[From _The Courier-Journal_]
Garters with monogram clasps are now worn by the pretty girls. They
are rather a novelty yet, but we hope to see more of them.
"The New York _Telegraph_ advises people to marry for love and not for
money." Good advice, certainly; but inasmuch as you will always be in
want of money if you marry for love, and always in want of love if you
marry for money, your safest way is to marry for a little of both.
Some of our contemporaries will persist in speaking of us as a
"rebel." That we fought for the stars and bars with a heroism of which
Marathon, Leuctra, and Thermopylae never even dreamed, the bones of
half-a-dozen substitutes which lie bleeding upon as many "stormy
heights and carnage covered fields" bear testimony abundant and
indisputable, and that we suffer ourselves still to be called a
"rebel" without unsheathing the avenging dagger and wading up to our
knees in gore, is simply because there is already as much blood upon
the hands of our substitutes as we can furnish soap to wash off
without becoming a bankrupt. Nevertheless, if this thing is much
longer persisted in, there may come a time when virtue will cease to
be a forebearance. One more taste of blood, this sanguinary arm once
more uplifted to smite, and the world will shudder.
General Grant says he won't call an extra session of Congress unless
the war in Europe is likely to give us trouble. So he is determined
that if the gods bring us one calamity, he will immediately step
forward with another.
For list of candidates see first page.--_Banner_. For the candidates
themselves--but you needn't trouble yourself to see them; they'll see
you.
The French General Failly, who was killed by a Prussian shell, and was
afterward murdered by his own soldiers, and subsequently blew out his
own brains, is now a prisoner at Mayence--whether dead or alive, the
telegraph does not inform us.
The Glasgow _Times_ tells of a man in Georgia, fifty years of age, who
never in his life drank a glass of whiskey, smoked a pipe, or courted
a woman. The poor wretch has lived utterly in vain. The man who has
never sat by a beautiful woman, with a pipe in his mouth, a glass of
whiskey in one hand, and the whalebones of her palpitating stays in
the other, and "with a lip unused to the cool breath of reason, told
his love," has no more idea of Paradise than a deaf and dumb
orang-outang has of metaphysics. Even without the pipe and whiskey
there is, strictly speaking, nothing disagreeable about it.
The United States navy has but one Admiral Poor. We wish we could say
it has but one poor admiral.