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At his funeral nearly all his old friends assembled, mourning the untimely loss which had befallen them. The sad scene has been depicted in touching language by Moultrie —the "room hung with funereal black," into which—

"The mourners stole—
A sad and silent crowd, by various ties,
Public and private, joined to him in life,
All grieving for him dead.


Friends who had not met For many a year before, met there to mourn A nobler friend than all."

Moultrie, Derwent Coleridge, and Hookham Frere descended into the vault after the service had been read, and all three wept bitterly over the early grave. Moultrie penned the following lines in memory of his friend:—

"Not that in him, whom these poor praises


Gifts, rare themselves, in rarest nnion dwelt; Not that, revealed through eloquence and song, In him the bard and statesman breathed and felt.

"Not that his nature, graciously endued With feelings and affections pure and high,

Was purged from worldly taint, and sclf-sub

dued, Till soul o'er sense gained perfect mastery.

"Not for this only we lament his loss—_ Not for this chiefly we account him blest;

But that all this he cast beneath the cross, Content for Christ to live, in Christ to rest."

Those who knew Praed best hold most strongly to the conviction that he would have taken a foremost place among public men if he had lived. This, in truth, is the most obvious commentary on his works— had he but lived! The shadow of an untimely death seems to rest upon the many graceful productions of his occasional hours, and it is impossible to turn over the faded pages of his schoolboy magazine without thinking with regret of the early grave in which youth and ambition, genius and hope, were extinguished together.

On Tuesday an adjourned inquest on the body of a poor girl, eighteen years of age, named Hannah Brooks, who was drowned at St. Paul's Whnrf steamboat pier, on the 17th ult., was retumed. Mr. Hann, the summoning officer, handed to the deputy coroner the following touching letter which had been sent to the girl's mother: "John Archer, 1 hope you will not drive another poor girl to an early grave as you have done me. It is through you that I have done this, for I could not bear the shame yon have brought me to, and then laughed at me after being a poor silly fool to you. I hope God will forgive me for this act that I have done, and I hope that God will bless mv sisters, brothers, and my mother and father. Mother, you cursed me when I was a girl, and your curse has clung to me, but I hope you will not curse my sisters in case it may cling to them, as it has to me. May God forgive me this crime I have committed. You all thought that I should not do it, but I hope the Lord will have mercy on my poor soul, but I could not bear the disgrace, so you rony blame Jack Archer for your poor girl's miserable end. None of you will grieve for me I know, for yon said that I had brought you to shame and disgrace. While I write this I am shedding bitter tears to think that I should be to wicked. I have not got a friend in this world to speak to me or give me a kind word. No, I may go on the streets before my mother would give me a bit of bread. Jack Archer said that I might go on the streets for my living, after beiug what I have to him for two yean and «

half, and then to be cast off. Oh, God have mercy on me, and forgive me my sins. I have gone to see my Maker, and I hope the Lord will forgive me and tako me. Mother, pray for your poor girl, and kiss my poor sisters for me, and let them have my books between them. My poor brain is all on a work. Jack Archer, when j yon see my poor body I hope you will look at me and say, ' That is through me,' which yon well know'is a fact. I would rather die like this than do as yon told me. Good-by, and God bless you! Those are my last words. May the great God look down in mercy on mo I O heavenly Father, have mercy on me! O God, look down in mercy on me! My name is Hannah Brooks, No. 1 Bromley Buildings, BreadStreet Hill, City."—Examiner.

A Manchester paper states, on what it considers to be most respectable anthority.-that a wonderful discovery has recently been made in electricity as applicable to purposes of the electric telegraph: "Incredible as it may seem, it is said that experiments have established the fact that intelligible signals can be exchanged between distant stations without the intervention of any artificial conductor whatsoever, and with equal success, whether the intervening space bo wholly or partially land or water."


Ant one who has lately seen the French infantry must have been struck by the celerity of their movements. Their quick march nearly^ if not quite, equals the trot of horse, and the men keep it up without any apparent effort or fatigue. They seem to have acquired a peculiarly nimble way of picking up their feet to borrow a phrase of the jockeys, and it gets them over the ground at a rate which would leave our best light infantry far behind. If celerity of movement be as important on land as it is known to be at sea, the speed of the French infantry will be a point of great superiority in campaigning. The step of our troops is quickened, but it does not come up to the French, who are trained to it by gymnastic exercises. Their physical powers being inferior to those of the English, they improve and develop them to the utmost, and make the most of the man such as he is. As in their cookery, art makes up for the inferiority of material. The English standard of stature and strength is the very first in Europe, but little or nothing is done to cultivate the natural advantages. Our armies have always had the character of being tardy and slow. Thiers says that their generals may be forgiven for causing them to be slaughtered, but not for fatiguing them. To be sure, he is not a very fair authority, but a better witness, the German Commissioner with the Duke of Wellington nt Waterloo, states that Blucher endeavored in vain to hasten the march of the English army upon Paris, and that the duke confessed the impossibility of quickening the movement of his troops so as to keep up with the Prussians, who were accounted the very slowest of any continental army. The old school will say, what matters it that the men were slow to move if they beat the enemy? And this is the stock argument against every improvement. With brown Bess our troops beat the French in Spain and Flanders, but then they had a worse sort of brown Bess opposed to them; and bad as our weapon was the fire of our infantry was accounted the very best nourished (we borrow tho French word) in Europe, that is to say in the world. And when the French adopted the improved arm, the Minie rifle, it compelled our reluctant military authorities to introduce a corresponding improvement in our weapon, and the En

field was adopted. "Why, then, do we neglect what is next in importance to the efficiency of the arm, the speed of the legs that are to carry it to its positions in action?

Oh, some old martinet will say, " See how loosely these Frenchmen scramble along, how badly they wheel, and how ill their line is dressed, while our fellows march like a wall. Slow and sure." But the French in their loose way get ultimately, and quickly, too, into the right position, and their line, though not ruled with mathematical precision, serves for all the purposes of war, though not of the trimmest show on parade-ground. If by outmarching us they secure the advantage of an important position, it will be no consolation that our line in the wrong place is better formed.

In the Peninsula Lord Wellington had brought the British army to a full equality with the French in movement, the business of the campaigns having been the training. But what are we now doing in peace, while the French are supplying the training to bring up their soldiers to something more than the pitch of excellence attained in campaigning? There arc- improvements no doubt in manoeuvres, but here what can be made of the soldier's limbs is not studied as it is in France. But if any English regiment were put under the training of the French, it would by force of its natural physical advantages surpass the very best our neighbors could produce. We have been led to these remarks by some interesting statements in the Paris correspondence of the Times:

"A Paris paper, referring to the last manoeuvres of the Infantry of the Guard in. the Champ de Mars, speaks of the various modifications that have been introduced at various times into the old regulations of 1831. The commencement of the changes in question was a formation in two ranks instead of three. Then came the introduction of percussion locks and of rifled barrels, the diminution of the weight carried by the soldier, and, finally, the full development of the soldier's activity, and of the mobility of masses of troops. The ' double quick,' or running step, known as the pas gymnastique, and the bayonet exercise, have been found greatly to promote the suppleuess and activity of the soldier, and they have been definitively admitted into the regulations of the 17th of April. 1862, as principles of military education.

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diet's wind, and. by practice, can be kept up for a long time. It enables bodies of infantry to transfer themselves, in action, to any part of the field where they may be needed in an extremely short time, arriving in good order and in good wind. There can be no doubt of the value of this kind of exercise, but it must manifestly be constantly kept up, in peace time as well as in war, since a few months' discontinuance would neutralize much of the benefit of previous training.

"' The bayonet drill, by giving the soldier confidence in his weapon and teaching him to handle it adroitly, furnishes him with a powerful means of attack, as well as a precious means of defence in the case of his finding himself surrounded by several adversaries. Considered, finally, as the bases of the instruction of the recruit, the gymnastic step and the bayonet fencing rid him of the original slowness and want of agility of the peasant who is being transformed into a soldier. The two great principles established are the development of the agility of the soldier, and the mobility of masses which is attained as its result. Thus is all our infantry transformed into light infantry, apt for rapid movements, the which, joined to the national dash (elan) of our troops, may produce the greatest results.'

"The improvements introduced into the army of so bellicose a nation as the French cannot but be of interest, and worthy of noting by all other European powers. The tactics of the Zouaves especially—a branch of the French infantry which, in case of a long and serious war, would be likely to be largely augmented—are of a particularly formidable nature to troops that are not prepared for them, or which do not possess in perfection that calmness and solidity which nigh discipline and long service alone can completely bestow. And France has always in Africa forty thousand men, whom it would take little more than a change of uniform to convert into Zouaves. A recent writer on the Algerian army made the following remarks on the Zouaves:—

"' The superiority of French soldiers is in great part to be attributed to the intelligent manner in which they fight. Among them the Zouaves have acquired a special reputation for spontaneity of action; they are the artists of the battle-field. The part they play in an engagement necessitates particular qualities; they are specially apt at surprises, coups de main, and in those acts of daring which often decide the fate of the day. They are the advanced guard, the heads of columns of an army. Their favorite arm is the bayonet; in musketry they have but moderate confidence; so many balls have whistled harmlessly by them that they de

spise lead and give the preference to steel. With the bayonet one is surer of the result. The favorite tactics of the Zouaves have been thus summed up bv General Cler (a distinguished French officer who commanded a regiment of Zouaves at the capture of Sebastopol): "They spread themselves in skirmishing order, get as near as possible to the enemy, bewilder him by one or two close volleys, and attack with the bnyonet, turning his flanks at the same time." Success has almost invariably crowned this manoeuvre, although there might be serious objections to it with other men than Zouaves. In fact, when they thus dash forward they are dispersed in disorder, and it seems impossible to rally them in case of an attack by cavalry. But these regiments possess such an intelligence of war, such a surprising rapidity of evolutions, so great an individual solidity, that a line of skirmishers, scattered over a considerable extent of ground, transforms itself into a square in the space of a few minutes. The officers who have tried their men and know their value leave them the utmost liberty possible. Instead of thwarting their formidable impetus by uselessly dressing them in line, they content themselves with leading them against the feeblest point of that of the enemy. Moreover, the Zouaves themselves have a particular instinct in recognizing the vulnerable place against which their efforts should be brought to bear.'"

The tactics of the Zouaves may be a question for military judgment. and different opinions may prevail about them, but we cannot conceive any rational objection to developing the agility of the soldier and maximizing the mobility of troops. It was not long ago that men dropped down exhausted on a short march to Windsor, one actually died, and the probability is that something of this sort would happen to any regiment in this country put upon a forced march of five-andtwenty miles, which a French regiment trained to inarching quickly would perform without distress, and gayly. We doubt extremely whether a battalion of the Guards would effect a march to Windsor in five hours without leaving men lame and exhausted on the road, and we have heard a high military authority express his opinion that those fine household troops would be much better exercised in marches to Wormwood Scrubs or Wimbledon Common, there to waste powder in blank-cartridge practice, than in their squibbing field dnys, almost on the threshold of their barracks, in Hyde Park. The ground is ill-chosen both for the neighborhood and the exercises of the men. Hyde Park is now the largest square in London, and the firing of the troops is a nuisance to the inhabitants of the surrounding houses, and dangerous to the riders and drivers of horses passing along the much frequented Bayswater road immediately adjoining. How much better that the troops should at the same time both learn to use their limbs in something like a march, and to fire in volleys, or to pop away in skirmishing order, by removing their exercising ground to a moderate distance of six or seven miles. But they would lose flesh, and not look Bo fine, and there is no answer to that objection. With the French the case is quite different, for their troops are for use, like our sailors, not for show.


Some people, not otherwise ill-natured, are apt to season their conversation with disagreeable sayings, unpleasant comments, uncomfortable insinuations. Such a person, we sometimes hear, is a good sort of fellow, but he has a way of saying disagreeable things. Such a woman can be very charming when she pleases, but . In fact,

these people are never spoken of for three consecutive sentences without a qualification. A disagreeable thing is distinguished from an impertinence, which it often closely resembles, by certain marks. In the first place, an impertinence we need not stand, but the other we often must, aware that it is the result of certain conditions of our friend's mind, which, as we cannot hope to alter, we must resign ourselves to. An impertinence may or may not be true — its main design, independent of truth, is, more or less, to insuU. It is of the essence of a disagreeable thing that it should be true — true in itself, or true as representing the speaker's state of feeling. And yet an unpalatable truth is not technically a disagreeable thing any more than an impertinence, though, of course, the being told it is an unpleasant operation. It is necessary for us, now and then, to hear unpalatable and unwelcome truths; but a disagreeable thing is never a moral necessity —it is spoken to relieve the speaker's mind,

not to profit the hearer. The same utterance may be an impertinence, an unpalatable truth, or a disagreeable thing, according to time and circumstance. For example, in a fit of absence, we perpetrate some solecism in dress or behavior. It is an unwelcome truth to be told it, while there is yet opportunity for remedy, or partial remedy. It is an impertinence to be informed of it by a stranger, who has no right to concern himself with our affairs. It is a disagreeable thing when—the occasion past—our friend enlightens us about it, simply as a piece of information. We all of us, no doubt, have friends, relations, and acquaintances who think it quite a sufficient reason for saying a thing that it is 'true. Probably we have ourselves known the state of mind in which we find a certain fact or opinion a burden, a load to be got rid of; and, under the gross mistake that all truth must be spoken, that it is uncandid and dangerous not to deliver a testimony — convinced that truth, like murder, will out, and that our friend, sooner or later, must learn the unacceptable fact—we come to the conclusion that it is best for all parties to get the thing over by being one's self the executioner. We have most of us acted the enfant terrible at some time or other. But this crude simplicity of candor, where it is the result of the mere blind intrusive assertion of truth, is a real weight; aud the primary law of politeness, never to give unnecessary pain, as soon as it is apprehended, is welcomed as a deliverer. Children and the very young have not experience enough for any but the most limited sympathy, and can only partially compare the feelings of others with their own. Indeed, the idea of the comparison does not occur to them. But there are people, who, in this respect, remain children all their days, and very awkward children, too—who burst with a fact aa the fool with his secret, and, like the hairdresser in Leech's caricature, are impelled to tell us that our hair is thin at the top, though nothing whatever is to come of the communication. These, as Sidney Smitfa says, turn friendship into a system of lawful and unpunishable impertinence, from, Bo far as we can see, no worse cause than incontinence of fact and opinion—feeling it to be a sufficient and triumphant defence of every perpetration of the sort, that it is true. "Why did you tell Mr. So and So that hu sermon was fifty minutes long?" "Because I had looked at my watch." "Why did you remind such a one that he is growing fat and old?" "Because he is." "Why repeat that unfavorable criticism?" "I had just read it." "Why disparage this man's particular friends?" "I don't like them." "Why say to that young lady that her dress was unbecoming?" "I really thought so." It is, however, noticeable in persons of this obtrusive candor that they have eyes for blemishes only. They are never impelled to tell pleasant truths—from which, no doubt, we may infer a certain acerbity of temper, though these strictures may be spoken in teeming blunt, honest good-humor. Still, they talk in this way from natural obtuseness and inherent defect of sympathy. These are the people who always hit upon the wrong thing to say, and instinctively ferret out sore subjects. They are not the class we have in our thoughts. Indeed, they incapacitate themselves for serious mischief, as their acquaintance give them a wide berth, and take care not to expose their more cherished interests to their tender mercies. It requires some refinement of perception to say the more pungent and penetrating disagreeable things. We must care for the opinion or the regard of a person whose sayings of this tort can keenly annoy us. A man must have made friends before he can wound them. A real expert in this art is never rude, and can convey a disregard approaching to contempt for another's opinion, hit him in his most vulnerable points, and send him off generally depressed and uncomfortable, without saying a word that can be fairly taken hold of. Of course the people most distinguished in this way are disappointed people. In the examples that occur to us, we perceive that life has not satisfied them—they do not occupy the place in men's minds which they feel they deserve. But this is no explanation, for the tendency is just as likely to have caused the disappointment as the disappointment the tendency. People who start in life with high, though not wholly ungrounded notions of their own deserts, definite claims, and elaborate self-appreciation, are certain to be in constant collision with their friends, and with society. Their sense of their own rights and merits is perpetually infringed. Their friendship or service entails an obligation which is never duly rec

ognized. The memory becomes loaded with supposed slights. Every part of the man is instinct with grievances, which inevitably exhale in disagreeable things. We hear them in covert insinuations. We read them in rigid smiles. They look out of cold, forbidding eyes. They declare themselves in stiff, repelling courtesies. And the mischief does not end here. There is no habit more catching. Tempers amiable enough when let alone develop under a stimulus. It is not a wholly unpleasant excitement to find ourselves observing all the forms of friendly and kindly intercourse, yet giving as good as we get, or at any rate parrying with spirit. There is only one class of persons in the world—the perfectly humble-minded—who never say disagreeable things.

Nobody acknowledges himself to be an habitual offender in this line. No man will own himself careless of giving pain. When we do become conscious of having thoughtlessly wounded our neighbor's feelings or self-love, it may commonly be traced to the blinding sway of some conviction held in a one-sided, selfish spirit. All strong prepossessions destroy sympathy, and, like absence of mind, induce an exclusive attention to our own objects or wishes. To judge from their biographies, religious professors are exceedingly apt to err in this direction — unless, perhaps, it be that they say disagreeable things more deliberately, and more on principle, than the laity. The young lady who answered her friend's announcement of her approaching marriage by the inquiry, if she had ever remembered that her future husband might die, thought she was preaching a sermon, but was simply saying a disagreeable thing. The occasion called for sympathy, and preaching was an obtrusion of self and its speciality—an unconscious expedient for bringing down her friend from a high position of interest to a level something below her own. The habit of saying disagreeable things belongs impartially to both sexes, but the manner and the motive differ. Our example illustrates the feminine form. There is commonly a touch of jealousy to be traced in a woman's trying or irritating sayings, however remote and far-fetched. However abstract and general the remark may be, an , insight into circumstances will probably furi nish the clue—will bring some personal and I particular cause to light which has held sym

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