Excerpta.

Kaikoura Star, Volume XVII, Issue 1883, 12 January 1897, Page 2

Excerpta.

Havelock.

Among the unpublished poems of Tennv.on’s is one called ‘ Havelock,’ of November 20, 1857, so line, so stirring, that one wonders why Tennyson rejected it.— The Academy. Bold Havelock march’d, Many a mile went he, Every mile a battle, March'd, and thought, and fought. Bold Havelock march’d, Charged with his gallant few, Ten men fought a thousand, Slew them and overthrew. Bold Havelock march’d, Wrought with his hand and his head ; March’d, and thought, and fought, March'd and fought himself dead. Bold Havelock died, Tender, and great and good, And every man in Britain Says “ I am of Havelock’s blood.”

The Man Was Pardoned.

General Horace Porter relates an amusing incident of tbe visit of the Hon. E. B. Washburne to the camp of General Grant before Richmond, whither he had gone for the purpose of presenting the general with the medal which Congress had caused to be struck in his honour. Mr Washburne was assigned quarters next to those of General Grant. Rising early in the morning with intent to shave, he found himself unprovided with a looking-glass, and remembering that one hung in the anteroom of Grant’s dwelling, he strolled across the grounds in his shirt-sleeves, razor in hand, to complete his toilet there.

‘Just as he had taken hold of his nose with his left thumb and forefinger, which he had converted into a sort of clothes-pin for the occasion,’ says General Porter, ‘ and had scraped a tode swath down his right cheek with th\ razor, the front door of the hut was suddenly burst tipeu. aud a young woman rushed in, fell on her knees at his feet, and cried : * Save him ! Oh, save him He’s my husband,’

The distinguished member o f Congress was so startled by the sudden apparition that it was with difficulty that he avoided disfiguring his face with a large gash. He turned to the intruder and said :

‘ What’s all this about your husband ? Come, get up, get up 1 I don’t understand you.’ * O, general, for God’s sake, do save my husband !’ continued the woman. ‘ Why, my good woman, I’m not General Grant, the congressman insisted.

‘ Yes you are; they told me this was your room. Oh, save him, general ; they’re to shoot him this very day for desertion if you don’t stop them!’

By this time Mr Washburne had divined the nature of the situation, and tried his best to soothe her and to extract from her a coherent account of her troubles.

Her young husband, it appeared, in a moment of uncontrollable homesickness, had deserted from his post to go home and see her. He had been captured, court-martialed, sentenced to be shot, and the sentence was to be executed that very day; she had heard of it only just in time to reach camp and beg his life of General Grant.

Meanwhile, the commotion had awakened the general, who slept in the next room, and he now arrived upon the scene from within, just as General Porter, who had also heard the sound of excited voices, arrived from without.

* The spectacle partook decidedly of the serio-comic. The dignified member of Congress was standing in his shirtsleeves in front of the pleading woman, his face covered with lather, except the swath which had been made down his right cheek; the razor was uplifted in his hand, and the tears were starting out of his eyes as his sympathies began to be worked upon. The

woman was screaming and gesticulating frantically, and was almost hysterical with grief. I appeared at the front door about the same time that the general entered from the rear, and it was hard to tell whether one ought to laugh or cry at the sight presented.’ The poor wife soon had cause to cease crying, lor her husband was reprieved and afterward pardoned ; but General Grant frequently recurred to the scene in conversation, and teased his visitor good humoredly abou* the extraordinary figure which he had cut in the presence of a lady.

The Nugget of Gold Ore.

That,’ said my friend, in reply to a question of mine, ‘is a very large and very rich nugget of gold ore. It was taken many years ago from a mine in Australia.’

‘ How much is it worth ?’ I asked. He looked at me with a shrewd smile and replied : ‘ It is worth just nothing a all.’

I thought that a queer thing for him to say, but asked no more questions. Two years later I again visited his house in London, and this time I missed the big nugget from the shelf where 1 had first seen it. But I asked no questions. Perhaps, recalling the incident of two years, before my friend said: ‘I have something to show you,’ and, opening a closet, be produced a magnificent gold vase, remarking: ‘That nugget of gold ore has take this form. Exclusive of the labour involved in the transformation, the gold alone is now worth £lOO. What cutious similitudes there are between things essentially unlike. Here is one which it may be instructive to follow up. It is suggested by the followsentence from a woman’s letter:—‘ln spite of all tbe nourishing food I took nothing seemed to give me strength ’ Now, why was that? Perhaps the history of tbe three years of her life may help to account for it. In January, 1890, she had an attack of influenza which, she says, left her low, weak, and languid. Bo far as we are able to ascertain, influenza is caused by a certain poison in the blood developed during peculiar conditions of the atmosphere. Its early symptoms are those of a fever; they are always sudden aud often alarming. Yet, as in nearly all cases it ends in recovery in a week or two, it does not explain the mystery of Mrs Westall’s continued weakness and prostration

She tells us that her appetite was poor, and that eating was immediately followed by great pain in the chest, back and side . Hoping to overcome this star. cl things she took much nourishing food. ~u

increase of strength should r;.. ■ j .om the eating ot plenty good food world seem reasonable. How else cau one ew. gain

strength ? Yet, strange to say, no such result followed. On the contrary, the pains became worse, so that—to use her own words—she was ‘ completely racked with pain ’ all over her, and so weak she could scarcely put one loot before the other. Besides this, the condition of the stomach was far from encouraging. That organ is the source ot all power in the human body, and suould leel warm, comfortable and quiet. In this lady’s case it was full of uneasiness and pain. She speaks of a craving, gnawing, sinking sensation in it, which was not relieved either by food or by any medical treatment. Certainly, something quite different from a former attack ol influenza went to the making of that; we must look deeper to find the real trouble. Chemists often determine the character of a poison by observing the colour it creates when applied to litmus paper ; and —in addition to the general symptoms—it is sometimes possible to tell the nature of a disease by taking notice of what cures

Now there is one universally known remedy which never fails to cure one subtle, comprehensive, and yet deceptive disease, Happily it was finally employed in Mrs Westall’s case.

In concluding her letter, dated Decern, her Ist, 12, Rucklidge Avenue, Willesdeu London, N.W., 1892—she says : ‘At the time when my condition was very critical aud my family very anxious, my son-in-law, Mr Deaeon, of shepherd’s Bush road, tell me how, in an illness of his own, he had been cured by Mother Seigel’s Curative Syrup aud advised me to begin using it at once. I did so, and soon my appetite returned and my iood digested; and by the time 1 had consumed two bottles 1 was strong as ever, and have kept in the best of healtn ever since.—(signed) Yours truly, Mary Westall