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THE COURT. --+--









OUR MISCELLANY. --0-- C-eese, dull as they are, imitate men. Notice, that if one of the flock drinks the rest follow. I "Wily should a quill pen never be used in inditing a, secret matter ? Because it is apt to split. A hypocritical fellow in Athens inscribed over his door, "Let nothing evil enter here." Diogenes wrote under, "By what door does the owner come in p Hookey.—The editor of a Yankee paper says he can generally manage, by hook or by crook, to get up a pretty good paper." A contemporary says he does it principally by hook-meaning scissors. Rest and be Tliankful.-A rev. member of the Free Church Synod of Glasgow and Ayr informs the compositors of the daily press that it is their duty to spend the whole twenty-four hours of the Sabbath in rest, and other exercises. A Wise Judge.-A Massachusetts judge has decided that a husband may open his wife's letters, on the ground (so often and so tersely stated by Mr. Tbeophiius Parsons, of Cambridge) that husband and wife are one, and that one is the husband J All Waste.—Dr. Wing being asked where a young lady's VJaist began, replied, "At ths altar. The moment they have you trapped they come down on your pocket-book like a hawk upon a May bug. After they are married they are all waste." What a libel- lous fellow Susan., stand up to let me see what you have learned. What does oh-a-i-r spell ? "I don't know, marm." "Why, you ignorant critter, what do you. al ways .yoL sit on ? Oh, marm, I don't like to tell." What u on airth is the matter with the gal ? tell me, what is it P "I don't like to tell: it was Bill Gross's knees, but he never kissed me but twice." "Airthquake and apple sauce," exclaimed the schoolmistress, and she fainted.—-American Paper. A Puzzler I-The following is the verdict of a negro jury We, de undersigned, being a korner's juray to sit on de body ob de nigger Sambo, now dead and gone afore us, hab been sittin' on de said nigger aforesaid, did on de night ob de fusteenth ob IsTo- vember come to def by fallin' from de bridge ober de riber in de said riber, whar we find he was subse- quentially drown, and a'terwards washed on de riber side, whar we s'pose he was froze to def." A Poet's Epitaph.-A gifted poet has perpetrated the following epitaph on the late Floyd Floyd has died, and few have sobb'd, Since had he lived all had been robb'd: He's paid Dame Nature's debt, 'tis said— The only one he ever paid. Some doubt that he resign'd his breath. But vow that he has cheated even Death. t If he is buried, ob, then, ye dead beware; Look to your swaddlings, of your shrouds take care, Lest Floyd should to your coffins make his way, And steal the linen from your mouldering clay." The Wind at Night.- I am listening in the twilight,—for the windf blows from the west; The trees would fain be sleeping, but he will not let them rest. He is like some wizard minstrel, when his giant hand he flings On his world-wide instrument, the woods, and sweeps its mystic strings. He is coming nearer, nearer, and I hold my breath in dread, While his solemn guns go booming through the dark- ness overhead. But lest his marshal thunder should too much. oar souls appal, How sweet his mournful cadences, that gently rise and fall! The trees so stately swaying, what legends rare they tell Of summers gone, of wintry storms, of how their comrades fell! And their stems show white and ghastly, when the fitful moonlight gleams Through the chasms in the flying clouds, like the shapes that scare our dreams. Yon tall elm's topmast tossing boughs fantastic shapes assumo Of cavaliers that fiercely ride with streaming cloak and plume; Dark brigands seem to chase them, up-starting fell and wild: How often in the twilight I have watched them from a ehild! Hark J the wind sweeps through the fir trees with a sound the shingles make When some monster wave retreating draws them downwards in its wake. Tnere's a song that I've forgotten, save each, verge's sad refrain— How the wind that crossed the mountains crazed the heart-sick lover's brain. My heart is sound, my brain is clear; in air on land or sea, There's music none like these wild songs the west wind sings to me. ° rrl, „ -Temple Bar. The President and. the Deserter. The President s servant, 11 Old Daniel," related an instance ot his being moved to pardon a deserter on the applica- i? ,hl3 wife. The man had already furbished a substitute, then waa made drunk by some companions and induced to enlist; when he became sober he deserted, believing that he had done his duty by the Government in having furnished a substitute. For this he was sentenced to be shot. The wife came to the White House with her baby in her arms. She had been," said Old Daniel, "waiting here three days, and there was no chance for her to get in. Late in the afternoon of the third day, the President was go. ing through the back passage to his private rooms to get a cup of tea or take some rest. On his way through he heard the little baby cry. He instantly went back to his office and rang the bell. I Dan;el,' said he, is there a woman with a baby in the ante-room ?' I said there was, and, if he would allow me to say it, I thought it was a case he ought to see; for it was a < matter of life) and death. Said he, Send her to me at once.' She went in, told her sfory, and the President pardoned her husband. As the woman came out from his presence, her eyes were lifted and her lips moving in prayer, the tears streaming down ber cheek3. I went up to her, and pallinz her shavi said, Madaar», it was the baby that did it.—Pras&r's Mayas*)]*. Gold Trimmings.- A rage for gold trtmtninfs, both at daylight and- candldight, suddenly appears) so nave seized the entire feminine community. A I, the; Derby, the spangled veils fringed with aequtn.-i were glittering everywhere, and gold bands were worn across innumerable foreheads. The do wers which aire used for headdresses, and likewise for adorning bell- nets, are now counted on thick gold sterna. J:, is CariiOrnia running wild, and all classes patronise this sudden invasion-ladies of high degree, as well as publicans wives, wore gold spangled veils, gokl spangied nets, and gold coronets or bands, at the Derby. These trimmings are the most sucoessfEi when used upon black tulle. Very pretty bonnets have been made lately with black lace and bands of ribbons with the grccque worked in gold haa-ds at the top of the crown, which crown consists of sprays <;i gold oats. A band, either blue or mauve, whichever best suits the complexion, worked likewise with the Greek design in small gilt beads, being worn across the forehead-long gold earrings at tbe side—these- form all the cap. In fact, the bonnets have now no sides worth mentioning, so that there is no room fc" a cap. Sequins are everywhere, they are round the edges of veils, they are upon nets for the back hair, they are used for bandeleta for dog-collar neeklaoea, and even for dress and mantle trimmings. Parasols, too, are not exempt from the bead and drop mania—black silk parasols are worked thickly over with jet beards; blue ana. pink parasola with crystal beads, silver beady, steel beads-but to our taste the most successful are the white silk parasols, which have two rows of coral peads round them as a border, the tips and liandfes being likewise of coral. Satin parasols are tho newest variety, but we cannot say that they are by any meass very generally worn. White silk parasols lined with pins silk and without fringe of any description are very general in the mosfashionable promenades and drives.—Queen. Life of an Unfortunate Poet, -Some few years since the praises of an English Burns, to wit, one John Clare, a Northamptonshire peasant, were very gene- rally sung by the patrons of literary merit. He was a nine days' wonder, passed from out of sight arc; hearingoftbe world that was charmed with his simp'e melodies, and died a short time since forgotten in one of the wards øf a lunatic asylum near his birthplace. Occasionally some few persons, attracted to the plasce by the rumour of the poor poet, visited him in his confinement, and to them, when in a communicative mood, the poor crazed man would tell h'!lw he had fought and conquered at Waterloo, andied the British army to victory. When last seen he was graduaUy sinking, and in the spring of the year the poet died. Many of his poems will long live *n the English language; some of his verses were Eet to music by Rossini, some were recited by Mad-ame, Yestris before crowded and admiring audiences, and Gilford, in ttee Quarterly Review, eulogised in the highest terms the- poetical genius of the farm labourer of Helpstca. A sad change from all this was the closing days of the poet. For twenty-two years he was an inmate of the Northamptonshire Lunatio Asylum. By the kindn,isf, of Earl Fitzwilliam and the parochial authorities of Northampton he was treated as a private patient, and placed in one of the best wards of the asylum, b\t during the whole twenty-two years not one of all his former friends and admirers, not one of his great or little patrons, ever visited him. This he bore quietly, though he seemod to feel it with deep sorrow that even the members of his own family kept aloof from him. "Patty" never once showed herself in the twenty-two years, nor any of her children, except the youngest son, who came to see hia father once. This long neglect preyed upon his mind until it at last found vent in one of his finest and noblest coin po- sitions,- "lam! yet what I am who cires o ? knows f My friends forsake me like a memory lost I am the self- consumer of my woes; They rise and vanish an oblivious host. Shadows of life whose very soul is lost; And yet I am-l live-though I a.m tosS'(( Into the nothingness of scorn and nois<33 Into the living sea of waking dreams^ Where there is neither sense of life nor joyJ, But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem And all that's dear. Even those I lov'd the best Are strauge- nay, they are stranger than the rest," Mr. Martin has written the life of this poor but Heaven-gifted poet, and has been fortunately able to collect from private letters and various other sources of information a large amount of details conncctfd with the life of John Clare.