INTENSELY UTTER.

EFFECTS OF CULTURE ON AN ESTHETIC DAUGHTER AND A PRACTICAL PA.

A FEW months ago a daughter of a Nassau man, who had grown comfortably well-off in a small grocery line, was sent away to a female college, and a few weeks ago arrived home for the holiday vacation. The old man was in attendance at 'the depot in Albany when the train arrived, with the old horse in the delivery wagon to convey his daughter and her trunk home. When the train had stopped in the Union Depot a bewitching array of dry goods and a wide brimmed hat dashed from the cars and flung itself into the elderly party's arms.

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Why, you superlative pa!" she exclaimed, “I'm so utterly glad to see you."

The old man was somewhat unnerved by the greeting, but he recognized the sealskin cloak in his grip as the identical piece of property he had paid for with the bay mare, and he sort of squat it up in his arms and planted a kiss where it would do the most good, with a report that sounded above the noise of the depot. In a brief space of time the trunk and its attendant baggage were loaded into the wagon, which was soon bumping over the hubbles towards home.

"Pa, dear," said the young miss, surveying the team with a critical cye, "do you consider this quite excessively beyond?"

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Hey?" returned the old man, with a puzzled air; "quite excessively beyond what? Beyond Greenbush; Í consider it somewhat about two miles beyond Greenbush, continuing from the Bath-way, if that's what you mean."

"Oh, no, pa, you don't understand me," the daughter exclaimed, "I mean this horse and wagon. Do you think they are soulful?-do you think they could be studied apart in the light of a symphony or even a single poem, and appear as intensely utter to one on returning home as one could express?

The old man twisted uneasily in his seat, and muttered something about he believed it used to be used as an express-wagon before he bought it to deliver pork in, but

the conversation appeared to be in a lonesome direction that he fetched the horse a resounding crack on the rotunda, and the severe jolting over frozen ground prevented further

remarks.

“Oh, there is that lovely and consummate ma!" screamed the returned collegiate, as they drove up to the door, and presently she was lost in the embrace of a motherly woman in spectacles.

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Well, Maria," said the old man at the supper-table, as he nipped a piece of butter off the lump with his own knife, "an' how d'you like your school?"

'Well, there, pa, now you're shout—I mean, I consider it too beyond," replied the daughter. "It is unquenchably ineffable. The girls are sumptuously stunning-I mean grand-so exquisite - so intense; and then the parties, the calls, the rides - oh, the past weeks have been one of sublime harmony."

"I s'pose so- I s'pose so," nervously assented the old man as he reached for his third cup-half full "but how about your books, readin', writin', grammar, rule o' three— how about them?"

"Pa, don't," exclaimed the daughter reproachfully; "the rule of three! grammar! It is French and music, and painting, and the divine in art that has made my school-life the boss I mean that has rendered it one unbroken flow of rythmic bliss - incomparably and exquisitely all but." The groceryman and his wife looked helplessly across the table. After a lonesome pause the old lady said:

"How do you like the biscuits, Maria!"

"They are too utter for anything," gushed the accomplished young lady, "and this plum-preserve is simply a poem of itself."

That

The old man abruptly arose from the table and went out of the room rubbing his head in a dazed and benumbed manner, and the mass convention was dissolved. night he and his wife sat alone by the stove until a late hour, and at the breakfast-table the next morning he rapped smartly on the plate with the handle of his knife, and remarked:

'Maria, me an' your mother have been talkin' the thing over, an' we've come to the conclusion that this boardingschool business is too much nonsense.

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Me an' her consider that we haven't lived sixty odd con

summate years for the purpose of raisin' a curiosity, an' there's goin' to be a stop put to this unquenchable foolish

ness.

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Now, after you've finished eatin' that poem of fried sausage an' that symphony of twisted doughnut, you take an' dust up-stairs in less'n two seconds, an' pecl off that fancy gown an' put on a caliker, an' then come down here an' help your mother wash dishes.

"I want it distinctly understood that there ain't going to be no more rhythmic foolishness in this house so long as your superlative pa an' your lovely an' consummate ma's runnin' the ranch. You hear me, Maria?" Maria was listening.

ALBANY CHRONICLE.

CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE.* BALAKLAVA, Oct. 25, 1854.

THE charge of the gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade!

Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians, Thousands of horsemen drew to the valley and stayed, For Scarlett and Scarlett's Three IIundred were riding by When the points of the Russian lances broke in on the sky;

And he called, "Left wheel into line!" and they wheeled and obeyed.

Then he looked at the host that had halted, he knew not

why,

And he turned half round, and he bade his trumpeter

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sound

To the charge!" and he rode on ahead, as he waved his

blade

To the gallant Three Hundred, whose glory will never

die,

“Follow and up the hill!”

Up the hill, up the hill followed the Heavy Brigade.

*The three hundred of the Heavy Brigade who made this famous charge were the Scots Greys and the second squadron of the Inniskillings, the remainder of the Heavy Brigade subsequently dashing up to their support. The three were Elliott, Scarlett's aide-de-camp, who had been riding by his side, and the trumpeter, and Shegog, the orderly, who had been close behind him.

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the

fight!

Down the hill, slowly, thousands of Russians

Drew to the valley, and halted at last on the height

With a wing pushed out to the left, and a wing to the right, But Scarlett was far on ahead, and he dashed up alone Through the great gray slope of men;

And he whirled his sabre, he held his own

Like an Englishman there and then.

And the three that were nearest him followed with force,
Wedged themselves in between horse and horse,

Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made,
Four amid thousands; and up the hill, up the hill
Galloped the gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade.
Fell, like a cannon-shot,
Burst, like a thunderbolt,
Crashed, like a hurricane,

Broke through the mass from below,
Drove through the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and fro,
Rode flashing blow upon blow,

Brave Inniskillings and Greys,
Whirling their sabres in circles of light.
And some of us, all in amaze,
Who were held for awhile from the fight,
And were only standing at gaze,

When the dark-muffled Russian crowd
Folded its wings from the left and the right
And rolled them around like a cloud.

Oh! mad for the charge and the battle were we
When our own good red-coats sank from sight,

Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea;

And we turned to each other, muttering all dismayed,
"Lost are the gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade!"

But they rode, like victors and lords,
Through the forests of lances and swords;
In the heart of the Russian hordes

They rode, or they stood at bay;
Struck with the sword-hand and slew;
Down with the bridle-hand drew

The foe from the saddle, and threw
Under foot there in the fray;

Ranged like a storm, or stood like a rock
In the wave of a stormy day:

Till suddenly, shock upon shock,
Staggered the mass from without;

For our men galloped up with a cheer and a shout, And the Russians surged, and wavered, and reeled Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, Over the brow and away.

Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made! Glory to all the Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade!

TENNYSON.

THE CHAIN OF GOLD.

THREE stalwart sons old Sweyn, the Saxon, had,
Brave, hardy lads for battle or the chase;
And though, like peasant, barbarously clad,
Each wore the nameless noble in his face:
One o'er another rose their heads in tiers,
Steps for their father's honorable years.

One night in autumn sat they round the fire,
In the rude cabin bountiful of home;
Mild by the rev'rence due from child to sire,
Bold in the manhood unto mast'ry come;
Working their tasks o'er huntsman's forest gear,
Loos'ning the bow and sharpening the spear.

Lost in his thoughts, old Sweyn, the Saxon, stood,
Leaning in silence 'gainst the chimney stone;
Staring unconscious at the blazing wood,

Steep'd in the mood of mind he oft had known,
As an old tree, whose stoutest branches shake,
Scarce from their vigor sign of life will take.

Athol, the bearded, with his bow had done,
Alfred, the nimble, laid his spear aside,
Edric, the fairest, tiring of his fun,

Left the old hound to slumber on his hide;
Yet was their sire like one whose features seem
Shaded by sleep, and all their light a dream.