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A FEW REMARKS ON MANY THINGS.

BY MRS. VALENTINE

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BARTHOLOMEW.

No. II. HUMBUG.

This modern word, although now well understood, may yet seem offensive to ears polite :' but there is none other can express its terse and ample meaning. Very fortunate are those who cannot apply it to one or more of their acquaintance.

In one of the courts of law, years and years ago, when the appellation of “ Humbug" was a novelty, a pert young barrister, cross-examining an old lady who appeared as a witness, provoked her to designate his client as "a humbug." The lawyer professed astonishment at the utterance, and added, "I should like you, Madam, to favour my lord and the gentlemen of the jury with a definition of that word, for which I suspect I might search Johnson's Dictionary to no purpose."

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The old lady, more than a match for her tormentor, fixed her sharp eyes upon the speaker, and in a sarcastic tone replied, Well, sir, were I to inform the court that I deemed you a gentleman, I should be a humbug!"

This prompt retort turned the laugh against the lawyer, who resumed his seat and asked her no more questions.

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"I have often asked Mamma why you do not go into the room when she has a party," once remarked a little girl to her maiden aunt, who presided over the nursery as a sort of governess. "I'm sure you would be quite as pretty as any of the ladies I know, if you were but as well dressed; but I overheard Mamma telling Papa, the other day, that he might rest assured she would never tell anybody you were her sister, because you looked so shabby. How very odd," continued the child, "that Mamma, who is so generous, should not share her fine dresses with you, when she so often tells me to love my sisters, and divide all my nice things with them!"

What wonderful observers these little children are.

The truly generous person is often reproached with meanness because he will not give away what does not belong to him; he denies himself many gratifications, so that he may be able to aid in the time of need his more unfortunate or more improvident brethren. How necessary it is for every one to set apart some portion of his income against the hour of sickness and adversity, lest he become chargeable on the bounty of those who have been more thoughtful.

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There are many varieties of Humbugs, each of them doing more or less mischief, and all sailing under false colours-deceiving others, The Sanctified Humbug, with his solemn face and not unfrequently deluding themselves with and starched gait, is one of the most contemptithe belief that they actually possess the virtues ble of his class; he who goes about with the which for worldly purposes they assume. So- Word of God on his lips and the Evil Spirit in ciety does not easily find out the generous Hum- his heart. You cannot speak of a bug, who is everywhere quoted as being a fine, cheese," or "a darned stocking," without his liberal fellow; his establishment is on the most quoting some sentence from Holy Writ, to imextravagant scale; his furniture is costly, and press you with his study of the sacred volume. his cellar is stored with the choicest wines; he He will call you and himself poor polluted worms gives sumptuous entertainments to his rich ac-fit only to crawl in dust and ashes; and if you quaintances, and when the sparkling champagne has addled their brains and melted their hearts, he takes that opportunity of proposing some plausible scheme by which his guests may be able to realize THOUSANDS, if they will advance him as many hundreds. Such a bait is often greedily swallowed, and in a short time the bubble bursts; and then the world discovers, when too late, that the vaunted liberality of such a man has been practised at the expense of others.

Many persons bear the character of being exceedingly liberal, who in reality are only extravagant; they dress expensively, and make handsome presents to their friends, who are well enough off to make them a more valuable return; but they will suffer their poor relations to pine in want and obscurity rather than make any self-sacrifice to assist them.

happen to have the courage to dissent from so humiliating an assertion, he will lift up his eyes in holy horror at your impiety: he will tell you that yours is the pride of Satan; and like the Pharisee and the Publican, he will be thankful he is not like unto you: in all probability he will cut your society, unless he has anything to gain by it; for the sanctified Humbug is fond of the creature comforts; the loaves and fishes are of no small import to him; and he thinks the religious meetings are very unably conducted if they do not terminate with a feast and merry making. His narrow mind will only allow him to give his custom to people of his own particular persuasion; and he will submit to be cheated by them rather than deal with those whom he considers to be of the ungodly.

There is an old story told of a shopkeeper, who had the character of being a truly sanctified

man, until a neighbour one evening overheard the following colloquy between him and his errand boy

"Have you dried the sloe-leaves ?"

Yes, sir."

What a false and crooked way of carrying out a really good object, and how little calculated to make youth put trust and confidence in the teachers!

One sees with unqualified regret this kind of

you sanded the sugar, and watered the deception practised even in the nursery. A child

"Have tobacco?" "Yes, sir."

is coaxed to take a necessary but nauseous dose of physic, by being told it is so nice;" of course, as soon as he tastes it, he sputters it out of his mouth, and forthwith begins to kick and scream, naturally refusing all entreaties to take the remainder. How much wiser and better is it at once to tell the truth, and impress upon his mind that the medicine is for his good, and must be taken; give him afterwards a sugar plum, if you like; but do not deceive him, nor do not tell him he will suffer no pain, when it is requisite he should have a tooth extracted, but rather exaggerate the suffering, and encourage him to endure it patiently; point out to him, that the pang will be but momentary, and it will please those about him to see that he bears it well. I There are many persons, with really kind know a lady who so. beautifully brings up her natures, who can never take the straightfor-children, that when they are sick or sorry, they ward course; an instance of this came under take the utmost pains to make light of their my observation when I was staying on a visit in trouble, lest they should vex and grieve “dear a country town, where resided a lady of the self-mamma."

"Then come to prayers?"

Widely different is the conduct and manner of the sincere Christian; without parade and self-righteousness, he converses on the subject of religion at proper times and in proper places; he uses no set phrases, no cant words; but if he feels you are more lukewarm than himself, he will tenderly try to instil into your breast the faith which glows in his; he will not dare to condemn those whose creed in outward forms differs from his own; he may mourn in silence over what he considers are your errors; but he feels that HE who created man is alone able to judge him.

styled "pious class." Mrs. took an active When children are sent to a boarding-school part in collecting subscriptions for public chari- for the first time, the parents, to render the grief ties, and sometimes she went a very round-about of leaving home less poignant, will often proway to accomplish her desires. She had suc-mise them that they shall be sent for in a few ceeded to the house and grounds of an aged weeks, when there is no real intention of having relative, who had been in the habit of giving an the children back until the vacation; after that, annual fete to the Sunday - school children. what little reliance can they place on the word Of course Mrs. felt it her duty to continue of their parents? and how can such people expect an example so laudable and popular; the girls their offspring to grow up with frank and open were therefore invited as usual to take tea, one hearts, if deception be practised towards them fine summer afternoon, on the lawn. Mrs. from the cradle? The golden rule of " TRUTHand her servants very busily superintended the FULNESS IN ALL THINGS" cannot be too preparations; and a pretty sight it was to see early instilled into the youthful mind. It is the clear shining faces of the children, as they quite possible for mothers to make almost angels joyously eyed the huge piles of plum cake which or demons of their children, according as they were placed upon the tables. inculcate good or bad precepts.

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Now, my little dears," said Mrs. —, addressing her lowly guests with one of her blandest smiles, "which will you prefer-sugar in your tea; or a halfpenny to spend, and no sugar?"

"A halfpenny! a halfpenny!" shouted fifty blithe voices in chorus; and forthwith the sugar

The

(To be continued.)

Yes, I will sing to thee

The song thou lov'st to hear-
Yes I will sing to thee,

basins were taken away by one of the attendants, SONG:-YES, I WILL SING TO THEE. whilst another distributed the money. cakes were quickly demolished, and the unsweetened tea was soon drunk; the hymn of praise and thanksgiving had scarcely died away, when the mistress of the feast again addressed her visitors with "Now, my little dears, you who are such good and well-taught children cannot, I am sure, refuse each of you to put something into my missionary box ?"

There was for a few moments a dead silence, whilst every eye was cast down, and every little hand grasped tighter its melting treasure; but the surprise and disappointment of the girls did not last long; one by one every halfpenny dropped with a dull and clinking sound into Mrs. -'s missionary box.

And strive thy gloom to cheer.

Fain would I banish now

The clouds that thee o'ercast,
And from thy care-worn brow
Obliterate the past.

Yes, I will sing to thee;

Oh, listen to my lay:
Yes, I will sing to thee,

And chase thy gloom away.
CLARA PAYNE.

THE TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS OF CARL MALANOTTI.

BY ELIZABETH

YOUATT.

"Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west;
And I said, in under-breath, all our life is mixed with death,
And who knoweth which is best?"

MISS E. B. BARRETT.

change suddenly into a strain of such pensive sweetness that it seemed to melt the very heart. Carl loved his mother dearly, and her fond caresses and earnest praise delighted, but they did not satisfy him. How soon do the restless aspirations of genius soar above the charmed home circle into the world!

Carl Malanotti was the youngest son of a Swiss peasant. Happy, home-loving, every-day sort of people were those among whom his early lot was cast. After all, it is not the rarely gifted, the aspiring, but the simple, the home-loving, who are really happy-those upon whom the pride of genius is apt to look down with a pitying smile, and call "everyday sort of people!" Before he was sixteeen, Carl painted a picture The poets' Chateaux en Espagne, beautiful as which completely covered one side of their little they are in their aerial architecture, are not to sitting-room: it was a family group-the old, be compared to the comfortable, albeit the hum-grey-headed father, with the bible lying open ble abode of domestic affection. Although, God knows, even the latter are frail enough, if not built "within the precincts of holy ground, and within hearing of the waters of life."

upon his knee; the dear mother; the beautiful Grete; the careful Isabel; his brothers, in the picturesque costume of their canton; and his own slight and boyish form, holding a brush Carl's brothers and sisters went every day to and palette: in the back ground was a pale, their household tasks, or tended the cattle on shadowy figure-half woman, half angel-inthe far-off mountains: they paused to admire tended to represent a fair young sister, "not the Alpine sunsets, and watch their rose tints on lost, but gone before." One hand pointed tothe white snow; or gathered flowers in the plea-wards the bible, and the other upwards. An sant valleys, which they wove into garlands to adorn their home. And of an evening, when Carl read aloud some little poem of his own composing, they recognized their own feelings clothed in beautiful language, and wondered.

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"My very thoughts!" exclaimed his sister Grete, clapping her white hands; "if I could only have expressed them!"

But for that only, we should all be poets; and therefore it is that all love poetry.

Carl's mother said that she liked to hear him sing best; upon which he would either set the lines to music on the spur of the moment, or invent fresh ones, in which the words and the melody seemed to flow together quite naturally. If this chanced on the Sabbath-day, he always sang a hymn, the embodiment of Sabbath thoughts; while the good mother wept as she listened, praying in the depths of her loving heart for God's blessing upon her gifted child.

Carl had a violin, which the neighbours said could do everything but speak; now he would make it moan like a sick person, and anon laugh out wildly, as if in mockery of its own wailings. Sometimes there seemed a strange sobbing among the strings, for all the world like a human being in sorrow, followed by a shrieking and screaming, as if that being had gone mad. When his mother complained that it inade her feel melancholy to hear him, he would

experienced artist would, in all probability, have objected to the bright colouring of the whole picture-its chief merit in the eyes of its humble admirers-and discovered at once that the likeness of each consisted rather in some individual peculiarity of dress and manner, than an exact similarity of feature. Time, the great artist, has remedied both these defects. The picture is faded, and there are none left to recognize the forms and countenances pourtrayed thereon. It is sunset, even as we write; one single ray glistens through the green vine-leaves around the cottage casement, and rests brightly and lingeringly upon the pictured bible on the old man's knees; the angel-sister points to it also with her pale fingers, and looks up smilingly; the rest is lost in shadow. Faith whispers that they are altogether now, in heaven! But Carl's picture has set us dreaming, and we forget that we are as yet on the very threshold of our history. After all, it was only natural that he should paint pictures with his brush, even as he painted the world in his imagination-in bright and glowing colours.

Carl had an uncle who played the organ in the little village church, and had taught him all he knew-an easy task, in which the pupil left the master far behind. Uncle Pierre, as he was called, had travelled in his youth, and was looked upon as a shrewd man--possibly because he

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was in general a silent one. Many people have obtained that character for the same reason, who deserved it less. Few things of any importance took place in the family without consulting uncle Pierre; and what could be more important than the future profession of his favourite nephew? Poet, artist, and musician, Carl knew not which to choose; he only felt a strange longing to leave his quiet home for the busy world, in which so many bright prophecies were to be realized-for every one said that Carl Malanotti would be a great man! Uncle Pierre shook his head, swept bis withered fingers lingeringly over the silent keys of the organ, and advised

music.

"As an artist," observed the old man, "although God forbid that I should say a word against that picture, especially before your mother as an artist you have very much to learn; and while you study you may starve! Poetry, of course, is not to be thought of; one might as well hope to live on the moonlight-and yet the moonlight is very beautiful, and every one loves it. Concentrate all your powers upon musicmake it the vehicle of your artistic and poetical dreamings, the language of your inmost souland you will, you must succeed; and that at once! Here you need less teaching; and if, years hence, it should prove that we have been too sanguine, or your heart clings yearningly, amid its greatness, to your mountain home, come back again and be our village organist."

A few weeks afterwards Carl Malanotti went to Paris, where he had a letter of introduction to the manager of one of the principal theatres. If he once plays in public," said Uncle Pierre, "his fortune is made!" His mother smiled and wept by turns; she would not for worlds have detained him, and yet she could not bear to let him go. Love and ambition, and something holier still struggled together in her bosom. "Carl," whispered she, "you must be a good as well as a great man, or my heart will break!" His beautiful sister, Grete, hung upon his neck, and wept, almost for the first time in her life; while the affectionate Isabel reminded him of his promise, that she should be his little housekeeper as soon as ever he was in a position to require one. The old father had but his blessing

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but he answered readily, nevertheless: "Recollections of Switzerland."

"But not one person in a thousand has been to Switzerland, and therefore they would not recognize it."

"The language of home-love and tender regret is universal," replied Carl. "Cannot you manage to play something more lively?"

Carl's violin laughed again, as if at the manager's want of taste; but the great man was in no humour to be pleased. The interview concluded by his offering Carl a place in the orchestra as soon as he should have learnt to keep time with the band-an herculean task for the eccentricities of genius! The young man withdrew in indignant silence.

Weeks elapsed, and brought no better success. Few would even give him a hearing, and no one offered an engagement. Poor Carl began to despair. One evening, in order to pass away the time, he sketched the head of an angel on a panel in his little room; and whenever he felt sad or hungry—and alas! both these feelings were of but too frequent occurrence—he worked at the picture, until it began at length-or it was fancy--to look down upon him with a pitying smile. When he came home at night it was quite like a companion. Sometimes it seemed to resemble the beautiful Grete-only more pensive-it may be as she was now when she sat thinking of her absent brother; at others he thought it more like the quiet Isabel: but most of all it reminded him of that other sister whose name had passed into a prayer.

Three months after his first arrival in Paris, Carl again called upon the manager to whom he had brought the letter of introduction, and accepted the offer which he had before so proudly rejected. He was starving! The man saw it, and made his own terms.

It was a happy day for them at home, when they heard that Carl was at length engaged to play at the theatre. They little dreamed of the weary ordeal through which he had passed, or the miserable salary that hardly kept body and soul together. "It is best so," thought Carl; "God forbid that I should grieve the dear mother! It will not be always thus!" Uncle Pierre saw him, in his mind's eye, standing calm and proud before the footlights with his wonderful violin, while all around was a sea of human faces, earnest, spell-bound, and admiring; he never thought of looking at a pale attenuated figure, meanly clad, who stood in the farther corner of the orchestra, and played on mechanically and unheard, amid a crash of instruments. Isabel prepared her simple wardrobe so as to be ready to start for Paris at a moment's notice. And the beautiful Grete dreamed that Carl had sent her a chain and cross of massive gold.

The only thing that smiled upon Carl on that first night was the angel on the panel, as he stepped wearily over the threshold upon his return, and met the sweet and pitying glance of his own creating; never had it appeared so like the lost one. It will not be always thus!"

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were the words of the disappointed musician, conscious of innate genius, and anticipating the glories of a future fame. "It will not be always thus!" was the silent language of the angel; "there is rest in heaven!" Carl flung off his wet cloak; his own mother would scarcely have recognized him, he was so changed. He drew the flickering lamp towards him, and read in a small clasped book-her gift; and as he read he wept. "I will go back," murmured he, " and play the organ in the old church."

Months passed away, and Carl was still in Paris, living, or rather starving upon his pitiful salary, and nursing a thousand wild and ambitious visions destined never to be realized; mistaking disease for over-fatigue, and dying, even while he dreamt that genius must live for

ever.

A celebrated violinist, on his way to Rome, was engaged to perform for one night at the theatre where Carl was. The house was crowded, and notwithstanding the liberal terms which he had offered, the manager cleared a considerable sum. "That's what I call playing," said he.

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The Signor L-- has not done more than I could do," observed Carl, who happened to be standing by, and a flush of conscious power passed over his thin, hollow cheek.

"Pshaw! And even if it were so, you have no name. You might perform to empty boxes, for no one would take the trouble to come and hear you."

"But how is a name to be won unheard?" "That is a subject we never concern ourselves about."

Carl turned away with a sigh; but during the rehearsal a bright thought came across him like a lightning flash. The manager was doubtless one of those who see only with the eyes of the world, and recognize no talent until it becomes known and appreciated by others. But the Signor Lwas a man of genius-a kindred spirit-he was rich too; but Carl wanted not his gold; he yearned only for his sympathy. "He will understand, he will pity; perhaps he will aid me," thought Carl, "not with his money, but his advice and influence."

Equally gifted, but not equally fortunate-at least as the world uses the term-the poor musician stood before the hotel of his wealthy brother, and learned that he had left last night for Italy!

Two gentlemen paused at a small shop in one of the back streets of Paris, to examine an old picture of the Virgin Mary; the colours were faded, and the frame, which had been originally only a wooden one, was worn and worm-eaten, but the beautiful expression of the countenance struck them with admiration, for they were both lovers and seekers after the beautiful in art.

"What a divine light shines in those speaking eyes!" exclaimed one; and his enthusiasm doubled the price which the owner had at first intended to have asked.

"I never saw eyes that smiled like those until yesterday," said the picture-dealer, who was

himself something of an artist; "and that also was in a painting. They have haunted me ever since."

Further inquiries were made; the "Virgin Mary" paid for so readily that the man only regretted that he had not demanded more; and then they all three crossed the street, and ascended, with the landlady's permission, to the small unfurnished attic of Carl Malanotti, for she knew that he would not be back from rehearsal for some hours. "It will be a fine thing for him, poor boy, if he can sell his picture," thought the old woman; besides, he can then pay me my rent."

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"And so this young man, this artist, wastes his life over the violin?" observed one of the strangers, after a long silence that was eloquent of praise.

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Yes, truly," repeated the landlady, "he wastes his life!"

“Give him this card," continued the purchaser of the "Virgin Mary," extending one which bore a noble name. "Tell him to come

to us, and that a higher destiny awaits him." "A higher destiny awaits him," muttered the old woman, as though fearful of forgetting her message.

The rich man had unknowingly uttered a prophecy.

Carl returned at the usual time. The landlady gave him the card and told him what had passed, but he neither saw nor heard; he was ill-his brain swam-and he fell lifeless at her feet.

Weeks passed away, the fever had abated, and Carl again opened his weary eyes. Was he still dreaming? or did they indeed close again like those of a tired child, upon the bosom of the dear mother? Yes, there she sat, weeping and blessing God, while the angel looked down and smiled upon them both-the good angel who had restored them to one another!

The owner of the card, after waiting a few days, came to know the reason why Carl had not called, and found him-as it was then thought-dying.

"Has he no relatives to whom we could send?" inquired the Count de M——, who was well known in the higher circles of Paris as a liberal patron of the arts, and in the lower as a kind friend to the poor.

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"I never heard of any," replied the old woman; and he was not one to say much, even when he could, and that is past now; but a letter came for him yesterday,"

That letter was from Carl's mother, and the Count opened and answered it. Who shall describe the mother's feelings when the reply came, written in a strange hand, and containing a handsome remittance to defray the expense of a hasty journey to Paris? or when she first gazed upon the miserable wreck of her gifted child? And now the joy of his restoration to life and consciousness made amends for all. Carl heard with wonder of the magnificent sum which the Count de M-- had offered for the angel on the panel-for it seemed magnificent to him--and that when he grew strong and well

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