no trace of an object upon which to lavish thanks.  It is easy enough, with a waistcoat selected for the occasion, to eat one’s proportion of turkey and hide away one’s allowance of wine; and if this be returning thanks, why then gratitude is considerably easier, and vastly more agreeable, than falling off a log, and may be acquired in one easy lesson without a master.  But if more than this be required-if to be grateful means anything beyond being gluttonous, your true philosopher—­he of the severe brow upon which logic has stamped its eternal impress, and from whose heart sentiment has been banished along with other small vices-your true philosopher, say we, will think twice before he “crooks the pregnant hinges of the knee” in humble observance of the day.

For here is the nut of reason he is obliged to crack before he can obtain the kernel of emotion proper to the day.  Unless the blessings we enjoy are favours from the Omnipotent, to be grateful is to be absurd.  If they are, then, also the ills with which we are afflicted have the same origin.  Grant this, and you make an offset of the latter against the former, or are driven either to the ridiculous position that we must be equally grateful for both evils and blessings, or the no less ridiculous one that all evils are blessings in disguise.

But the truth is, my fine friend, your annual gratitude is a sorry sham, a cloak, my good fellow, to cover your unhandsome gluttony; and when by chance you do take to your knees, it is only that you prefer to digest your bird in that position.  We understand your case accurately, and the hard sense we are poking at you is not a preachment for your edification, but a bit of harmless fun for our own diversion.  For, look you! there is really a subtle but potent relation between the gratitude of the spirit and the stuffing of the flesh.

We have ever taught the identity of Soul and Stomach; these are but different names for one object considered under differing aspects.  Thankfulness we believe to be a kind of ether evolved by the action of the gastric fluid upon rich meats.  Like all gases it ascends, and so passes out of the esophagus in prayer and psalmody.  This beautiful theory we have tested by convincing experiments in the manner following:—­

Experiment 1st.—­A quantity of grass was placed in a large bladder, and a gill of the gastric fluid of a sheep introduced.  In ten minutes the neck of the bladder emitted a contented bleat.

Experiment 2nd.—­A pound of beef was substituted for the grass, and the fluid of a dog for that of the sheep.  The result was a cheerful bark, accompanied by an agitation of the bottom of the bladder, as if it were attempting to wag an imaginary tail.

Experiment 3rd.—­The bladder was charged with a handful of chopped turkey, and an ounce of human gastric juice obtained from the Coroner.  At first, nothing but a deep sigh of satisfaction escaped from the neck of the bladder, followed by an unmistakeable grunt, similar to that of a hog.  Upon increasing the proportion of turkey, and confining the gas, the bladder was very much distended, appearing to suffer great uneasiness.  The restriction being removed, the neck distinctly articulated the words “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!”

Against such demonstration as this any mere theological theorizing is of no avail.  Flogging.

It may justly be demanded of the essayist that he shall give some small thought to the question of corporal punishment by means of the “cat,” and “ground-ash.”  We have given the subject the most elaborate attention; we have written page after page upon it.  Day and night we have toiled and perspired over that distressing problem.  Through Summer’s sun and Winter’s snow, with all unfaltering purpose, we have strung miles of ink upon acres of paper, weaving wisdom into eloquence with the tireless industry of a silkworm fashioning his cocoon.  We have refused food, scorned sleep, and endured thirst to see our work grow beneath our cunning hand.  The more we wrote the wiser we became; the opinions of one day were rejected the next; the blind surmising of yesterday ripened into the full knowledge of to-day, and this matured into the superhuman omniscience of this evening.  We have finally got so infernally clever that we have abandoned the original design of our great work, and determined to make it a compendium of everything that is accurately known up to date, and the bearing of this upon flogging in general.

To other, and inferior, writers it is most fortunate that our design has taken so wide a scope.  These can go on with their perennial wrangle over the petty question of penal and educational flagellation, while we grapple with the higher problem, and unfold the broader philosophy of an universal walloping.  Reflections upon the Beneficent Influence of the Press.

Reflection 1.—­The beneficent influence of the Press is most talked about by the Press.

Reflection 2.—­If the Press were less evenly divided upon all social, political, and moral questions the influence of its beneficence would be greater than it is.

Reflection 3.—­The beneficence of its influence would be more marked.

Reflection 4.—­If the Press were more wise and righteous than it is, it might escape the reproach of being more foolish and wicked than it should be.

Reflection 5.—­The foregoing Reflection is not an identical proposition.

Reflection 6.—­(a) The beneficent influence of the Press cannot be purchased for money. (b) It can if you have enough money.  Charity.

Charity is certain to bring its reward-if judiciously bestowed.  The Anglo-Saxons are the most charitable race in the world-and the most judicious.  The right hand should never know of the charity that the left hand giveth.  There is, however, no objection to putting it in the papers.  Charity is usually represented with a babe in her arms-going to place it benevolently upon a rich man’s doorstep.  The Study of Human Nature.

To the close student of human nature no place offers such manifold attractions, such possibilities of deep insight, such a mine of suggestion, such a prodigality of illustration, as a pig-pen at feeding time.  It has been said, with allusion to this philosophical pursuit, that “there is no place like home;” but it will be seen that this is but another form of the same assertion.—­End of the Essay upon the Study of Human Nature.  Additional Talk-Done in the Country.  I.

....  Life in the country may be compared to the aimless drifting of a house-dog professing to busy himself about a lawn.  He goes nosing about, tacking and turning here and there with the most intense apparent earnestness; and finally seizes a blade of grass by the middle, chews it savagely, drops it; gags comically, and curls away to sleep as if worn out with some mighty exercise.  Whatever pursuit you may engage in in the country is sure to end in nausea, which you are quite as sure to try to get recognised as fatigue.  II.

....  A windmill keeps its fans going about; they do not stop long in one position.  A man should be like the fans of a windmill; he should go about a good deal, and not stop long-in the country.  III.

....  A great deal has been written and said and sung in praise of green trees.  And yet there are comparatively few green trees that are good to eat.  Asparagus is probably the best of them, though celery is by no means to be despised.  Both may be obtained in any good market in the city.  IV.

....  A cow in walking does not, as is popularly supposed, pick up all her feet at once, but only one of them at a time.  Which one depends upon circumstances.  The cow is but an indifferent pedestrian.  H‘c fabula docet that one should not keep three-fourths of his capital lying idle.  V.

....  The Quail is a very timorous bird, who never achieves anything notable, yet he has a crest.  The Jay, who is of a warlike and powerful family, has no crest.  There is a moral in this which Aristocracy will do well to ponder.  But the quail is very good to eat and the jay is not.  The quail is entitled to a crest. (In the Eastern States, this meditation will provoke dispute, for there the jay has a crest and the quail has not.  The Eastern States are exceptional and inferior.) VI.

....  The destruction of rubbish with fire makes a very great smoke.  In this particular a battle resembles the destruction of rubbish.  There would be a close resemblance even if a battle evolved no smoke.  Rubbish, by the way, is not good eating, but an essayist should not be a gourmet-in the country.  VII.

....  Sweet milk should be taken only in the middle of the night.  If taken during the day it forms a curd in the stomach, and breeds a dire distress.  In the middle of the night the stomach is supposed to be innocent of whisky, and it is the whisky that curdles the milk.  Should you be sleeping nicely, I would not advise you to come out of that condition to drink sweet milk.  VIII.

....  In the country the atmosphere is of unequal density, and in passing through the denser portions your silk hat will be ruffled, and the country people will jeer at it.  They will jeer at it anyhow.  When going into the country, you should leave your silk hat at a bank, taking a certificate of deposit.  IX.

....  The sheep chews too fast to enjoy his victual.