pronouncing the word-then addressing the bride who stood in the foreground, and hung her head in confusion, he added, "I spose you're the plaintiff. Well, don't take on. Innocence and virtue will be protected by this here court." This was the saddest blunder of all. The judge was again made to see his mistake, and would have been considerably set back, had it not been for a corrective in the shape of "forty drops of the critter," which he instantly applied. 66 In a few moments all was ready in right down earnest. The bridegroom had arrived, full of joy. The bride in gorgeous array," stood at his side. The company pressed forward. The excitement was intense. The judge never looked so dignified in his life. He evidently felt every inch a judge. "J-J-o-e B-B-B-o-w-e-r-s," commenced the man of law, in that distressing style of speech with which he was invariably troubled when under the influence of liquor, "J-J-o-e B-B-B-o-w-e-r-s, stand up. Have y-y-you anything to s-s-say w-w-hy s-s-sen-t-tence-" Stop, stop, stop, Judge," shouted the Sheriff from the back part of the room. "You are not going to hang the man, but marry him." The Judge drew a long breath and blinked rapidly, but stood his ground well. Recovering himself, he proceeded: "J-J-oe B-B-B-owers, do y-you t-t-take Nancy H-H-Harkens for y-y-your wife, so h-h-elp you God?" This was a tolerable effort, and Joe nodded assent. 'N-N-Nancy Harkins, it now remains for this here C-C-Court to-" Here the Sheriff again interrupted the Judge, reminding him of the real business of the evening, "Miss N-Nancy," resumed the Judge, after being set right, "d-d-do y-y-y-ou t-t-take J-J-Joe B-B-Bowers for a husband, t-t-to the best of your knowledge and b-b-belief, or d-d-do you not?" "You bet!" softly answered the light hearted Nancy. The Judge then took the hands of the happy couple, and joining them, wound up the business as follows: "It now r-r-remains for this h-h-here C-C-Court to pronounce you, J-J-oe Bowers, and y-y-you, Nancy Harkens, man and wife; and" (here the Judge paused to wipe the perspiration from his face,) "m-may G-G-God Or-mity h-h-have mercy on y-y-y-our s-s-s-ouls!" Sheriff, remove the culprits!” The company roared. Joe and Nancy weakened. The Sheriff was taken with a leaving. The Judge let himself out loose in a glass of apple jack. Taken by and large, it was the greatest wedding ever witnessed. Keep good company. Never be idle. If your hands cannot be usefully employed, attend to the cultivation of your mind. Always speak the truth. Make few promises. Live up to your engagements. Keep secrets, if you have any. When you speak to a person, look him in the face. Good company and good character is above all things else. Your character cannot be essentially injured If any one except by your own acts. speaks evil of you, let your life be so that no one will believe him. Drink no intoxicating liquors. Ever live (misfortune excepted) within your income. When you retire to bed, think over what you have been doing the day. Make no haste to be rich, if you would prosper. Small and steady gains give competency, with tranquility of mind. Never play at any game of chance. Avoid temptation, thro fear you might not withstand it. Earn your money before you spend it. Never run in debt unless you can see a way to get out again. Never borrow, if you can possibly avoid it. Never speak evil of ous. Keep yourself innocent if you would any one. Be just before you are generbe happy. OUR SOCIAL CHAIR. OUR readers, we feel sure, will share the pleasure we experience in being permitted to introduce a few gems from the mind of a lady whose contributions to the journals of the South and West-we might have said throughout the great Valley of the Mississippi — have long since gained for her a reputation of which she has just cause to feel proud. We have the promise that E. will contribute regularly to our pages. Certainly, nothing could be finer than the following: "MUST I LEAVE THEE, PARADISE?" 569 AN up-country correspondent cracks us the following nut for the "Chair:" I observe that you treat your readers in the last issue of the Magazine to a veritable "Ghost Story," of which the renowned "Col. Taylor," of the tripod, stage and bar is the hero. In truth "the aforesaid" is "a fellow of infinite jest," and among other good things he has got off in his day and generation the following, which deserves to be placed on record: It is a well known cant and slang custom with certain sets when an individual treats himself to a bran new suit, or even sports a single new article of wearing apparel, to intimate that there has been a recent fire in his neighborhood. There was a fire "to once't" in the mountain town where Col. Bob. resides and practices at the bar, which, among other establishments, took in its course all the clothing stores of the place. The owners implored the bystanders to aid them in "shaving te gootsch," and the crowd pitched in and carried off the stock of wearing apparel with a will. The Colonel, who was aiding and assisting in the good work, not liking the distribution of the garments, addressed the crowd in an indignant tone of remonstrance, with We have always considered Fashion a great humbug, but until we came across the following in the last number of the Hesperian, we did not know what an awful thing it really is: It is a shapeless agent, stalking abroad and assuming all conceivable forms and figures. It always wears a mask, and often conceals beneath it the basest of human motives. It is the deadly enemy of reason, and its mission is to render mankind as miserable as may be. It moves with stealthy tread through the halls of domestic peace, fingers, emerged from the door of a ruined hut, and clasping her hands over the eyes of the giant-like murderer, dragged him shrieking to the deepest dungeon of the castle. Ha, ha!' shouts the Whackini, from an adjoining cell, 'thou, too, hast come down to these depths of woe.' Who speaks?' said the unfortunate Knight, as he revived at the sound of human voice; at the same time he felt the gliding coil of a huge boa-constrictor gathering about his body. Anon it opens its vast and promotes discomfort in every household. It presents itself upon all public occasions, to the exclusion of every worthy purpose. Its wants are insatiable; it is not content to dwell in the humble cot, but with its ceaseless suggestions, it tortures every heart with discontent. Whimsical as a bachelor, it poises the lady's hat high in the air, or suspends in the rear of her head, at the absolute defiance of all laws of gravitation. It reduces or expands, lengthens or shortens the skirt at pleasure. It pales the cheek, pinches the foot, or tor-mouth, its eyes glisten like fire-balls—and tures the waist. It substitutes the smile and simper for the solicited song, and possesses the happy faculty to conceal ignor ance under a profusion of monosyllables. It thrusts the neglected infant into the nursery, and burdens the library with an unknown jargon. It suggests the whalebone and the cotton, the rouge and the perfumery, as indispensable appendages to the gentleman's toilet. It delights in streetsmoking, profane language and brandy toddies. It gilds conversation with unmeaning words, and rarely finds sufficient incentive for action in an intellectual pursuit. It is, altogether, a heartless tyrant, and has never yet been discovered to be the presiding genius of a prosperous people. An exchange, received by the last mail from the East, tells us about a new and soul-stirring romance, entitled the "Bloody Bushwacker," by the gifted author of the "Phantom Gridiron, or the Skeleton Feind of the Haunted Coal Hole!" We have room but for an extract; it slowly devours its victim. Still does he shriek fearfully, and long after his bones are crushed by the remorseless jaws of the insensate monster, does that last heartrending cry come up from the recesses of his stomach. We pause here-the scene is too harrowing for our nervous temperament, and we can give but small instalments at a time." ΤΟ * * * I miss the in the morning, When the birds begin to sing, And the lark is on the wing, I miss thee in my daily walk, As through the world I roam, To watch when I shall come, No hand to clasp my own, I miss thee in thee evening, Each hope and joy has flown. The unbidden tear will start, "Scarcely had the Knight of the Green Garters uttered this thrilling imprecation, when the door of the prison was thrown violently open, and from behind a tapestried screen a man in glittering armor sprang upon him, and drawing a dagger from his helmet, plunged it to the scabbard in the breast of the Knight. He uttered one long groan, and fell a corpse. No sooner had he ceased breathing, than, from a secret door, a stranger entered, and stealthily approaching him, struck him one fearful blow. The unknown Knight fell senseless at his feet. Ere a moment had elapsed, from behind an embrasure in the wall, stalked forth a giant-like form, who advanced steadily towards the stranger, and seizing him by the throat, tore his eyes from their sockets, and cast his head to the vultures of the neighboring hills. Ere the quivering form of his victim lay still in the icy embrace of death, a withered hag, with long, skinny San Francisco, March 26, 1858. In dreams, I still am near thee; Thy form leans on my breast; YOUR BROTHER. Editor's Table. THE second volume of our Magazine ends | suffered from the incursions of the remorse. with the present number, and we cannot refer to the fact without making our most grateful acknowledgments to the gentlemen of the California press, who from the beginning have shown so whole-hearted a disposition to encourage and push forward our enterprise. People may say what they please. For our own part, we love the good opinion of our cotemporaries; and frankly confess that to their kindly monthly greetings we feel indebted for much of the prosperity we now, after a labor of two long years, enjoy. We would, in this connection, be pleased to reprint all the handsome notices we have received, in order to let our friends at a distance know what competent judges think of us, but to do so would occupy more space than the limits of one number of our Magazine. One paper says "the great merit of the Magazine is that the subjects it treats of are Californian, and come home to the bosoms and business of all Californians who love their adopted home." Another says: "As the Magazine is the exclusive production of California, it has great claims on our citizens for a generous and liberal support." And such, we may say, is the almost universal opinion of the press. WE have reached a pretty pass, indeed! We have Scotchmen finding fault with the sweetest of our ballad writers because, forsooth, he sometimes breathes into his songs a spirit not wholly unlike that of the immortal Burns. We have Englishmen crying "thief." every time they find a California story-writer with the faintest touch of the genius of Dickens or Thackeray, or any of the men of that lofty stamp. The French and German prints we seldom read, yet we would not be surprised to hear that complaints often proceed from those quarters, to the effect that their literary countrymen have, like other famous individuals, less intellect of the Pacific Coast. Of the justness of the charges to which we refer, it is unnecessary for us to say much. That we have had, and still have, unblushing plagiarists amongst us, is too true; still, we should take care that in our denunciations of the guilty, we are not so sweeping as to cast suspicion upon those whose merits entitle them to honorable distinction. For example, we confess we are of those who can find nothing in the productions of our respected fellow-citizen, JAMES LINEN, Esq., which warrant the savage and malignant attack made upon his reputation by one of the city papers. If some of his songs have the delicious tone and melody of a Burns, we should put it down to his credit, rather than strain a weak point to show too close a resemblance to the great Scotch Bard, for honest dealing. Taking the shameless expositions of plagiarism that have been made in this State as a text, certain critics have favored us with some very learned disquisitions and essays on the subject of Literature. Indeed one would be led to suppose, from all that has been written on the subject, that some new and far more brilliant light than anything we have yet seen, was soon to burst on this dark and benighted region. Now we have no particular fault to find with the literature of California. On the contrary, we are decidedly in favor of cultivating and encouraging just the sort we are now treated to. We, for one, are proud of our California writers. Taken as a whole, the press of our State, in point of taste, enterprise, vigor and genuine ability, will compare favorably with any in the known world; while our weekly journals, devoted exclusively to literature, have long since very justly been pronounced as able and entertaining as they are complete and perfect. We would not part with them for bushels of the namby-pamby "sensation" trash imported into the State by each mail from the Atlantic. It is not altogether impossibly that the majority of those who are so shocked with what they term California literature, are disappointed, unhappy spirits, whose own literary wares have been coldly received in this or some other market. Poor souls! A GREAT and good man is gone! Col. THOMAS HART BENTON, the noble Missourian, whose proud boast in his declining days was that he was a Senator of "six Roman lustrums," has passed from earth! After a long life of unfaltering devotion to his country, such as few have displayed, he gently whispers, "I am comfortable and content," and drops into the arms of Death! He died as he had lived, with unshaken | nerve; an intellect pure, healthy, powerful, and hard at work. Mr. Benton's place in the Councils of the Nation has never been filled-perhaps never will be. There were giants in his day, and he was of them. He was in the 76th year of his age. READER, have you a wife or mother, or brothers or sisters beyond the ocean that separates us from the rest of the world? You have? And do you write them by each steamer? No! Then we hate you for it. You are an unfeeling, cold-hearted wretch, who doesn't deserve the prayers of that wife and mother, or the constant thoughts of those brothers and sisters. We do not believe there is anything in our nature despotic or cruel, yet had we the power we would make a neglect to write home by each mail a high crime, and attach a heavy penalty to all such instances. This we would insist upon until Californians were taught to perform what we conceive to be their duty. Let us not forget home! In the change of seasons and lapse of years, we little know what is passing there. A young lady, with whose pleasant favors our readers are already familiar, writes us on this subject, and cannot fail to touch a tender chord in the breast of those for whom our remarks are intended. She received a letter from home the other day: Such good news, and such sad news! All about the happy, joyous band of girls that she played with. How beautiful some had grown-how accomplished others! How some of them had worn the orange wreath, been led to the altar, and were now happy wives. How the trees had grown in the school-yard! And how Harry was going to be a lawyer, and Ned a merchant, and Charley a printer—and many were at college. And how, when the day was cold and deary, the snow was brushed from off a spot in the church-yard, and a grave received the form of one that she had so loved in years gone by, and whom she still loved ―he, who carried her over the rippling streams in the wild-wood, and swung her in the grapevine, and made her believe that echo was a fairy Gone when the flowers were all away, THE story goes and we desire to give it without any speculation or addition of our own-that Spriggins, the unfortunate individual whose troubles our artist has so graphically depicted in this number, came to California in the "flush times "-made money (of course) very fast—had a palace fit for a queen-drove his own horses-rode in his own carriage-drank his own wine and sent for his wife, the loved idol of his heart, to enjoy with him the rich fruits of his early efforts. That the "better half," though a plain, sensible, home-spun woman, up to the time of her arrival in this country, soon caught the prevailing infection and insisted on mounting a lofty horse. That he yielded, and rode with her. That Spriggins was wrecked in the financial storm of a later day, and consequently found himself unable longer to live up to the high mark fixed by his wife. That she grew furious. That he remonstrated, and exhibited his cash account. That she raved and stormed and broke things. That he struggled on until he became exhausted in mind, body and purse, when the devoted |
