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Page) were the two not equivalent, his
wife's honor would be dearer to him than his own.
Miss Hetty did make the
wedding-dress, after all, and it fitted very nearly as stylishly as the Parisian
robes which were imported for the occasion; but Marian would have worn it had it
been far less successful; and Miss Hetty yet insists that all the girls in
Wilton are envious of Marian.
THE Persians have been renowned
as story-tellers throughout the East for many ages. It is a great art that which
can bring even fiction to the aid of truth, and robing her in a transparent
dress, render us enamored of her even when coldest and sternest. Let us see how
the modern Persians, who have succeeded to this grand inheritance, know how to
enjoy it. Most Persian stories have a merit—if it be a merit, as our railway
times suppose—of being short. For my part, I should like to lie down in an arbor
and listen to wise and pleasant tales from sunrise to sundown, now and again.
TWO HINTS FOR HUSBANDS.
1. A married man presented
himself, trembling and sorrowful, at the gates of paradise. He had heard so
often of his faults and shortcomings while upon earth, that he believed in them
devotedly, and had no hope of being admitted to the habitations of the blessed.
One wife, he had been repeatedly informed, was a blessing far beyond his merits
while in the flesh; how, then, could he hope for the smiles of seventy houries.
But the prophet, when he presented himself at the gates of heaven, to his great
surprise greeted him with a smile of ineffable compassion. "Pass on, poor
martyr," said Mohammed. "You have been indeed a great sinner, but you have
suffered enough upon the earth, so be of good cheer, for you will not meet your
A man who had hitherto crept up
to heaven, now stood up confidently and presented himself to the prophet, upon
the ground that he had been twice married. "Nay," said the prophet, angrily,
"paradise is no place for fools."
2. A ruffling young fellow
married the wealthy widow of a great Khan. On the wedding-night she determined
to assert her authority over him. So she treated him with great contempt when he
came into the anderoon, and sat luxuriously embedded in rose-leaf cushions,
caressing a large white cat, of which she pretended to be dotingly fond. She
appeared to be annoyed by her husband's entrance, and looked at him out of the
corners of her eyes with a glance of cold disdain.
"I dislike cats," remarked the
young soldier, blandly, as if he was making a mere casual observation; "they
offend my sight."
If his wife had looked at him
with a glance of cold disdain before, her eyes now wore an expression of anger
and contempt such as no words can express. She did not even deign to answer him,
but she took the cat to her bosom and fondled it passionately. Her whole heart
seemed to be in the cat, and cold was the shoulder which she turned to her
husband. Bitter was the sneer upon her beautiful lips.
"When any one offends me,"
continued her gallant, gayly, "I cut off his head. It is a peculiarity of mine
which I am sure will only make me dearer to you." Then, drawing his sword, he
took the cat gently but firmly from her arms, cut off his head, wiped the blade,
sheathed it, and sat down, continuing to talk affectionately to his wife as if
nothing had happened. After which, says tradition, she became the best and most
submissive wife in the world.
A hen-pecked fellow, meeting him
next day as he rode with a gallant train through the market-place, began to
condole with him. "Ah!" said the hen-pecked, with deep feeling, "you, too, have
taken a wife and got a tyrant. You had better have remained the poor soldier
that you were. I pity you from my very heart."
"Not so," replied the ruffler,
jollily; "keep your sighs to cool yourself next summer." He then related the
events of his wedding-night, with their satisfactory results.
The hen-pecked man listened
attentively, and pondered long. "I also have a sword," said he, "though it is
rusty, and my wife is likewise fond of cats. I will cut off the head of my
wife's favorite cat at once." He did so, and received a sound beating. His wife,
moreover, made him go down upon his knees and tell her what ghin, or evil
spirit, had prompted him to commit the bloody deed.
"Fool!" said the lady, with a
vixenish smile, when she had possessed herself of the hen-pecked's secret, "you
should have done it the first night."
MORAL—Advice is useless to fools.
THE SHIRT OF HAPPINESS.
It is said that once upon a time,
in the grand old fable days, a Persian king who fell sick consulted a magician
of great reputation who lived in his dominions. The magician, a worthy gentleman
who flourished in much personal comfort upon popular opinion, received the king
with great respect and the most flowery language his imagination could invent.
Having listened to his majesty's ailments with profound attention, the magician
at length informed the king, that if he could succeed in obtaining the shirt of
a happy man he had only to put on the precious garment to be cured immediately
of his malady, and so long as he wore it he would never know sorrow nor disease.
The realms of the monarch were
wide. His armies were mighty upon the land, and his fleets were supreme upon the
seas. His banners had never known defeat. His treasury was full to overflowing,
and his subjects were loyal and obedient. But whenever he ate a bowl of cream,
or a dozen skewers of kabobs, or a few water-melons, he had suffered so much of
late years from indigestion that he could not consider himself happy; so it was
obvious that his majesty himself had no shirt in his wardrobe which would answer
"But," thought the king, very
naturally, "there is my prime minister a fellow who can put any quantity of
cream, sweet or sour, under the robe of honor which I gave him last Nooroos, and
as for kabobs, why, yesterday, I thought he would never have done munching them.
He is married to my daughter. His horses are far better than mine. He has no end
of money" (his majesty thought of this with a peculiar look, which might mean
many things), "and he has just built himself a palace fairer than the British
Embassy. Whose dog is he that he should not be happy?" So the king sent for the
prime minister and asked him at once for his shirt. The statesman, glad to
oblige his master on such easy terms, and slyly resolving to obtain any number
of equivalents whenever occasion should offer to indemnify himself, immediately
sent the king the very best shirt in his wardrobe. It was made of the finest and
lightest silk, thin as a spider's web, and beautifully embroidered; but
wonderful as it appeared to his majesty, he suffered from indigestion more than
ever after putting it on; and, far worse, he felt a tightness about the neck as
of a person apprehensive of being bow-strung, or actually undergoing that
process—a sensation which he never remembered to have felt since he had been at
war for the crown with his three hundred and ten brothers after his father's
death; and as all those brothers had been long ago disposed of in various ways
which his majesty did not care to remember, he could not account for the return
of the old sensation in his throat, and hastened to take off the prime
minister's shirt as soon as possible.
Feeling, however, that he had
been imposed upon, and that the prime minister must have sent him somebody
else's shirt instead of his own, the king ordered his ferroshes to seize that
politician, and bring him bound into his presence.
"To hear is to obey," said the
When the prime minister appeared
the king received him with a terrible countenance: "Dog!" said his majesty, in
an awful voice, "why have you deceived me, and sent the shirt of some other man
accursed of Allah instead of your own?"
The prime minister tremblingly
endeavored to exculpate himself.
"Son of an owl and a spider,"
pursued the king, "Meerza Snooza, the magician, assured me that if I could
obtain the shirt of a happy man I should be delivered from my ailments. You must
be happy. Why did you withhold from me your shirt?"
"Alas! sire," replied the
statesman, "how can I be happy, with the fear of your sublime displeasure ever
before me? The most I can now hope is to keep my head where Nature has placed it
from day to day. The humblest of your majesty's subjects is happier than I. The
scorching sun blazes upon the hill-top, and there the tempest roars; but the
zephyr and the shadow love the valley. Not among such as I can your majesty hope
to find bliss. I have upon my estate a farmer, however, who is the happest of
mankind. If your majesty will but suffer me to go in search of him the talisman
will be found."
So the king, resolving to allow
the prime minister to get still richer before he was bow-strung, commanded him
to bring the farmer.
The farmer came. He was a sour,
sturdy fellow from the neighborhood of Khoi, the garden of Persia. He
immediately took off his shirt at the royal command. It was a coarse, rough
garment, and appeared to be thickly inhabited. The king, though he put it on,
was obliged to take it off again in less than half an hour, in a state of
intolerable irritation; for, reasoned his majesty, it is impossible any one can
be happy who wears such a shirt as that.
The farmer, who was recalled to
the royal presence, confirmed the opinion, and told a long dreary story about
droughts, and locusts, and taxes; so that the king would have ordered his head
to be cut off at once to get rid of him; but the farmer, seeing himself in such
imminent peril, assured the king that the merchant to whom he sold his corn was
a happy man without doubt, and begged to be allowed to fetch him, and so got out
of danger in the same manner as the prime minister had.
The merchant came. The king, now
warned by experience, determined to interrogate him before putting on his shirt.
The merchant complained, as much as the farmer had, of taxes, and had, besides,
another class of grievances peculiarly his own. He was particularly eloquent
about custom-houses, the extortions of officials, and a variety of other things,
which made the king so angry that he determined at least to comfort his
disappointment by ordering the merchant to be executed. This ceremony over, the
king felt something better; but still the talismanic shirt was not found.
For a long time the king sought
the shirt of happiness through every class of society, and sought it in vain.
Although innumerable persons were beheaded, bow-strung, and tortured every day,
yet, surprising to relate, happiness could not be found among his subjects.
One day, however, when his
majesty, being encamped in his summer quarters near Sultanieh, was out for an
afternoon's ride, he saw a careless, red-nosed fellow sitting on a post, and
every now and then taking a bottle from under his sash, applying his lips with
intense satisfaction to its contents. Still, there was a sturdy air about the
man, and a merry light in his eye, which did not point him out as a habitual
wine-bibber. He seemed rather to be keeping festival, or enjoying himself upon
some occasion of good fortune.
"Dog of a toper," asked the king,
abruptly, struck with a sudden thought, "are you happy?"
"Thy servant is happy, O king!"
said the man.
The king then ordered the royal
ferroshes to seize him and give him five hundred lashes to cause him to relate
the reasons of his happiness. The red-nosed man limped a little when
subsequently brought to the king's tent in the evening, but still persisted in
saying that he was happy; for, said he, "My wife has only been dead three
weeks." Meerza Snooza, the magician, who, since
he had been consulted, always
accompanied the king in his search, and dined at the royal table, on being
appealed to, decided that the red-nosed man had good reasons for his happiness,
for that he might have been hen-pecked, and was, perhaps, just then under the
first impression of joy at his deliverance.
Upon this the king immediately
ordered the red-nosed man to be stripped, in order to obtain the garment which
he required, when, wonderful to relate, it appeared that the only happy man in
his dominions had no shirt.
THE GOLD PANIC.
WE illustrate on
page 188 the
Gold Panic which occurred last week, when gold fell in Wall Street in two days
from 173 to 149, ruining half the Jew speculators who had been buying specie,
and improving the national currency some fifteen per cent. The scene on
Thursday, at noon, in William Street, outside the new public Board, beggars
description. The street was thronged from the houses on one side to the houses
on the other. Half a dozen policemen endeavored vainly to keep order, and made
arrests right and left without much judgment, discretion, or effect. Every body
was raging to sell his gold. Hundreds of speculators who had bought gold within
a week appeared with blanched faces and trembling gait, vainly offering their
gold to every one they met. Among the crowd the Jew element rather
preponderated. There were frightened, panting Jews, who were evidently holders
of gold, and there were exultant joyful Jews, who had foreseen the crash and
"sold gold short." There were New Testament Jews, too, by the score, with a
bilious Southern aspect, who had bought gold in the belief and hope that the
Northern finances would collapse, and who now saw that they and their funds were
likely to anticipate the Government in that catastrophe. Fortunes were made and
lost in a day in that seething caldron of speculation.
The Herald reporter said:
So great was the rush that it was
almost impossible for any one to elbow his way through the excited mass, who
fumed, and fretted, and pulled their hair, and cursed with a confusion of
tongues that would have shamed the gathering of Babel. Millionaires—old adepts
at the game of speculation — traders, shop-keepers, lottery-ticket men, Peter
Funks, clerks, cooks, waiters, old-clo' men, and the thousand others that the
deranged state of the finances of the country inoculated with the gold
purchasing epidemic, all rushed into William Street, and completely blocked up
that thoroughfare for some distance on either side of Wall Street. There never
was seen such a deplorable crew of disappointed money-grabbers on the rampage
since the days of Titus. Many ludicrous scenes were enacted around the brokers'
offices. Jostling, and crowding, and trampling—some endeavoring to get in, some
to get out, all impatient and all resolutely bent on falsifying the old
aphorism, which says, "a fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind." Though kindred
spirits, there was nothing of a kindred feeling among them, save in the great
desire to get rid of their gold, which they had been previously so anxious to
hold over for higher prices. Most of the heavy speculators were Jews, and they
cut miserable figures as they rushed to and fro, foaming at the mouth, cursing
with impotent rage Old Abe and
Secretary Chase, who had brought this ruin on the
house of their fathers. One incident is worth relating. A Jew, named Meyers,
having some gold transaction with a Christian, the latter, on closing the
business, asked Meyers his name. "Meyers," replied the other. "What's your
Christian name?" "I've got no Christian name, I'm a Chew." Another
ancient-looking Hebrew was so astonished at the state of affairs in Wall
Street—the impetuous rush of people flying as if pursued by an army with
banners, the amount of gold they carried, and the alarm exhibited in their
countenances, as if fearing to be left behind in the race—that, after some time
contemplating the scene with lowered brow, he raised his head and exclaimed, "Mein
Gott! dere ish been noting like dish since de crossing of de Red Sea."
THE CANAL AT LAKE PROVIDENCE.
WE republish on
page 180 a set of
sketches, by Mr. Theodore R. Davis, illustrating THE CANAL AT LAKE PROVIDENCE,
which is now being cut by our troops. By the aid of this canal it is expected
that we shall be able to send boats into the Gulf, by the Black, Red, and Atchafalaya rivers, without entering the Mississippi below Lake Providence. Mr.
"The sketch at the top of the
page is of the town of Providence from the lake, showing the canal, now rapidly
"The map shows series of bayous,
rivers, etc., by which we shall be enabled to reach the mouth of the Red River,
and on by the Atchafalaya River to the Gulf of Mexico. Entering Lake Providence
from the Mississippi River, through Macon and Tensas bayous into the Black
River; Ouchita and Tensas into the Red River, our boats can avoid the
strong-holds of the Mississippi. The lower sketch shows the cutting of the levee
on the Mississippi River at Providence.
"To the right of the map is
sketched an exploit of one of negro soldiers, who went out in company with a
small force of soldiers a few days since, shot one rebel soldier, captured two
more, and taking their guns from them, brought the captured twain through the
swamp to the party. The name of this bold African is Jim—'Union Jim' the
soldiers call him—and there are many more like him, brave and ready, who are to
be armed and schooled as soldiers. Upon the other side of the map a sketch of
the constantly recurring event, the coming in of what the soldiers call recruits
of color; a stalwart negro with his little one riding 'pig-a-back,' and the
family trudging along after."
THE LOSS OF THE "QUEEN OF
WE reproduce on
page 181 a
drawing by Mr. McCullagh of the Cincinnati Commercial, representing
OF THE "QUEEN OF THE WEST." Mr. M'Cullagh was on board at the time of her
capture, and escaped on top of a cotton bale—more fortunate than his colleague,
Anderson of the Herald, who was caught. Mr. M'C. writes:
"The Queen of the West was the
vessel in the Western ram fleet.
She was captured by the rebels at Gordon's Landing on Red River, eighty miles
from the mouth, on the night of the 14th of February. Her commander, Colonel
Ellet, had been informed that the fort was very weakly garrisoned, that but two
guns were mounted, and that the conscripts who manned them would not make any
resistance. Once above the fort, he was sure of capturing a number of
steam-boats employed in the rebel service. The Queen arrived within five hundred
yards of the battery shortly after sundown on the 14th. The rebels opened fire
immediately with three guns. The fourth shot struck her deck, plunged through,
and cut her escape pipe. Orders were then given to back her out of range; but
while doing so she ran aground directly in front of the battery. The rebels kept
up an accurate fire, and in a few moments a second shot plunged through her
deck, cutting her steam, and thereby disabling her. One man only was severely
scalded. Out of fifty-one —officers and crew—twenty-six escaped by floating down
the river, on cotton bales and in skiffs, to where a small ferry-boat, which had
accompanied the Queen, lay. Twenty-five were taken prisoners. A number of
negroes were captured, and several drowned.
THE PIRATE FLORIDA.
WE illustrate on
page 189 THE
DESTRUCTION OF THE MAGNIFICENT CLIPPER SHIP "JACOB BELL" BY THE BRITISH
"FLORIDA." The Florida is a British vessel built by Laird, of Liverpool, and
launched last spring under the name of the Oreto. Laird, and the other parties
concerned in her construction, swore that she was intended for the King of
Sardinia. It was well known, however, that she was all along intended to be a
pirate, and to sail under the
Confederate flag. She underwent the farce of a
detention at Nassau on her first arrival there, but was of course soon released
by the rebel sympathizers who govern that island, and made her way safely to
Mobile. She is now afloat, burning our vessels. Our picture is from a photograph
taken while she was in Liverpool.
The Jacob Bell, which she
destroyed at sea, was one of the finest vessels that sail out of this port. She
was a model of beauty and symmetry, and one of the most popular vessels among
tea shippers. She belonged to Messrs. A. A. Low & Co., who kindly placed at our
disposition the model of her from which our picture is taken. When she was
destroyed she had on board 9000 chests of tea belonging to Englishmen and
insured in England.
O DOVER! O Dover!
What a place for a rover,
Not a bit of clover
For a poor old soldier!
O sad Donelson Fort!
Dear Lord, what a dreary port!
The very archfiend's court
For a poor old soldier!
O the field of glory!
What a blazing story
Shall shine, when time is hoary,
For the poor old soldier!
O the silvery waves!
O the lonely graves!
That pillow war-worn braves—
That wrap the fallen soldier!
O Lincoln gun-boats grim!
Peal out your stormy hymn
Till it rings to Heaven's rim
For the poor old soldier!
O sighing, shot-torn tree!
Wail for the fallen free:
O wail while tears shall be,
For the poor old soldier!
O rusted, battered ball!
That felt the hero fall,
You shrieked out life's last call
For the poor old soldier!
O shivered, splintered bone!
Where have your fellows gone?
Is this the trophy won
By the poor old soldier?
O bloody, blackened rock!
Here broke the battle's shock,
Here star-eyed victory woke
For the poor old soldier!
O wall, and trench, and mound!
Each part is hallowed ground,
Till the last trump shall sound
For the poor buried soldier!
O the silent river!
Will sing her song forever,
Sighing and ceasing never,
For the war-broken soldier!
O spirits of the brave!
There is no prouder grave
Than this rampart by the wave
For the poor old soldier!
NOTE.—Dover is a mean little town
on the bank of the Cumberland, within the intrenchments at Fort Donelson. It is
the scene of two desperate battles, and bears the marks of shot and shell on
every house and tree.
The above lines were written by
one of the boys in General Granger's army, when lying on steamboat at the fort,
on the first anniversary of the battle of 1862, illustrated by the prowess and
immortalized by the patriotism of Illinois soldiers.