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in the miners' vocabulary as a generic term, while it bears such descriptive prefixes as these: "Blackleg," "Fair Play," "Swindler's Ridge," "Nip-andTuck," "Beetown," "Dutch Hollow," "Hell's Point," "Dry Bone," "Pin Hook," "Red Dog," etc. "To prospect" and "to gopher" are verbs of exact meaning, but which to an Eastern judge would be in an unknown tongue.

A FEW weeks ago we were sitting with our knees under "the mahogany" of a legal friend, and had arrived at that stage of the feast when come on "the walnuts and the wine." The conversation had turned from the discussion of the particular wines before us to other drinks, when the "julep" was mentioned as an American invention, and one which the Englishmen, and among them Dickens we believe, regarded as our most highly-prized contribution to gratify the palate of mankind. "No," replied our legal friend, "it is not so. Milton, more than two hundred years ago, sang of the julep;" and sending for a copy of the bard, he turned to the Comus read:

and thus

"And first behold this cordial julep here,
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds,

(That describes the ice.)

With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mix'd. (Here we have the liquor, the sugar, and the mint.)

Not that Nepenthes, which the wife of Thone
In Egypt gave to Jove born Helena,
Is of such pow'r to stir up joy as this,
To life so friendly, so cool to thirst."

And lastly we have described the refreshing and joy-inspiring sensations produced by the imbibition.

But its origin goes still further back; for Sylvester, one of the oldest of English poets, in his translation of Du Bartas, exclaims:

"I'll fetch a julep for to cool your blood."

Alas! we must now renounce our claims to the paternity of this most delectable of compounds.

SPEAKING of juleps reminds us, as the late President used to say, "of a little story." Many years ago we joined a party for a grand fish in a lake in one of the interior counties of Ohio, which was almost alive with sun-fish and black and yellow bass. Tom K, a rollicking fellow, was appointed commissariat. He laid in, among other things, a plentiful supply of whisky, warranted to be not over a week old, lemons, and brown sugar. These he compounded into a drink which he appropriately called "tomahawk punch." We had for a guide and boatman a long cadav erous individual, who had lived so long in the miasmatic region, and had been so saturated with the spirit of fever and ague, that his countenance had about the color of new-tanned sole-leather. Whenever the punch-bowl was presented to the aforesaid individual, he would take a long and generous swig, smack his lips, and deliberately wipe his mouth with his shirt-sleeve. After spending three or four days in the region, and with glorious success, the time for our departure arrived, when the lanternjawed and saffron-colored guide beckoned my friend Tom aside, and thus addressed him: "Stranger, I want to ask of you a favor. Tell me the secret of making 'tomahawk punch!" Tom told him, and he departed a happy

man.

BUT such sport is tame compared with what we have enjoyed under other conditions of sky and climate. Reader, did you ever find yourself in a mountain region, remote from the haunts of men, where the pure waters, and of almost icy coldness, came tumbling down over rocks, now crested with foam, then rushing on in eddying ripples, and again expanding into quiet pools, as if paus

ing to take breath before starting again on their headlong career? Around is the sombre forest, through whose dense canopy of foliage hardly a stray sunbeam is allowed to penetrate. Here is the home of the brook-trout; not such Lilliputians as are caught in the region of civilization, but real Brobdignags. Put aside the brakes carefully and peer down into the water. Heavens! what a sight! See those noble fellows resting motionless upon the pebbly bottom. The crystal water hardly interposes an obstruction to the vision. With circumspect caution you withdraw, and examine your rod and reel; and selecting a large and gaudy fly, it is cast. The moment it strikes the surface of the water, half a score of these veterans dart at it; but one more rapid than the rest secures the bait, and as he does so, you catch a glimpse of his variously. spotted side, and observe a great whirl in the water when he settles down on the bottom. Soon the line becomes taut, and begins to move steadily up the stream; and the very steadiness with which he moves convinces you that there is to be no child's play. You pull gently on the line, when the victim, feeling for the first time the prick of the hook, darts off, and the line spins out from the reel with a whiz. Let it run; for if you check it, it will snap like pack-thread or gossamer. Ere long he pauses, and you begin to reel in, when, again feeling the hook, he starts off; and thus we have it nip and tuck for an hour, when he gives up exhausted. We tow him gently to the shelving shore, but dare not attempt to lift him out of the water. Trembling in every limb with excitement, holding the rod in one hand, with the other we gently but firmly grasp him behind the gills; and even in the act, the thought flashes through the mind, "What if he were to give a sudden flop and break away!" But we have got him fast, and bear him to terra firma. With our knife-handle

we give him a sharp tap or two on the back of the head. A convulsive shiver runs through his frame, and life is extinct. The prize is secure. We gather a handful of fern leaves, spread them out, and tenderly place him upon them, and then set ourselves down to enjoy our triumph. He is a five-pounder. There he lies, "life's fitful fever o'er." How symmetrical his form! How smooth and glossy his skin! How brilliant those hues of orange and crimson and gold ranged along his side;" how dark and deep those upon his back! They are beyond the painter's art to imitate; and, as we gaze and moralize upon that form so faultless and beautiful, we feel a pang of regret that, through our instrumentality, it has been deprived of life and animation.

Such is trout-fishing in the fastnesses of nature.

THE enforcement of the Massachusetts liquor law, while it has stirred up a vast amount of bickering and strife, has certainly produced one good thing, and that is the following Breitmannish ballad, which first appeared in a Boston newspaper. So good is it, that it deserves to be placed in a more durable casket:

"Dere was mourning in der Boston town
Vor dwo whole days und more,
Und all der Deutschers schimpft and flucht
About der bierhaus door.

"Der Turners in der Turne Halle sit

Und dank deir loocky stars Dat Chones don't dake der dumblers oop Und close der barrelhell pars.

"So sad dey look a stranger asks
'Is dere a funeral here?'
'Dere's mourners, blenty,' dey replied,
'But we hofn't got der bier.'
"Deir troats ash any lime-kiln purnt

Mit awful pangs of tirst,
But all der bier halles had to sell
Vas Switzer kase und wurst.

“Und still der summer vedder den
Kept getting hot und hotter,
Und seffral Deutschmen riskt deir lives
Py trinking of cold vater.

"Ven all at once from Franklin street

Der came a ringing cheer,

Und droo der down dere spread der newe'Deir dakin pack Pfaff's bier!'

"Der doors of all der bier halles den

Like lightning open flew,

To celebrate the triumph of
Gambrinus' jolly crew.

"Der Deutschers trinked der bier so fast
Dey called the engines out,
Und run a length of suction hose
To effry Deutschman's mout.

"Dey trinked vorse luck to Miner den, Und little Dompson doo,

'How are you, Mr. Demperance man, Und Major, how are you?'

"Shot oop der boison visky shop,

Mit laws strict und severe;

But don't boot out der Deutschman's bipe, Or dake away his bier."

DURING the last political canvass in Illinois, Buck M was invited to address the democracy in a village not a hundred miles from Chicago. The night arrived, and so, too, the "unterrified;" but not the orator. At length the Chairman of Committee of Arrangements came in, and mounting the platform, apologized for the absence of the orator, stating that he had the etymology in the face. A burst of laughter broke forth from the audience, much to the confusion of the Chairman, who began to suspect that he had committed a Partingtonism, when he proceeded thus: "I don't know, fellowcitizens, but that I may have used the

wrong word. I meant pleuralgia;" whereat the peals of laughter broke forth afresh, and the Chairman subsided.

CALLING to mind Mrs. Partington, it may be said that the venerable lady, as described at this day, is widely different from the original, who was first brought to public notice by Sidney Smith, in his speech at Taunton on the Reform Bill,

in 1831, wherein he used this illustration:

"I do not mean to be disrespectful, but the attempt of the lords to stop the progress of reform reminds me very forcibly of the great storm of Sidmouth, and of the conduct of the excellent Mrs. Partington on that occasion. In the winter of 1824 there set in a great flood upon that town. The tide rose to an incredible hight; the waves rushed in upon the houses, and every thing was threatened with destruction. In the midst of this sublime and terrible storm, Dame Partington, who lived upon the beach, was seen at the door of her house, with mop and pattens, trundling her mop, squeezing out the sea-water, and vigorously pushing away the Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic was roused; Mrs. Partington's spirit was up; but I need not tell you the contest was unequal. The Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. She was excellent at a slop or a puddle, but she should not have meddled with a tempest. Gentlemen, be at your ease- -be quiet and steady. You will beat Mrs. Partington."

IN translating the Scriptures into the pagan languages, the missionaries often employ euphonious terms, and readily pronounceable by us. For example, in the Sooahelee language of Africa, the word "God" is rendered Mooigniazimoongo;

original sin," in the Ottomi-Indian, tlacatzintiliztlatlacolli; and "repentance," in the Delaware tongue, schiwelendamowitchewagan. When the heathen can be brought to pronounce these terms, we think that their salvation is secured.

"OH, that mine adversary had written a book!" exclaimed Job-probably, as suggested by Horace Smith, that Job might review him in the "Jerusalem Quarterly" of that day.

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