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was in 1859. No rheumatic person shall snore in my house. I candidly acknowledge that I ran away at the battle of Gettysburg. My friends have tried to smooth over this fact by asserting that Imerely got behind a tree; that I Šid so for the purpose of imitating Washington, who went into the woods at Valley Forge to say his prayers. It is a miserable subterfuge. I cut in a straight line for the Tropic of Cancer, simply because I was scared. I wanted my country saved, but I preferred having somebody else save her. I entertain that preference yet. If the bubble reputation can be obtained only at the cannon's mouth I am willing to go there for it, roviding the cannon is empty... If it is oaded, my immortal and inflexible purpose is to get suddenly over the fence and go home. My invariable practice in war has been to bring out of any given fight two-thirds more men than f took 'in. This seems to me to be Napoleonic in its grandeur. The last time I ran for the Presidency there was some unpleasant talk about my implication in a transaction with the widow Pollock's ducks. The matter was hushed up; but I have no objection to admitting the truth respecting it. I have always had a favorite theory that roast ducks were conducive to hysterical symptoms, and as every instinct of my nature prompts me to protect the widow from the ravages of hysteria, I entered the coop in the garden and regretfully but firmly removed these ducks. The fact that she began a prosecution against me is not a matter of consequence. It is the fate of the philanthropist to be misunderstood. But duty is my guiding star, and if it leads me to ão, or destruction I shall follow it. My financial views are of the most de
cided character, but they are not likely,
perhaps, to increase my popularity with the advocates of inflation and contraction. I do not insist upon the special supremacy of rag money or hard money. The great fundamental principle of my life is to take any kind that I can get. The rumor that I buried a dead aunt under one of my grape wines is founded upon fact. The vine needed fertilizing, my aunt had to be buried, and I dedicated her to this high purpose. ...Does that unfit me for the Presidency? The Consti
tution of our country does not say so. No other citizen was ever considered unworthy of the office because he enriched his grape vines with his relations. Why should I be selected as the first victim of an absurd prejudice? I admit, also, that I am not a friend of the poor man. I i. the poor man, in his present condition, as so much wasted raw material. Cut up and properly canned he might be made .# to fatten the natives of the Cannibal Islands, and to improve our export trade with that region; I shall recommend legislation upon the subject in my first message. My campaign cry will be: “Dessicate the poor working man | Stuff him into sausages s” These are about the worst parts of my record. On them I come before the country. If my country don't want me I will go back again. But I recommend myself as a safe man—a man who starts from the basis of total depravity and proposes to be fiendish to the last. MAx ADELER.
ST. ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES.
SAINT Anthony at church
#. wriggled their tails,
The carps with their spawn,
Had the pikes so edified.
And that very odd fish,
BRUNDY has been married two weeks, and has left his wife. Brundy is a little man, and his wife weighs two hundred and forty pounds, and was the relict of the late Peter Potts. About ten days after marriage Brundy was surprised, on awakening in the morning, to find his better half sitting up in bed, crying as if her heart would break. Astonished, he asked the cause of her sorrow, but receiv. ing no o he began to surmise that there must be some secret on her mind that she withheld from him, that was the cause of her anguish; so he remarked to Mrs. B. that as they were married she should tell him the cause of her grief, so, if possible, he could avert it, and after considerable coaxing he elicited the fol
lowing from her: “Last night I dreamed I was single, and as I walked through a well-lighted street I came to a store where a sign in front advertised husbands for sale. Thinking it curious I entered, and ranged along the wall, on either side, were men with prices affixed to them. Such beautiful men ; some for $1,000, some for $500, and so on to $150. And as I had not that amount I could not purchase.” Thinking to console her, B. placed his arm lovingly around her, and asked: “And did you see any men like me there?” “Oh, yes,” she replied, drawing away from him, “lots like you; they were tied up in bunches, like aspara#. and sold for ten cents per bunch.”
rundy Fo up, and went to ask his lawyer if he had sufficient ground for divorce.
A LIVELY TIME.
IN Charles Lever’s “O’Donoghue" there occurs a rich passage, illustrating the relations subsisting between an imof landlord and an untutored tenant. The agent presents the tenants to the worthy innovator, who inquires into the condition of the grumbling and dissatisfied recipients of his favors. At length on a tenant presenting himself whom the agent fails to recognize, the baronet turns to the figure before him, which, with face and head swollen out of all proportion, and showing distorted features and fiery eyes through the folds of a cotton handkerchief, awaits his address in sullen silence. “Who are you, my good man 2 What has happened to you?” “Faix, an' its well ye may ax; me own mother would n't know me this blessed morning; 'tis all your doin' entirely.” “My doing?” replied the astonished baronet. “What can I have to do with the state you are in, my good man?” “Yes, it is your doin’,” answered the proprietor of the swollen head ; “‘tis all your doin', and well ye may be proud of it. "T was thim blessed bees ye gev me. We brought the devils, into the house last night, an' where did we put them but in the pig's corner. Well, after Katty and the childer and myself was a while in bid, the pig goes rootin’ about the house, an' he was n't aisy till he hooked his nose into the hive, and spilt the bees out about the flure; and thin whin I got out of bid to let out the pig, that was a-roarin' through the house, the bees settled down on me, and began stingin' me, an' I jumped into bid agin wid the whole of thim after me, into Katty an' the childer; an' thin, what with the bees a-buzzin' an a-stinging us under the clothes, out we all jumped agin, an' the devil sich a night was ever spint in Ireland as we spint last night, what wid Katty an' the childer a-roarin’ an' a-bawlin', an’ the pig tarin' up an' down like mad, an' Katty wid the besom an’ myself wid the fryin'-pan, flattenin' the bees agin the wall till mornin', an' thin the soight we wor in the mornin' —begor it's ashamed of yerself ye ought to be l’’
CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN.
I FIND that one of the most serious objections to living out of town lies in the difficulty experienced in catching the early morning train by which I must reach the city and my business. It is by no means a pleasant matter, under any circumstances, to have one's movements o by a time-table, and to be obliged to rise to breakfast and to leave home at a certain hour, no matter how strong the temptation to delay may be. But sometimes the horrible punctualit of the train is productive of absolute suffering. For instance: I look at my watch when I get out of bed and find that I have apparently plenty of time, so I dress leisurely, and sit down to the morning meal in a frame of mind which is calm and serene. Just as I crack my first egg I hear the down train from Wilmington. I start in alarm ; and taking out my watch I compare it with the clock and find that it is eleven minutes slow, and that I have only five minutes left in which to get to the depot.
I endeavor to scoop the egg from the shell, but it burns my fingers, the skin is tough, and after struggling with it for a moment, it mashes into a hopeless mass. I drop it in disgust and seize a roll; while I scald my tongue with a quick mouthful of coffee. Then I place the roll in my mouth while my wife hands me my
satchel and tells me she thinks she hears the whistle. I plunge madly around looking for my umbrella, then I kiss the family good-by as well as I can with a .# i of roll, and dash toward the door. Just as I get to the gate I find that I have forgotten my duster and the bundle my wife wanted me to take up to the cit to her aunt. Charging back, I snatc them up and tear down the gravel-walk in a frenzy. I do not like to run through the village: it is undignified and it attracts attention; but I walk furiously. I go faster and faster as I get away from the main street. When half the distance is accomplished, I actually do hear the whistle; there can be no doubt about it this time. I long to run, but I know that if I do I will excite that abominable speckled dog sitting by the sidewalk a little distance ahead of me. Then I really see the train cóming around the curve close by the depot, and I feel that I must make better time; and I do. The dog immediately manifests an interest in my movements. He tears down the street after me, and is speedily joined by five or six other dogs, which frolic about my legs and bark furiously. Sundry small boys as I go plunging past, contribute to the excitement by whistling with their fingers, and the men who are at work upon the new meeting-house stop to look at me and exchange jocular remarks, with each other. I do feel ridiculous; but I must catch that train at all hazards. I become desperate when I have to slacken my pace until two or three women who are standing upon the sidewalk, discussing the infamous price of butter, scatter to let me pass. arrive within a few yards of the station with my duster flying in the wind, with my coat tails in a horizontal position, and with the speckled dog nipping my heels, just as i. train begins to move. I put on extra pressure, resolving to get the train or perish, and I reach it just as the last car is going by. I seize the hand-rail; I am jerked violently around, but finally, after a desperate effort, I get upon the step with my knees, and am hauled in by the brakeman, hot, dusty and mad, with my trousers torn across the knees, my le bruised and three ribs of my umbrella broken. Just as I reach a comfortable seat in the car, the train stops, and then backs up on the siding, where it remains for half an hour while the engineer repairs a dislocated valve. The anger which burns in my bosom as I reflect upon what now is proved to have been the folly of that race is increased as I look out of the window and observe the speckled dog engaged with his companions in an altercation over a bone. A man who permits his dog to roam about the streets nipping the legs of every one who happens to go at a more rapid gait than a walk, is unfit for association with civilized o: He ought to be placed on a desert island in mid-ocean, and be compelled to stay there. MAx ADELER.
THE BABY'S DEDUT.
[From the Rejected Addresses of Horace and James Smith. It is an imitation, and an extremely successful one, of Wordsworth's most simple style, and Lord Jeffrey's criticism upon it is very accurate: ‘The author does not," Jeffrey wrote in the Edinburgh Review, “in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering."]
“Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait, All thy false mimic fooleries I hate; For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she Who is right foolish hath the better plea; Nature's true Idiot I prefer to thee." CUMBERLAND. [Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]
My brother Jack was nine in May,
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
But while I’m speaking, where's papa?
And now, good gentlefolks, I go
[Blows a kiss, and exit.
AT THE MENAGERIE.
I like the armadillo, I respect the kangaroo,
I’m nuts upon the monkey, and adore the cockatoo;
I believe there's latent talent in the wombat and the stoat,
And I think the hippopotamus entitled to a vote.
I know not why or wherefore, but, however it may be
The beaver (Castor fiber) has a nameless charm for me;
I've met with true politeness from the lynx, and 'pon my soul,
I cannot speak too highly of the common Yankee mole.
I love to watch the creatures, and to learn their little games;
I call them from my fancy all the prettiest pet names:
There's the camel, Humpty-dumpty; Neck-orNothing, the giraffe;
Jolly Gnash, the old hyena, with his idiotic laugh.
I mark the restless motions of the more ferocious lots,
How the tigers shift their places, and the leopards change their spots;
I visit, too, the burly bear, and give my wonted dole
(N. B. The polar bear is not the bear that climbs the pole.)
Then let us be to every beast a patron and a friend;
Each tells his tale, each has his aim, as sure as he's his end.
A lesson's to be learned from them, and man himself may steal
Some new light from the tapir, some impression from the seal.
A MoDERN writer, speaking of the old monarchy of France, just before the Revolution, defined it as “a despotism limited by epigrams.” If there were found force and virtue enough in epigrams to limit such a despotism as that, we may well spend a half hour in investigating the nature and the varieties of the Epigram. Like so many others of our good things, we owe the word “Epigram ” and the idea for which it stands to the Greeks,— the most ingenious, the most subtle, and the most cultivated of all the nations of antiquity. Our dictionary-makers, with absurd narrowness, define the epigram to be “a short poem, treating only of one thing, and ending with some lively, ingenious and natural thought.” But by this definition, half the epigrams which have acquired popular currency must be excluded from the category of epigrams, because they are not in verse. This definition manifestly is as unfair as it is narrow. Let our lexicographers stick to their province and report the true usage and significance of terms, defining and not confining the ir meaning. An epigram, then, is a pithy or pointed saying, either in prose or verse, so expressed as to amuse or to impress the mind. Less didactic than the proverb, less sententious than the aphorism, the epigram enlivens while it instructs us. To make the perfect epigram, wit and sense should be evenly and harmoniously blended. But as Alexander Smith sought, and sought in vain for “a poem round and perfect as a star,” so the per#. epigram is far to seek and hard to find. The French, who have the credit of being the liveliest and the most volatilenation in the world, have more ‘epigrams than any other. But the great majority of those we find in the French Ana and Memoirs are local and personal, while nearly all of them lose their flavor in being transplanted to our English tongue. Some few sayings, like Fouché’s “It was worse than a crime, it was a blunder;” or “After me the deluge” of Louis XV. ; or Voltaire's “God is on the side of the heaviest battalions,” (a saying, by the