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HUMOR OF THE HIGHWAY MAN.

Judge Myers, and as the evidence was entirely cir

cumstantial, but so conclusive as to leave not the shadow of doubt of his guilt, he was convicted of murder in the first degree and on November 24th, 1862, sentenced to be hung on January 9th, 1863.

Sheriff Chapman, two days after, near Ringgold, and On the morning of November 27th, 1863, as Mr. lodged in jail. The name of the prisoner was C. W. T. A. Valentine was driving a team on the road be-Smith, his case was tried in the District Court before tween Johntown and Uniontown he was stopped by a highway man, who demanded his money, at the same time presenting a colt's revolver. Mr. Valentine, being unarmed, handed over his money, amounting to twelve dollars, saying he would much rather part with his money than his scalp. The robber politely assured him that he did not intend to hurt him; he stated to Mr. Valentine that he was strapped and had resorted to robbing to make a raise. He returned Valentine a dollar to pay toll across the Uniontown bridge and a bit to buy a drink, remarking that he never took bits anyhow.

FRATRICIDE AT GRIZZLY FLAT.

Wednesday evening, January 9th, 1878, Constable J. B. Fisher, of Grizzly Flat, delivered David Branthover to Sheriff Theissen, on a charge of having killed his brother, Adam Branthover, near the abovenamed place. The facts are as follows: There was some trouble between them in relation to a partnership in a quartz claim. Tuesday, in company of D. T. Loofbourrow, David went to the cabin of the deceased for the purpose of settling the dispute. While comparing accounts, according to Loof bourrow's testimony before A. J. Graham, Justice of the Peace, David frequently gave Adam the lie, and finally, both being much excited, they clinched. During the struggle, a gun in the hand of David went off, the ball striking Adam in the thigh, coming out at the hip; death ensued in less than an hour. Immediately after the affray, David went to the cabin of Fisher and Morey, stated what had occurred, and said that he expected to shoot Adam through the body, but the deceased knocked the gun down; he was not aware at the time that Adam was mortally wounded.

A man by the name of F. L. Smith was murdered on April 23d, 1862, on the Ogilsby road, about 21 miles east of Placerville. A rifle ball broke his spine, passing through his heart. Two young men traveling the same road on foot, heard the report of a gun, hurried to the spot, and arriving where the murdered man fell, saw a man picking up his hat and a rifle. Some dispute arose between the parties, but the two being unarmed left after the murderer threatened to shoot them also. They went to the Goodwin Mountain House, to give the alarm, and on returning to the spot and searching, they discovered the murdered man, who had been dragged about 100 yards below the road into the chapparel. A rope was tied around his body. The body was brought to Placerville for burial. The murderer was arrested by Deputy

CAPTAIN DAVIS.

A CALIFORNIA BALLAD BY FREDERICK COZZENS.

All the heroes that ever were born
Native or foreign, bearded or shorn,
From the days of Homer to Omer Pasha

Who mauled and maltreated the troops of the Czar ;
And drove the rowdy Muscovite back,
Fin and Livonian, Pole and Cossack,
From gray Ladoga to green Ukraine,
And other parts of the Russian domain,
With an intimation exceedingly plain,
That they'd better cut! and not come again.
All the heroes of olden time
Who have jingled alike in armor and rhyme,
Hercules, Hector, Quintus Curtius,
Pompey and Pegasus-riding Perseus,
Brave Bayard, and the braver Roland,

Men who never a fight turned back on ;
Charles the Swede, and the Spartan band,
Coriolanus, and General Jackson,
Richard the Third, and Marcus Brutus,
And others, whose names won't rhyme to suit us,
Must certainly sink in the deep profound
When Captain Davis' story gets round.

Know ye the land where the sinking sun
Sees the last of the earth when the day is done;
Where the course of empire is sure to stop,
And the play concludes with the fifth-act drop;
Where, wonderful spectacle, hand in hand
The oldest and the youngest nations stand?
Where yellow Asia, withered and dry,

Hears Young America, sharp and spry,
With thumb in his vest, and quizzical leer,
Singing out"Old Fogie, come over here!"
Know ye the land of mines and vines,
Of monstrous turnips and giant pines,
Of monstrous profits and quick declines,
And Howland and Aspinwall's steamship lines?
Know ye the land so wondrous fair

Fame has blown on his golden bugle,
From Battery-place to Union Square

Over the Park and down McDougal ? Hither and thither, and everywhere,

In every city its name is known, There is not a grizzly Wall street bear

That does not shrink when the blast is blown. There Dives sits on a golden throne,

With Lazarus holding his shield before, Charged with a heart of auriferous stone, And a pick-ax and spade on a field of ore.

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Know ye the land that looks on Ind? There only you'll see a pacific sailor,

Its song has been sung by Jenny Lind,

And the words were furnished by Bayard Taylor.

Seaward stretches a valley there,

Seldom frequented by men or women; Its rocks are hung with the prickle-pear,

And the golden balls of the wild persimmon; Haunts congenial to wolf and bear, Covered with thickets, are everywhere; There's nothing at all in the place to attract us, Except some grotesque kind of cactus; Glittering beetles with golden rings, Royal lizards with golden wings,

And a gorgeous species of poisonous snake,

That lets you know when he means to battle

By giving his tail a rousing shake,

To which is attached a muffled rattle.

Captain Davis, (Jonathan R.),

With James McDonald, of Alabama, And Dr. Bolivar Sparks were thar,

Cracking the rocks with a miner's hammer.

Of the valley they'd heard reports

"That plenty of gold was there in quartz.”
Gold in quartz they marked not there,
But p'ints enough on the prickly pear,
As they very soon found

When they sat on the ground,

To scrape the blood from their cuts and scratches;

For rickety cactus had stripped them bare,

And cobbled their hides with crimson patches,
Thousands of miles they are from home,

Hundreds from San Francisco city;
Little they think that near them roam
A baker's dozen of wild banditti.
Fellows who prowl, like stealthy cats,
In velvet jackets and sugar-loaf hats,
Covered all over with trinkets and crimes,

Watches and crosses, pistols and feathers,
Squeezing virgins and wives like limes,

And wrapping their legs in unpatented leathers; Little they think how close at hand

Is that cock of the walk-"the Bold Brigand!"

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Sudden, and never a word spoke they, But pulled their trigger and blazed away.

"Music," says Halleck, "is everywhere,"
Harmony guides the whole creation;
But when a bullet sings in the air
So close to your hat that it moves your hair,
To enjoy it requires a taste quite rare,

With a certain amount of cultivation.
But never music, homely or grand,
Grisi's "Norma or Jungle's band,
The distant sound of the watch dog's bark,

The coffee-mill's breakfast psalm in the cellar, "Home, Sweet Home," or the sweet "Sky Lark,"

Sung by Mrs. Payne, in "Cinderella ;"

Songs, that remind us of days of yore,

Curbstone ditties that we have loved to hear, "Brewer's Yeast!" and "Straw, Oat Straw?" "Lily-white corn, a penny an ear?"

Rustic music of chanticleer,

"Robert the Devil," by Meyerbeer,

Played at the "Park" when the Woods were here,

Or anything else that an echo brings

From those mysterious vibrant strings,

That answer at one, like the telegraph line,

To notes that were written in "Old Lang Syne."
Nothing, I say, ever played or sung,

Organ panted, or bugle rung,

Not even the horn on the Switzer Alp,

Was half so sweet to the Captain's ear

As the sound of that bullet that passed his scalp,
And told him a scrimmage was awful near.

Come, O Danger! in any form,

"The earthquake's shock or the ocean storm;"
Come, when its century's weight of snow
The avalanche hurls on the Swiss chateau ;
Come with the murderous Hindoo Thug,
Come with the grizzly's fearful hug,
With the Malay's stab, or the adder's fang,
Or the deadly fly of the boomerang,
But never come when the carbine's bang
That are fired by men that must fight or hang.

On they came with a thunderous shout
That made the rocky canyon ring;
(Canon, in Spanish, means tube or spout,

Gorge, or hollow, or some such thing.)
On they came with a thundering noise;
Captain Davis said, calmly, "Boys,
I've been a waiting to see them chaps ;"
And with that he examined his pistol-caps;
Then a long, deep breath he drew,

Put in his cheek a tremendous chew,

Stripped off his waistcoat and coat, and threw
Them down, and was ready to die or do.

Had I Bryant's belligerent skill,
Wouldn't I make this a bloody fight?
Or Alfred Tennyson's crimson quill,
What thundering, blundering lines I'd write!
I'd batter, and hack, and cut, and stab,
And guage, and throttle, and curse, and jab,
I'd wade to my ears in oaths and slaughter,

Pour out blood like brandy and water;

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Hit 'em again if they asked for quarter,

And clinch and wrestle, and yell and bite, But I never could wield a carniverous pen Like either of those intellectual men. I love a peaceful pastoral scene, With drowsy mountains and meadows green, Covered with daisies, grass, and clover, Mottled with Dorset and Southdown sheep, Better than fields with a red turf over, And men piled up in a Waterloo heap. But notwithstanding, my fate cries out : "Put Captain Davis in song and story! That children hereafter may read about His deeds in the Rocky canyon foray!"

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Your epic gets smashed with a Paishan gun;
And the hero for whom you are tuning the string
Is dead before "arms and the man" you sing};
To say nothing of how you jar and shock
Your verses with hammer and rammer and stock
Bullet and wad, trigger and lock,
Nipple and cap, pan and cock.

But wouldn't I like to spread a few pages
All over with arms of the middle ages?
Wouldn't I like to expatiate

On Captain Davis in chain or plate?
Spur to heel, and plume to crest,
Visor barred, and lance in rest,

Long, cross-hilted brand to wield,
Cuirass, gauntlets, mace and shield;
Cased in proof himself and horse,
From frontlet-spike to buckler-boss ;
Harness glistening in the sun,
Plebian foes, and twelve to one!

I tell you now there's a beautiful chance
To make a hero of old romance;
But I'm painting his picture for after-time,

And don't mean to sacrifice truth for rhyme.
Cease, digression; the fray grows hot!

Never an instant stops the firing;
Two of the conical hats are shot,

And a velvet jacket is just expiring.
Never yields Captain Davis an inch,

For he didn't know how, if he wished, to flinch.
Firm he stands in the rocky gorge,

Moved as much by those vagrant men

As an anvil that stands by a blacksmith's forge.
Is moved by the sledge-hammer's ten-pound ten!
Firm though his shirt, with jag and rag
Resembles an army's storming flag:
Firm, till suddenly they give a shout,

Drop their shooters and clutch their knives,
When he said, "Jackson their powder's out,

And I've got three barrels and that's three lives !"

One! and the nearest steeple-crown

Stood aghast, as a minster spire

Stand, when the church below is on fire, Then trembles, and totters, and tumbles down.

Don Pasquale the name he bore,

Near Lecco was reared his ancestral cot.

Close by Lago Como's shore

For description of which, see Claude Melnotte. Two, and instantly drops, with a crash,

An antediluvian sort of mustache;

Such as hundreds of years had grown,

When scissors and razors were quite unknown.

He from the Tuscan city had come,
Where a tower is built all out of plumb!
Puritani his name was hight.

A terrible fellow to pray or fight;

Three! and as if his head were cheese,

Through Castadiva a bullet cut; Knocked a hole in his os unguis,

And bedded itself in his occiput.

Daily to mass his widow will go,

In that beautiful city, a lovely moaner, Where those supernatural sausages grow, Which we mispronounce when we style “Bellona.

As a crowd that near a depot stands,
Impatiently waiting to take the cars,
Will "clear the track " when its iron bands
The ponderous, fiery hippogriph jars,
Yet the moment it stops don't care a pin,
But hustle and bustle and go right in,
So the half of the band that still survives,
Comes up, with long mustaches and knives,
Determined to mince the Captain to chowder,
So soon as it's known he is out of powder.

Six feet one, in trowsers and shirt,
Covered with sweat, and blood, and dirt;
Not very much scared, (though his hat was hurt
And as full of holes as a garden squirt.)
Awaiting the onslaught, behold him stand
With a twelve inch "Bowie" in either hand.
His cause was right, and his arms were long,
His blades were bright, and his heart was strong;
All he asks of the trinketed clan

Is a bird's eye view of the foremost man;

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