Philetus Potts is dead. Like Grimes, he was a "good old man!" A true
gentleman of the old school, he clung to many of the fashions of a
by-gone period with a pertinacity, which, to the eyes of the
thoughtless, savored somewhat of the ludicrous. It was only of late
years that he relinquished his three-cornered hat; to breeches,
buckles, and hair powder he adhered to the last. He was also partial
to pigtails, though his earliest was shorn from his head by a
dangerous rival, who cut him out of the good graces of Miss Polly
Martine, a powdered beauty of the past century, by amputating his cue;
while his latest one was sacrificed on the altar of humanity--but
thereby hangs a tale.

If Mr. Potts was behind his age in dress, he was in advance of it in
sentiment. In his breast the milk of human kindness never curdled, and
his intelligent mind was ever actively employed in devising ways and
means to alleviate the sufferings of humanity, and to change the
hearts of evil doers. His comprehensive kindness included the brute
creation as well as mankind, in the circle of his active sympathy.

We remember an instance of his sympathy for animals. We had been
making an excursion into the country. It was high noon of a sultry
summer day; eggs were cooking in the sun, and the mercury in the
thermometer stood at the top of the tube. Passing out of a small
village, we passed a young lady pleasantly and coolly attired in
white, and carrying a sunshade whose grateful shadow melted into the
cool, clear olive of her fine complexion.

Mr. Potts sighed, for she reminded him of Miss Polly Martine at the
same age; and Polly Martine reminded him of parasols by some recondite