"Do you suppose Benignity knows any thing about it?" asked one. "Into paint will I grind thee, my bride," was the painter's wedding song. Into money the Cen "Oh yes; he is the very man to know," replied tral Railroad grinds the public. Surely it is a very the other. They rose to settle their bills. "Won't you go in to dinner, gentlemen?" "No, thank you. Time doesn't permit, train goes now in ten minutes." Out they went to the cars. They appeared in a few minutes, and the travelers seated themselves in high good-humor. droll public that complains. The Central Railroad seats a drunken and disgusting fellow by your side, and you can not help yourself. The Central Railroad crams its cars with passengers, so that those who have paid for seats must go standing-and they can not help themselves. Such details are endless. The Central Railroad Company receives eleven per cent. net on its actual capital, as we read in the "Leaving Utica at a quarter past one we may newspapers, and sighs for sixteen. Is any body so hope to reach Albany by six." lost to the ordinary feelings of man as to grudge it that pittance? Is any body so mad as to suppose that the public convenience is to be consulted by a Company existing by the favor and for the service of the public? No, no; the public was made for railroad corporations. Ask the Camden and Amboy. It was a cheerful prospect, and the pleased passengers tucked their shawls about their feet and forgave every body his trespasses. A little difference of time explained, of course, the failure to depart at fifteen minutes past one. But when a quarter of two came there was the nudge of the locomotive grasping the train, and it rolled smoothly along. There are parents who read Jack the Giant KillSmoothly along for an eighth of a mile to a positioner to their dear children, and gravely say that there finely intrenched by freight-cars and store-houses, are no giants now who dine and grow fat upon hapand there stopped. Two o'clock. Half past. Three less men and women. o'clock. The passengers had lost their dinner and they had not started. Forgiveness of sinners had become at that moment almost an impossible vir tue. "I say," cried one, "let's go and hunt up some dinner, I'm starving." "And be left behind, after all?" It would probably puzzle even Mr. Herbert Spencer to say why in any case of extremity upon a railroad train the conductor becomes invisible. At the very moment when you wish to have the shock passed gently off, the conductor is gone. It was useless, therefore, to suppose that any information could be obtained of the probable moment of departure. But surely all good Christian souls will extenuate a little wrath with that benign personage who said so sweetly, "Train for the East in fifteen minutes." At a little past five the cars moved. The track was quite clear. There was evidently no reason whatever that a train should not have left hours and hours before. There was no delay, and in the bright frosty moonlight the locomotive ran yelping into Albany at ten o'clock. "Here's richness!" quoth Mr. Squeers, at a famous breakfast he once ate with some "young friends" in London. And here's railroad management! But what can a great Company do? It must increase its wealth. At that very moment it was a suitor to the Legislature for the power of compelling passengers to pay fifty or seventy-five per cent. more for such privileges as have been described. What can a great Company do? It would doubtless be willing enough to clear its tracks with snowplows instead of cow-catchers-to stay by its passengers through nights in the snow, to feed them, or to carry them back eight miles. It would not seriously object to starting within five or six hours of the proper time, nor to arriving within a day or two of the hour indicated. It might have bulletinboards and communicate information to the public, and inasmuch as it was created to serve the public, really be of service to it. But what would you have? Warren Hastings said to his subordinate Hindoo chiefs: "I hope you will not grind any body, but I must have the money." The Central Railroad Company would be very glad to serve the public, if it could. But, good lack! charity begins at home. VOL. XXX.-No. 179.-YY WHEN a rustic Easy Chair like this goes to town and finds his way to the theatre, he is so dazzled as he enters and looks round at the lovely ladies and the gay men, that he says to himself, "Why don't I come every evening?" But when the fiddles have played, and the mysterious curtain rises, and he beholds the wooings and wanderings and perils and heroisms of Don Alfonso and Imogen, and hears the wondrous sounds into which his native language is changed in the play, and yields to the melting pathos of the adjuration, "Have you a strawberry leaf on your left arm! Ah! oh! It is-it is-my loved, my long-lost brother!" then the same Easy Chair says gently in his own ear: Why, please, did you come to such a place as this?" 66 There is always a fine theoretical answer to such a question. It is the intrinsic charm of the drama, the skeptic is told, which brings him to the theatre. But the difficulty always is that the drama and the actor are at such terrible odds. Theoretically the stage is the mirror of nature. But except in Paris, where indeed the spectator does see at the theatre what he sees outside of it, the life of the stage is as absolutely different from that of the actual world as rouge is from the red of a rose. There is, however, a real world, which is not actual. That of Shakespeare is such; and the satisfaction a well-acted play of Shakespeare gives us is not that of seeing men and women like those we daily meet, talking as our friends talk; but it is in the appeal to the imagination which contemplates the same human nature under a hundred aspects of time and condition. But the world of the stage is neither the real nor the actual. The best of it is to nature probably what Sir William Jones's translations are to the Persian originals. The voice, the gesture, the step, with which every thing is delivered upon the boards fairly illustrate what we say. They are harmonious with the "nature" of the stage; a nature which is never to be found away from it. Yet there is always a great relish in the public for whatever is artificial, and there is no question more truly in the key of what is called "society" than "Are you fond of nature ?" A really fine actor is as uncommon as a really great dramatic poet. Yet what Garrick was in Richard III. or Edmund Kean in Shylock, we are sure Edwin Booth is in Hamlet. He used to play this and other parts in Boston, and New York did not know him. It is not many years since he played here without observation except of a few, and without any prestige whatever. Suddenly he was the fashion; he was more, he was the passion; and it was agreed that he had no rival upon the stage. From that time he has held his position. Every year he plays many weeks in the city of New York, and during this last season he has played Hamlet for three months consecutively, six nights in the week-an incident in Shakespearian history quite unprecedented. Mr. Booth plays at the Winter Garden theatre, opposite Bond Street, in Broadway, the site which is associated with Rachel. It is a small, convenient house, well built for hearing and seeing-or is it only that nobody wishes to speak or buzz when Mr. Booth is acting? The manager of the house, Mr. Stuart, is understood to be a particular personal friend of the actor's, and the theatre was arranged with peculiar care for the representation. The scene was thoughtfully studied, and the effect was entirely harmonious. That is, the parts agreed with each other. It may be doubted, of course, whether the Queen, Hamlet's mother, was dressed like the Queen we saw. But such details are forgiven to the general symmetry of impression. Mr. Booth looks the ideal Hamlet. For the Hamlet of our imaginations, which is the Hamlet of Shakespeare, is not the "scant of breath" gentleman whom the severer critics insist that he should be. He is a sad, slight Prince. It is indeed a fair question how much John Kemble and Sir Thomas Lawrence are responsible for the ideal Hamlet. The tall figure, preternaturally tall in the picture, clad in the long black cloak, with one foot resting upon the earth from the grave, the skull in the hand, and the fine eyes uplifted to the chandelier this is the imperious tradition of Hamlet. We see it in youth, and it remains forever. But Mr. Booth disturbs this tradition a little. When he appears, we perceive at once that a certain melancholy youthfulness is wanting in the stately Kemble. He represents the Prince; but he is not identified with him. But Mr. Booth is altogether princely. His costume is still the solemn suit of sables, varied according to his fancy of greater fitness, and his small lithe form with the mobility and intellectual sadness of his face, and his large melancholy eyes, satisfy the most fastidious imagination that this is Hamlet as he lived in Shakespeare's world. It may be carefully and even exquisitely studied, but you touch bottom all the time. "I can see how A's, and B's, and C's poetry is made," said a famous critic, "but I lose my breath when I read D's, for I can not see how it is done." If the acting is merely in the mouth or on the back, it is like the Western wines, which have so delicious a bouquet, but are thin and sharp to the taste. So with singing. If it is only in the throat of the singer, it can not get to the heart of the hearer. If it is in the soul of the singer, the hearer is not so much conscious of the beautiful voice as of the sense of it, so to speak. If you heard Cinti Damoreau or Persiani, you listened with smiling wonder and delight as to a musical box or a canary. If you heard Jenny Lind, there was an expansion and satisfaction of soul. Afterward it was remembered not merely as a pleasure you had enjoyed; it was a revelation you had received. It was genius. Mr. Booth's conception of Hamlet is that of a morbid mind, conseious of its power to master the mystery of life, which in its details baffles and overwhelms him. There is, therefore, a serene consciousness of superiority in his behavior even in the most perplexed moments. In the chamber scene with his mother, when the ghost passes and Hamlet falls for a moment prostrate with emotion at his disappearance, the Queen insinuates that he is mad. There is a kind of calm, pitying disdain, mingled with the sense that her feeling is natural, with which Hamlet steps toward her, his finger on his pulse. The tragedy in Hamlet is not only the vital curiosity about existence, the mastering love of life which almost subdues his soul with fear and doubt, and keeps it tense with eager questioning; but it is the conviction of a mind morbid with this continual strain that it is a most sacred duty to end another life, to plunge a guilty soul into the abyss of doubt, and that soul the one dearest to his mother. This explains the fascination which the idea of his uncle's death always exercises upon his mind, and also his inability to do more than dream and doubt over the action. It is this complication which produces one of Mr. Booth's finest scenes. In the interview with his mother he stabs Polonius through the arras. For an instant the possibility of what he has done sweeps over his mind. Always the victim of complex emotions, the instinctive satisfaction of knowing the act done is mingled with the old familiar horror of the doom to which he may have consigned his uncle. With sword uplifted, and a vague terror both of hope and fear in his face and tone, Hamlet His playing throughout has an exquisite tone, does not slide rapidly back and hurriedly exclaim, like an old picture. The charm of the finest por-"Is it the king?" but tottering with emotion he asks traits, of Raphael's Julius or Leo, of Titian's Francis slowly, in an appalling staccato, "Is-it-theI. or Ippolito di Medici, of Vandyck's Charles I., is king?" not the drawing nor even the coloring, so much as the nameless, subtle harmony which is called tone. So in Mr. Booth's Hamlet it is not any particular scene, or passage, or look, or movement that conveys the impression; it is the consistency of every part with every other, the pervasive sense of the mind of a true gentleman sadly strained and jarred. Through the whole play the mind is borne on in mournful reverie. It is not so much what he says or does that we observe; for under all, beneath every scene and word and act, we hear what is not audible, the melancholy music of the sweet bells jangled, out of tune, and harsh. This gives a curious reality to the whole. Most acting is as superficial as the costume of the actor. We are hardly familiar enough with various actors of this part to decide whether Mr. Booth introduces many new readings, as they are called, or not. Some he certainly does, and utterly destroys the old traditions. Thus after the interview with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, during which his princely courtesy is very beautiful, he walks restlessly about as if the disgust were almost intolerable, then seats himself upon a couch fronting a baywindow and sinks into reverie. Polonius enters with the message from the Queen. The Prince raises his eyes languidly toward him fer a moment, then turns them to the window. When he has finished, Hamlet, still sitting and looking out at the window, raises his finger, points to the cloud, My Even so will this savage Chair be remembered, and children will shudder as they read written upon his ruins, "This Easy Chair declined poetry, and deliberately asked to be excused from reading cantos and expressing an opinion of their merit." and so plays upon the poor old Gold Stick. Poor | his grand-daughter, the Countess of Pomfret, was old Gold Stick! what a sorry death he dies! insulted and almost mobbed when she traveled Lord, my Lord! was he not Ophelia's father? through the district which he had devastated. The cumulative sadness of the play was never so palpable as in Mr. Booth's acting. It is a spell from which you can not escape, and we never felt more deeply how the gloom of the drama is enhanced by the humor of the grave-digger than at the Winter Garden. Mr. Davidge, we think, played the grave-digger, and played it finely. His broad, loud jesting, the indifference with which a clown laughs and sings as he digs Ophelia's grave, is a ghastly lurid gleam that makes the darkness even more unutterable. From that it goes swiftly to the end, to those most mournful words, "The rest is silence." The curtain falls. The audience rises and departs. We move out with the chatting crowd. The street sparkles and roars. The old life receives us at the portal. But in the old life a new thread is woven; the golden thread of a fresh vision of beauty. JUDGE JEFFREYS went down into the West and held the bloody assizes. The good and beautiful and young fell before the infamous tool of an infamous king. His name is hateful in history, and it is well that the public mind should be occasion ally called to remember his atrocious cruelty. The Easy Chair, as he prepares for a general drawer delivery, has little doubt that he is about to perform the public service which he commends. He takes this method of informing certain correspondents that their favors are "respectfully declined," as follows: E. J. H., Minnesota. M. R., Cleveland, Ohio. "In pleasant fields I wandered far." E. E. D., Ann Arbor, Michigan. G. M. "To my wife." E. M. R. G. H. N., New York. Many of these contain very pleasant and friendly words for the Easy Chair, which are most sincerely reciprocated. If he does not reply privately and individually to all the personal communications of his correspondents, it is merely the shortness of life that is to blame, and the consequent necessity of choosing among a press of luxuries. "Will you please note upon the margin," writes one poet, "why this poem does not seem to you up to the mark?" "Will you please read the accompanying cantos and write your opinion of them?" writes another. "My mother is disabled by rheumatism and the support of the family falls upon me. I hope you will like my verses," writes a third. "What is poetry?" writes a fourth. "It seems to me that my things, which you invariably reject, are better than those which you invariably publish," writes a fifth. Mercy! mercy! good Sirs, good Mesdames. This is a judge who does not decide. This is a jury that does not convict. This is an attorney who never prosecutes. This is an Easy Chair who is not the editor, and who simply says of all the manuscripts intrusted to him which he does not print, "This is not exactly suitable." Purple is an excellent color, but it does not go well with blue-that is all. We do not eat cheese with turnips, nor sweeten coffee with currant jelly-that is all. Look at those victims of the Easy Chair's verdict! How innocent they look! How comely they are! Nay, how virtuous and meritorious they are! Very well; Jeffreys savagely sentenced Alice Lisle to a death of torture. How many more did the monster slaughter? And such was his posthumous infamy that AT last the Harpers have issued Thackeray's "Vanity Fair" in the most exquisite and convenient form. It is a beautiful book, which Thackeray himself would have smiled to see, and which every lover of Thackeray will be glad to own. The refined and legible text, and all the original illustrations carefully reproduced, are fitly preceded by the head engraved from Lawrence's portrait and by the fac-simile of the author's clear autograph upon the cover. There has hitherto been no accessible satisfactory edition of this most famous and characteristic of modern novels for permanent preservation in the library; but this satisfies all the conditions. Of the work itself, as of the genius of its author, Miss Brontë spoke so truly that little is left to add. The popular judgment of cynicism was instantly reversed over his grave. Since Scott died, the death of no author seems to have occasioned so sincere a sorrow as Thackeray's; and the talk of his misanthropy arose chiefly from the indignation of "society" with this unsparing observer and critic, who dared to draw without distorting and color without flattery. "I have no head above my eyes," he once said in conversation, meaning that he was merely an observer. But what eyes they were! Look at the picture of " Our Contributors," published in Fraser's Magazine some thirty years ago, of which we were lately speaking, and at this fine portrait in the book before us, or at the last rough wood-cuts published when he died. In all there are those same large, firm, penetrating eyes, kindly but terrible; boring through all the artificial flowers, and the spangles, and the rouge, and the fine linen, to the awful hollowness and disease beneath. Through all this wonderful story of "Vanity Fair" his moral and intellectual fidelity are constantly conspicuous. Upon every page, those who knew the great heart of the author, and those who did not must take the truth upon their word, can hear him saying: "There goes Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, late Miss Becky Sharpe. Poor thing! I pity her with all my heart, and I denounce her to all mankind!" As the most faithful pictures of the society of his time; as the most exquisitely unexaggerated delineations of individual character; as masterly monuments of a noble English style, simple, sinewy, and racy; and for their infinitely tender humanity, geniality, wisdom, and wit, the novels of Thackeray have already become part of our enduring literature; and whoever heard that rich, manly voice, or saw that towering burly figure, or looked upon that honest face, has seen and heard one of the great masters of English fiction. they should be made famous by being Drawer- | naturally took to the plank sidewalk near a house. ized. D-became possessed of a compound-interestbearing ten-dollar note, dated August 15, which, at the time he held it, was worth ten dollars and thirty cents. D took it down to a cigar man, who was not quite up to "all manner of dodges," and proceeded to buy thirty cents' worth of cigars. Having pocketed his cigars, he showed the figures on the back of the note, and demonstrated conclusively to the cigar man that the note was ten dollars and thirty cents. "Y-e-s," says the cigar man. "Well," says D, rapidly, "I've thirty cents' worth of cigars; there's thirty cents due on this bill; it's a ten-dollar bill, d'ye see?" "Y-e-s." "Well, then," pocketing the note, "we're square; good-day!" and was off before the cigar man could straighten the matter in his head-though, for that matter, I presume he is in a wonder yet as to how that matter is. ATTACHED to the corps while at Vicksburg were two small darkeys, about ten years old each, both of whom were famous dancers. Dan was a newcomer, and at first was loth to dance with Joe, who was an established favorite; but one day they were brought together, and the match began. For a while both danced furiously and well, but the superior "powers of duration" of Dan began to tell upon Joe, and after a lengthy trial he was obliged to give up the match. Whereupon Dan turned a double somersault, cut a pigeon wing, and exclaimed, "Hi! you g'way from yhar! you can't dance 'long o' me; I's danced 'fore General Logan-I is!" and from that time he was champion of the dance. LIGHT-FINGERED. He grasped my hand for emphasis, While I to talk with him was lingering; When he had gone I found that I'd Lost, by his fingering, my finger-ring. A CORRESPONDENT of the Drawer is involved in domestic perplexities. He writes: I got acquainted with a young widow, who lived with her step-daughter in the same house. I married the widow; my father fell, shortly after it, in love with the step-daughter of my wife, and married her. My wife became the mother-in-law and also the daughter-in-law of my own father; my wife's step-daughter is my step-mother, and I am the step-father of my mother-in-law. My stepmother, who is the step-daughter of my wife, has a boy: he is naturally my step-brother, because he is the son of my father and of my step-mother; but because he is the son of my wife's step-daughter so is my wife the grandmother of the little boy, and I am the grandfather of my step-brother. My wife has also a boy: my step-mother is consequently the step-sister of my boy, and is also his grandmother, because he is the child of her step-son; and my father is the brother-in-law of my son, because he has got his step-sister for a wife. I am the brother of my own son, who is the son of my step-mother; I am the brother-in-law of my mother, my wife is the aunt of her own son, my son is the grandson of my father, and I am my own grandfather. HERE, in Cairo, Illinois, we have a great many contrabands working for Uncle Samuel. A few days ago one of them had occasion to ride a horse, and coming to a very muddy place in the road he An eye-witness happening to be in the house at the time, ran out and ordered the "shade" to "get off the walk or he would have him fined." Contraband gruffly replied, "I guess dis Gov'ment rides where it pleases!" and rode on, leaving the eye-witness slightly nonplused. AT a station on the overland route the keeper got rather short of provisions-in fact, had nothing left but a bottle of mustard and some bacon. As the stage stopped there one day to change horses the passengers seated themselves at the table, and the host said: "Shall I help you to a piece of bacon ?" "No, thank you; I never eat bacon," said one traveler. "Well, then," said the station-keeper, "help yourself to the mustard!" THE two juveniles that follow are, of course, of Boston parentage: Our four-year-old, Charley, "comes out" with such sensible sayings sometimes as to make us fear his mental faculties are developing too fast for his bodily strength. A while since his father had placed a very fine pear upon the mantle-shelf, intending to take it to the Horticultural Rooms for a name. Shortly after it was missing. Upon asking Charley about it, he said, "I fought you put it there for me." "You thought!" replied Pater; "and pray who gave you right to think ?" Charley evidently saw the dilemma, and for a few seconds was at fault, but quickly recovering himself, said, "Well, what's the use of me having a finker if I can't fink?" His sister Fanny, a year older, is another of the sharp ones. For some time we had been annoyed with the nocturnal visits of a troop of vagabond dogs, to the great derangement of flower-beds and Pater's temper. One morning, while comfortably seated at breakfast, the said Fanny came running into the room and exclaimed, "Father, there's a strange dog in the entry!" Pater seizes the poker, rushes out frantically, but all he finds is Miss Fanny, brimful of fun, pointing to the handle of a new umbrella he had brought home the previous evening, on which was carved the rude representation of a canine of the bull species. "Isn't that a strange dog?" says Miss Impudence. Pater was sold, and hasn't yet heard the last of it, and so sends it to the Drawer for relief. MANY years since a St. Louis newspaper contained an advertisement of one cent reward for a runaway apprentice to the doctor's trade, copies of which are yet preserved by antiquarians. The boy for whom that reward was offered has been for many years a prominent banker in the Mississippi Valley, and a millionaire. I HAD the honor, while at Huntsville, Alabama, last winter, of furnishing you with some sketches of "Old Dutch," alias General Matthies. I propose to quarry another block for your monument to the brave but eccentric General. In the autumn of 1863, while marching from Memphis to Chattanooga, we got very short of rations, and were allowed to seize hogs, cattle, etc., to supply the deficit. "Old Dutch" gave orders that all foraging should be by proper details ordered for the purpose; but the details, after supplying their own wants, seldom had much to turn over. Our Colonel told us to save any loose swine we saw. This permission was largely acted on, and as soon as the brigade would halt for the night, the music of tortured swine could be heard in every direction. General Matthies swore in Dutch and English, and used his best endeavors to stop the illegal foraging, but he seldom caught any of the "hog-stealers." One evening we camped near Elk River, and the hog-hunting began as usual. The General was at the rear, and came up when the slaughter was at its highest, cursing awfully. He caught sight of an Irish sergeant in vigorous pursuit of a porker, and gave chase, drawing his sword and swearing he would chop the head off him if he didn't stop. The sergeant bayoneted his hog and stopped. The General came down on him with his sword aloft. The sergeant coolly cocked his gun and ordered halt. The General looked at him a moment, dropped the point of his sword, and said, "Ah! ah! mine good man, you bees not afraid! You bees a bully man! I like you!" And the sergeant marched off with his stuck pig. MANY years ago Judge H, of Lower Egypt, a defeated candidate for the Illinois Legislature, after an exciting contest, had been appointed by his party friends presiding Judge in one of the newlysettled districts. His first court was held in an unfinished log-building, with holes cut in the log walls for a door and windows. While sitting in solitary dignity on a raised platform near the rear "opening," waiting for his associates, something punched him in the back, and turning round he saw below the anxious, up-turned face of one of his former political supporters, who was trying to attract his notice with a long pole taken from the fence just outside the building. "Don't you know me, Judge? Tom Barnes, of Little Smoky ?" "Ah! Mr. Barnes, you seem excited. What can I do for you?" "That's the talk! I knowed you would do to tie to! Well, you kin do for me jist what we on the Smoky Fork did for you last fall. You know what tales them Bartons told to your discredit thenswore to them too-but we wouldn't believe nary a word they swore to, and went for you through thick and thin. Don't you know we did, Judge ?" "Oh yes; certainly." "Well, I'm glad of that; for I have a little case here, concerning of a hog, with them same witnesses agin me. I wish I had a few sich witnesses, and I could prove any thing I pleased. But, Judge, ef you don't keep your eyes skinned they'll make you believe I stole that ar hog. It warn't none of their hog, nohow. Don't you believe a word they swear agin me, no more than we in the Smoky settlement believed what the same fellers swore agin you, and it'll all come right. Good-by, Judge, and remember Little Smoky !" THIS is furnished by the officer who knows it to be true, as he had part in it. It comes from Missouri : Some few months since a noted guerrilla named Griffith, a lieutenant in one of the worst bands that infest this portion of the State, was captured and brought to trial, and was convicted and sentenced to be hanged. The sentence was confirmed at the proper military head-quarters, and ordered to be carried into effect immediately. The prisoner was brought before the Provost Marshal, who informed him that he had been sentenced to death, and would be hanged on the following Friday (this was Wednesday), and told him that he had a few dollars of his money, taken from him at the time of his capture, and asked him if there was any thing he desired to get with it. The culprit replied, "No;" and then, after a brief pause, continued, "Well, I'm out of tobacker, but I s'pose I might as well quit chawin' now." On the morning of his execution he sent a note to the Provost Marshal, in his own handwriting, in the following words, to wit: "MIL. PRISON, ST. J, Mo., Sept. 23, 1864. "Mister Proverse Martial: "DERE SIR,-Plese send me that fore Dollers ov my mony to by a clean shert to be hung in. "Respectfully yours till deth, "HENRY A. GRIFFITH." The request was complied with, and he accordingly appeared at the gallows in a new shirt. ON New-Year's Day, calling at the residence of a friend, I found that she was spending the day at a dwelling to which my informant could only direct me by saying that it was next door to "St. Luke's Home." After going the distance I supposed should take me to it, and seeing nothing to answer to the description, I inquired of one of a number of dirtyfaced urchins playing on the sidewalk if he could tell me where "St. Luke's Home" was. Pointing to a church on the opposite side of the street, he said, "There's St. Luke's Church, Mister-dunno where his house is!" MANNA. WHEN, through the wilderness by Moses led, It was a little Misshygander who did this: I attended a missionary meeting lately where came off a note worthy of the Drawer. After the returned missionary from India had held the immense audience of little ones who were gathered on the occasion in great delight and interest for an hour the brother from Eastern Turkey took the stand, and began his lecture by inquiring who could tell him where Abraham was born. A little fellow immediately shoved up his hand, whereupon the missionary demanded "Where?" The little fellow shouted, "In Kentucky!" and then followed a general roar from the entire audience. OUR little five-year-old Hattie, who is very well aware that she forms an important part of our household, while at dinner recently had twice asked her mother for something without being heard (her mother having become partially deaf). Raising her voice to a pitch that would warrant a hearing she exclaimed, "Mother, I am sorry we married you, you are getting so deaf." THE late Mr. Augur, the sculptor-one of New Haven's celebrities-was very modest in regard to his accomplishments, and while engaged upon the work of Jephthah and his Daughter (which now forms a portion of the art-collection in Trumbull Gallery, Yale College) he kept himself closeted in his room, and his labor a secret. Persons calling upon him received no information, for he always stepped |
