Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 October 1874 — Page 1

HORACE E. JAMES & JOSHUA HEAEEY, Proprietor*.

VOL. VII.

“ R&ION?* ¥ • . _ EL REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO, 1874. Drnnk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, Hore like brute than any man alive or dead— By His great pump, ont of gear, , Lay the peon engineer. Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of bitter blame— Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled! “ To the man who’ll bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee— Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine—- “ Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him,” he said, “ Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal’s crown Underneath this heel of mine; Since but death Deserves the man whose deed. Be it vice or want of heed, , Stops the pumps that give us breath— Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lawer levels.of the mine!" No one answered, tor a cry From the shaft rose up on high; And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling fr<jm below, Came the miners each, the bolder Mounting on the weaker’s shoulder, Grappling, clinging to their hold or Letting go, As the weaker gasped and fell From the ladder to the well— To the poisoned pit of hell Down below! “ To the man who sets them free,” Cried the foreman, Harry Lee— Harry Lee, the Bnglish foreman of the mine—- “ Brings them out and sets them free, I will give that man,” said he, “ Twice that sum, who with a rope Face to face with Death shall cope. Let him come who dares to hope!” “Hold your peace!” some one replied, Standing by the foreman's side; ■“There has one already gone, whoe’er he be!’ Then they held their breath with awe, Pulling on the rope, and saw Fainting figures reappear, Gn the black rope swinging clear, Fastened by some skillful hand from below; Till a Bcore the level gained, And but one alone remained— He the hero and the last. He whose skillful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hops and cheer! Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee— Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine; “ I have come, he gasped, “to claim Both rewards. Senor, my name Is Ramon! I’m the drunken engineer— I'm the coward, Senor’’—here He fell,over, by that sign Dead as stone! —Bret Harte , in Atlantic Monthly.

A SERIOUS BLUNDER.

BY EDGAR FAWCETT.

Being within a single day of my own wedding lam filled with that dreamy sort of beatitude which, while it renders me very unfit for any practical occupation, argues well for my connubial future. Unfortunately for myself I am under such strong hereditary obligations to a defunct grandfather as to be completely without a legitimate# occupation of any sort. Of late it has been my devotional custom to drop in upon Honoria during mornihgs, but on this, the ante-nuptial day, I am interdicted from paying any matutinal respects whatever. Suddenly I recollect, with a certain feeling of odd relief, that I yesterday Eromised Honoria I would go and see >r. B about my rheumatism. And so I stroll toward Dr. B ’s. A broad six-footer ot a fellow is Dr. B , with a vast, weird-looking shag of iron-gray hair, under which, pale, square and massive, gleams a clean-cut, powerful, meditative face. He takes my hand in his own and holds it with firm but not close pressure. “Pah!” he suddenly begins, “ you are not sick. What do you come here and take up my precious time for? Be off with you!” I laugh. “ I only came, doctor, to satisfy somebody else.” And then I tell him, with half-successful effort at offhandedness, who the somebody is. “You had best give me a few drops, or something, just so that I can show them to her to-night." The doctor dashes off a prescription, and, while handing it to me, his face looks right stern. “ Alfred, I wish vou to live a different life." I laugh. “Pshaw! your marriage does not concern the matter. Turn Mohammedan, if you please, as regards matrimony, but at the same time marry your mind and your time to something. You ought to have been a poor man.” “ What shall I do, doctor?” I query, with a dim smile. “ Write a book, or turn stock-broker?” “ I want to see you again—after the wedding and all that, you know. We must find some way to occupy you. • Meanwhile, I have a good mind to make you take a long walk. Do you ever walk?” ~ He draws out a sealed envelope and hands it to me, remarking: “ There is a nice walk for you. Leave that letter at its address." I make agrimace while I silently read: “ ‘John Fordyce, Esq., No. —, Fifty street.’ A good distance, doctor. Still, if you think the exercise will agree with me, I shall look upon the obliging favor to yourself as simply another prescription. And to-morrow 1 will report how both have agreed with me.” “ Td-morrow?” “Of course. At the wedding, you know." “/* it to-morrow? Of all things, I should like to see your wedding, Alfred. I had not forgotten the invitation—oh, no! I must, however, with all my rush of business, have mistaken the day.” “ And this merely means, doctor, that you are glad to have me remind you of your mistake ?” “ More than that, my boy. It means that I start for Philadelphia in about one hour on business which I might have postponed, but now it is quite impossible to do so! And now, good-by, and God “Bless you. Don’t forget that letter of mine, by the by.” As I drew near the number indicated on Dr. B ’s letter I find it to" be a private-looking house . of ' considerable size, standing quite isolated among vacant lots, at almost the extreme eastern part of the town., "My summons at the door-bell is answered very promptly by a small, tidy-

THE RENSSELAER UNION.

looking boy. I hand him the letter without an accompanying word save “ Fordyce’’ —the name written in its superscription. He immediately replied, “ Yes, sir.” I turn and descend the stoop. I have reached to about its middle step, however, when I pause and take a view of my surroundings. While I am leaning restfully against the railing of the stoop I hear the front door behind me reopened with considerable suddenness Of course, it is only natural for me to turn about on the instant. Hut the person who now stands in the vestibule has had time to perceive my presence before he sees my face. He is a tall man, slender, with a slight stoop, and short hair that, stands straight up from his forehead. In one hand he holds the letter I have just left, in an opened state. “ Beg pardon,” he begins, “ but are you acquainted personally with Dr. B——?” “ I know him very well,” I respond, something surprised. The broad smile broadens. ‘ ‘ Will you have the kindness to step inside for a moment?” I show the gentleman by a slight gesture and bow that I am wholly at his service. We pass into the doctor’s office, and I seat myself on invitation of my host. “I am going to be very/frank with you,” he commences. a t feel sure, Mr. Derbrow, that in the end frankness will be the better plan. So now prepare yourself for a surprise.’’ “ You should have said as much, sir, before calling me Mr. Derbrow. That is not my name.” —— —“ No?” Then, while placing Dr. B’s letter in a side-pocket: “ I have been misinformed, it seems. However, it will not be a point of any special consequence just now. As I was saying ” “ How, sir,” I break in, flushing a trifle, “is it not a point of .special consequence? To you not, perhaps, but tome the difference between being called Derbrow and called by my own name is certainly an important one.” “ And pray,” he questions, with much gentleness, “what is your name?” “My name is Durand—Alfred Durand.” “Alfred Durand, eh? Not Allan Derbrow? You are sure not Allen Derbrow?” I speak quickly: “ There is some mistake here. If you imagine my name to be mentioned in that letter, you are quite wrong. Evidently you confuse me with some one else. Dr. B asked me to take a letter up town for him, and I agreed to do so, although quite ignorant of its contents.” “Very well,” he softly returns; “no matter for that. As I said before, I will be frank with you; deception will only postpone your—annoyance. Mr. Derbrow —excuse me, Durand —your friends, believing you to be rather out of health just now, have decided that a little rest and quiet in this house, under my charge, will be of great benefit.” I rise here, smiling. “ I see now, sir, that there is-without doubt some absurd mistake.” “ There is no mistake,” he states, dryly. “Your persistence becomes impertinence. My name is Alfred Durand, I repeat to you. I know nothing of any Mr. Allan Derbrow; I am not in ill health, and neither rest nor quiet has been prescribed for me.” “ I hope you are not going to make useless trouble,” is the singular response which I now meet with. “Useless trouble!” I exclaim. “You fuzzle me to understand you, sir.” Here moved toward the door. “ Do not try to leave the house,” he instructs me, with great quietude of tone. “It will be quite impossible.” “ What on earth do you mean?” I cry, hurrying toward him, with clenched fists and furious eyes. An instant later, there is a stronglooking man at each of my elbows. Strangely, the truth now for the first time flashes through my head. And, as it does so, the transition from anger to amusement is rapid and immense. I burst into almost a roar of laughter. “Good heavens!” I shout, much more mirthfully than indignantly, “it cannot be that you have taken me for a lunatic?” He points toward the motionless men at either side of me, and, in the same' placid tones, he speaks again: “ These persons will show you to your room, sir. You will find it quite large and comfortable. Pray, make no difficulty about going.” * “ This would be an excellent joke,” I at length state, “ were it not in slight seeming danger of becoming rather serious.” “ Will you not go quietly up-stairs?" is the serenely imperious answer. Human patience has its limits. “ Let me leave this house in peace,” I cry, “ and credit what I tell you, or you may pay very dearly for your obstinacy!” Still the same impregnable amiability: “ Are you determined not to go up-stairs quietly?” Even now I feel a slight diffidence about narrating that I am carried upstairs, after this, as though I were a child, utterly powerless in the grip of those two brawny monsters. The force that- exerts itself upon me is tempered with an excellent skill that avoids all injury. lam without a bruise when placed in “my room.” The moment that I am deposited in an easy chair by this pair of Goliahs, I spring up, exclaiming with (under the circumstances) considerable coolness of tone: “ Look here, my good men, this is all a humbug —the most ridiculous of mistakes, I assure you. Observe me well. Do I seem like a crazy person?” “Yes,” suddenly noises a voice which seems to issue from somewhere in the adjoining hall; “ you are as mad as a hatter, my dear sir.” One of the mep looks amazedly at Hie other while these singular words are feeing spoken; then he quickly leaves the room, and very soon afterward there is heard, at some distance off, the sound of a sharply-closed door. To the man who is now alone with me in the chamber I speak very quietly indeed. “ I want you to have a note taken down town for me,” are my opening words. “If you do so quietly, without saying a word to anybody else in the

RENSSELAER, JASPER COUNTY, INDIANA, OCTOBER 8, 1874.

house except one whom you can trust, I will make it to your advantage;” And here I nod most meaningly. The man’s coarse face takes rather an amiable look. “All right,” he returns; “ you write what yer want, an’ I’ll see about it. There’s a desk.” “For God’s sake,” I burst forth, “ treat me as though I were a sane being! You must admit, surely, that such a thing as a mistake could happen. Or, if you will think me mad, do so, only swear that you will deliver a note if ” Here my companion leaves the room, while the door swings shut behind him. I advance and examine it with trembling fingers. There is nothing but a knob on my own side. This I try to turn; impossible, I am a prisoner! The room is large, and plainly, though neatly, furnished. In front or each of its two windows there rises a strong iron net-work, which makes it impossible even to touch the glass. I shudder as I see this horrid reminder of my position, and throw myself despairingly into an easychair. Just here the thought makes me leap to my feet. He was to start for Philadelphia in an hour. I drag out my watch. Iris now more than an hour and a half since I saw him. The two next hours are passed in a condition of mind whose feverish disquiet may be readily understood. I pace the floor; I seat myself; I peer out through the prison-like grille of the windows. Finally my door is opened. It is one of the keepers, with plates, a table-cloth, etc. He does not seem to observe me, but I see that his eyes are all the while sharply vigilant of me at their corners. Presently the other keeper enters with a meal —doubtless dinner. I sit quietly " watching them, feeling that they are mere machines, whose motive power is wholly from without. Still, they can at least carry a message. “What is the name of the person whom I saw down-stairs?” I quietly question. “Dr. Fordyce,” answers one of my keepers. “Will you tell him that I particularly wish to speak with him for a few moments?” “Yes, sir,” is the civil reply. I wait and wait. No Dr. Fordyce comes. At length one of the keepers enters to remove my untasted meal. I make a great effort and so compel myself calmly to ask him whether he took my message or not. s’ “Dr- Fordyce is out, sir.” Then I rush wildly up to the man and utter wildly supplicating words. Presently I become momentarily insane enough to try and strike him. He catches my hands, holds them as I would hold a baby’s, and calls “ Jim!” several times, not -very loudly. Jim soon appears. I sink into the nearest chair and burst into tears. They hastily clear away the meal and go out. I look at my watch again. It is five o’clock: “ How much longer,” I ask myself, “is this miserable duress to last?” As for Dr. B , I feel capable of killing him here and now. Whatever the blunder it has been inexcusable. When I think of to-morrow and the wedding I catch my breath in positive fright. Suppose—but no! my captivity must have ended by that time. And yet the probabilities now seem immense that Dr. B has gone to Philadelphia. Allowing that this is true, there may possibly be no one else in the city who knows of my whereabouts, and no one else capable of finding them out. When my keeper enters the room a third time it is about seven o’clock. I inquire whether Dr. Fordyce is home yet. “ We expect him back very soon.” There is a bhance. I have already reflected that, provided he be really gone out, he has made inquiries concerning my case, and so learned of his atrocious mistake. But just then I hear a voice in the outer hall calling “ Jim!” in distinct tones— __ “That is Dr. Fordyce’s voice!” I cry. “ I recognize it.” A look of smiling admiration touches the keeper’s face. “ Oh, you’re a sharp one, anyhow, sir. They was right about yer when they said so.” “They? Wlio?” “ Them that knows yer. Yer family, sir. There’s some good tea. Drink it down, now; it’ll make yer feel better, pr’aps." After the fellow goes I sit for some time-in a state of absolute hopefulness, buoyed up by a hope that Dr. Fordyce will come, and feeling confident that if he does come I can use most effective pleading in my own behalf. I drink some tea and eat some of the food provided. The physical effect of this nourishment is stimulating enough to make me regardjny position for a little while from that humorous side which it undoubtedly possesses. I imagine the mirth of certain relations and friends when the case shall be laid bare to them. But a very state of annoyance enters with the thought of how wretchedly worried Hohoria will be if I am absent and unaccounted for the whole evening From this time thenceforward my captivity becomes an acute agony. Once or twice, thinking of the utter dead wall of indifference against which I have thus far flung myself, I grow clamorously emotional, and stand beside the crack of my solid door shouting forth wild threats and hot imprecations. Now and then voices answer me, smothered and far off. Not long afterward there are sounds of steps and voices in the hall. I listen eagerly. „ “No, no,” advises a whisper, “don’t go in. Don’t run useless risks just now, doctor; he seems very bad.” Another-voice: “ I was wrong to have taken a dangerous patient Dr. B admitted him to be sly, tricky, everything that was hard to get along with, and yet he thought I could manage him. Manage him! I was a fool to let the doctor flatter me. This is not a mad house, as you very well know.” * * * The voices grow fainter; the speakers are receding! , “ What after all,’* I tell myself, “if I have really been mad for weeks? What

if Honoria’s request that I should go to Dr. B ’s were merely the first step in the ruse which brought me here? What if the wedding to-morrow were all a myth, a phantasm of my oifen madness? Do not the manias of monomaniacs always seem as real to them as realities to us?” Morning finds me in a condition of mind that closely approaches real madness. Twelve o’clock is my wedding hour: I feel a very enormity of yearning to reach Honoria in time, combined with a dark certainty that such an event shall not occur. I picture to myself again and again the agony which Honoria will suffer at my absence, knowing so well that only death or something like death can keep me from her at such a time. * . . But, in spite of all my pain, physical exhaustion asserts itself. Men sleep with the scaffold threatening them in a few hours. I sleep, with the thought of a bridegroomless wedding (and that wedding meant to have been my own!) haunting and taunting me. I go to sleep at dawn and awake at ten o’clock. The hour lam still able to ascertain, having remembered to wind my watch on the preceding night. Ten o’clock; and (oh, ghastliness of the future tense!) I am to be married at twelve. Well, two hours yet remain. My sleep has made me calmer-minded, stronger of nerve. Marvels have happened in two hours. Presently I discover that breakfast has been left in the room for me while I was asleep. The coffee is still warm; I drink a cup. Another hour passes. At its end mv keeper enters the room. “ To-day was to have been my wedding day,” I calmly state, looking at the man with steady eyes. “At twelve o’clock to-day I was to have been married, several hundreds of people witnessing the wedding. I swear to you that I speak truth. My name is not what your employer supposes, and I am no more crazy than you are crazy. My name is Alfred Durand. Unfortunately for myself the initials on my under-clothing are the same as Allen Derbrow’s, the person whom your employer asserts me to be.’ As soon as I have finished, a broad, incredulous smile edges his lips, while he turns away, with these words: “You are a cute one and no mistake. Going to be married to-day! I’m blowed if it don’t just beat everything!” I sink back in my chair with a great sigh. What is the use of wasting words like this? I look at my watch. Seven minutes past eleven. Less than an hour before the time! There is no hope. I cover my face with my hands, and a great shudder shakes my frame. Just then steps sound in the outer hall, through the men doorway, heavy, firm and quick. They pause on the threshold of my room. I uncover my face. The next instant, with a glad shout, I have recognized Dr. B ; and sprung to my feet. He is paler than I have at any time seen him, as he seizes my hand. “Alfred, how can you ever forgive me? I don’t expect it, my boy —I don’t ask it!” “ Not a moment must be wasted now!” I affirm, speaking at fleetest speed. “Have you a vehicle outside?” “Yes, my own." I catch his arm. “ Take me out of here, then, as quickly as you can. Remember where lam due at twelve.” “My poor Alfred!” These words he utters as we hurry down stairs, arm in arm. I see nothing of Dr. Fordyce as we leave the house. I afterward learn that overwhelming shame keeps him away. Presently we are in Dr. B ’s carriage, being driven with all speed down town. Thjs is what the doctor finds time to tell me during the journey, short as his good horses make it: “The letter I should have given you was a very harmless one, to be left in an up-town street. How I confused it with the other is only explainable, I suppose, by the rankest negligence. You saw me take it from my pocket and hand it you; but the mistake had been committed before then. The letter which you .brought Dr. Fordyce told him that you were a certain Allan Derbrow, whom he had good reason to know; because of frequent conversations on the subject with me, as a tricky, dangerous, unmanageable sort of monomaniac. “ Last week it was agreed between us that, if possible, I would cause Derbrow (over whom I have considerable influence) to appear at the asylum with a note to Dr- Fordyce. Not only were you mistaken for Derbrow, my dear Alfred, but this man, a most admirable disciplinarian and ruler among harmless patients, was terrified and discouraged by you at the outlet. He attempted no treatment, was nervous about appearing in your presence, and, before you had been in the house two hours, paid a visit to mine, only to find that I had gone to Philadelphia. An hour or so later he concluded to telegraph me that Derbrow had arrived, but that he wished to be rid of him as soon as possible. This telegram, n>y dear boy, has been your salvation. Of course u the instant I read it I was amazed at a seeming impossibility; and then, when I remembered the two letters which I had that morning prepared, the truth flashed across me. The first available train brought me north again. Luckily I am in time.” “I hope so, doctor,” is my excited murmur. “ Nonsense, Alfred ! You feave yet more than half an hour to dress in.” Just then the carriage stops before my door. “ Dash on your wedding clothes, which are doubtless already waiting for you, give that yellow hair and beard of Jours a brush or two and you are ready. [eanwhile, having learned from you the address of the bride, I will drive there instantly and do all the cheering up, encouraging and good news bringing that may be requisite. Depend upon it, a.T shall yet,.(to use a most pertinent quotation) ‘ go merry as a marriage-bell. ’ ” The doctor proves no false prophet. Our bridal party is just fifteen minutes late as it ehters the church; but when were any earthly nuptials exactly punctual?—Appleton's JoutnaL

Singular Antipathies.

Some antipathies are so irrational that they look veiy much like a kind of monomania. Mr. William Matthew, son of a Governor of Barbadoes, was troubled with an unreasonable diSlike of spiders, which some of his friends thought was more affected than real. One of the doubters, Mr. John Murray, afterward Duke of Athole, meeting Mr. Matthew in company, and desiring to raise a laugh at his expense, left the room for a few ipinutes. On returning he walked up to his victim with one hand closed. Believing the clenched fingers held a spider, Mr. Matthew became furious, drew his sword, and but for timely interposition would have done a mischief to himself or his tormentor. Ha was only quieted on being satisfied that Murray’s hand was empty. A prisoner in the Bastile, who detested mice and hated spiders, had his feelings under better control. Having obtained permission to solace himself with a lute, he was horrified to find his music attracted crowds of long-legged spinners and bright-eyed mice, who formed a circle round him as long as he continued playing. Loth to deprive himself of his amusement, but unable to enjoy it in the presence of such an audience, the musician borrowed the keeper’s cat, which he put in a cage, and let loose upon his uninvited visitors when they were most entranced with the lute. The cat went in for the mice, the spiders staid not for ceremonial leave-taking, and the soloist’s future audiences were as select as he could wish. Everybody knows what those who love not the concord of sweet sounds are fit for, and Pepys might well be astonished to hear Lord Lauderdale vow- Be had rather hear a cat mew than listen to the best music in the world; that the better the music the more sick it made him, his especial aversion being the lute and the bagpipes. Oddly enough, Pepys, much as he loved it, found exquisite music affect him unpleasantly too, at least upon one occasion. Going to see the Virgin Martyr he was ravished fey the wind-music when the angel came down; “Indeed,” says he, “I did wrap up my soul so that it made me really sick, just as I have .formerly been when in love with my wife; that neither then nor all the evening going home and at home I was able to think of anything, feut remained all night transported so as I could not believe that ever any music hath command over the soul of a man as this did upon me.” Music had no charms for thunder-loving La Motte de Vayer, who hated all musical sounds as thoroughly as a certain French officer hated the martial roll of the drum; this latter gentleman, who had clearly no business to be in the army, soon took his discharge by falling dead at the wound of the tattoo. The ringing of a bell sufficed to send a sensitive fair one into a fit; Boyle’s philosophy was not proof against the sound of splashing water; Augustus and Caligula forgot their dignity when thunder was*about; Lamartine was horrified if Delphine Gay laughed, although the lady laughed well. He was as much shocked as Byron pretended to be if he saw a woman eat; and —oddest of all aural antipathies—Hie utr terance of the word.“lame” Sent a Spanish gentleman into a syncope and an Englishman nearly gave up the ghost if he heard the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah read aloud! . The secretary of Francis L used to stop up his nostrils with bread if he saw a dish of apples, to prevent an otherwise inevitable bleeding at the nose. A Polish king had an antipathy to both the smell and sight of this wholesome fruit, and a family of Aquitaine had a hereditary hatred of it. A Flemish damsel was sadly troubled by an unconquerable aversion to the smell of bread. Cheese, mutton, musk and ambergris have been so repugnant to some nasal organs as to send their owners into convulsions. Gretry, the composer, could not endure the scent of the rose; neither could Anne of Austria. The mere sight of the queen of flowers was too much for Lady Heneage, bedchamber-woman to Queen Bess; indeed, Kenelm Digby records that her cheek feecame blistered when some one laid a white rose upon it as she slept. Her ladyship’s antipathy was almost as strong as that of the dame who fainted when her lover approached her wearing an artificial rose in his button-hole. A violet was a thing of horror to the eyes of the Princess de Lambelle; tansy was abominable to the Earl of Barrymore; Scaliger grew pale before the watercress ; ana a soldier who would have scorned to turn his back on a foe fled without shame from a sprig of rue. A poor Neapolitan was always seized with % fit upon attempting to swallow a morsel of flesh-meat of tiny kind, and nature thus condemned him to vegetarianism ; a sorer infliction than that suffered by Guianerius, whose heart palpitated violently if he indulged in a pork dinner. Dr. Prout had a patient who declared honest mutton was as bad as poison to him. Thinking this was all fancy, the doctor administered the obnoxious meat under various disguises, but every experiment ended in a severe vomiting fit. Another unlucky individual always had a fit of the gout a few hours after eating fish; and w Count d’Armstadt never failed to go off in a fit if he knowingly or unknowingly partook of any dish con taining the slightest modicum of olive oil. A still worse penalty attached to lobster salad in the case of a lady, for if she ventured to taste it at a dancing party her neck, before she returned to the ball-room, would be covered with ugly blotches and her peace of mind destroyed for that evening. Montaigne rather plumed himself upon his antipathy to physic and physicians, an inherited antipathy of two centuries’ standing, springing out of a secret and natural family instinct. He boasted that his great-grandfather lived almost fourscore years, his grandfather sixty-nine, and his father seventy-five years without tasting physic, the sight of a potion being loathsome to their eyes. An uncle, a valetudinarian from birth, made his crazy life hold on for sixty-seven years .by steadfastly keeping the doctors at bay. He wduld not 1 have shown the complaisance of the man in the play,

SUBSCRIPTION; R.OO a Year, In Advance.

The tradesmen before the Revolution were a different race from the present. They were none of them ashamed of their leather aprons. Faded buckskin breeches, once radiant in yellow splendors, checked shirts, and red flannel jackets were the common wear of most working-men. All the hired women wore short gowns and linsey-woolsey petticoats. Calfskin shoes were the exclusive property of the gentry. The servants wore cowhide. Toothbrushes were The better sort were content to rub the teeth with a ’chalked rag or with snuff. It was commonly thought effeminate for men to clean the teeth at all. Not only the roystering cavalier but the quiet citizens were fond of a certain bravery in dress. Men wore cocked hats and wigs, coats with large cuffs and big skirts, lined and stiffened with buckram. The coat of a beau had three large plaits in the skirts, wadded profusely to keep them smooth, with low collars to show off the fine linen cambric stock, and the largest silver buckle on the back of the neck. The shirt was ruffled to the wrists. The breeches had silver, stone or paste buckles. Gold or silver sleeve-buttons, set with stones, were generally worn. No cotton fabrics were then known. Stockings were of thread or silk in summer and of worsted in winter. Surtouts were never worn, but they had cloth great-coats instead, or brown camlet cloaks, with green baize lining. In the time of the Revolution many of the American officers introduced the use of Dutch blankets for great-coats. In winter gentlemen wore little woolen muffs to protect their hands. It was net uncommon to see old people with large silver buttons on their coats and vests, with their initials engraved on each button. The ladies all wore large pockets under their gowns, and white aprons. No color but black was ever made up for silk or satin bonnets. Fancy colors were unknown and white silk bonnets had never been seen. The use of lace veils did not commence tffl the present century. Ladies’ shoes were made of silk or russet, stitched with white waxed thread and having wooden heels. The sole-leather was worked with the flesh side out. Subscription balls became very fashionable soon after the Revolution. No gentleman under twenty-one and no lady under eighteen was admitted. The supper mnsisted of tea, chocolate and rusks. Everything was opnducted by six married managers. They distributed places by lot and arranged the partners for the evening. The gentlemen drank tea with the parents of their partners the day after the ball, which gave the chance for a more lasting acquaintance.—AT. T. Graphic.

who once in his life took a dose of physic in compliment to a cousin who had set up as an apothecary; for, when attacked by a serious fever, and warned by the physicians- his alarmed servants had summoned that if he would not allow them to help him he would sorely die, the obstinate old fellow replied: ‘'lam a dead man then!” Fortunately he lived to laugh at their prophecy. Equally determined, if not so clever at d«f».ndW her determination, was a bricklayer’s wife, who died not long ago at the age of eighty-four. Whatever ailed her she never would have the doctor called in. believing if once she swallowed any doctor’s stuff there would fee an end of her, and the old lady went ont of the world in the faith that she had remained in it so long only because she had never allowed a doctor to have anything to do with her. v According to Burton, a melancholy Duke of Muscovy fell instantly ill if fee but looked upon a woman, and another anchorite was seized with a cold palsy under similar provocation; while Weinrichur tells of a nobleman who drew the line at old ladies, which did not prevent him losing his life in consequence of his strange prejudice, for, being called from the supper table by some mischievous friends to speak to an old woman, he fell down directly he beheld her, and died then and there. What an old woman did for this edd hater an eclipse did for Charles d’Escaro, Bishop of Langres. It was his inconvenient custom always to faint at the commencement of a lunar eclipse, and remain insensible as long as it lasted. When he was very old and very infirm an eclipse took place. The good Bishop went on as usual, and never came to again. James IT never overcame his horror of cold steel. When he knighted Kenelm Digby, his hand shook so that, had not Buckingham guided the royal blade, tho new knight would have paid for the handle to his name with the loss of an eye. Peter the Great, a man of very different mettle, had at one time such a terror of water that he could not cross a brook without being taken with strong convulsions; but, ashamed of being the slave of an unmanly weakness, he determined to conquer it, and ultimately became as fond of the water as he had been averse to it. An antipathy must be such a troublesome possession that one must be enough for anybody. Exeter, however, once counted among its natives a young lady who not only had a mortal aversion to all colors save green, yellow and white, but was thrown into a perspiration by every funeral that passed her way; and, more wonderful still, became unconscious immediately she set eyes upon a uniform. If this maiden of many antipathies was ever wooed and won, ana her fancies survived marriage, her husband most have had anything hut i good time of it, and probablyhad reason to wish she had resembled the Taunton spinster, whose demise was chronicled sixty years ago in these words: “Lately, in Gray’s Alms-house,Taunton, aged eighty-two, Hannah Mutton, a maiden lady. She vowed, several years ago, that no he-fellow should evfer touch her, living or dead. In pursuance of this resolution, about ten years since, she purchased a coffin, in which, whenever she felt serious illness, she immediately deposited herself—thus securing the gratification of her peculiar sensibility.”— Chambers' Journal.

The Costumes and Manners of the Good Old Times.

NO. 3.