full? Most probably in the silent depths of his inner consciousness Sir John is thinking, "As Alice can never be any. thing but a shockingly bad hostess" while you, "If John could only bring himself to unbend in ever so slight a degree!" the fact remains the same, explain or excuse it as you will. Your party has been a failure; the vexation of it will keep you awake all night; the remembrance of it will rankle for the rest of the season; the mention of it will be a sore point forever. Or perhaps your failure is something of deeper moment. There is your book, the precious outcome of your nobler nature, the proud expression of all that is highest and best in you, the treasured first fruits of your learning and experience, or the perfected work of your maturity and strength. You give it to the world with loving pride, almost with jealous reluctance, and the reviewers cut it up mercilessly, or damn it with faint praise, the libraries refuse it, the public passes it by; your publisher writes you word that he has so many hundred copies of your book on his hands. Or you are a great actor, a master of histrionic art, a genius, and the observed of all observers in the playgoing world. The time comes for you to make your greatest hit of all, for you to achieve your crowning success-things unattempted yet in the history of fame. The theatrical-minded public is on the tiptoe of enthusiasm and excitement. Seats are booked six weeks in advance; the fact of your impending triumph is the subject of languidly interested conversation in society, of lively discussion in the papers. Your first night arrives; an overflowing audience, teeming with rank, fashion, criticism, and a tremendous pit and gallery element, greets your first appearance with thunders of applause, but there the glamor ends. Somehow or another, you are a huge failure. Your best efforts are misunderstood, your great bursts of passion are coldly received, your subtle touches are unappreciated, every line you utter falls flat, every point you seize fails to tell; drearily the play drags to its end, drearily the eager and expectant occupants of stalls and balcony disperse in wondering and disappointed silence, bitterly the critics are "down upon" you the next morning, and hastily the unhappy piece is withdrawn at the end of the week. Perhaps and this is the cruelest of all-you have been working honestly and faithfully, and with your whole heart and soul, in some cause that seemed to you great and good -some honorable work of progress or reform—some noble, unselfish struggle after a beautiful end. Perhaps you have given to it the best years of your life and the best effort of your brain, and toiled through sleepless nights and busy, crowded days, always laboring for the supreme good of a community, always pushing on toward the right. And opposition, evil and treacherous, or only blind and stupid, beginning to rise against your unwearying efforts, waxes stronger day by day, and clogs your every step and weakens your every struggle, till at length you are beaten back, your life-work shattered and spoiled. So Socrates saw his life-work lying in ruins, saw the truth held up to mockery and trodden under foot, as he calmly drank off his hemlock in prison and settled his accounts with Æsculapius; so Savonarola, offering up a last prayer for the fickle Florentines, saw the light he had kindled trampled out forever; so the noble army of martyrs threw off, by flood or fire or sword, "the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world." And there is yet another, a sort of universal sense of failure, the result of no distinct course of action on our parts, which creeps desolately into some of our lives-lives that we have striven to render so beautiful and so happy for ourselves the sort of sense which prompted the "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity" of the preacher. Perhaps it is only a narrow, poor little life-albeit one that vaulting ambition which o'erleaps itself has endeavored too eagerly to make pleasant to its possessor-into which this grim consciousness suddenly or gradually enters, showing up all the feebleness and littleness of your preconceived ideas of happiness and contentment, and bidding you awake to the dreary conviction that all the small devices, the accomplishments, the little learning, the adulation, flattery, gayety, troops of friends, are utterly inadequate to adorn your existence, as you had meant it should be adorned, and yet are all that you have to look forward to in all the coming by and by. Then you say within yourself, "I am a failure; I have made a great mistake of my life." Or perhaps it is a great, wide, really beautiful life, and you have genius and fame and learning, and are talked about, and sought after, and loved, and looked up to; and still a gaunt sense of failure grows upon you-and still you find au fond de tout le vide et le néant, at the bottom of all the honor and the love and the friendship and the prosperity, emptiness and nothingness; your soul seems darkened, and all the beauty of your life shattered. But it may be that the best light and the truest beauty take their beginning in that dreary awakening, if your consciousness of failure is part of that "sorrow which remarries us to God." H. M. Family Courtesy. It is painful to notice in many families a lack of courtesy and politeness on the part of husband and wife in their manner toward each other, and, on the other hand, most delightful to see each member of the family-circle treating every other member with true politeness, and the parents evincing at all times, in manner and speech, the love and esteem in which each holds the other. On this point it has been truly said that children almost invariably follow as their parents lead. Their good breeding, their politeness, courtesy, respect, and affection are largely patterned after the example of their parents. If the mother shows by her daily life that she looks up to the father with loving deference as the head of the family, and manifesting unmistakable pleasure in seeking his comfort and assisting to carry out his wishes, the children will, in a large degree, follow her example. If the father invariably treats the mother with respect and courtesy quite as noticeable as he shows to his most esteemed guests, listening to any remarks or wishes of hers with deference, be sure the children will follow his lead. It is well, therefore, that all parents should be more thoughtful with reference to their conduct and influence, so that they may bear testimony to modern as well as to oldtime courtesy of manners. POT-POURRI. The reunions of the veterans of the late war continue giving us some very interesting incidents that occurred during their experiences of camp and field life. At a late meeting an officer of the army related that upon one occasion, after a charge upon the enemy's works, a fierce encounter, and a fall back for reinforcement, a bright young Irish soldier was found to have a Rebel flag captured from the foe. Approaching him he said, "I'll send that to the rear as one of our trophies; give me the flag." "Sure, I'll not give it ye," said Pat; "if ye are wanting one, there's plinty ay 'em behind that ridge over beyant where I got this; sure ye can go and get one for yerself." can figger on it. Now, you know it is over two hundred miles round this yer lake. Put that down. As I said before, I don't know the weight of the biggest fish I ever yanked out, but I did haul one up on the beach, and after I landed him the lake fell three feet, and you can see by the watermark over yonder it hasn't riz since." An Anecdote of the American Stage.-When Charles Webb was starring it at the old Chatham Theatre, in New York, he hecame acquainted with a fish-dealer named Thomas Shapleigh, who had in his boyish days belonged to a juvenile dramatic company, and felt very much inclined to tread the boards again, if a chance offered. It did offer. Another, equally interesting, comes to us through the The actor cast for Polonius on Webb's benefit night was columns of an exchange. In the winter of 1864, Pony Mountain, in the Shenandoah Valley, was full of game, and Federals and Confederates used to shoot squirrels and trap rabbits when on picket duty. Care was taken to avoid each other, but many a poor fellow's bones are bleaching under the dark pines to-day. One day a member of the Sixth Michigan Cavalry encountered a "Johnny" face to face as they both turned a thicket. Both had guns on their shoulders, and both were too surprised to speak for some time. Then the Confederate yelled out, "Say, you ‘Yank,' what are ye down here for?" "To pu down the Rebellion." "You can't do it, no how." "Bet you $to we can." "Look here," said the "Reb," as he came closer and put down his gun to indulge in gestures, "I'll play ye a game of euchre to see which side is going to whip." This was agreed to, and a pack of cards was produced. The "Yank" got the first deal and made a point. The "Reb" took the second and made a march. At the next deal the score was even, and pretty soon they stood four to four. The play was careful, but the Confederacy had the winning cards, and the "Johnny" took the last trick with an ace, and jumped up and yelled, "I knew it! I knew it! Now, Yank,' are ye square ?" "I am." "Then go back and stop this 'ere war 'cordin' to agreement, and mount yer critter and go home. Whoop! 'Rah for me! I knew there must be some way to settle this doggoned war if I could only get beyond the pickets!" Fish Yarns. We have heard some pretty tall fish yarns, but the following strikes us as a little ahead of anything we have yet seen or heard of in that line. An Eastern tourist in Nevada had been spinning some incredibly fishy fish yarns, when one of the party, turning to an old mountaineer, said: unable to play, and Shapleigh undertook to supply his place. The house was packed; and the beneficiare and the friend who had, as the bill put it, "magnanimously volunteered his valuable services," were received with loud acclamations. The first act went off smoothly enough; but in the second, when on Polonius asking, “Do you know me, my lord ?" Hamlet replies, "Excellent well; you are a fishmonger," Mrs. Shapleigh, sitting in a front box, exclaimed, “Well, it ain't very pretty of you, Mr. Webb, after Tom has been so good to you, to go showing him up in that way; I'd have you know that a fishmonger, as you call him, is as good as an actor any day!" When she ceased, a wondering silence fell upon the audience; and Shapleigh, giving his wife an assuring nod, said, "It's all right, Bessie; it's so in the book." And then, understanding matters, the audience vociferously applauded. A Judicial Decision Extraordinary.—Pious cant is sometimes snubbed in a way so entirely unique as to deserve special mention. The following incident happened in a Western city. A scamp was committed to jail for various deeds of rascality, and a levy was also made upon his household goods; not upon his "household gods," for he was most emphatically "without God" in the world." His wife was not a bit better than her husband, but was quite notorious for her zeal in the exercises of revival meetings in country school-houses. There was a lawyer in the place who loved a good joke a little better than he did a good fee, which, as lawyers go, is saying considerable. "Can I see you, sir, in private?" said a meek-looking woman to him one day. "Certainly, madam; step into the back office." A gentle drizzle of tears ensued, interspersed with, “I have been told, sir, that you are a Christian man." Here the legal gentleman looked as much surprised as if he were Bill, that gets away with fishing in this country, don't listening to a new campaign slander. But the woman went "Wal, I don't know about that." “No, but I have caught some purty big fellers.” "Come, now, tell us the weight of the largest trout you ever caught." "Wal, I can't exactly tell as to the weight, but you folks on, "And I trust, sir, as a Christian, you will befriend me. It seems hard to give up both my husband and my cookstove.. Can't you induce his Honor to let up a little on me? I'm a poor woman, but I hope I'm a Christian." Now "his Honor" was a justice of the peace, not one adorned with the Shaksperian "fair round belly with good capon lined," but one the juices of whose being were mildly, but rather piquantly, flavored with the cynic philosophy of Diogenes, mellowed with a keen perception of the ludicrous. In came the lawyer and the praying woman. She had already, unbeknown to her protector, interviewed his Honor privately, and the interview had assumed too much the character of a protracted meeting to be in keeping with the everyday routine of a justice's court. Now, when supposed to be half-way home, here she was again; instead of being alone, as previously, she had come this time with a legal adviser. "Well, your Honor," said her counsel, "can't you let up on this good woman? She is a client of mine, to be sure, but then she says she is a Christian, and you know we are commanded to do good, especially to the household of faith,' and her faith in my influence with you seems to be unbounded." Judicial decisions are sometimes quite wonderful things in their way. The one that followed this appeal was without precedent in Blackstone or anywhere else. "Madam," said his Honor, "I will dismiss the case, and you too, and let you keep your cook-stove and your husband to all eternity on one condition, and on one only, and that is, that you will give bail never again, so long as you live, to pray in Genesee County." That case dropped from the docket; but, as a judicial deliverance, the disposition of the case ought to take rank with the Dred Scott decision, and stand on record somewhere. E. L. B. Little three-year old was taken out for a ride in her carriage. The sun shone in her face, and she called mamma's attention to it. "Can't help it, dear," said mamma. "I'll blow it out!" said baby, thinking how she had seen her older sister blow out the candle for her amusement. "No, darling; you can't do that." "'Es, I will, mamma," and baby gave a quick, strong puff. Just then a cloud obscured the sun, and baby cried triumphantly, "There, mamma, sun's blowed out!" Day and Martin's.—Many of our little readers have seen the small stone jars labeled "Day and Martin's Blacking." These jars are found all over the civilized world. The men whose names they bore died worth millions of pounds sterling, all made out of a receipt for blacking. The story of that receipt illustrates the value of a kind act to a generous heart. One day a poor soldier entered the shop of a London hair-dresser, and asked relief. He stated he had run over his leave of absence, and unless he could get a lift on the coach, and thus speedily rejoin his regiment, he would be severely punished. The hair-dresser listened kindly to his story, and gave him a guinea. "God bless you, sir!" exclaimed the astonished soldier. "How can I ever repay you? I have nothing in the world but this," pulling out a dirty piece of paper from his pocket. "It is a receipt for making blacking. It is the best that was ever seen. Many a half-guinea I have had for it from the officers, and many bottles I have sold. May you be able A short time since a couple of young fellows entered a car of a Delaware Railroad train, and tried to turn one of the seats before sitting down. The seat was locked, but the fellows didn't mind that, and one of them took out his knife to pick the lock. While he was at work, an elderly gentleman seated behind them quietly remonstrated. "That's all right, old man," returned one of them. "We know what we're about, so keep your clothes on." "Don't you know that you are liable to prosecution for that?" continued the old gentleman mildly. "It's the same as burglary, in the eyes of the law. If you want the seat turned, ask the conductor, and he will do it for you." "You talk as though you knew a good deal," said one of the young fellows, looking up with a sarcastic smile. "How long have you been in the railroad business ?" "About twenty-five years," returned the old gentleman gently. The fellow looked a little saucily surprised as he asked, "And pray, what position do you hold now?" "I am president of the road," returned Mr. Hinckley; "and if you disobey any further rules of the road I shall call upon the officers to arrest you." The young fellows took the rear car, while the passengers smiled. Miscarried Notes.-A young lady gave "her young man" a beautifully-worked pair of slippers, and he acknowledged the present by sending her his picture, encased in a handsome frame. He wrote a note to send with it, and at the same time replied angrily to an oft-repeated dun for an unpaid-for suit of clothes. He gave a boy ten cents to deliver the package and notes, giving explicit directions as to the destination of each. It was a boy with a freckled face, and he discharged his errand in a manner that should give him a niche in the temple of fame. The young lady received a note in her adored one's handwriting, and flew to her room to devour its contents. She opened the missive with eager fingers, and read: "I'm getting tired of your everlasting attentions. The suit is about worn out already. It never amounted to much, any way. Please go to thunder!" And the tailor was struck utterly dumb when he opened a parcel and discovered the picture of his delinquent customer, with a note that said: "When you gaze upon the features, think how much I owe you." When the unfortunate young man called around that evening to receive the happy acknowledgement of his sweetheart, he was very ostentatiously shoved off the steps and over the fence by the young lady's father; and in the morning he was waited upon by his tailor's lawyer, and imperatively ordered to settle or suffer. |