this supposition does no credit to their bravery, it cannot be said to be without some foundation. The huntsmen follow the flying anise-seed bag until the hounds are within a short distance of the animal, when the horses are pulled up, the dogs called off, and the panting anise-seed bag allowed to make its escape. The other day the hounds were so nearly successful in running the beast to earth, that a tame fox was let out of a bag expressly to divert their attention, while the anise-seed bag

escaped. As the fox insisted upon lying

down to sleep, it was necessary to whip him into activity, and even when this was done, he refused to run, and permitted the master of the hunt to kill him with a club. Why should all this trouble have been taken to prevent the hounds and the huntsmen from reaching the flying aniseseed bag, unless it was that the huntsmen feared to risk an encounter with the desperate animal? This sort of thing cannot go on indefinitely. Man's dominion over the animals is due to their consciousness that he does not fear them. The smallest ". will attack the largest man if the latter shows any signs of fear. The anise-seed bags will soon arrive at the opinion that the hunters are afraid of them, and will then introduce a pleasing variety into Long Island hunting. We shall witness the novel spectacle of a dozen scarlet-clad horsemen and a pack of dogs with downcast tails flying across the country with a score of anise-seed bags in swift pursuit. The mind shudders to think what the consequences would be should the unfortunate huntsmen be overtaken, but we cannot shut our eyes to the possibility that such a catastrophe may occur. The huntsmen must make up their minds to let no more anise-seed bags escape. At the end of the next hunt the brush of the dead animal must be taken. If they are afraid to close with the aniseseed bag at bay, let them abandon, the sport at once. If they are not afraid, let them show it by bringing home the brush and pads of the nextanise-seed bag that is driven from cover. Their reputation is at stake and it rests with themselves to

redeem it. W. L. ALDEN.


ALTHOUGH the female dress-reformers always demonstrate at their annual conventions that the practice of supportin stockings by what are deliberately terme ligatures insures the moral and physical ruin of the sex, no successful substitute for the denounced article of dress has yet been invented. Certain dress-reformers have, it is true, devised a system of halyards, brails, and downhauls, which they assert are far superior to the deadly ligature, but the intricacy of all this running rigging, and the difficulty which inexperienced persons find in its management, have prevented it from coming into use. The inexperienced woman when thus rigged is very apt to make mistakes, and to find herself scudding under bare poles, in consequence of having hauled away on the downhaul when she had merely intended to take a small pull at the halyards. Thus, few people except dress-reformers are rigged with the improved stocking gear, and even these confess that, for the purpose of catching an early morning train, the despised ligature has its manifest advantages.

About two months ago the ladies of three contiguous counties in Pennsylvania were successively visited by a slight, graceful, and unassuming young woman, who announced that she was the agent of a “Women's Dress-Reform Benevolent Association,” and that she desired to call their attention to a new invention of immense hygienic value. The new invention consisted of the application of the sixbutton-glove principle to hosiery. Of course, this is a delicate subject, but, in the interest of reform and public morality, it must be discussed. It is idle for us to ignore the existence of stockings, and it is cowardly to shrink from a public duty because it involves an allusion to a delicate topic. Let us, then, go boldly forward and relate the strange conduct of the unassuming young woman, as reported among the police news of a Pennsylvania paper.

While the substitution of buttons for ligatures or running rigging struck the ladies of the three counties as an admirable invention, the amazing cheapness with which the agent of the alleged association offered to sell the improved garments created immense enthusiasm. She said that the only object of the association was to do good, and that it was therefore [...] to sell the best quality of sixuttoned goods at one half of their originual cost. In confirmation of this stateinent she submitted lithographic copies of letters from President HAYES, Mr. TILDEN, PETER CoopFR, STANLEY MATTHEws, and other eminent statesmen, all of whom asserted that they felt that the introduction of six-buttoned hosiery was the greatest boon which could be conferred upon the women of America, and simultaneously ordered six dozen pairs of assorted sizes to be sent to their respective addresses. In addition to these letters, the agent exhibited a sample of the garment, in question, which appeared to be of the very best quality. The o was one which no prudent lady could permit to pass unimproved, and nearly every one to whom the agent, applied ordered at least half a dozen pairs, to be paid for upon delivery. There was, however, one little preliminary which the agent insisted was indispensable, if she was to execute her orders to the satisfaction of her customers. The human mind shrinks from mentioning this preliminary, but it cannot be ignored. If the buttons were to be of any use, they must be so placed in relation to the button-holes that the garment would be neither too tight nor too loose. Hence, when the agent produced a tape-measure and a note-book, her view of the matter was at once conceded to be correct, and the agent's note-book was furnished with the required data. Thus, that unassuming agent went from house to house throughout almost the whole of the three counties, cheering the female population with the hope of miraculously cheap and beautiful hosiery, and filled her note-book with statistics. Unfortunately that otherwise astute agent drank too much whisky at the last town which she visited, and being arrested for disorderly conduct, confessed that she was a man. When the ladies who had ordered sixbutton hosiery learned the truth as to the unassuming agent and the fate which had befallen him, they denounced the wretch with great vigor, and were unanimously of the opinion that a combination of wild horses and red-hot pincers could alone do

justice to him. To this outburst of indignation succeeded the terrible thought, what had the felonious agent done with his collection of statistics? Naturally, this thought led straight to hysterics, and for the next week the sale of sal volatile in Central Pennsylvania increased to an unprecedented extent. A deputation of indignant fathers waited upon the inconceivable villain in jail, and demanded the immediate destruction of his note-book. To this request he declined to accede. He admitted that his pretended association did not exist, and that he had no intention of executing the orders which his deceived customers had given him, but he explained that he was an earnest reformer, and that he intended ...!!!". the statistics in question, in order that the medical fraternity might become convinced of the blighting effect of the ordinary ligature. Nothing could shake his determination. He said that he had a great duty to perform, and that much as it pained him to grieve anybody, he must perform that duty. The indignant parents left his cell much cast down in spirits, and after vainly applying to the local court for an injunction forbidding the false agent to publish his statistics, went home and reported their failure to their wives and daughters. The one question now agitating the public mind in Pennsylvania is whether that wretched felon will really publish his statistics. The contingency is one which cannot be contemplated without a shudder; but at the same time, it is possible that there is more or less merit in the pretended plan of adapting the sixbutton-glove o to more esoteric garments, and that the pretended reformer has really solved the problem with which professional dress-reformers have proved themselves incompetent tograpple. W. L. ALDEN.


THE name of the lady who a few weeks since dropped her back hair on the sidewalk of a street in Clinton, Illinois, has never been ascertained. The hair in question was of a bright red color, and few persons imagined that it was dangerous when unconnected with its owner. Nevertheless, that seemingly innocent back hair led to a tragedy that nearly ruined the peace of two happy and respectable families. Messrs. Smith and Brown are two leading citizens engaged in the grocery business in Clinton. They are men of great worth of character, and have reached middle age without incurring the breath of slander. One evening Mr. Smith returned from the store and sitting down at the tea-table, produced a Chicago paper from his pocket and remarked with much indignation, “That revolting, Beecher scandal has been revived, and its loathsome details are again polluting the press and corrupting the minds of the public.” Mrs. Smith replied that “it was a shameful outrage that the papers were allowed to publish such disgusting things,” and asked her husband “which paper had the fullest account of the matter.” That excellent man said that he believed the Gazette contained more about it than any other paper, and that after tea he would send one of the boys to get a copy of it. His wife thanked him, and was in the act of remarking that he was always thoughtful and considerate, when the oldest boy exclaimed, “Pa, you’ve got a long red hair on your coat collar !” A prompt investigation made by Mrs. soil confirmed the boy's accusation. There was an unmistakably female hair on the collar of Mr. Smith's coat, and it was obtrusively red. Mr. Smith said that it was a very extraordinary thing, and Mrs. Smith also remarking “very extraordinary, indeed,” in a dry, sarcastic voice, expressed deep disgust at red hair, and a profound contempt for the “nasty creatures” who wore it. About the same hour Mr. Brown was also seated at his tea-table, and was endeavoring to excuse himself to Mrs. Brown for having forgotten to bring home a paper. That lady, after having expressed the utmost indignation at the revival of the Beecher scandal, had asked for the d". in order to see who was dead and married, and was, of course, indignant because her husband had not brought it home. In the heat of the discussion she noticed a long red hair on Mr. Brown's coat-collar, and, holding it up before him, she demanded an explanation. In vain did Mr. Brown allege that he had not the least idea how the hair became attached to his collar. His wife replied that what he said was simply

ridiculous. “Red hair don’t blow round like thistledown, and at your time of life, Mr. Brown, you ought be ashamed of yourself. The less you say the better, ut I can tell you that you can’t deceive me. I’m not a member of Plymouth Church, and you can't make me believe that black is white.” Now, both Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith were perfectly innocent. Of course, they were annoyed by the remarks of their respective wives, but like sensible men, they avoided any unnecessary discussion of the painful topic... The next day they each brought home all the Chicago papers that contained any reference to the Beecher matter, and, as the papers were received by Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Smith with, many protestations of the disgust which they felt at hearing any mention of the scandal, they naturally supposed that they had made peace. But marital suspicion once awakened is not easily put to sleep. While Mr. Brown was handing his wife the bundle of newspapers, she was closely scrutinizing his coat-collar, and, after she had laid the papers on her plate and told the children not to touch them, she quietly took two long red hairs from her unfortunate husband's coat, and held them solemnly before his face. “Mary, I give you my solemn word,” began the alarmed Mr. Brown; but he was not permitted to finish his sentence, “Don’t say one word,” exclaimed Mrs. Brown. “Falsehoods won't help you; I am a faithful and loving wife, and I’il have you exposed and punished if there is any law in Illinois.” Thus saying she gathered up her newspapers and rushing to her room, locked |...}. in. It was not until later in the evening that Mrs. Smith, as she was about to turn down her husband's lamp, which was smoking, perceived that two red hairs were attached to his shoulder. She said nothing, but after laying them'on the table before him, burst into tears and refused to be comforted until Mr. Smith solemnly swore that he had not seen a red-haired girl for months and years, and offered to i. her a new parlor carpet the very next day. Of the two ladies, Mrs. Brown was much the stronger and the more determined. The next evening, when Mr. Brown brought back from the store no less than five red hairs on his coat-collar, she broke a pie-plate over his head, and leaving him weltering in dried apples, put on her bonnet and left the house. Mrs. Smith, on the same evening, found four of the mysterious red hairs on her husband's coat, but she refrained from violence, and merely telling him that she would not believe in his innocence if he was to swear till he was black in the face, called loudly for her sainted mother, and was about to faint when Mrs. Brown burst into the room. Mr. Smith, like a wise man, fled from the scene, and the two ladies soon confided their wrongs to one another.

When Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith met the next day, the former confessed to the latter that he was in a terrible scrape. Confidence begat confidence, and they soon became convinced that they were the victims of a frightful conspiracy to which some unknown wearer of red backhair was a party. Their distress was increased early in the afternoon by the appearance of their respective wives, who walked up and down the opposite side of the street for hours, each carrying a conspicuous rawhide, and evidently lying in wait for the imaginary red-haired woman. Messrs. Smith and Brown felt that they were ruined men, and that a tremendous scandal was about to overwhelm them. They even wished that they were dead.

About 4 o'clock P. M. Mrs. Smith clutched her companion's arm and bade her listen to a small-boy who was relating one of his recent crimes to a youthful companion. “I just picked up that there hair,” remarked the wicked youth, “and

ut some of it on old Smith's and old

rown's coats; I kep' a puttin' of it on every day, and you just bet they ketched it from their old women when they went home; Smith, he's as solemns a nowl, and old Brown looks as if he was goin' to be hung.”

The remains of the boy were removed by the constable, and the Smith and Brown families are once more united and happy.



On one of the many official excursions made by boat to Fortress Monroe and Chesapeake Bay, Chief Justice Waite, of |

the Supreme Court, Judge Hall, of North Carolina, and other dignitaries of the bench were participants. When the government steamer |. fairly got out of the Potomac and into the Atlantic the Sea was yo rough and the vessel pitched fearfully. Judge Hall was taken violently with sea-sickness. As he was retching over the side of the vessel and moaning aloud in his agony the Chief Justice stepped gently to his side and, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder, said: “My dear Hall, can I do anything for you? Just suggest what you wish.” “I wish,” said the sea-sick Judge, “your honor would overrule this motion l’”


[Olivir R Basselin, “le pore joucur du Vaudeville," was born at Wire in Normandy. He flourished in the fifteenth century, but the date of his birth and that of his death are equally unknown. He was proprietor of a fulling mill in the neighboring valleys, the Waita de Wire; and gave this name to his convivial songs. The mill in which he worked is still standing, and bears upon its front a little sign-board with his name. Mr. Musgrave, in his “Ramble through Normandy,” gives this description of the scene:—

“The valleys that surround Wire (the Vanx de Vire, as they are called) constitute its greatest charms, and, like most other scenery composed of a long-continuing ravine between abrupt and rocky crags and thickly planted declivities descending into a river stream, afford hour after hour of enjoyment to those who,

“Hid in the hollow of twc neighboring hills,'

delight in wood and water, rills and rocks. . . . “In the course of my evening stroll, I reached the old house with a water-mill attached to it, on a branch of the river (which is little else than a sinuous brook hereabouts), once occupied by Olivier Basselin, the originator of that peculiar species of ballad or song which eventually gave a name to the little musical pieces played to this day on the French stage, under the well-known denomination of Vaudevilles. “Baselin, a native of Wire, was a cleaner of cloth, or scourer in the middle of the fifteenth century, and occupied this very mill at the period of the final expulsion of the English from France. He not only was a calender of credit and renown, but “A train-band captain eke was he," of the town of Wire, and served under the Count ae Clermont, at Formigny, in the battle which recovered Normandy from our countrymen. The blended duties of the fulling mill and garrison did not however, intersere with his musical taste, which exercised itself prin

cipally in the composition of certain rural ballads and drinking choruses, lauding the hill and valley, wine and cider, by turns; and infusing a relish of vocal

harmony among the inhabitants of the valleys which

filled those pleasant places with song, and, in the course

of a brief period of time, created a celebrity for those merry strains from the Vaux de Vire, the Valleys of the Wire, (corrupted, eventually and with great

absurdity, into Ville,) which led to their more extensive use throughout entire France. Nearly two centuries had elapsed since Basselin's day of fame, before the musical dramatic writers of this country began to appropriate the light cheerful measure of the ballads of Wire to the comédiettes in one or two acts, whose business (to use a stage phrase) is carried on from the rise to the fall of the curtain, through frequently recurring little songs, thrown off in a manner peculiar, in its pleasing sprightliness, to the French; and serving on many an occasion, to reconcile the most critical of audiences to a large amount of slimsy and frivolous matters.”

This theory, that the modern word Vaudeville is a

corruption of Water de Wire, is combated by M. La Renaudière in the Biographie Universelle. A handsome edition of Basselin's songs was published at Wire, 1811. The following is a specimen of his broad and rollicking humor.]


FAIR Nose ! whose rubies red have cost me many a barrel Of claret wine and white, Who wearest in thy rich and sumptuous apparel Such red and purple light !

Great Nose ! who looks at thee through some huge glass at revel, More of thy beauty thinks: For thou resemblest not the nose of some poor devil Who only water drinks.

The turkey-cock doth wear, resembling thee, his wattles, How many rich men now Have not so rich a nose ! To paint thee, many bottles And much time I allow.

The glass my pencil is for thine illumination;
My color is the wine,
With which I've painted thee more red than
the carnation,
By drinking of the fine.

'T is said it hurts the eyes; but shall they be the masters ? Wine is the cure for all ; Better the windows both should suffer some disasters, Than have the whole house fall.


APOLOGY FOR CIDER. Oxenford, “Book of French Songs.”

Though Frenchmen at our drink may laugh,
And think their taste is wondrous fine,
The Norman cider, which we quaff,
Is quite the equal of his wine,—
When down, down, down it freely goes,
And charms the palate as it flows.

Whene'er a potent draught I take, How dost thou bid me drink again? Yet, pray, for my affection's sake, Dear Cider, do not turn my brain. O, down, down, down it freely goes. And charms the palate as it flows,

I find I never lose my wits,
However freely I carouse,
And never try in angry fits
To raise a tempest in the house;
Though down, down, down the cider goes,
And charms the palate as it flows.

To strive for riches is all stuff,
Just take the good the gods have sent:
A man is sure to have enough
If with his own he is content;
As down, down, down, the cider goes,
And charms the palate as it flows.

In truth that was a hearty bout :
Why, not a drop is left, not one;
I feel I've put my thirst to rout;
The stubborn foe at last is gone.
So down, down, down the cider goes,
And charms the palate as it flows.


Why is a hen immortal? Her son never Sets. Why have chickens no hope in the future? They have their next world (necks twirled) in this. Why is a hen on a fence like a cent? Head on one side, tail on the other. Why don't hens lay at night? Then they are roosters. Why is the first chicken of a brood like the mainmast of a ship? A little forward of the main hatch. A chicken just hatched like a cow's tail? Never seen before. Why should not a chicken cross the road? It would be a fowl proceeding. To conclude, a hen is a poor economist, because for every grain she takes she gives a peck. 20

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