The home journal. (Winchester, Tenn.) 1858-188?, 1874-01-08
The Age Of AdulteratiOn.

hereafter be surely known as the "age
of adulteration." Gold, brass, iron,
having each rcigned over the world,
now seems to have arrived the cycle of
shoddy. From birth to death our fate
is to be the helpless victims of veneer,
the doomed martyrs to the Juggernaut
of adulteration. On entering this world
of simulacra, we are speedily weaned
upon diet of typhoid. water milk,
while our infantine disorders are at
tackled with spurious drugs, infinitely
| diluted. Advancing in age, our tender
chests are protected with flannel, half
cotton our little limbs clad in shoddy
cloth, our chilly feet encased in brown
paper -soled boots, and our cherry-ripe
nose operated on with silk handker-
chiefs, heavy with still'ening. Having
survived these crucial tests of constitu-
tion, we place an eight caret gold we'd
ding ring on dainty finger, an amidst
sham tears, and equally shamrcioicings,
we travel off by that greatest of all
make-believes, an express train, in
search of an imaginary happiness.
Settling down to housekeeping, we re-
fresh ourselves each morning with a
decoction of Maloo mixture and steel
filings, sNeetencd with sand, and we
assuage appetite with alumed bread,
larded butter, fresh eggs from Kam-
tschatka, aud OK tongues not unac-
quainted with omnibus life, while on
our return home in the evening, we par
take of Dartmoor mutton from North
amptonshire, sanctify it with bottle of
petroleum champagne and some Ham,
burg sherry, and top off with Swiss
cheese from Ayrshire and glass of
port, from any hedge. Then, deter
mined on enjoyment, we kick off our
brown paper boots, light delicious
Houndsditsh Havana, loll back in an
armchair covered with imitation moroc-
co, and stuffed with ash-pit pickings,
warm our shoddy-covered legs at a
brisk slate fire, mix tumbler of
methylated spirits called whisky, and
conscientiously subscribe q guinea to
local charity, because our neighbor has
only given pound. Next day we are
i'll ; the doctor, shamming interest in
our case, writes a prescription in sham
Latin; the chemist dispenses it in
diluted drugs the family lawyer, pre-
tending pity, verbosely writes our will
in sham English phraseolcgy to increase
his charges and just when our sham
gold repeater, warranted to last for fifty
years, stops, we stop too, and end with
these shams of life. Then amidst the
gloomy faces of expectant heirs, our
shoddy-velvet-c coffin, studded
with lacquered nails, is borne away by
dyed horses proudly bearing sham
ostrich plumes, false names and fiicti-
tious tails, while hired mourners
lengthen ont their funeral faces at SO
much per inch, and cheat at that. Last
of all we are duly covered in with pat
ent stone, warranted not to dissolve,
and our epitaph pretends that our
friends are inconsolable for their loss.
Altogether, from cradle to grave, we
have been surrounded by delusions, fic-
tions and portentolts adulterations, un'
til the real, true and sterling have at
last seemed to become mere shams,
wretched veneers to cover worthless
trash. In which, perhaps, our clerical
friends may find the reason for that
"want of faith" Of which they accuse
the exiting generation.
The Wiertz museum, near Brussels,
Belgium, contains a picture of Napo.
leon Bonaparte, representing him in
Hades, which is thus described " He
is surrounded by those whose lives he
caused to be sacrificed in his attempts
to conquer the world. Bloody hands
are thrust out toward him, and horri,
bly, mutilated bodies and dismembered
limbs, still dripping with gore, strew
the ground. Clinging to him, with
faces expressive of anguish or fury, are
the wives and sisters of those whom he
has slain yet he is represented stand
ing in the well-known attitude, with
folded arms, calmly gazing into futuri
ty, and needing naught of the scene
about him. His face betokens deer
thought. The whole picture is terrible
in its significance.
Ir Is told of a young gentleman whom
a mainden liked, but her father didn't
that at reasonable hour the old gentle
man mildly intimated that the time fol
) retiring had arrived. "I think you arr
correct, my dear sir" answered nine
teenih century, modestly, "we hav,
waited for over nm hour for you 10 PM
yourself IN your little bed. The tatlel
retired thoughtfully,