Read The Fiend's Delight Page 3

  The Heels of Her.

  Passing down Commercial-street one fine day, I observed a lady standingalone in the middle of the sidewalk, with no obvious business there, butwith apparently no intention of going on. She was outwardly very calm,and seemed at first glance to be lost in some serene philosophicalmeditation. A closer examination, however, revealed a peculiarrestlessness of attitude, and a barely noticeable uneasiness ofexpression. The conviction came upon me that the lady was in distress,and as delicately as possible I inquired of her if such were not thecase, intimating at the same time that I should esteem it a great favourto be permitted to do something. The lady smiled blandly and repliedthat she was merely waiting for a gentleman. It was tolerably evidentthat I was not required, and with a stammered apology I hastenedaway, passed clear around the block, came up behind her, and took up aposition on a dry-goods box; it lacked an hour to dinner time, and I hadleisure. The lady maintained her attitude, but with momently increasingimpatience, which found expression in singular wave-like undulations ofher lithe figure, and an occasional unmistakeable contortion. Severalgentlemen approached, but were successively and politely dismissed.Suddenly she experienced a quick convulsion, strode sharply forward onestep, stopped short, had another convulsion, and walked rapidly away.Approaching the spot I found a small iron grating in the sidewalk, andbetween 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 profferedassistance of her species--why she had elected to ruin her boots inpreference to having them removed from her feet. Upon that day when thegrave shall give up its dead, and the secrets of all hearts shall berevealed, I shall know all about it; but I want to know now. A Tale ofTwo Feet.

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

  "Mrs. Zacharias," said he, nudging his snoring spouse, "I wish you wouldget up and look about. I think one of the children must have fallen intothe fire."

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

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

  One of Thomas Jefferson's maxims is as follows: "When angry, count tenbefore you speak; if very angry, count a hundred." I once knew a man tosquare his conduct by this rule, with a most gratifying result. JacobScolliver, a man prone to bad temper, one day started across the fieldsto visit his father, whom he generously permitted to till a smallcorner of the old homestead. He found the old gentleman behind thebarn, bending over a barrel that was canted over at an angle of seventydegrees, and from which issued a cloud of steam. Scolliver pere wasevidently scalding one end of a dead pig--an operation essential to theloosening of the hair, that the corpse may be plucked and shaven.

  "Good morning, father," said Mr. Scolliver, approaching, and displayinga long, cheerful smile. "Got a nice roaster there?" The eldergentleman's head turned slowly and steadily, as upon a swivel, untilhis eyes pointed backward; then he drew his arms out of the barrel, andfinally, revolving his body till it matched his head, he deliberatelymounted upon the supporting block and sat down upon the sharp edge ofthe barrel in the hot steam. Then he replied, "Good mornin' Jacob. Finemornin'."

  "A little warm in spots, I should imagine," returned the son. "Do youfind that a comfortable seat?" "Why-yes-it's good enough for an oldman," he answered, in a slightly husky voice, and with an uneasy gestureof the legs; "don't make much difference in this life where we set, ifwe'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'tneither," added the old one, absently, screwing about on the edge of thebarrel and constructing a painful grimace. There was no argument, buta silence instead. Suddenly the aged party sprang off that barrel withexceeding great haste, as of one who has made up his mind to do athing and is impatient of delay. The seat of his trousers was steaminggrandly, the barrel upset, and there was a great wash of hot water,leaving a deposit of spotted pig. In life that pig had belonged toMr. Scolliver the younger! Mr. Scolliver the younger was angry, butremembering Jefferson's maxim, he rattled off the number ten, finishingup with "You--thief!" Then perceiving himself very angry, he began allover 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 blowbetween the old man's eyes, with a shriek that sounded like--"You son ofa sea-cook!"

  Mr. Scolliver the elder went down like a stricken beef, and his sonoften afterward explained that if he had not counted a hundred, and sogiven himself time to get thoroughly mad, he did not believe he couldever have licked the old man. Mr. Hunker's Mourner.

  Strolling through Lone Mountain cemetery one day my attention wasarrested by the inconsolable grief of a granite angel bewailing the lossof "Jacob Hunker, aged 67." The attitude of utter dejection, the lookof matchless misery upon that angel's face sank into my heart likewater into a sponge. I was about to offer some words of condolence whenanother man, similarly affected, got in before me, and laying a ratherunsteady hand upon the celestial shoulder tipped back a very senile hat,and pointing to the name on the stone remarked with the most exact careand scrupulous accent: "Friend of yours, perhaps; been dead long?"

  There was no reply; he continued: "Very worthy man, that Jake; knew himup in Tuolumne. Good feller--Jake." No response: the gentleman settledhis hat still farther back, and continued with a trifle less exactnessof 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 shortrange. It produced no effect. The gentleman's patience and rhetoricalvigilance were now completely exhausted. He walked round, and plantinghimself defiantly in front of the vicarious mourner, he stuck his handsdoggedly into his pockets and delivered the following rebuke, like thedesultory 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 gitup and snatch you bald headed--he would! You ain't no friend o' his'nand you ain't yur fur no good--you bet! Now you jest 'sling your swagan' bolt back to heaven, or I'm hanged ef I don't have suthin' worse'nhorse-stealin' to answer fur, this time."

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

  At Woodward's Garden, in the city of San Francisco, is a rather badlychiselled statue of Pandora pulling open her casket of ills. Pandora'sraiment, I grieve to state, has slipped down about her waist in a mannerexceedingly reprehensible. One evening about twilight, I was passingthat way, and saw a long gaunt miner, evidently just down from themountains, and whom I had seen before, standing rather unsteadily infront of Pandora, admiring her shapely figure, but seemingly afraid toapproach her. Seeing me advance, he turned to me with a queer, puzzledexpression in his funny eyes, and said with an earnestness that camenear defeating its purpose, "Good ev'n'n t'ye, stranger." "Good evening,sir," I replied, after having analyzed his salutation and extracted thesense of it. Lowering his voice to what was intended for a whisper, theminer, with a j
erk of his thumb Pandoraward, continued: "Stranger, d'yehap'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 integrityof 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 feeblyround, and finally drawing out a paper of purely hypothetical tobacco,conveyed it to his mouth and bit off about two-thirds of it, which hemasticated with much apparent benefit to his understanding, offeringwhat was left to me. He then resumed the conversation with the easyfamiliarity 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 creptinto 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 uponspeaking terms with her, and--in fact she declines to recognise me." Thesoul of the honest miner flamed out; he laid his hand threateningly uponhis pistol, jerked himself stiff, glared a moment at me with the look ofa tiger, and hurled this question at my head as if it had been an ironinterrogation 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 armabout Pandora's stony waist and was endeavouring to soothe her supposedagitation by stroking her granite head. The Head of the Family.

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

  "There!" ejaculated the young man, bowling the gory pate across thethreshold at his mother's feet, "look at that, will you?"

  The old lady adjusted her spectacles, lifted the dripping head into herlap, wiped the face of it with her apron, and gazed into its fishy eyeswith 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, "wheredid 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 yourmother 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 theyoungster, 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 assuminga matronly dignity of bearing and feature, she emitted the rebukefollowing:

  "My son, the gentleman whom you hold in your hand--any more pointedallusion to whom would be painful to both of us--has punished you ahundred times for meddling with things lying about the farm. Take thathead back and put it down where you found it, or you will make yourmother very angry." Deathbed Repentance.

  An old man of seventy-five years lay dying. For a lifetime he had turneda deaf ear to religion, and steeped his soul in every current crime. Hehad robbed the orphan and plundered the widow; he had wrested fromthe hard hands of honest toil the rewards of labour; had lost at thegaming-table the wealth with which he should have endowed churchesand Sunday schools; had wasted in riotous living the substance ofhis patrimony, and left his wife and children without bread. Theintoxicating bowl had been his god--his belly had absorbed his entireattention. In carnal pleasures passed his days and nights, and to themaddening desires of his heart he had ministered without shame andwithout remorse. He was a bad, bad egg! And now this hardened iniquitorwas to meet his Maker! Feebly and hesitatingly his breath fluttered uponhis pallid lips. Weakly trembled the pulse in his flattened veins! Wife,children, mother-in-law, friends, who should have hovered lovingly abouthis couch, cheering his last moments and giving him medicine, he hadkilled with grief, or driven widely away; and he was now dying aloneby the inadequate light of a tallow candle, deserted by heaven and byearth. No, not by heaven. Suddenly the door was pushed softly open,and there entered the good minister, whose pious counsel the sufferingwretch had in health so often derided. Solemnly the man of God advanced,Bible in hand. Long and silently he stood uncovered in the presence ofdeath. Then with cold and impressive dignity he remarked, "Miserable oldsinner!"

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

  MORAL OF THIS TOUCHING TALE.--In snatching a brand from the eternalburning, make sure of its condition, and be careful how you lay hold ofit. The New Church that was not Built.

  I have a friend who was never a church member, but was, and is, amillionaire--a generous benevolent millionaire--who once went about doinggood by stealth, but with a natural preference for doing it at hisoffice. One day he took it into his thoughtful noddle that he wouldlike to assist in the erection of a new church edifice, to replace theinadequate and shabby structure in which a certain small congregation inhis town then worshipped. So he drew up a subscription paper, modestlyheaded the list with "Christian, 2000 dollars," and started one of theDeacons about with it. In a few days the Deacon came back to him, likethe dove to the ark, saying he had succeeded in procuring a fewnames, but the press of his private business was such that he had feltcompelled to intrust the paper to Deacon Smith.

  Next day the document was presented to my friend, as nearly blank aswhen it left his hands. Brother Smith explained that he (Smith) hadstarted this thing, and a brother calling himself "Christian," whosename he was not at liberty to disclose, had put down 2000 dollars. Wouldour friend aid them with an equal amount? Our friend took the paper andwrote "Philanthropist, 1000 dollars," and Brother Smith went away.

  In about a week Brother Jones put in an appearance with the subscriptionpaper. By extraordinary exertions Brother Jones--thinking a handsome newchurch would be an ornament to the town and increase the value of realestate--had got two brethren, who desired to remain incog., to subscribe:"Christian" 2000 dollars, and "Philanthropist" 1000 dollars. Would myfriend kindly help along a struggling congregation? My friend would. Hewrote "Citizen, 500 dollars," pledging Brother Jones, as he had pledgedthe others, not to reveal his name until it was time to pay.

  Some weeks afterward, a clergyman stepped into my friend'scounting-room, and after smilingly introducing himself, produced thatidentical subscription list.

  "Mr. K.," said he, "I hope you will pardon the liberty, but I have seton foot a little scheme to erect a new church for our congregation, andthree of the brethren have subscribed handsomely. Would you mind doingsomething to help along the good work?"

  My friend glanced over his spectacles at the proffered paper. He rose inhis wrath! He towered! Seizing a loaded pen he dashed at that fair sheetand scrabbled thereon in raging characters, "Impenitent Sinner--Not onecent, by G--!"

  After a brief explanatory conference, the minister thoughtfully wenthis way. That struggling congregation still worships devoutly in itsoriginal, 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 leftthe house. I may as well state that I left it immediately, and by anaperture constructed for another purpose. Arrived in the street, I atonce betook myself to saving people. This I did by remarking closely theoccurrence of other shocks, giving the alarm and setting an example fitto be followed. The example was followed, but owing to the vigour withwhich it was set was seldom overtaken. In passing down Clay-street Iobserved an old rickety brick boarding-house, which seemed to be just onthe point of honouring the demands of the earthquake upon its resources.The last shock had subsided, but the building was sl
owly and composedlysettling into the ground. As the third story came down to my level, Iobserved 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 waslocked--I saw her through the key-hole. With a single blow of my heel Iopened 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 carefullyupon 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 Inoticed a puff of smoke rising from near my left toe. It came from thechimney of that house. Johnny.

  Johnny is a little four-year-old, of bright, pleasant manners, andremarkable for intelligence. The other evening his mother took him uponher lap, and after stroking his curly head awhile, asked him if he knewwho made him. I grieve to state that instead of answering "Dod," asmight have been expected, Johnny commenced cramming his face full ofginger-bread, and finally took a fit of coughing that threatened thedissolution of his frame. Having unloaded his throat and whacked him onthe back, his mother propounded the following supplementary conundrum:

  "Johnny, are you not aware that at your age every little boy is expectedto say something brilliant in reply to my former question? How can youso dishonour your parents as to neglect this golden opportunity? Thinkagain."

  The little urchin cast his eyes upon the floor and meditated a longtime. Suddenly he raised his face and began to move his lips. There isno knowing what he might have said, but at that moment his mother notedthe pressing necessity of wringing and mopping his nose, which sheperformed with such painful and conscientious singleness of purpose thatJohnny set up a war-whoop like that of a night-blooming tomcat.

  It may be objected that this little tale is neither instructive noramusing. I have never seen any stories of bright children that were. TheChild's Provider.

  Mr. Goboffle had a small child, no wife, a large dog, and a house. As hewas unable to afford the expense of a nurse, he was accustomed to leavethe child in the care of the dog, who was much attached to it, whileabsent at a distant restaurant for his meals, taking the precautionto lock them up together to prevent kidnapping. One day, while at hisdinner, he crowded a large, hard-boiled potato down his neck, and itconducted 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 egressthrough a window, and a neighbouring baker received a call from himdaily. Walking gravely in, he would deposit a piece of silver, andreceiving a roll and his change would march off homeward. As this wasa rather unusual proceeding in a cur of his species, the baker one dayfollowed him, and as the dog leaped joyously into the window of thedeserted house, the man of dough approached and looked in. What was hissurprise to see the dog deposit his bread calmly upon the floor and fallto 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 thirtyanimals, and disposed of them leisurely along their line of march, untilthey were picked up at Reno, as above explained. I don't feel quite easyabout those youths--away out there in Nevada without their Testaments!Where there are no Sunday School books boys are so apt to swear and chewtobacco and rob sluice-boxes; and once a boy begins to do that last hemight as well sell out; he's bound to end by doing something bad! I knewa boy once who began by robbing sluice-boxes, and he went right onfrom bad to worse, until the last I heard of him he was in the StateLegislature, elected by Democratic votes. You never saw anybody take onas his poor old mother did when she heard about it.

  "Hank," said she to the boy's father, who was forging a bank note inthe chimney corner, "this all comes o' not edgercatin' 'im when he was ababy. 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 underthe family disgrace, and his appetite never left him for a minute. Thefact is, the old gentleman wanted to go to the United States Senate. AKansas Incident.

  An invalid wife in Leavenworth heard her husband make proposals ofmarriage to the nurse. The dying woman arose in bed, fixed her largeblack eyes for a moment upon the face of her heartless spouse with areproachful intensity that must haunt him through life, and then fellback a corpse. The remorse of that widower, as he led the blushing nurseto 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 wifedecently and very deep down, laying a handsome and exceedingly heavystone upon the sepulchre. He chiselled upon the stone the followingsimple and touching line: "She can't get back." Mr. Grile's Girl.

  In a lecture about girls, Cady Stanton contrasted the buoyant spirit ofyoung males with the dejected sickliness of immature women. This, shesays, is because the latter are keenly sensitive to the fact that theyhave no aim in life. This is a sad, sad truth! No longer ago than lastyear the writer's youngest girl--Gloriana, a skin-milk blonde concern offourteen--came pensively up to her father with big tears in her littleeyes, and a forgotten morsel of buttered bread lying unchewed in hermouth.

  "Papa," murmured the poor thing, "I'm gettin' awful pokey, and myclothes don't seem to set well in the back. My days are full ofungratified longin's, and my nights don't get any better. Papa, I thinksociety needs turnin' inside out and scrapin'. I haven't got nothin' toaspire 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 theneck.

  "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 letme hear any more about 'aspirations'--which are always adulterated withterra alba--nor 'aims'--which will give you the gripes like anything.You just take this two shilling-piece and invest every penny of it inlollipops!"

  You should have seen the fair, bright smile crawl from one of thatinnocent'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 jumpglittering into her eyes and spill all over her father's clean shirtthat he hadn't had on more than fifteen minutes! Cady Stanton isimpotent of evil in the Grile family so long as the price of sweetsremains unchanged. His Railway.

  The writer remembers, as if it were but yesterday, when he editedthe Hang Tree Herald. For six months he devoted his best talent toadvocating the construction of a railway between that place and Jayhawk,thirty miles distant. The route presented every inducement. There wouldbe no grading required, and not a single curve would be necessary. As itlay through an uninhabited alkali flat, the right of way could be easilyobtained. As neither terminus had other than pack-mule communicationwith civilization, the rolling stock and other material must necessarilybe constructed at Hang Tree, because the people at the other end didn'tknow enough to do it, and hadn't any blacksmith. The benefit to ourplace was indisputable; it constituted the most seductive charm ofthe scheme. After six months of conscientious lying, the company wasincorporated, and the first shovelful of alkali turned up and preservedin a museum, when suddenly the devil put it into the head of one of theDirectors to inquire publicly what the road was designed to carry. It isneedless to say the question was never satisfactorily answered, and themost daring enterprise of the age was knocked perfectly cold. That verynight a deputation of stockholders waited upon the editor of the Heraldand prescribed a change of climate. They a
fterward said the change didthem 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 insignificantportion of mankind outside his own waistcoat as to follow one of itscustoms. Mr. Gish has a friend--a delicate female of the shrinkingsort--whom he favours with his esteem as a sort of equivalent for therespect she accords him when he browbeats her. Our hero numbers amongthe blessings which his merit has extorted from niggardly Nature agaunt meathound, between whose head and body there exists about the sameproportion as between those of a catfish, which he also resembles in thematter of mouth. As to sides, this precious pup is not dissimilar toa crockery crate loosely covered with a wet sheet. In appetite he isliberal and cosmopolitan, loving a dried sheepskin as well in proportionto its weight as a kettle of soap. The village which Mr. Gish honoursby his residence has for some years been kept upon the dizzy verge offinancial ruin by the maintenance of this animal.

  The reader will have already surmised that it was this beast which ourhero selected to testify his toleration of his lady friend. There neverwas a greater mistake. Mr. Gish merely presented her a sheaf of assortedangle-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 nextgeneration, in the direct line of inheritance. A Cow-County Pleasantry.

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

  "The inqulosed boddy is that uv old Burker. Step litely, stranger, feryer lize the mortil part uv wat you mus be sum da. Thers arrest for theweery! If Burker heddenta wurkt agin me fer Corner I wuddenta bed to siton him. Ov setch is the kingum of hevvun! You don't want to moov thisboddy 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 summonthe Coroner, but took charge of the remains herself; and in draggingthem toward the bed she exploded into her face a shotgun, which had beencunningly contrived to discharge by a string connected with the body.Thus was she punished for an infraction of the law. The next day theparticulars were told me by the facetious Coroner himself, whose juryhad just rendered a verdict of accidental drowning in both cases. Idon't know when I have enjoyed a heartier laugh. The Optimist, and WhatHe Died Of.

  One summer evening, while strolling with considerable difficulty overRussian Hill, San Francisco, Mr. Grile espied a man standing upon theextreme summit, with a pensive brow and a suit of clothes which seemedto have been handed down through a long line of ancestors from a remoteJew peddler. Mr. Grile respectfully saluted; a man who has any clothesat all is to him an object of veneration. The stranger opened theconversation:

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

  Mr. Grile beheld with amazement.

  "Twenty-one years ago--alas! it used to be but twenty," and he wipedaway a tear--"you might have bought the whole dern thing for a Mexicanounce."

  Mr. Grile hastened to proffer a paper of tobacco, which disappeared likea 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 thetopic.

  "Young man," continued he, "do you feel this bommy breeze? There isn't aclimit in the world--"

  This melancholy relic broke down in a fit of coughing. No sooner hadhe recovered than he leaped into the air, making a frantic clutch atsomething, 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 hereappeared he was an altered man; a paroxysm of asthma had doubled himup like a nut-cracker.

  "Excuse me," he wheezed, "I'm subject to this; caught it crossin' theIsthmus in '49. As I was a-sayin', there's no country in the world thatoffers such inducements to the immygrunt as Californy. With her fertilesoil, 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 anddevoured it. Mr. Grile thought this had gone on about long enough. Hetwisted the head off that hopeful old party, surrendered himself to theauthorities, and was at once discharged. The Root of Education.

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

  "Young man," said the Chairman, "ef you don't like our ways, you'dbetter sling your blankets and git. Prentice Mulford tort skule yer formore'n six months, and he never said a word agin the wads."

  Mr. Grile briefly explained that Mr. Mulford might have been brought upto paper wads, and didn't mind them.

  "It ain't no use," said another Director, "the children hev got to beamused."

  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. Iconsider as paper wads lies at the root uv popillar edyercation; ther anecessary adjunck uv the skool systim. Mr. Cheerman, I move and secondthat 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 theexercise of rigid economy, accumulated a hoard of frugal dollars, thesight and feel whereof were to his soul a pure delight. Imagine hissorrow and the heaviness of his aged heart when he learned that the goodwife had bestowed thereof upon her brother bountiful largess exceedinghis merit. Sadly and prayerfully while she slept lifted he theretributive mallet and beat in her brittle pate. Then with the quietdignity of one who has redressed a grievous wrong, surrendered himselfunto the law this worthy old man. Let him who has never known the greatgrief of slaughtering a wife judge him harshly. He that is without sinamong you, let him cast the first stone--and let it be a large heavystone that shall grind that wicked old man into a powder of exceedingimpalpability. The Faithful Wife.

  "A man was sentenced to twenty years' confinement for a deed ofviolence. In the excitement of the moment his wife sought and obtained adivorce. Thirteen years afterward he was pardoned. The wife brought thepardon to the gate; the couple left the spot arm in arm; and in lessthan an hour they were again united in the bonds of wedlock."

  Such is the touching tale narrated by a newspaper correspondent. It isin every respect true; I knew the parties well, and during that longbitter period of thirteen years it was commonly asked concerning thewoman: "Hasn't that hag trapped anybody yet? She'll have to take backold Jabe when he gets out." And she did. For nearly thirteen weary yearsshe struggled nobly against fate: she went after every unmarried manin her part of the country; but "No," said they, "we cannot--indeed wecannot--marry you, after the way you went back on Jabe. It is likely thatunder 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 theGovernor and get the old man pardoned out. Bless her for her steadfastfidelity! Margaret the Childless.<
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  This, therefore, is the story of her:--Some four years ago her husbandbrought home a baby, which he said he found lying in the street, andwhich they concluded to adopt. About a year after this he brought homeanother, and the good woman thought she could stand that one too. Asimilar period passed away, when one evening he opened the door and fellheadlong into the room, swearing with studied correctness at a dog whichhad tripped him up, but which upon inspection turned out to be anotherbaby. Margaret's suspicion was aroused, but to allay his she hastenedto implore him to adopt that darling also, to which, after some slighthesitation, he consented. Another twelvemonth rolled into eternity, whenone evening the lady heard a noise in the back yard, and going out shesaw her husband labouring at the windlass of the well with unwontedindustry. As the bucket neared the top he reached down and extractedanother infant, exactly like the former ones, and holding it up,explained to the astonished matron: "Look at this, now; did you eversee such a sweet young one go a-campaignin' about the country without alantern and a-tumblin' into wells? There, take the poor little thing into the fire, and get off its wet clothes." It suddenly flashed acrosshis mind that he had neglected an obvious precaution--the clothes werenot wet--and he hastily added: "There's no tellin' what would have becomeof it, a-climbin' down that rope, if I hadn't seen it afore it got downto 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; longand bitterly she wept over the quartette; and then with one tenderlook at her lord and master, smoking in solemn silence by the fire, andresembling them with all his might, she gathered her shawl about herbowed shoulders and went away into the night. The Discomfited Demon.

  I never clearly knew why I visited the old cemetery that night. Perhapsit was to see how the work of removing the bodies was getting on, forthey were all being taken up and carted away to a more comfortable placewhere land was less valuable. It was well enough; nobody had buriedhimself there for years, and the skeletons that were now exposed wereold mouldy affairs for which it was difficult to feel any respect.However, I put a few bones in my pocket as souvenirs. The night wasone of those black, gusty ones in March, with great inky clouds drivingrapidly across the sky, spilling down sudden showers of rain whichas suddenly would cease. I could barely see my way between the emptygraves, and in blundering about among the coffins I tripped and fellheadlong. A peculiar laugh at my side caused me to turn my head, and Isaw a singular old gentleman whom I had often noticed hanging about theCoroner'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 toinquire 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 dazedfaculties, 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 besafe to decline, and so putting the proffered flask to my lips pretendedto swig elaborately, keeping my mouth tightly closed the while. "Goodarticle," said I, returning it. He simply remarked, "You're a fool," andemptied the bottle at a gulp.

  "And now," resumed he, "you will confer a favour I shall highlyappreciate by removing your feet from my tail."

  There was a slight shock of earthquake, and all the skeletons in sightarose to their feet, stretched themselves and yawned audibly. Withoutmoving from his seat, the old gentleman rapped the nearest one acrossthe skull with his gold-headed cane, and they all curled away to sleepagain.

  "Sire," I resumed, "indulge me in the impertinence of inquiring yourbusiness here at this hour."

  "My business is none of yours," retorted he, calmly; "what are you up toyourself?"

  "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 veryfrequently in the newspapers of the Fiend in Human Shape whose actionsand way of life are so generally denounced. Sire, you see before youthat maligned party!"

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

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

  "Now, Mrs. Pokeweed," said he, "where will I be most likely to find thechildren? They will naturally wish to get out."

  The lady assumed a stiffly vertical attitude, and with freezing dignityreplied 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 havementioned, 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 characterto maintain unsullied, you shall not stand there and call me Mrs.Pokeweed!"

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

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

  The poor maiden after this misfortune felt a bitter resentment swellingin 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 besttrousers; but she was of noble blood, and having been reared in luxury,respectfully declined to receive charity from a low-born stranger. Allefforts to induce her to eat were equally unavailing. She would standfor hours on the rocks where the road descends to the beach, and gaze atthe playful seals in the surf below, who seemed rather flattered by herattention, and would swim about, singing their sweetest songs to heralone. Passers-by were equally curious as to her, but a broken lyregives forth no music, and her heart responded not with any more longmetre hymns.

  After a few weeks of this solitary life she was suddenly missed. At thesame time a strange seal was noted among the rest. She was remarkablefor being always clad in an overcoat, which she had doubtless fishedup from the wreck of the French galleon Brignardello, which went ashorethere some years afterward.

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

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

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

  Many are the wild fabrications of the poets about her subsequentcareer, but to this day nothing authentic has turned up. For some monthsstrenuous efforts were made to recover the wicked Lieutenant's body.Every appliance which genius could invent and skill could wield was putin requisition; until one night the landlord, fearing these constantefforts might frighten away the seals, had the remains quietly removedand 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 apossible antidote, or with a determination to enjoy the brief remnant ofa wasted life, applied a brimming jug of whisky to his lips, and kept itthere 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 thebereaved partner of the deceased was unbending in a game of seven-upwith a friendly Chinaman, the game was interrupted by a familiar voicewhich 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 "peoplethat could never stop dead more'n a minute," the bereaved partner roseand 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 thebereaved.

  "Did he strike anything?"

  The Chinaman looked up: "Me strikee pay dirt; me no bury dead 'Melicanin 'em grave. Me keep 'em claim."

  The corpse sat up erect: "Jim, git my revolver and chase that pig-tailoff. Jump his dam sepulchre, and tax his camp five dollars each ferprospectin' on the public domain. These Mungolyun hordes hez got to begot under. And--I say--Jim! 'f any more serpents come foolin' round heredrive 'em off. 'T'aint right to be bitin' a feller when whisky's twodollars 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 inimitablefortitude their great bereavement in the death of Louis le Grand, howcheerfully must they have bowed their necks to the easy yoke of Philipof Orleans, who set them an example in eating which he had not theslightest objection to their following. A monarch skilled in themysteries of the cuisine must wield the sceptre all the more gentlyfrom his schooling in handling the ladle. In royalty, the delicatemanipulation of an omelette souffle is at once an evidence of genius,and an assurance of a tender forbearance in state policy. All goodrulers have been good livers, and if all bad ones have been the samethis merely proves that even the worst of men have still somethingdivine in them.

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

  It is a fine natural instinct that teaches the hungry and cadaverous toavoid the temples of religion, and a short-sighted and misdirectedzeal that would gather them into the sanctuary. Religion is for theoleaginous, the fat-bellied, chylesaturated devotees of the table.Unless the stomach be lined with good things, the parson may say as manyas he likes and his truths shall not be swallowed nor his wisdom inlydigested. Probably the highest, ripest, and most acceptable form ofworship is that performed with a knife and fork; and whosoever on theresurrection morning can produce from amongst the lumber of his cast-offflesh a thin-coated and elastic stomach, showing evidences of dailystretchings done in the body, will find it his readiest passport andbest credential. We believe that God will not hold him guiltless whoeats with his knife, but if the deadly steel be always well laden withtoothsome morsels, divine justice will be tempered with mercy to thatman's soul. When the author of the "Lost Tales" represented Sisyphus ascapturing his guest, the King of Terrors, and stuffing the old gluttonwith meat and drink until he became "a jolly, rubicund, tun-belliedDeath," he gave us a tale which needs no hoc fabula docet to point outthe 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 thatstarvling Colley Cibber altered the text from sheer envy at a good man'sdeath. To die well we must live well, is a familiar platitude. Moralityis, of course, best promoted by the good quality of our fare, butquantitative excellence is by no means to be despised. Ceteris paribus,the man who eats much is a better Christian than the man who eatslittle, and he who eats little will pursue a more uninterrupted courseof benevolence than he who eats nothing. On Death and Immortality.

  Did it ever strike you, dear reader, that it must be a particularlypleasant thing to be dead? To say nothing hackneyed about the blessedfreedom from the cares and vexations of life--which we cling to withsuch tenacity while we can, and which, when we have no longer the powerto hold, we let go all at once, with probably a feeling of exquisiterelief--and to take no account of this latter probable but totallyundemonstrable felicity, it must be what boys call awfully jolly to bedead.

  Here you are, lying comfortably upon your back--what is left of it--inthe cool dark, and with the smell of the fresh earth all about you. Yoursoul goes knocking about amongst an infinity of shadowy things, Lordknows where, making all sorts of silent discoveries in the gloom ofwhat was yesterday an unknown and mysterious future, and which, aftercenturies of exploration, must still be strangely unfamiliar. Thenomadic thing doubtless comes back occasionally to the old grave--if thebody is so fortunate as to possess one--and looks down upon it with biground 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 inabilityto mentally divorce soul from substance that gave us that absurdlysatisfactory belief in the resurrection of the flesh. There is said tobe a race of people somewhere in Africa who believe in the immortalityof the body, but deny the resurrection of the soul. The dead will riserefreshed after their long sleep, and in their anxiety to test theirrejuvenated powers, will skip bodily away and forget their souls. Uponreturning to look for them, they will find nothing but little blueflames, which can never be extinguished, but may be carried about andused for cooking purposes. This belief probably originates in some dimperception of the law of compensation. In this life the body is thedrudge of the spirit; in the next the situation is reversed.

  The
heaven of the Mussulman is not incompatible with this kind ofimmortality. Its delights, being merely carnal ones, could be as wellor better enjoyed without a soul, and the latter might be booked for theChristian heaven, with only just enough of the body to attach a pairof wings to. Mr. Solyman Muley Abdul Ben Gazel could thus enjoy adual immortality and secure a double portion of eternal felicity at noexpense to anybody.

  In fact, there can be no doubt whatever that this theory of a doubleheaven is the true one, and needs but to be fairly stated to beuniversally received, inasmuch as it supposes the maximum of felicityfor 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 ofChristians everywhere. The trouble is that some architectural scoundrelof a priest is likely to build a religion upon it; and what the worldneeds is theory--good, solid, nourishing theory. Music--Muscular andMechanical.

  One cheerful evidence of the decivilization of the Anglo-Saxon race isthe late tendency to return to first principles in art, as manifestedin substituting noise for music. Herein we detect symptoms of a rapidrelapse into original barbarism. The savage who beats his gong orkettledrum until his face is of a delicate blue, and his eyes assertthemselves like those of an unterrified snail, believes that musicalskill is a mere question of brawn--a matter of muscle. If not whollyignorant of technical gymnastics, he has a theory that a deftness atdumb-bells is a prime requisite in a finished artist. The advance--in acircle--of civilization has only partially unsettled this belief in thehuman mind, and we are constantly though unconsciously reverting to it.

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

  But there is a limit beyond which muscle, whether that of the arm orcheek, can no further go, without too great an expenditure of forcein proportion to the volume of noise attainable. And right here thesplendid triumphs of modern invention and discovery are made manifest;electricity and gunpowder come to the relief of puny muscle, simpleappliance, and orchestras limited by sparse population. Batteries ofartillery thunder exultingly our victory over Primeval Man, beaten athis own game--signally routed and put to shame, pounding his impotentgong and punishing his ridiculous kettledrum in frantic silence, amidstthe 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 tobe continued? This has never been explained; it is one of thosedispensations of Providence the design whereof is wrapped in profoundestobscurity. The good young man is perhaps not without excuse for hisexistence, but society is without excuse for permitting it. At his timeof life to be "good" is to insult humanity. Goodness is proper to theaged; it is their sole glory; why should this milky stripling bring itinto disrepute? Why should he be permitted to defile with the fat of hissleek 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 goodyoung man is commonly a sneak, and is very nearly allied to that othersocial pest, the "nice young lady." As applied to the immature male ofour kind, the adjective "good" seems to have been perverted from itsoriginal and ordinary signification, and to have acquired a dyslogisticone. 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 isproof 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 usnot--we can patiently endure. Nor that he is bigoted; this we expect,and have become accustomed to. Nor that he is small-souled, narrow, andhypocritical; all these qualities become him well, sitting easilyand 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 hisexistence, and essential to his health. When he is not doing it in thepulpit he is at it in the newspapers; when both fail him he resorts tothe social circle, the church meeting, the Sunday-school, or even thestreet corner. We have known him to disport for half a day upon thekerb-stone, carrying on with all his might to whomsoever would endureit.

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

  His carryings-on are as diverse in kind, as comprehensive in scope, asthose of the most versatile negro minstrel. He cuts as many capers in alifetime as there are stars in heaven or grains of sand in a barrelof sugar. Everything is fish that comes to his net. If a discovery inscience is announced, he will execute you an antic upon it before itgets fairly cold. Is a new theory advanced--ten to one while you aretrying to get it through your head he will stand on his own and makemouths at it. A great invention provokes him into a whirlwind offlip-flaps absolutely bewildering to the secular eye; while at anyexceptional phenomenon of nature, such as an earthquake, he will projecthimself frog-like into an infinity of lofty gymnastic absurdities.

  In short, the slightest agitation of the intellectual atmosphere setsyour average parson into a tempest of pumping like the jointed ligneousyouth attached to the eccentric of a boy's whirligig. His philosophy oflife may be boiled down into a single sentence: Carry on and you will behappy. Did We Eat One Another?

  There is no doubt of it. The unwelcome truth has long been suppressed byinterested parties who find their account in playing sycophant to thatself-satisfied tyrant Modern Man; but to the impartial philosopher it isas plain as the nose upon an elephant's face that our ancestors ateone another. The custom of the Fiji Islanders, which is their onlystock-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 greengrocerswill dispute. That he was formerly less vegetarian in his diet than atpresent, is clear from the fact that market-gardening increases inthe ratio of civilization. So we may safely assume that at some remoteperiod Man subsisted upon an exclusively flesh diet. Our uniform vanityhas given us the human mind as the ne plus ultra of intelligence, thehuman face and figure as the standard of beauty. Of course we cannotdeny to human fat and lean an equal superiority over beef, mutton, andpork. It is plain that our meat-eating ancestors would think in thisway, and, being unrestrained by the mawkish sentiment attendant uponhigh civilization, would act habitually upon the obvious suggestion. Apriori, therefore, it is clear that we ate ourselves.

  Philology is about the only thread which connects us with theprehistoric past. By picking up and piecing out the scattered remnantsof language, we form a patchwork of wondrous design. Oblige us byconsidering the derivation of the word "sarcophagus," and see if it benot suggestive of potted meats. Observe the significance of the phrase"sweet sixteen." What a world of meaning lurks in the expression "she issweet as a peach," and how suggestive of luncheon are the words "tenderyouth." A kiss itself is but a modified bite, and when a young girlinsists upon making a "strawberry mark" upon the back of your hand, sheonly gives way to an instinct she has not yet learned to control. Thefond 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 beensaid 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 ofan entire species it is he. A mother-in-law has usually been thought arather satisfactory specimen of total depravity; it has been customaryto regard your sweetheart's brother as tolerably vicious for a youngman; there is excellent authority for looking upon your business partneras not wholly without merit as a nuisance--but your friend's friend is asfar ahead of these in all that constitutes a healthy disagreeablenessas they themselves are in advance of the average reptile or theconventional pestilence.

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

  Also, the animal is too well known to need a description. Imagine athing in all essential particulars the exact reverse of a desirableacquaintance, and you have his mental photograph. How your friend couldever admire so hopeless and unendurable a bore is a problem you areever seeking to solve. Perhaps you may be assisted in it by a previoussolution of the kindred problem--how he could ever feel affection foryourself? Perhaps your friend's friend is equally exercised over thatquestion. 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 reportedto have said and didn't, the doctrine of Woman Suffrage is the truestof all faiths. The amount of really good ridicule that has been expendedupon this thing is appalling, and yet we are compelled to confess thatto all appearance "the cause" has been thereby shorn of no materialstrength, nor bled of its vitality. And shall it be admitted that thispotent argument of little minds is as powerless as the dullards of allages have steadfastly maintained? Forbid it, Heaven! the gimlet is asproper a gimlet as any in all Christendom, but the timber is too hard topierce! Grant ye that "the movement" is waxing more wondrous with eachspringing sun, who shall say what it might not have been but for thesharp hatcheting of us wits among its boughs? If the doctor have notcured his patient by to-morrow he may at least claim that without thephysic the man would have died to-day.

  And pray who shall search the vitals of a whale with a bodkin--who mayreach his jackknife through the superposed bubber? Pachyderm, thy nameis Woman! All the king's horses and all the king's men shall not bendthe bow that can despatch a clothyard shaft through thy pearly hide.The male and female women who nightly howl their social and politicalgrievances into the wide ear of the universe are as insensible to theprickings of ridicule as they are unconscious of logic. An intellectualGoliah of Gath might spear them with an epigram like unto a weaver'sbeam, and the sting thereof would be as but the nipping of a red ant.Apollo might speed among them his silver arrows, which erst heapedthe Phrygian shores with hecatombs of Argive slain, and they would butcomplain of the mosquito's beak. Your female reformer goes smashingthrough society like a tipsy rhinoceros among the tulip beds, and allthe torrent of brickbats rained upon her skin is shed, as globules ofmercury 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 iciclesuspended by a string, letting it down the necks of the unwary. Thesudden shrug, the quick frightened shudder, the yelp of apprehension aresources of a pure, because diabolical, delight. But these women--you maypractise your chilling joke upon one of them, and she will calmlywonder where you got your ice, and will pen with deliberate fingersan ungrammatical resolution denouncing congelation as tyrannical andobsolete.

  We despair of ever dispelling these creatures by pungent pleasantries--ofrouting them by sharp censure. They are, apparently, to go onpractically unmolested to the end. Meantime we are cast down with amighty proneness along the dust; our shapely anatomy is clothed in ajaunty suit of sackcloth liberally embellished with the frippery ofashes; our days are vocal with wailing, our nights melodious withsnuffle!

  Brethren, let us pray that the political sceptre may not pass from usinto the jewelled hands which were intended by nature for the cloutingof 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 notconducive to patience in the male beholder. Her besetting iniquity inthis particular is a fondness for angles, and she is unwavering in herdetermination to achieve them at whatever cost.

  Now we vehemently affirm that in woman's apparel an angle is an offenceto the male eye, and therefore a crime of no small magnitude. In themasculine garb angles are tolerable--angles of whatever acuteness. Themasculine character and life are rigid and angular, and the apparelshould, or at least may, proclaim the man. But with the soft, roundednature of woman, her bending flexibility of temper, angles areabsolutely incompatible. In her outward seeming all should be easy andflowing--every fold a nest of graces, and every line a curve.

  By close attention to this great truth, and a conscientious strivingafter its advantages, woman may hope to become rather comely ofexterior, and to find considerable favour in the eyes of man. It is notimpossible that, without any abatement of her present usefulness, shemay come to be regarded as actually ornamental, and even attractive. Ifwith her angles she will also renounce some hundreds of other equallyharassing absurdities of attire, she may consider her position assured,and her claim to masculine toleration reasonably well grounded. AWingless Insect.

  It would be profitable in the end if man would take a hint from his lackof wings, and settle down comfortably into the assurance that midairis not his appointed element. The confession is a humiliating one, butthere is a temperate balm in the consciousness that his inability to"shave with level wing" the blue empyrean cannot justly be charged uponhimself. He has done his endeavour, and done it nobly; but he'll breakhis precious neck.

  In Goldsmith's veracious "History of Animated Nature" is a sprightlyaccount 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. Goldsmithaforesaid--with the power of conducting an active existence under thesea. That equally veracious and instructive work "The Arabian Nights'Entertainments," peoples the bottom of old ocean with powerful nationsof similarly gifted persons; while in our own day "the Man-Frog" hastaught us what may be done in this line when one has once got the knackof it.

  Some years since (we do not know if he has yet suffered martyrdom at thehand of the fiendish White) there lived a noted Indian chieftain whosename, being translated, signifies "The-Man-Who-Walks-Under-the-Ground,"probably a lineal descendant of the gnomes. We have ourselves walkedunder 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 amole, he may not enjoy a drive at the bottom of the sea, or a morningramble under the subsoil. But with the exception of Peter Wilkins'Flying Islanders--whose existence we vehemently dispute--and some similarcreatures whom it suits our purpose to ignore, there is no record ofany person to whom the name of The-Man-Who-Flies-Over-the-Hills may bejustly applied. We make no account of the shallow device of Mongolfier,nor the dubious contrivance of Marriott. A gentleman of properaspirations would scorn to employ either, as the Man-Frog would reject adiving-bell, or the subterranean chieftain would sneer at the Mont Cenistunnel. These "weak inventions" only emphasize our impotence tostrive with the subtle element about and above. They prove nothing soconclusively as that we can't fly--a fact still more strikingly provenby the constant thud of people tumbling out of them. To a Titan ofcomprehensive ear, who could catch the noises of a world
upon his singletympanum as Hector caught Argive javelins upon his shield, the patterof dropping aeronauts would sound like the gentle pelting of hailstonesupon a dusty highway--so thick and fast they fall.

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

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

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

  Let it not be supposed that Thompson has anything in common with thetypical, ideal hog--him who encrusts his hide with clay, and inhumeshis muzzle in garbage. Far from it; he is a cleanly--almost a godly-hog,preternaturally fair of exterior, and eke fastidious of appetite. He isglossy of coat, stainless of shirt, immaculate of trousers. He is shinyof beaver and refulgent of boot. With all, a Hog. Watch him ten minutesunder any circumstances and his face shall seem to lengthen and sharpenaway, split at the point, and develop an unmistakeable snout. A ridge ofbristles will struggle for sunlight under the gloss of his coat. This isyour imagination, and that is about as far as it will take you. So longas Thompson Washington, actual, maintains a vertical attitude, ThompsonWashington, 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, thereis a stye in the soul of every one of us, in which abides a porker moreor 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 themost cleverly constructed pen. The best of us are they who spend mosttime repressing the beast by rapping him upon the nose. The YoungPerson.

  We are prepared, not perhaps to prove, but to maintain, thatcivilization would be materially aided and abetted by the offer of aliberal reward for the scalps of Young Persons with the ears attached.Your regular Young Person is a living nuisance, whose every act is aprovocation to exterminate her. We say "her," not because, physicallyconsidered, the Y. P. is necesarily of the she sex; more commonly is itan irreclaimable male; but morally and intellectually it is an unmixedfemale. Her virtues are merely milk-and-morality-her intelligence ispure spiritual whey. Her conversation (to which not even her own virtuesand intelligence are in any way related) is three parts rain-water thathas stood too long and one part cider that has not stood long enough--asickening, sweetish compound, one dose of which induces in the mentalstomach a colicky qualm, followed, if no correctives be taken, byviolent retching, coma, and death.

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

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

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

  We know a butcher whose children are not merely dirty--they are fearfullyand wonderfully besmirched by the hand of an artist. He has, inaddition, a big dog with a tendency to dropsy, who flies at you acrossthe 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 inyour leg. And yet the owner of these children and father of this dog isno whit better, to all appearance, than a baker who has clean bratsand a mild poodle. He is not even a good butcher; he hacks a rib andlacerates a sirloin. He talks through his nose, which turns up to suchan extent that the voice passes right over your head, and you haveto get on a table to tell whether he is slandering his dead wife orswearing at yourself.

  If that man possessed a thousand young ones, exaltedly nasty, and dogsenough to make a sub-Atlantic cable of German sausage, you would find itdifficult to make us believe in him. In fact, we look upon the big dogtest of morality as a venerable mistake--natural but erroneous; and weregard dirty children as indispensable in no other sense than that theyare inevitable. Pastoral Journalism.

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

  To the over-worked editor life will have a fresh zest and a newsignificance. The hills shall hump more greenly upward to a bluer sky,the fields blush with a more tender sunshine. He will go forth at dawnwith countless flipflaps of gymnastic joy; and when the white sun shallredden with the blood of dying day, and the hogs shall set up a fineevening hymn of supplication to the Giver of Swill, he will standupon the editorial head, blissfully conscious that his intellect isa-ripening for the morrow's work.

  The rural newspaper! We sit with it in hand, running our fingers overthe 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 delightdo we disport us in the illimitable void of its nothingness, as whoshould swim in air! Here is nothing to startle--nothing to wound. Thevery atmosphere is saturated with "the spirit of the rural press;" andeven our dog stands by, with pendant tail, slowly dropping the lids overhis great eyes; and then, jerking them suddenly up again, tries to lookas if he were not sleepy in the least. A pleasant smell of ploughedground comes strong upon us. The tinkle of ghostly cow-bells fallsdrowsily upon the ear. Airy figures of phenomenal esculents floatdreamily before our half-shut eyes, and vanish ere perfect vision cancatch them. About and above are the drone of bees, and the muffledthunder of milk streams shooting into the foaming pail. The gabble ofdistant geese is faintly marked off by the bark of a distant dog. Thecity 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!--thoughSancho Panza blessed him once before. Mendicity's Mistake.

  Your famishing beggar is a fish of as sorry aspect as may readily bescared up. Generally speaking, he is repulsive as to hat, abhorrentas to vesture, squalid of boot, and in tout ensemble unseemly andatrocious. His appeal for alms falls not more vexingly upon the earthan his offensive personality smites hard upon the eye. The touchingeffectiveness of his tale is ever neutralized by the uncomeliness ofhis raiment and the inarti
stic besmirchedness of his countenance. Hispleading is like the pathos of some moving ballad from the lips of anegro minstrel; shut your eyes and it shall make you fumble in yourpocket for your handkerchief; open them, and you would fain draw out apistol 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 thatBeggary would address himself unto your pocket from beneath a downy hat.However, we cannot hope to immediately impress these worthy mendicantswith the advantage of devoting a portion of their gains to the purchaseof purple and fine linen, instead of expending their all upon thepleasures of the table and riotous living; but our duty unto themremains.

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

  Every one has observed, a solitary ant breasting a current of hisfellows 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 twoconfront each other for a moment, reaching out their delicate antennae,and making a critical examination of one another's person. This thelittle creature repeats with tireless persistence to the end of hisjourney.

  As with the ant, so with the other insect--the sprightly "female of ourspecies." It is really delightful to watch the fine frenzy of her lovelyeye as she notes the approach of a woman more gorgeously arrayed thanherself, or the triumphant contempt that settles about her lips at theadvance of a poorly clad sister. How contemplatively she lingers uponeach detail of attire--with what keen penetration she takes in thegeneral effect at a sweep!

  And this suggests the fearful thought--what would the darlings do if theywore no clothes? One-half their pleasure in walking on the streetwould vanish like a dream, and an equal proportion of the philosopher'shappiness in watching them would perish in the barren prospect of aninartistic nudity. Picnicking considered as a Mistake.

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

  Now your picnic-goer is a muff--an egregious, gregarious muff, and aglutton. Moreover, a nobody who, if he be male wears, in nine cases inten, a red necktie and a linen duster to his heel; if she be female hathsoiled 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 inheart and undefiled of cuticle. For the dust will get in your nose, clogyour ears, make clay in your mouth and mortar in your eyes, and so stopup all the natural passages to the soul; whereby the wickedness whichthat 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, whichthe patient must perforce endure until he shall bathe him in a bath. Itis not sweet to reek, and your picnicker must reek. Should he chanceto break a leg, or she a limb, the inevitable exposure of the pedalcondition is alarming and eke humiliating. Thanksgiving Day.

  There be those of us whose memories, though vexed with an oyster-rakewould not yield matter for gratitude, and whose piety though strainedthrough a sieve would leave no trace of an object upon which to lavishthanks. 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 considerablyeasier, and vastly more agreeable, than falling off a log, and may beacquired in one easy lesson without a master. But if more than this berequired--if to be grateful means anything beyond being gluttonous, yourtrue philosopher--he of the severe brow upon which logic has stamped itseternal impress, and from whose heart sentiment has been banished alongwith other small vices--your true philosopher, say we, will think twicebefore he "crooks the pregnant hinges of the knee" in humble observanceof the day.

  For here is the nut of reason he is obliged to crack before he canobtain the kernel of emotion proper to the day. Unless the blessings weenjoy 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 thesame origin. Grant this, and you make an offset of the latter againstthe former, or are driven either to the ridiculous position that wemust be equally grateful for both evils and blessings, or the no lessridiculous 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 bychance you do take to your knees, it is only that you prefer to digestyour bird in that position. We understand your case accurately, andthe hard sense we are poking at you is not a preachment for youredification, but a bit of harmless fun for our own diversion. For, lookyou! there is really a subtle but potent relation between the gratitudeof the spirit and the stuffing of the flesh.

  We have ever taught the identity of Soul and Stomach; these are butdifferent names for one object considered under differing aspects.Thankfulness we believe to be a kind of ether evolved by the action ofthe gastric fluid upon rich meats. Like all gases it ascends, and sopasses out of the esophagus in prayer and psalmody. This beautifultheory we have tested by convincing experiments in the mannerfollowing:--

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

  Experiment 2nd.--A pound of beef was substituted for the grass, and thefluid 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 wereattempting to wag an imaginary tail.

  Experiment 3rd.--The bladder was charged with a handful of choppedturkey, and an ounce of human gastric juice obtained from the Coroner.At first, nothing but a deep sigh of satisfaction escaped from the neckof the bladder, followed by an unmistakeable grunt, similar to that ofa hog. Upon increasing the proportion of turkey, and confining thegas, the bladder was very much distended, appearing to suffer greatuneasiness. The restriction being removed, the neck distinctlyarticulated the words "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!"

  Against such demonstration as this any mere theological theorizing is ofno avail. Flogging.

  It may justly be demanded of the essayist that he shall give some smallthought to the question of corporal punishment by means of the"cat," and "ground-ash." We have given the subject the most elaborateattention; we have written page after page upon it. Day and nightwe have toiled and perspired over that distressing problem. ThroughSummer's sun and Winter's snow, with all unfaltering purpose, we havestrung miles of ink upon acres of paper, weaving wisdom into eloquencewith the tireless industry of a silkworm fashioning his cocoon. We haverefused food, scorned sleep, and endured thirst to see our work growbeneath our cunning hand. The more we wrote the wiser we became; theopinions of one day were rejected the next; the blind surmising ofyesterday ripened into the full knowledge of to-day, and this maturedinto the superhuman omniscience of this evening. We have finally gotso infernally clever that we have abandoned the original design of ourgreat work, and determined to make it a compendium of everything thatis accurately known up to date, and the bearing of this upon flogging ingeneral.

  To other, and inferior, writers it is most fortunate that our design hastaken so wide a scope. These can go on with their perennial wrangleover the petty question of penal and educational flagellation, while wegrapple with the higher problem, and unfold the broader philosophy ofan universal walloping. Reflections upon the Beneficent Influence of thePress.

  Reflection 1.----The beneficent influence of the Press is most talkedabout 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 begreater 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 itshould be.

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

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

  Charity is certain to bring its reward--if judiciously bestowed. TheAnglo-Saxons are the most charitable race in the world--and the mostjudicious. The right hand should never know of the charity that theleft hand giveth. There is, however, no objection to putting it in thepapers. Charity is usually represented with a babe in her arms--goingto place it benevolently upon a rich man's doorstep. The Study of HumanNature.

  To the close student of human nature no place offers such manifoldattractions, such possibilities of deep insight, such a mine ofsuggestion, such a prodigality of illustration, as a pig-pen at feedingtime. 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 butanother form of the same assertion.--End of the Essay upon the Study ofHuman Nature. Additional Talk--Done in the Country. I.

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

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

  .... A great deal has been written and said and sung in praise of greentrees. And yet there are comparatively few green trees that are goodto eat. Asparagus is probably the best of them, though celery is by nomeans to be despised. Both may be obtained in any good market in thecity. IV.

  .... A cow in walking does not, as is popularly supposed, pick up allher feet at once, but only one of them at a time. Which one dependsupon circumstances. The cow is but an indifferent pedestrian. Hoc fabuladocet that one should not keep three-fourths of his capital lying idle.V.

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

  .... The destruction of rubbish with fire makes a very great smoke. Inthis particular a battle resembles the destruction of rubbish. Therewould 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 agourmet--in the country. VII.

  .... Sweet milk should be taken only in the middle of the night. Iftaken during the day it forms a curd in the stomach, and breeds a diredistress. In the middle of the night the stomach is supposed to beinnocent of whisky, and it is the whisky that curdles the milk. Shouldyou be sleeping nicely, I would not advise you to come out of thatcondition to drink sweet milk. VIII.

  .... In the country the atmosphere is of unequal density, and in passingthrough the denser portions your silk hat will be ruffled, and thecountry people will jeer at it. They will jeer at it anyhow. When goinginto the country, you should leave your silk hat at a bank, taking acertificate of deposit. IX.

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