POT-POURRI Governor Cornell, of New York, some time ago referred | looking-glass; he calls after the servants: Jean, muffle the to General Grant as "one who even more than Washington door-bell, its noise affects my nerves. Brigitte, don't pass was first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of before me again; you make a draught.' He interrogates his countrymen.' Mr. Fowler, of the New York Leg- his throat every ten minutes, la, la, la. Never a sensible islature, lately made a good point when, in moving an word, always la, la, la. At table he does not talk for fear adjournment of the legislature for Washington's birthday, he of destroying his la, la, la. If I ask him to take me out on said he made the motion on behalf of those who might a fine day, he runs to the piano and exercises his la, la, la. desire to pay some honor to the memory of one "who is And so I remain your friend in sorrow, now second in war, second in peace, and somewhere in the hearts of his countrymen." According to the ancient custom of novelists and comedy writers, all fathers of lovely young girls were brutes, and never did the decent thing except on the sly. If the much-abused heroines of Fielding and Smollet could read of this St. Louis parent, how they would rejoice for their sisters of the present day. "Do you love him ?" asked her father. Geraldine laughed in spite of herself. "I have a strong impression that he would scarcely ask me to marry him unless he thought pretty well of me." "Of course-of course; but do you love him?" "With my whole heart and soul." "Well, if that's the case," said Colonel Spencer, throwing away his cigar, "all I've got to say is you are both confounded simpletons if you don't get married-there!" There are many troubles in the life of an opera singer's wife, and these are graphically described by the following letter: 46 MY DEAR JENNY: It is as you say, we have a hundred and fifty thousand francs a year; the praises of my husband are sounded every day in the newspapers; he is applauded every night he sings, and is a very king in his art. But you don't know what it is to be the wife of a tenor. Those who flatter my husband, and they are numerous, are incessantly telling him, Monsieur Michael, you have a mine of diamonds in your throat.' That may be true, I don't say it is not; but if you could understand what consequences it entails a mine of diamonds in a man's throat! Michael is always as cross as a bear because of the state of the temperature. A barometer is less variable. He is continually opening and shutting the windows. When they are open he wants them shut, and when they are shut he says he stifles. You have no idea of the trouble we have at hotels, to prevent his taking cold. Even the style of carpet becomes a study. And the cart-load of furs we carry about with us! And the difficulty we have with the fires! There is also a long chapter as to what he may and may not eat; this is too strong, and that is too weak. And the night he sings there is a syrup which he must drink five times during an act, and a wash of brandy and camphor with which to rub his throat. From morning till night a tenor thinks of nothing but himself; he listens to himself sing; he studies poses before a "MARGUERITE." It is seldom that prayers are amusing. Yet now and then petitions are made that are strikingly humorous, though the suppliant may be quite unconscious of the fact. A good friend of the magazine sends us the following remarkable instances. Many years since, in a town in Massachusetts, there dwelt a man by the name of Bedell,-accented on the first syllable, -who had neighbors named Heath; between the two parties, for some reason, the keenest hatred existed. Mr. Bedell was a praying man, and as he was one day in his field, on bended knee, a passer-by overheard the following petition from his lips: "O Lord, kill the Heaths! If I should do it, I should have to be hung; but thou, Lord, canst kill them and not be mistrusted." He was, withal, "born tired," and, on another occasion, he prayed: "O Lord! in our great need, send us corn, and, while you're about it, send it shelled." Some one has said, “The whole subject of funerals is in as barbaric darkness as if the world hadn't been burying and being buried for six thousand years at the lowest calculation." I never was so struck with the truth of this remark as I was at a funeral I once attended. Viewing the remains has always been repugnant to me, but on this occasion the manner in which the invitation was given lent additional horror to the custom. The undertaker, who happened to be a German, after directing those who wished to look upon the face of the dead how to approach the casket, and by what door to leave the room, added, “so that everybody can get a fair look at him, and no crowding to be done." Ugh! It made my blood run cold. H. S. F. is a mean man; I've sometimes thought he was what you might call a keerful-a prudent man." "What do you mean by a prudent man?" 'Well, I mean this: that one time he had an execution of four dollars against the old Widow Witter, back here, and he went up to her house and levied on a flock of ducks. He chased them ducks one at a time round the house pooty much all day, and every time he catched a duck he'd set right down and wring his neck and charge mileage; and his mileage 'mounted to more than the debt. Nothing mean about it as I know, but I always thought after that Mr. Hitchcock was a very prudent man." The late Prince Peter Von Oldenburg was an eccentric creature, and as full of superstitions as a Christmas horn is of goodies. He caused his daughter's wedding to be postponed, after all the guests had been summoned and the festivities prepared, because he had not discovered till then that the date of the ceremony fell on Monday, an unlucky day, according to Russian tradition. But the best story told of him was when he filled the place of general superintendent of the imperial college for girls. He was diligent to a degree in the performance of his duties. Hearing that com. plaints had been made at the Smoling Convent of the poor quality of food provided, he resolved to test the matter for himself. So, suddenly pouncing down upon the institution one day just at the dinner-hour, he walked directly toward the kitchen. At the door he met two soldiers carrying a huge steaming cauldron. "Halt !" he cried; "put that kettle down." The soldiers obeyed instantly. "Bring me a spoon," was his next order. One of the soldiers brought a spoon, but, in offering it, ventured to begin a stammering remonstrance. "Hold your tongue!" commanded the prince. off the lid; I insist on tasting it." "Take The next moment the spoon had conveyed a large portion to his mouth. "You call this soup ?" he exclaimed indignantly, as soon as he had swallowed the dose; "why, it is simply dirty water!" "It is, your Highness," responded the soldier who had tried to explain; "we have just been cleaning out the laundry !" A great many people say what they do not mean in their prayers. A Scotchman went behind a fence to pray, and de clared to the Lord that if the fence should fall on him it would be no more than he deserved. At that moment a high wind blew the fence over on the petitioner. He rose hastily from his knees, and cried out in a frightened voice: "Hech, Lord, it's an awful world, this! A body canna say a thing in joke but it's ta'en in earnest." An amusing story of Daines Barrington, Recorder of Bristol, is related by one of the English press. Having to appear for the plaintiff in a case at Clonmel, he attacked the defendant in unmeasured terms. The individual inveighed against not being present only heard of the invectives. After Barrington, however, had got back to Dublin, the defendant, a Tipperary man, named Foley, lost no time in paying his compliments to the counsel. He rode all day and night, and, covered with sleet, arrived before Barrington's residence in Harcourt street, Dublin. Throwing the reins of his smoking horse over the railings of the area, he announced his arrival by a thundering knock at the door. Barrington's valet answered the summons, and, opening the street door, beheld the apparition of the roughcoated Tipperary fire-eater, with a large stick under his arm, and the sleet sticking to his bushy whiskers. "Is your master up?" demanded the visitor, in a voice that gave some intimation of the object of his journey. "No." "Then give him my compliments, and say Mr. Foleyhe'll know the name-will be glad to see him." The valet went up-stairs, and told his master, who was in bed, the purpose of his visit. "Then don't let Mr. Foley in, for your life," said Barrington, "for it is not a hare nor a brace of ducks that he has come to present me with." The man was leaving the bedroom, when a rough, wet coat pushed by him, and a thick voice said: 'By your leave,” and at the same time Mr. Foley entered the bedroom. "You know my business, sir," said he to Barrington. "I have made a journey to teach you manners, and it's not my purpose to return until I have broken every bone in your body," and at the same time he cut a figure of eight with his shillalah before the chevel-glass. "You do not mean to say you would murder me in bed?" "No," replied the other; "but get up as soon as you can." "Yes," replied Daines, "that you might fell me the moment I put myself out of the blankets." "That is enough," said Daines, turning over and making himself comfortable, and seeming as though he meant to fall asleep. "I have the honor of an Irish gentleman, and may rest as safe as though I were under the castle guard." The Tiperary salamander looked marvelously astonished at the pretended sleeper, but soon Daines began to snore. "Halloa!" said Mr. Foley; "ain't you going to get up?" "No," said Daines; "I have the word of an Irish gentleman that he will not strike me in bed, and I am sure I am not going to get up to have my bones broken. I shall never get up again. In the meantime, Mr. Foley, if you should want your breakfast, ring the bell; the best in the house is at your service. The morning-paper will be here presently, but be sure and air it before reading, for there is nothing from which a man so quickly catches cold as reading a damp journal." And he affected to go to sleep. The Irishman had fun in him as well as ferocity; he could not resist the cunning of the counsel. "Get up, Mr. Barrington, for in bed or out of bed, I haven't the pluck to hurt so droll a heart." The result was that in less than an hour afterward Foley and his intended victim were sitting down to a warm breakfast, the former only intent upon assaulting a dish of smoking chops. The Chinese are a peculiar people, therefore their literature is peculiar, and none of it more so than the following anecdote, which would, without doubt, sink deep into the heart of a Celestiil: In the Chow dynasty (about three thousand years ago) there was a man named Laou Lai-tsze. When he was seventy years of age, he used to put on bright and many-colored clothes, and then he would play about like a child. Sometimes he would carry water into the hall, and pretend to stumble, and fall flat on the ground; and then he would cry, and run up to his parents' side to please the old people, and all to make them forget, for a time at least, their own great age. Another is even more touching than the first: There was once a man named Han. When he was a boy, he misbehaved himself very often, and his mother used to beat him with a bamboo rod. One day he cried after the beating, and his mother was greatly surprised, and said, “I have beaten you many a time, and you have never cried before; why do you cry to-day?" "Oh, mother," he replied, "you used to hurt me when you flogged me; but now I weep because you are not strong enough to hurt me." "It makes one weep," says the Chinese moralist, "even to read this story." Who does not long to have the dear, vanished hand back again, and the still voice speaking again, if even to punish and reprove? Rather Premature.--A newspaper was started not long ago, the first number of which contained a letter from a correspondent signed, "A Constant Reader." An exchange tells the story of the Hon. Demshame Hornet's troubles in graphic style. He had a very unpleasant experience lately. Mark Twain was advertised to lecture in the town of Colchester, but for some reason failed to get around. In the emergency, the lecture committee decided to employ Mr. Hornet to deliver his celebrated lecture on temperance, but so late in the day was this arrangement made that no bills announcing it could be circulated, and the audience assembled expecting the celebrated innocent. Nobody in the town knew Mark, or had ever heard him lecture, but they had got the notion that he was funny, and went to the lecture prepared to laugh. Even those on the platform, except the chairman, did not know Mr. Hornet from Mark Twain, and so, when he was introduced, thought nothing of the name, as they knew Mark Twain was a nom de plume, and supposed his real name was Hornet. The denouement is thus told: Mr. Hornet first remarked, "Intemperance is the curse of the country." The audience burst into a merry laugh. He knew it could not be at his remark, and thought his clothes must be awry, and he asked the chairman in a whisper if he was all right, and got "yes" for an answer. Then he said, "Rum slays | Still more than disease!" A louder laugh. He couldn't understand it, but went on, "It breaks up happy homes!" louder mirth. "It is carrying young men to death!" A perfect roar and applause. Mr. Hornet began to get excited. He thought they were guying him, but he proceeded: "We must crush the serpent!" A tremendous howl of laughter. The men on the platform, except the chairman, squirmed as they laughed. Hornet couldn't stand it. “What I'm saying is gospel truth!” he cried. The audience fairly bellowed with mirth. Hornet turned to a man on the stage and said, "Do you see anything very ridiculous in my remarks or behavior?" "Yes, ha, ha—it's intensely funnyha, ha, ha! Go on!" replied the roaring man. "This is an insult!" cried Hornet, wildly dancing about. More laughter, and cries of "Go on, Twain!" And then the chairman got the idea of the thing, and rose up and explained the situation, and the men on the stage suddenly quit laughing and blushed very red, and the folks in the audience looked at each other in a mighty sheepish way, and they quit laughing too. And then Mr. Hornet being thoroughly mad told them he had never before got into a town so entirely populated by asses and idiots, and, having said that, he left the hall. And the assemblage then voted to censure Twain and the chairman, and dispersed amid deep gloom. Budding Genius Recognized.-I read not long since that one of the great men in the world of letters has recently been playing a practical joke upon the gentlemen of the press by sending an anonymous contribution to several leading monthlies, and enjoying the fun of having each of them politely but firmly decline it. The fact that any one of them would gladly have paid the weight of the MS. in gold for it, had they known the author's name, must have given additional zest to his enjoyment. But what I am coming to is that the experience of a friend of mine offsets the great man's little story. This friend is a lady, and one of the lesser lights in literature. She writes an occasional story or sketch for a magazine, but has little confidence in her own power. One of her early efforts was forwarded to a literary paper of Indianapolis with the request-what young writer has not made such request ?—that the editor would give his candid opinion of it. He returned it with the comment, "I think you ought to do better." She then made a bold dash and sent it to the "Atlantic," and to her great astonishment it was accepted! It may be supposed that the editor of that august periodical did not know the opinion of the Indiana editor, or he also would have declined it; but here comes in the strangest part of the story. The incipient writer-unsophisticated little simpleton that she was!—had actually written the editor of the “Atlantic" that she had offered her sketch to an Indiana paper; that it had been declined with the above comment, and that it seemedrather sarcastic this last, I fear-very crude and poor to her after that! There are two theories prevalent in her circle of friends explanatory of this phenomenon; one is that her article was really meritorious, and the other that those Boston "literary fellers" do such things occasionally to show how impartial they are. H. G. F. |