"Wall," sez I, "ef all you fellers repose in that there Buzzum

thar'll be mity poor nussin for sum of you!" whereupon Old Abe

buttoned his weskit clear up and blusht like a maidin of sweet

16. Jest at this pint of the conversation another swarm of

orfice-seekers arrove & cum pilin into the parler. Sum wanted

post orfices, sum wanted collectorships, sum wantid furrin

missions, and all wanted sumthin. I thought Old Abe would go

crazy. He hadn't more than had time to shake hands with 'em,

before another tremenjis crowd cum porein onto his premises. His

house and dooryard was now perfeckly overflowed with orfice seekers,

all clameruss for a immejit interview with with Old Abe. One man

from Ohio, who had about seven inches of corn whisky into him,

mistook me for Old Abe and addrest me as "The Pra-hayrie Flower of

the West!" Thinks I YOU want a offiss putty bad. Another man with

a gold-heded cane and a red nose told Old Abe he was "a seckind

Washington & the Pride of the Boundliss West."

Sez I, "Square, you wouldn't take a small post-offiss if you could

git it, would you?"

Sez he, "A patrit is abuv them things, sir!"

"There's a putty big crop of patrits this season, ain't there,

Squire?" sez I, when ANOTHER crowd of offiss seekers pored in. The

house, dooryard, barng & woodshed was now all full, and when

ANOTHER crowd cum I told 'em not to go away for want of room as the

hog-pen was still empty. One patrit from a small town in Michygan

went up on top the house, got into the chimney and slid into the

parler where Old Abe was endeverin to keep the hungry pack of

orfice-seekers from chawin him up alive without benefit of clergy.

The minit he reached the fireplace he jumpt up, brusht the soot out

of his eyes, and yelled: "Don't make eny pintment at the

Spunkville postoffiss till you've read my papers. All the

respectful men in our town is signers to that there dockyment!"

"Good God!" cried Old Abe, "they cum upon me from the skize--down

the chimneys, and from the bowels of the yerth!" He hadn't more'n

got them words out of his delikit mouth before two fat

offiss-seekers from Winconsin, in endeverin to crawl atween his

legs for the purpuss of applyin for the tollgateship at Milwawky,

upsot the President eleck, & he would hev gone sprawlin into the

fireplace if I hadn't caught him in these arms. But I hadn't more'n

stood him up strate before another man cum crashing down the chimney,

his head strikin me viliently again the inards and prostratin my

voluptoous form onto the floor. "Mr. Linkin," shoutid the

infatooated being, "my papers is signed by every clergyman in our

town, and likewise the skoolmaster!"

Sez I, "You egrejis ass," gittin up & brushin the dust from my

eyes, "I'll sign your papers with this bunch of bones, if you don't

be a little more keerful how you make my bread basket a depot in

the futur. How do you like that air perfumery?" sez I, shuving my

fist under his nose. "Them's the kind of papers I'll give you!

Them's the papers YOU want!"

"But I workt hard for the ticket; I toiled night and day! The

patrit should be rewarded!"

"Virtoo," sed I, holdin' the infatooated man by the coat-collar,

"virtoo, sir, is its own reward. Look at me!" He did look at me,

and qualed be4 my gase. "The fact is," I continued, lookin' round

on the hungry crowd, "there is scacely a offiss for every ile lamp

carrid round durin' this campane. I wish thare was. I wish thare

was furrin missions to be filled on varis lonely Islands where

eppydemics rage incessantly, and if I was in Old Abe's place I'd

send every mother's son of you to them. What air you here for?" I

continnered, warmin up considerable, "can't you giv Abe a minit's

peace? Don't you see he's worrid most to death? Go home, you

miserable men, go home & till the sile! Go to peddlin tinware--go

to choppin wood--go to bilin' sope--stuff sassengers--black boots--

git a clerkship on sum respectable manure cart--go round as

original Swiss Bell Ringers--becum 'origenal and only' Campbell

Minstrels--go to lecturin at 50 dollars a nite--imbark in the

peanut bizniss--WRITE FOR THE 'LEDGER'--saw off your legs and go

round givin concerts, with tuchin appeals to a charitable public,

printed on your handbills--anything for a honest living, but don't

come round here drivin Old Abe crazy by your outrajis cuttings up!

Go home. Stand not upon the order of your goin,' but go to onct!

Ef in five minits from this time," sez I, pullin' out my new

sixteen dollar huntin cased watch and brandishin' it before their

eyes, "Ef in five minits from this time a single sole of you

remains on these here premises, I'll go out to my cage near by, and

let my Boy Constructor loose! & ef he gits amung you, you'll think

old Solferino has cum again and no mistake!" You ought to hev seen

them scamper, Mr. Fair. They run ort as tho Satun hisself was

arter them with a red hot ten pronged pitchfork. In five minits

the premises was clear.

"How kin I ever repay you, Mr. Ward, for your kindness?" sed Old

Abe, advancin and shakin me warmly by the hand. "How kin I ever

repay you, sir?"

"By givin the whole country a good, sound administration. By

poerin' ile upon the troubled waturs, North and South. By

pursooin' a patriotic, firm, and just course, and then if any State

wants to secede, let 'em Sesesh!"

"How 'bout my Cabinit, Mister Ward?" sed Abe.

"Fill it up with Showmen, sir! Showmen, is devoid of politics.

They hain't got any principles. They know how to cater for the

public. They know what the public wants, North & South. Showmen,

sir, is honest men. Ef you doubt their literary ability, look at

their posters, and see small bills! Ef you want a Cabinit as is a

Cabinit fill it up with showmen, but don't call on me. The moral

wax figger perfeshun musn't be permitted to go down while there's a

drop of blood in these vains! A. Linkin, I wish you well! Ef

Powers or Walcutt wus to pick out a model for a beautiful man, I

scarcely think they'd sculp you; but ef you do the fair thing by

your country you'll make as putty a angel as any of us! A. Linkin,

use the talents which Nature has put into you judishusly and

firmly, and all will be well! A. Linkin, adoo!"

He shook me cordyully by the hand--we exchanged picters, so we

could gaze upon each other's liniments, when far away from one

another--he at the hellum of the ship of State, and I at the hellum

of the show bizniss--admittance only 15 cents.

1.32. INTERVIEW WITH THE PRINCE NAPOLEON.

Notwithstandin I hain't writ much for the papers of late, nobody

needn't flatter theirselves that the undersined is ded. On the

contry, "I still live," which words was spoken by Danyil Webster,

who was a able man. Even the old-line whigs of Boston will admit

THAT. Webster is ded now, howsever, and his mantle has probly

fallen into the hands of sum dealer in 2nd hand close, who can't

sell it. Leastways nobody pears to be goin round wearin it to any

perticler extent, now days. The rigiment of whom I was kurnel,

finerly concluded they was better adapted as Home Gards, which

accounts for your not hearin of me, ear this, where the bauls is

the thickest and where the cannon doth roar. But as a American

citizen I shall never cease to admire the masterly advance our

troops made on Washinton from Bull Run, a short time ago. It was

well dun. I spoke to my wife 'bout it at the time. My wife sed it

was well dun.

It havin there4 bin detarmined to pertect Baldinsville at all

hazzuds, and as there was no apprehensions of any immejit danger, I

thought I would go orf onto a pleasure tower. Accordinly I put on

a clean Biled Shirt and started for Washinton. I went there to see

the Prints Napoleon, and not to see the place, which I will here

take occasion to obsarve is about as uninterestin a locality as

there is this side of J. Davis's future home, if he ever does die,

and where I reckon they'll make it so warm for him that he will si

for his summer close. It is easy enough to see why a man goes to

the poor house or the penitentiary. It's becawz he can't help it.

But why he should woluntarily go and live in Washinton, is intirely

beyond my comprehension, and I can't say no fairer nor that.

I put up to a leadin hotel. I saw the landlord and sed, "How d'ye

do, Square?"

"Fifty cents, sir," was his reply.

"Sir?"

"Half-a-dollar. We charge twenty-five cents for LOOKIN at the

landlord and fifty cents for speakin to him. If you want supper, a

boy will show you to the dinin-room for twenty-five cents. Your

room bein in the tenth story, it will cost you a dollar to be shown

up there."

"How much do you ax for a man breathin in this equinomikal tarvun?"

sed I.

"Ten cents a Breth," was his reply.

Washinton hotels is very reasonable in their charges. [N.B.--This

is Sarkassum.]

I sent up my keerd to the Prints, and was immejitly ushered before

him. He received me kindly, and axed me to sit down.

"I hav cum to pay my respecks to you, Mister Napoleon, hopin I see

you hale and harty."

"I am quite well," he sed. "Air you well, sir?"

"Sound as a cuss!" I answerd.

He seemed to be pleased with my ways, and we entered into

conversation to onct.

"How's Lewis?" I axed, and he sed the Emperor was well. Eugeny was

likewise well, he sed. Then I axed him was Lewis a good provider?

did he cum home arly nites? did he perfoom her bedroom at a

onseasonable hour with gin and tanzy? Did he go to "the Lodge" on

nites when there wasn't any Lodge? did he often hav to go down town

to meet a friend? did he hav a extensiv acquaintance among poor

young widders whose husbands was in Californy? to all of which

questions the Prints perlitely replide, givin me to understand that

the Emperor was behavin well.

"I ax these question, my royal duke and most noble hiness and

imperials, becaws I'm anxious to know how he stands as a man. I

know he's smart. He is cunnin, he is long-heded, he is deep--he is

grate. But onless he is GOOD he'll come down with a crash one of

these days and the Bonyparts will be Bustid up agin. Bet yer

life!"

"Air you a preacher, sir?" he inquired slitely sarkasticul.

"No, sir. But I bleeve in morality. I likewise bleeve in Meetin

Houses. Show me a place where there isn't any Meetin Houses and

where preachers is never seen, and I'll show you a place where old

hats air stuffed into broken winders, where the children air dirty

and ragged, where gates have no hinges, where the wimin are

slipshod, and where maps of the devil's "wild land" air painted

upon men's shirt bosums with tobacco-jooce! That's what I'll show

you. Let us consider what the preachers do for us before we aboose

'em."

He sed he didn't mean to aboose the clergy. Not at all, and he was

happy to see that I was interested in the Bonypart family.

"It's a grate family," sed I. "But they scooped the old man in."

"How, Sir?"

"Napoleon the Grand. The Britishers scooped him at Waterloo. He

wanted to do too much, and he did it! They scooped him in at

Waterloo, and he subsekently died at St. Heleny! There's where the

gratest military man this world ever projuced pegged out. It was

rather hard to consine such a man as him to St. Heleny, to spend

his larst days in catchin mackeril, and walkin up and down the

dreary beach in a military cloak drawn titely round him, (see

picter-books), but so it was. 'Hed of the Army!' Them was his

larst words. So he had bin. He was grate! Don't I wish we had a

pair of his old boots to command sum of our Brigades!"

This pleased Jerome, and he took me warmly by the hand.

"Alexander the Grate was punkins," I continnered, "but Napoleon was

punkinser! Alic wept becaws there was no more worlds to scoop, and

then took to drinkin. He drowndid his sorrers in the flowin bole,

and the flowin bole was too much for him. It ginerally is. He

undertook to give a snake exhibition in his boots, but it killed

him. That was a bad joke on Alic!"

"Since you air so solicitous about France and the Emperor, may I

ask you how your own country is getting along?" sed Jerome, in a

pleasant voice.

"It's mixed," I sed. But I think we shall cum out all right."

"Columbus, when he diskivered this magnificent continent, could hav

had no idee of the grandeur it would one day assoom," sed the

Prints.

"It cost Columbus twenty thousand dollars to fit out his explorin

expedition," sed I. "If he had bin a sensible man he'd hav put the

money in a hoss railroad or a gas company, and left this

magnificent continent to intelligent savages, who when they got

hold of a good thing knew enuff to keep it, and who wouldn't hav

seceded, nor rebelled, nor knockt Liberty in the hed with a

slungshot. Columbus wasn't much of a feller, after all. It would

hav bin money in my pocket if he'd staid at home. Chris. ment

well, but he put his foot in it when he saled for America."

We talked sum more about matters and things, and at larst I riz to

go. "I will now say good-bye to you, noble sir, and good luck to

you. Likewise the same to Clotildy. Also to the gorgeous persons

which compose your soot. If the Emperor's boy don't like livin at

the Tooleries, when he gits older, and would like to imbark in the

show bizness, let him come with me and I'll make a man of him. You

find us sumwhat mixed, as I before obsarved, but come again next

year and you'll find us clearer nor ever. The American Eagle has

lived too sumptuously of late--his stummic becum foul, and he's

takin a slite emetic. That's all. We're getting ready to strike a

big blow and a sure one. When we do strike, the fur will fly and

secession will be in the hands of the undertaker, sheeted for so

deep a grave that nothin short of Gabriel's trombone will ever

awaken it! Mind what I say. You've heard the showman!"

Then advisin him to keep away from the Peter Funk sections of the

East, and the proprietors of corner-lots in the West, I bid him

farewell, and went away.

There was a levee at Senator What's-his-name's, and I thought I'd

jine in the festivities for a spell. Who should I see but she that

was Sarah Watkins, now the wife of our Congresser, trippin in the

dance, dressed up to kill in her store close. Sarah's father use

to keep a little grosery store in our town and she used to clerk it

for him in busy times. I was rushin up to shake hands with her

when she turned on her heel, and tossin her hed in a contemptooious

manner, walked away from me very rapid. "Hallo, Sal," I hollered,

"can't you measure me a quart of them best melasses? I may want a

codfish, also!" I guess this reminded her of the little red store,

and "the days of her happy childhood."

But I fell in love with a nice little gal after that, who was much

sweeter then Sally's father's melasses, and I axed her if we

shouldn't glide in the messy dance. She sed we should, and we

Glode.

I intended to make this letter very seris, but a few goaks may have

accidentally crept in. Never mind. Besides, I think it improves a

komick paper to publish a goak once in a while.

Yours Muchly,

Ward, (Artemus.)

1.33. AGRICULTURE.

The Barclay County Agricultural Society having seriously invited

the author of this volume to address them on the occasion of their

next annual Fair, he wrote the President of that Society as

follows:

New York. June 12, 1865,

Dear Sir:--

I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the

5th inst., in which you invite me to deliver an address before your

excellent agricultural society.

I feel flattered, and think I will come.

Perhaps, meanwhile, a brief history of my experience as an

agriculturist will be acceptable; and as that history no doubt

contains suggestions of value to the entire agricultural community,

I have concluded to write to you through the Press.

I have been an honest old farmer for some four years.

My farm is in the interior of Maine. Unfortunately my lands are

eleven miles from the railroad. Eleven miles is quite a distance

to haul immense quantities of wheat, corn, rye, and oats; but as I

hav'n't any to haul, I do not, after all, suffer much on that

account.

My farm is more especially a grass farm.

My neighbors told me so at first, and as an evidence that they were

sincere in that opinion, they turned their cows on to it the moment

I went off "lecturing."

These cows are now quite fat. I take pride in these cows, in fact,

and am glad I own a grass farm.

Two years ago I tried sheep-raising.

I bought fifty lambs, and turned them loose on my broad and

beautiful acres.

It was pleasant on bright mornings to stroll leisurely out on to

the farm in my dressing-gown, with a cigar in my mouth, and watch

those innocent little lambs as they danced gayly o'er the hillside.

Watching their saucy capers reminded me of caper sauce, and it

occurred to me I should have some very fine eating when they grew

up to be "muttons."

My gentle shepherd, Mr. Eli Perkins, said, "We must have some

shepherd dogs."

I had no very precise idea as to what shepherd dogs were, but I

assumed a rather profound look, and said:

"We must, Eli. I spoke to you about this some time ago!"

I wrote to my old friend, Mr. Dexter H. Follett, of Boston, for two

shepherd dogs. Mr. F. is not an honest old farmer himself, but I

thought he knew about shepherd dogs. He kindly forsook far more

important business to accommodate, and the dogs came forthwith.

They were splendid creatures--snuff-colored, hazel-eyed,

long-tailed, and shapely-jawed.

We led them proudly to the fields.

"Turn them in, Eli," I said.

Eli turned them in.

They went in at once, and killed twenty of my best lambs in about

four minutes and a half.

My friend had made a trifling mistake in the breed of these dogs.

These dogs were not partial to sheep.

Eli Perkins was astonished, and observed:

"Waal! DID you ever?"

I certainly never had.

There were pools of blood on the greensward, and fragments of wool

and raw lamb chops lay round in confused heaps.

The dogs would have been sent to Boston that night, had they not

suddenly died that afternoon of a throat-distemper. It wasn't a

swelling of the throat. It wasn't diptheria. It was a violent

opening of the throat, extending from ear to ear.

Thus closed their life-stories. Thus ended their interesting

tails.

I failed as a raiser of lambs. As a sheepist, I was not a success.

Last summer Mr. Perkins, said, "I think we'd better cut some grass

this season, sir."

We cut some grass.

To me the new-mown hay is very sweet and nice. The brilliant

George Arnold sings about it, in beautiful verse, down in Jersey

every summer; so does the brilliant Aldrich, at Portsmouth, N.H.

And yet I doubt if either of these men knows the price of a ton of

hay to-day. But new-mown hay is a really fine thing. It is good

for man and beast.

We hired four honest farmers to assist us, and I led them gayly to

the meadows.

I was going to mow, myself.

I saw the sturdy peasants go round once ere I dipped my flashing

scythe into the tall green grass.

"Are you ready?" said E. Perkins.

"I am here!"

"Then follow us."

I followed them.

Followed them rather too closely, evidently, for a white-haired old

man, who immediately followed Mr. Perkins, called upon us to halt.

Then in a low firm voice he said to his son, who was just ahead of

me, "John, change places with me. I hain't got long to live,

anyhow. Yonder berryin' ground will soon have these old bones, and

it's no matter whether I'm carried there with one leg off and

ter'ble gashes in the other or not! But you, John--YOU are young."

The old man changed places with his son. A smile of calm

resignation lit up his wrinkled face, as he sed, "Now, sir, I am

ready!"

"What mean you, old man!" I sed.

"I mean that if you continner to bran'ish that blade as you have

been bran'ishin' it, you'll slash h-- out of some of us before

we're a hour older!"

There was some reason mingled with this white-haired old peasant's

profanity. It was true that I had twice escaped mowing off his

son's legs, and his father was perhaps naturally alarmed.

I went and sat down under a tree. "I never know'd a literary man

in my life," I overheard the old man say, "that know'd anything."

Mr. Perkins was not as valuable to me this season as I had fancied

he might be. Every afternoon he disappeared from the field

regularly, and remained about some two hours. He sed it was

headache. He inherited it from his mother. His mother was often

taken in that way, and suffered a great deal.

At the end of the two hours Mr. Perkins would reappear with his

head neatly done up in a large wet rag, and say he "felt better."

One afternoon it so happened that I soon followed the invalid to

the house, and as I neared the porch I heard a female voice

energetically observe, "You stop!" It was the voice of the hired

girl, and she added, "I'll holler for Mr. Brown!"

"Oh no, Nancy," I heard the invalid E. Perkins soothingly say, "Mr.

Brown knows I love you. Mr. Brown approves of it!"

This was pleasant for Mr. Brown!

I peered cautiously through the kitchen-blinds, and, however

unnatural it may appear, the lips of Eli Perkins and my hired girl

were very near together. She sed, "You shan't do so," and he

DO-SOED. She also said she would get right up and go away, and as

an evidence that she was thoroughly in earnest about it, she

remained where she was.

They are married now, and Mr. Perkins is troubled no more with the

headache.

This year we are planting corn. Mr. Perkins writes me that "on

accounts of no skare krows bein put up krows cum and digged fust

crop up but soon got nother in. Old Bisbee who was frade youd cut

his sons leggs off Ses you bet go an stan up in feeld yrself with

dressin gownd on & gesses krows will keep way. This made Boys in

store larf. no More terday from

"Yours

respecful

"Eli Perkins,"

"his letter."

My friend Mr. D.T.T. Moore, of the "Rural New Yorker," thinks if I

"keep on" I will get in the Poor House in about two years.

If you think the honest old farmers of Barclay County want me, I

will come.

Truly Yours,

Charles F. Browne.

1.34. BUSTS.

There are in this city several Italian gentlemen engaged in the bust

business. They have their peculiarities and eccentricities. They

are swarthy-faced, wear slouched caps and drab pea-jackets, and

smoke bad cigars. They make busts of Webster, Clay, Bonaparte,

Douglas, and other great men, living and dead. The Italian buster

comes upon you solemnly and cautiously. "Buy Napoleon?" he will

say, and you may probably answer "not a buy." "How much giv-ee?" he

asks, and perhaps you will ask him how much he wants. "Nine

dollar," he will answer always. We are sure of it. We have

observed this peculiarity in the busters frequently. No matter how

large or small the bust may be, the first price is invariably "nine

dollar." If you decline paying this price, as you undoubtedly will

if you are right in your head, he again asks, "how much giv-ee?" By

way of a joke you say "a dollar," when the buster retreats

indignantly to the door, saying in a low, wild voice, "O dam!" With

his hand upon the door-latch, he turns and once more asks, "how much

giv-ee?" You repeat the previous offer, when he mutters, "O ha!"

then coming pleasantly towards you, he speaks thus: "Say! how much

giv-ee?" Again you say a dollar, and he cries, "take 'um--take

'um!"--thus falling eight dollars on his original price.

Very eccentric is the Italian buster, and sometimes he calls his

busts by wrong names. We bought Webster (he called him Web-STAR) of

him the other day, and were astonished when he called upon us the

next day with another bust of Webster, exactly like the one we had

purchased of him, and asked us if we didn't want to buy "Cole, the

wife-pizener!" We endeavored to rebuke the depraved buster, but our

utterance was choked, and we could only gaze upon him in speechless

astonishment and indignation.

1.35. A HARD CASE.

We have heard of some very hard cases since we have enlivened this

world with our brilliant presence. We once saw an able-bodied man

chase a party of little school-children and rob them of their

dinners. The man who stole the coppers from his deceased

grandmother's eyes lived in our neighborhood, and we have read about

the man who went to church for the sole purpose of stealing the

testaments and hymn-books. But the hardest case we ever heard of

lived in Arkansas. He was only fourteen years old. One night he

deliberately murdered his father and mother in cold blood, with a

meat-axe. He was tried and found guilty. The Judge drew on his

black cap, and in a voice choked with emotion asked the young

prisoner if he had anything to say before the sentence of the Court

was passed on him. The court-room was densely crowded and there was

not a dry eye in the vast assembly. The youth of the prisoner, his

beauty and innocent looks, the mild, lamblike manner in which he had

conducted himself during the trial--all, all had thoroughly enlisted

the sympathy of the spectators, the ladies in particular. And even

the Jury, who had found it to be their stern duty to declare him

guilty of the appalling crime--even the Jury now wept aloud at this

awful moment.

"Have you anything to say?" repeated the deeply moved Judge.

"Why, no," replied the prisoner, "I think I haven't, though I hope

yer Honor will show some consideration FOR THE FEELINGS OF A POOR

ORPHAN!"

The Judge sentenced the perfect young wretch without delay.

1.36. AFFAIRS AROUND THE VILLAGE GREEN.

It isn't every one who has a village green to write about. I have

one, although I have not seen much of it for some years past. I am

back again, now. In the language of the duke who went around with a

motto about him, "I am here!" and I fancy I am about as happy a

peasant of the vale as ever garnished a melodrama, although I have

not as yet danced on my village green, as the melodramatic peasant

usually does on his. It was the case when Rosina Meadows left home.

The time rolls by serenely now--so serenely that I don't care what

time it is, which is fortunate, because my watch is at present in

the hands of those "men of New York who are called rioters." We met

by chance, the usual way--certainly not by appointment--and I

brought the interview to a close with all possible despatch.

Assuring them that I wasn't Mr. Greeley, particularly, and that he

had never boarded in the private family where I enjoy the comforts

of a home, I tendered them my watch, and begged they would

distribute it judiciously among the laboring classes, as I had seen

the rioters styled in certain public prints.

Why should I loiter feverishly in Broadway, stabbing the hissing hot

air with the splendid gold-headed cane that was presented to me by

the citizens of Waukegan, Illinois, as a slight testimonial of their

esteem? Why broil in my rooms? You said to me, Mrs. Gloverson,

when I took possession of these rooms, that no matter how warm it

might be, a breeze had a way of blowing into them, and that they

were, withal, quite countryfied; but I am bound to say, Mrs.

Gloverson, that there was nothing about them that ever reminded me,

in the remotest degree, of daisies or new-mown hay. Thus, with

sarcasm, do I smash the deceptive Gloverson.

Why stay in New York when I had a village green? I gave it up, the

same as I would an intricate conundrum--and, in short, I am here.

Do I miss the glare and crash of the imperial thoroughfare? The

milkman, the fiery, untamed omnibus horses, the soda fountains,

Central Park, and those things? Yes I do; and I can go on missing

'em for quite a spell, and enjoy it.

The village from which I write to you is small. It does not contain

over forty houses, all told; but they are milk-white, with the

greenest of blinds, and for the most part are shaded with beautiful

elms and willows. To the right of us is a mountain--to the left a

lake. The village nestles between. Of course it does, I never read

a novel in my life in which the villages didn't nestle. Villages

invariably nestle. It is a kind of way they have.

We are away from the cars. The iron-horse, as my little sister

aptly remarks in her composition On Nature, is never heard to shriek

in our midst; and on the whole I am glad of it.

The villagers are kindly people. They are rather incoherent on the

subject of the war, but not more so, perhaps, then are people

elsewhere. One citizen, who used to sustain a good character,

subscribed for the Weekly New York Herald a few months since, and

went to studying the military maps in that well-known journal for

the fireside. I need not inform you that his intellect now totters,

and he has mortgaged his farm. In a literary point of view we are

rather bloodthirsty. A pamphlet edition of the life of a cheerful

being, who slaughtered his wife and child, and then finished

himself, is having an extensive sale just now.

We know little of Honore de Balzac, and perhaps care less for Victor

Hugo. M. Claes's grand search for the Absolute doesn't thrill us in

the least; and Jean Valjean, gloomily picking his way through the

sewers of Paris, with the spooney young man of the name of Marius

upon his back, awakens no interest in our breasts. I say Jean

Valjean picked his way gloomily, and I repeat it. No man, under

these circumstances, could have skipped gayly. But this literary

business, as the gentleman who married his colored chambermaid aptly

observed, "is simply a matter of taste."

The store--I must not forget the store. It is an object of great

interest to me. I usually encounter there, on sunny afternoons, an

old Revolutionary soldier. You may possibly have read about

"Another Revolutionary Soldier gone," but this is one who hasn't

gone, and, moreover, one who doesn't manifest the slightest

intention of going. He distinctly remembers Washington, of course;

they all do; but what I wish to call special attention to, is the

fact that this Revolutionary soldier is one hundred years old, that

his eyes are so good that he can read fine print without spectacles-

-he never used them, by the way--and his mind is perfectly clear.

He is a little shaky in one of his legs, but otherwise he is as

active as most men of forty-five, and his general health is

excellent. He uses no tobacco, but for the last twenty years he has

drunk one glass of liquor every day--no more, no less. He says he

must have his tod. I had begun to have lurking suspicions about

this Revolutionary soldier business, but here is an original Jacobs.

But because a man can drink a glass of liquor a day, and live to be

a hundred years old, my young readers must not infer that by

drinking two glasses of liquor a day a man can live to be two

hundred. "Which, I meanter say, it doesn't foller," as Joseph

Gargery might observe.

This store, in which may constantly be found calico and nails, and

fish, and tobacco in kegs, and snuff in bladders, is a venerable

establishment. As long ago as 1814 it was an institution. The

county troops, on their way to the defence of Portland, then menaced

by British ships-of-war, were drawn up in front of this very store,

and treated at the town's expense. Citizens will tell you how the

clergyman refused to pray for the troops, because he considered the

war an unholy one; and how a somewhat eccentric person, of dissolute

habits, volunteered his services, stating that he once had an uncle

who was a deacon, and he thought he could make a tolerable prayer,

although it was rather out of his line; and how he prayed so long

and absurdly that the Colonel ordered him under arrest, but that

even while soldiers stood over him with gleaming bayonets, the

reckless being sang a preposterous song about his grandmother's

spotted calf, with its Ri-fol-lol-tiddery-i-do; after which he

howled dismally.

And speaking of the store, reminds me of a little story. The author

of "several successful comedies" has been among us, and the store

was anxious to know who the stranger was. And therefore the store

asked him.

"What do you follow, sir?" respectfully inquired the tradesman.

"I occasionally write for the stage, sir."

"Oh!" returned the tradesman, in a confused manner.

"He means," said an honest villager, with a desire to help the

puzzled tradesman out, "he means that he writes the handbills for

the stage drivers!"

I believe that story is new, although perhaps it is not of an

uproariously mirthful character; but one hears stories at the store

that are old enough, goodness knows--stories which, no doubt,

diverted Methuselah in the sunny days of his giddy and thoughtless

boyhood.

There is an exciting scene at the store occasionally. Yesterday an

athletic peasant, in a state of beer, smashed in a counter and

emptied two tubs of butter on the floor. His father--a white-haired

old man, who was a little boy when the Revolutionary war closed, but

who doesn't remember Washington MUCH, came round in the evening and

settled for the damages. "My son," he said, "has considerable

originality." I will mention that this same son once told me that

he could lick me with one arm tied behind him, and I was so

thoroughly satisfied he could, that I told him he needn't mind going

for a rope.

Sometimes I go a-visiting to a farmhouse, on which occasions the

parlor is opened. The windows have been close-shut ever since the

last visitor was there, and there is a dingy smell that I struggle

as calmly as possible with, until I am led to the banquet of

steaming hot biscuit and custard pie. If they would only let me sit

in the dear old-fashioned kitchen, or on the door-stone--if they

knew how dismally the new black furniture looked--but, never mind, I

am not a reformer. No, I should rather think not.

Gloomy enough, this living on a farm, you perhaps say, in which case

you are wrong. I can't exactly say that I pant to be an

agriculturist, but I do know that in the main it is an independent,

calmly happy sort of life. I can see how the prosperous farmer can

go joyously a-field with the rise of the sun, and how his heart may

swell with pride over bounteous harvests and sleek oxen. And it

must be rather jolly for him on winter evenings to sit before the

bright kitchen fire and watch his rosy boys and girls as they study

out the charades in the weekly paper, and gradually find out why my

first is something that grows in a garden, and my second is a fish.

On the green hillside over yonder there is a quivering of snowy

drapery, and bright hair is flashing in the morning sunlight. It

is recess, and the Seminary girls are running in the tall grass.

A goodly seminary to look at outside, certainly, although I am

pained to learn, as I do on unprejudiced authority, that Mrs.

Higgins, the Principal, is a tyrant, who seeks to crush the girls

and trample upon them; but my sorrow is somewhat assuaged by

learning that Skimmerhorn, the pianist, is perfectly splendid.

Looking at these girls reminds me that I, too, was once young--and

where are the friends of my youth? I have found one of 'em,

certainly. I saw him ride in the circus the other day on a bareback

horse, and even now his name stares at me from yonder board-fence,

in green, and blue, and red, and yellow letters. Dashington, the

youth with whom I used to read the able orations of Cicero, and who,

as a declaimer on exhibition days, used to wipe the rest of us boys

pretty handsomely out--well, Dashington is identified with the

halibut and cod interest--drives a fish cart, in fact, from a

certain town on the coast, back into the interior. Hurbertson, the

utterly stupid boy--the lunkhead, who never had his lesson--he's

about the ablest lawyer a sister State can boast. Mills is a

newspaper man, and is just now editing a Major-General down South.

Singlinson, the sweet-voiced boy, whose face was always washed and

who was real good, and who was never rude--HE is in the penitentiary

for putting his uncle's autograph to a financial document. Hawkins,

the clergyman's son, is an actor, and Williamson, the good little

boy who divided his bread and butter with the beggarman, is a

failing merchant, and makes money by it. Tom Slink, who used to

smoke short-sixes and get acquainted with the little circus boys, is

popularly supposed to be the proprietor of a cheap gaming

establishment in Boston, where the beautiful but uncertain prop is

nightly tossed. Be sure, the Army is represented by many of the

friends of my youth, the most of whom have given a good account of

themselves. But Chalmerson hasn't done much. No, Chalmerson is

rather of a failure. He plays on the guitar and sings love songs.

Not that he is a bad man. A kinder-hearted creature never lived,

and they say he hasn't yet got over crying for his little curly

haired sister who died ever so long ago. But he knows nothing about

business, politics, the world, and those things. He is dull at

trade--indeed, it is a common remark that "everybody cheats

Chalmerson." He came to the party the other evening, and brought

his guitar. They wouldn't have him for a tenor in the opera,

certainly, for he is shaky in his upper notes; but if his simple

melodies didn't gush straight from the heart, why were my trained

eyes wet? And although some of the girls giggled, and some of the

men seemed to pity him I could not help fancying that poor

Chalmerson was nearer heaven than any of us all!

1.37. ABOUT EDITORS.

We hear a great deal, and something too much, about the poverty of

editors. It is common for editors to parade their poverty and joke

about it in their papers. We see these witticisms almost every day

of our lives. Sometimes the editor does the "vater vorks business,"

as Mr. Samuel Weller called weeping, and makes pathetic appeals to

his subscribers. Sometimes he is in earnest when he makes these

appeals, but why "on airth" does he stick to a business that will

not support him decently? We read of patriotic and lofty-minded

individuals who sacrifice health, time, money, and perhaps life, for

the good of humanity, the Union, and that sort of thing, but we

don't SEE them very often. We must say that we could count up all

the lofty patriots in this line that we have ever seen, during our

brief but chequered and romantic career, in less than half a day. A

man who clings to a wretchedly paying business, when he can make

himself and others near and dear to him fatter and happier by doing

something else, is about as near an ass as possible, and not hanker

after green grass and corn in the ear. The truth is, editors as a

class are very well fed, groomed and harnessed. They have some

pains that other folk do not have, and they also have some

privileges which the community in general can't possess. While we

would not advise the young reader to "go for an editor," we assure

him he can do much worse. He mustn't spoil a flourishing blacksmith

or popular victualler in making an indifferent editor of himself,

however. He must be endowed with some fancy and imagination to

enchain the public eye. It was Smith, we believe, or some other man

with an odd name, who thought Shakespeare lacked the requisite fancy

and imagination for a successful editor.

To those persons who can't live by printing papers we would say, in

the language of the profligate boarder when dunned for his bill,

being told at the same time by the keeper of the house that he

couldn't board people for nothing, "Then sell out to somebody who

can!" In other words, fly from a business which don't remunerate.

But as we intimated before, there is much gammon in the popular

editorial cry of poverty.

Just now we see a touching paragraph floating through the papers to

the effect that editors don't live out half their years; that, poor

souls! they wear themselves out for the benefit of a cold and

unappreciating world. We don't believe it. Gentle reader, don't

swallow it. It is a footlight trick to work on your feelings. For

ourselves, let us say, that unless we slip up considerably on our

calculations, it will be a long time before our fellow-citizens will

have the melancholy pleasure of erecting to our memory a towering

monument of Parian marble on the Public Square.

1.38. EDITING.

Before you go for an Editor, young man, pause and take a big think!

Do not rush into the editorial harness rashly. Look around and see

if there is not an omnibus to drive--some soil somewhere to be

tilled--a clerkship on some meat cart to be filled--anything that is

reputable and healthy, rather than going for an Editor, which is

hard business at best.

We are not a horse, and consequently have never been called upon to

furnish the motive power for a threshing-machine; but we fancy that

the life of the Editor who is forced to write, write, write, whether

he feels right or not, is much like that of the steed in question.

If the yeas and neighs could be obtained, we believe the intelligent

horse would decide that the threshing-machine is preferable to the

sanctum editorial.

The Editor's work is never done. He is drained incessantly, and no

wonder that he dries up prematurely. Other people can attend

banquets, weddings, &c.; visit halls of dazzling light, get

inebriated, break windows, lick a man occasionally, and enjoy

themselves in a variety of ways; but the Editor cannot. He must

stick tenaciously to his quill. The press, like a sick baby,

mustn't be left alone for a minute. If the press is left to run

itself even for a day, some absurd person indignantly orders the

carrier-boy to stop bringing "that infernal paper. There's nothing

in it. I won't have it in the house!"

The elegant Mantalini, reduced to mangle-turning, described his life

as "a dem'd horrid grind." The life of the Editor is all of that.

But there is a good time coming, we feel confident, for the Editor.

A time when he will be appreciated. When he will have a front seat.

When he will have pie every day, and wear store clothes continually.

When the harsh cry of "stop my paper" will no more grate upon his

ears. Courage, Messieurs the Editors! Still, sanguine as we are of

the coming of this jolly time, we advise the aspirant for editorial

honors to pause ere he takes up the quill as a means of obtaining

his bread and butter. Do not, at least, do so until you have been

jilted several dozen times by a like number of girls; until you have

been knocked down-stairs several times and soused in a horse-pond;

until all the "gushing" feelings within you have been thoroughly

subdued; until, in short, your hide is of rhinoceros thickness.

Then, O aspirants for the bubble reputation at the press's mouth,

throw yourselves among the inkpots, dust, and cobwebs of the

printing office, if you will.

* * * Good my lord, will you see the Editors well bestowed? Do

you hear, let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief

chroniclers of the time. After your death you had better have a bad

epitaph than their ill report while you live.

Hamlet, slightly altered.

1.39. POPULARITY.

What a queer thing is popularity; Bill Pug Nose of the "Plug-Uglies"

(The name given to an infamous gang of ruffians which once had its

head-quarters in Baltimore.) acquires a world-wide reputation by

smashing up the "champion of light weights," sets up a Saloon upon

it, and realizes the first month; while our Missionary, who

collected two hundred blankets last August, and at that time saved a

like number of little negroes in the West Indies from freezing, has

received nothing but the yellow fever. The Hon. Oracular M.

Matterson becomes able to withstand any quantity of late nights and

bad brandy, is elected to Congress, and lobbies through contracts by

which he realizes some 50,000 dollars; while private individuals

lose 100,000 dollars by the Atlantic Cable. Contracts are popular--

the cable isn't. Fiddlers, Prima Donnas, Horse Operas, learned

pigs, and five-legged calves travel through the country, reaping

"golden opinions," while editors, inventors, professors, and

humanitarians generally, are starving in garrets. Revivals of

religion, fashions, summer resorts, and pleasure trips, are

exceedingly popular, while trade, commerce, chloride of lime, and

all the concomitants necessary to render the inner life of denizens

of cities tolerable, are decidedly non est. Even water, which was

so popular and populous a few weeks agone, comes to us in such

stinted sprinklings that it has become popular to supply it only

from hydrants in sufficient quantities to raise one hundred

disgusting smells in a distance of two blocks. Monsieur Revierre,

with nothing but a small name and a large quantity of hair, makes

himself exceedingly popular with hotel-keepers and a numerous

progeny of female Flaunts and Blounts, while Felix Smooth and Mr.

Chink, who persistently set forth their personal and more

substantial marital charms through the columns of "New York Herald,"

have only received one interview each--one from a man in female

attire, and the other from the keeper of an unmentionable house.

Popularity is a queer thing, very. If you don't believe us, try it!

1.40. A LITTLE DIFFICULTY IN THE WAY.

An enterprising traveling agent for a well-known Cleveland Tombstone

Manufactory lately made a business visit to a small town in an

adjoining county. Hearing, in the village, that a man in a remote

part of the township had lost his wife, he thought he would go and

see him, and offer him consolation and a gravestone, on his usual

reasonable terms. He started. The road was a frightful one, but

the agent persevered, and finally arrived at the bereaved man's

house. Bereaved man's hired girl told the agent that the bereaved

man was splitting fence rails "over in pastur, about two milds."

The indefatigable agent hitched his horse and started for the

"pastur." After falling into all manner of mudholes, scratching

himself with briers, and tumbling over decayed logs, the agent at

length found the bereaved man. In a subdued voice he asked the man

if he had lost his wife. The man said he had. The agent was very

sorry to hear of it, and sympathized with the man deeply in his

great affliction; but death, he said, was an insatiate archer, and

shot down all, both of high and low degree. Informed the man that

"what was his loss was her gain," and would be glad to sell him a

gravestone to mark the spot where the beloved one slept--marble or

common stone, as he chose, at prices defying competition. The

bereaved man said there was "a little difficulty in the way."

"Haven't you lost your wife?" inquired the agent.

"Why, yes, I have," said the man, "but no gravestun ain't necessary:

you see the cussed critter ain't dead. SHE'S SCOOTED WITH ANOTHER

MAN!"

The agent retired.

1.41. COLORED PEOPLE'S CHURCH.

There is a plain little meeting-house on Barnwell Street (One of the

streets of the city of Cleveland.) in which the colored people--or a

goodly portion of them--worship on Sundays. The seats are

cushionless, and have perpendicular backs. The pulpit is plain

white--trimmed with red, it is true, but still a very unostentatious

affair for colored people, who are supposed to have a decided

weakness for gay hues. Should you escort a lady to this church, and

seat yourself beside her, you will infallibly be touched on the

shoulder, and politely requested to move to the "gentlemen's side."

Gentlemen and ladies are not allowed to sit together in this church.

They are parted remorselessly. It is hard--we may say it is

terrible--to be torn asunder in this way, but you have to submit,

and of course you had better do so gracefully and pleasantly.

Meeting opens with an old-fashioned hymn, which is very well sung

indeed by the congregation. Then the minister reads a hymn, which

is sung by the choir on the front seats near the pulpit. Then the

minister prays. He hopes no one has been attracted there by idle

curiosity--to see or be seen--and you naturally conclude that he is

gently hitting you. Another hymn follows the prayer, and then we

have the discourse, which certainly has the merit of peculiarity and

boldness. The minister's name is Jones. He don't mince matters at

all. He talks about the "flames of hell" with a confident

fierceness that must be quite refreshing to sinners.

"There's no half-way about this," says he, "no by-paths.

"There are in Cleveland lots of men who go to church regularly, who

behave well in meeting, and who pay their bills.

"They ain't Christians though.

"They're gentlemen sinners.

"And whar d'ye spose they'll fetch up?

"I'll tell ye--they'll fetch him up in h--ll, and they'll come up

standing too--there's where they'll fetch up.

"Who's my backer?

"Have I got a backer?

"Whar's my backer?

"This is my backer (striking the Bible before him)--the Bible will

back me to any amount!"

To still further convince his hearers that he was in earnest, he

exclaimed, "That's me--that's Jones!"

He alluded to Eve in terms of bitter censure. It was natural that

Adam should have been mad at her. "I shouldn't want a woman that

wouldn't mind me, myself," said the speaker.

He directed his attention to dancing, declaring it to be a great

sin. Whar there's dancing there's fiddling--whar there's fiddling

there's unrighteousness, and unrighteousness is wickedness, and

wickedness is sin! That's me--that's Jones."

Bosom the speaker invariably called "buzzim," and devil "debil,"

with a fearfully strong accent on the "il."

1.42. SPIRITS.

Mr. Davenport (One of the afterwards notorious Davenport Brothers.),

who has been for some time closely identified with the modern

spiritual movement, is in the city with his daughter, who is quite

celebrated as a medium. They are accompanied by Mr. Eighme and his

daughter, and are holding circles in Hoffman's Block every afternoon

and evening. We were present at the circle last evening. Miss

Davenport seated herself at a table on which was a tin trumpet, a

tambourine, and a guitar. The audience were seated around the room.

The lights were blown out, and the spirit of an eccentric

individual, well known to the Davenports, and whom they call George,

addressed the audience through the trumpet. He called several of

those present by name in a boisterous voice, and dealt several

stunning knocks on the table. George has been in the spirit-world

some two hundred years. He is a rather rough spirit, and probably

run with the machine and "killed for Kyser" when in the flesh.

(Kyser is an extensive New York butcher, and "to kill" [or

slaughter] for him has passed into a saying with the roughs, or

"bhoys," of New York. To "run with a [fire] machine.") He ordered

the seats in the room to be wheeled round so the audience would face

the table. He said the people on the front seat must be tied with a

rope. The order was misunderstood, the rope being merely drawn

before those on the front seat. He reprimanded Mr. Davenport for

not understanding the instructions. What he meant was that the rope

should be passed around each person on the front seat and then

tightly drawn, a man at each end of the seat to hold on to it. This

was done, and George expressed himself satisfied. There was no one

near the table save the medium. All the rest were behind the rope,

and those on the front seat were particularly charged not to let any

one pass by them. George said he felt first-rate, and commenced

kissing the ladies present. The smack could be distinctly heard,

and some of the ladies said the sensation was very natural. For the

first time in our eventful life we sighed to be a spirit. We envied

George. We did not understand whether the kissing was done through

a trumpet. After kissing considerably, and indulging in some

playful remarks with a man whose Christian name was Napoleon

Bonaparte, and whom George called "Boney," he tied the hands and

feet of the medium. He played the guitar and jingled the

tambourine, and then dashed them violently on the floor. The

candles were lit, and Miss Davenport was securely tied. She could

not move her hands. Her feet were bound, and the rope (which was a

long one) was fastened to the chair. No person in the room had been

near her or had anything to do with tying her. Every person who was

in the room will take his or her oath of that. She could hardly

have tied herself. We never saw such intricate and thorough tying

in our life. The believers present were convinced that George did

it. The unbelievers didn't exactly know what to think about it.

The candles were extinguished again, and pretty soon Miss Davenport

told George to "don't." She spoke in an affrighted tone. The

candles were lit, and she was discovered sitting on the table--hands

and feet tied as before, and herself tied to the chair withal. The

lights were again blown out, there were sounds as if some one was

lifting her from the table; the candles were relit, and she was seen

sitting in the chair on the floor again. No one had been near her

from the audience. Again the lights were extinguished, and

presently the medium said her feet were wet. It appeared that the

mischievous spirit of one Biddie, an Irish Miss who died when twelve

years old, had kicked over the water-pail. Miss Eighme took a seat

at the table, and the same mischievous Biddie scissored off a liberal

lock of her hair. There was the hair, and it had indisputably just

been taken from Miss Eighme's head, and her hands and feet, like

those of Miss D., were securely tied. Other things of a staggering

character to the sceptic were done during the evening.

1.43. MR. BLOWHARD.

The reader has probably met Mr. Blowhard. He is usually round. You

find him in all public places. He is particularly "numerous" at

shows. Knows all the actors intimately. Went to school with some

of 'em. Knows how much they get a month to a cent, and how much

liquor they can hold to a teaspoonful. He knows Ned Forrest like a

book. Has taken sundry drinks with Ned. Ned likes him much. Is

well acquainted with a certain actress. Could have married her just

as easy as not if he had wanted to. Didn't like her "style," and so

concluded not to marry her. Knows Dan Rice well. Knows all of his

men and horses. Is on terms of affectionate intimacy with Dan's

rhinoceros, and is tolerably well acquainted with the performing

elephant. We encountered Mr. Blowhard at the circus yesterday. He

was entertaining those near him with a full account of the whole

institution, men, boys, horses, "muils" and all. He said the

rhinoceros was perfectly harmless, as his teeth had all been taken

out in infancy. Besides, the rhinoceros was under the influence of

opium while he was in the ring, which entirely prevented his

injuring anybody. No danger whatever. In due course of time the

amiable beast was led into the ring. When the cord was taken from

his nose, he turned suddenly and manifested a slight desire to run

violently in among some boys who were seated near the musicians.

The keeper, with the assistance of one of the Bedouin Arabs, soon

induced him to change his mind, and got him in the middle of the

ring. The pleasant quadruped had no sooner arrived here than he

hastily started, with a melodious bellow, towards the seats on one

of which sat Mr. Blowhard. Each particular hair on Mr. Blowhard's

head stood up "like squills upon the speckled porkupine" (Shakspeare

or Artemus Ward, we forget which), and he fell, with a small shriek,

down through the seats to the ground. He remained there until the

agitated rhinoceros became calm, when he crawled slowly back to his

seat.

"Keep mum," he said, with a very wise shake of the head "I only

wanted to have some fun with them folks above us. I swar, I'll bet

the whisky they thought I was scared!" Great character that

Blowhard.

1.44. MARKET MORNING.

"Hurrah! this is market day,

Up, lads, and gaily away!"--Old Comedy.

On market mornings there is a roar and a crash all about the corner

of Kinsman and Pittsburg Streets. The market building--so called,

we presume, because it don't in the least resemble a market

building--is crowded with beef and butchers, and almost countless

meat and vegetable wagons, of all sorts, are confusedly huddled

together all around outside. These wagons mostly come from a few

miles out of town, and are always on the spot at daybreak. A little

after sunrise the crash and jam commences, and continues with little

cessation until ten o'clock in the forenoon. There is a babel of

tongues, an excessively cosmopolitan gathering of people, a roar of

wheels, and a lively smell of beef and vegetables. The soap man,

the headache curative man, the razor man, and a variety of other

tolerable humbugs, are in full blast. We meet married men with

baskets in their hands. Those who have been fortunate in their

selections look happy, while some who have been unlucky wear a

dejected air, for they are probably destined to get pieces of their

wives' minds on their arrival home. It is true, that all married

men have their own way, but the trouble is they don't all have their

own way of having it! We meet a newly-married man. He has recently

set up housekeeping. He is out to buy steak for breakfast. There

are only himself and wife and female domestic in the family. He

shows us his basket, which contains steak enough for at least ten

able-bodied men. We tell him so, but he says we don't know anything

about war, and passes on. Here comes a lady of high degree, who has

no end of servants to send to the market, but she likes to come

herself, and it won't prevent her shining and sparkling in her

elegant drawing-room this afternoon. And she is accumulating muscle

and freshness of face by these walks to market.

And here IS a charming picture. Standing beside a vegetable cart is

a maiden beautiful and sweeter far than any daisy in the fields.

Eyes of purest blue, lips of cherry red, teeth like pearls, silken,

golden hair, and form of exquisite mould. We wonder if she is a

fairy, but instantly conclude that she is not, for in measuring out

a peck of onions she spills some of them; a small boy laughs at the

mishap, and she indignantly shies the measure at his head. Fairies,

you know, don't throw peck measures at small boys' heads. The spell

was broken. The golden chain which for a moment bound us fell to

pieces. We meet an eccentric individual in corduroy pantaloons and

pepper-and-salt coat, who wants to know if we didn't sail out of

Nantucket in 1852 in the whaling brig "Jasper Green." We are

compelled to confess that the only nautical experience we ever had

was to once temporarily command a canal boat on the dark-rolling

Wabash, while the captain went ashore to cave in the head of a

miscreant who had winked lasciviously at the sylph who superintended

the culinary department on board that gallant craft. The eccentric

individual smiles in a ghastly manner, says perhaps we won't lend

him a dollar till tomorrow; to which we courteously reply that we

CERTAINLY won't, and he glides away.

We return to our hotel, reinvigorated with the early, healthful

jaunt, and bestow an imaginary purse of gold upon our African

Brother, who brings us a hot and excellent breakfast.

1.45. WE SEE TWO WITCHES.

Two female fortune-tellers recently came hither, and spread "small

bills" throughout the city. Being slightly anxious, in common with

a wide circle of relatives and friends, to know where we were going

to, and what was to become of us, we visited both of these eminently

respectable witches yesterday and had our fortune told "twict."

Physicians sometimes disagree, lawyers invariably do, editors

occasionally fall out, and we are pained to say that even witches

unfold different tales to one individual. In describing our

interviews with these singularly gifted female women, who are

actually and positively here in this city, we must speak

considerably of "we"--not because we flatter ourselves that we are

more interesting than people in general, but because in the present

case it is really necessary. In the language of Hamlet's Pa, "List,

O list!"

We went to see "Madame B." first. She has rooms at the Burnett

House. The following is a copy of her bill:--

MADAME B.,

THE CELEBRATED SPANISH ASTROLOGIST, CLAIRVOYANT

AND FEMALE DOCTRESS,

Would respectfully announce to the citizens that she has just

arrived in this city, and designs remaining for a few days only.

The Madame can be consulted on all matters pertaining to life--

either past, present, or future--tracing the line of life from

Infancy to Old Age, particularizing each event, in regard to

Business, Love, Marriage, Courtship, Losses, Law Matters, and

Sickness of Relatives and Friends at a distance.

The Madame will also show her visitors a life-like representation

of their Future Husbands and Wives.

LUCKY NUMBERS IN LOTTERIES

Can also be selected by her, and hundreds who have consulted her

have drawn capital prizes. The Madame will furnish medicine for

all diseases, for grown persons (male or female) and children.

Persons wishing to consult her concerning this mysterious art and

human destiny, particularly with reference to their own individual

bearing in relation to a supposed Providence, can be accommodated by

ROOM NO. 23, BURNETT HOUSE,

Corner of Prospect and Ontario streets, Cleveland.

The Madame has traveled extensively for the last few years, both in

the United States and the West Indies, and the success which has

attended her in all places has won for her the reputation of being

the most wonderful Astrologist of the present age.

The Madame has a superior faculty for this business, having been

born with a Caul on her Face, by virtue of which she can more

accurately read the past, present, and future; also enabling her to

cure many diseases without using drugs or medicines. The madame

advertises nothing but what she can do. Call on her if you would

consult the greatest Foreteller of events now living.

Hours of Consultation, from 8 A.M. to 9 o'clock P.M.

We urbanely informed the lady with the "Caul on her Face" that we

had called to have our fortune told, and she said, "Hand out your

money." This preliminary being settled, Madame B. (who is a tall,

sharp-eyed, dark-featured and angular woman, dressed in painfully

positive colors, and heavily loaded with gold chain and mammoth

jewelry of various kinds) and Jupiter indicated powerful that we

were a slim constitution, which came down on to us from our father's

side. Wherein our constitution was not slim, so it came down on to

us from our mother's side.

"Is this so?"

And we said it was.

"Yes," continued the witch, "I know'd 'twas. You can't deceive

Jupiter, me, nor any other planick. You may swim same as Leander

did, but you can't deceive the planicks. Give me your hand! Times

ain't so easy as they has been. So--so--but 'tis temp'ry. 'Twon't

last long. Times will be easy soon. You may be tramped on to onct

or twict, but you'll rekiver. You have talenk, me child. You kin

make a Congresser if sich you likes to be. [We said we would be

excused, if it was all the same to her.] You kin be a lawyer. [We

thanked her, but said we would rather retain our present good moral

character.] You kin be a soldier. You have courage enough to go to

the Hostrian wars and kill the French. [We informed her that we had

already murdered some "English."] You won't have much money till

you're thirty-three years of old. Then you will have large sums--

forty thousand dollars, perhaps. Look out for it! [We promised we

would.] You have traveled some, and you will travel more, which

will make your travels more extensiver than they has been. You will

go to Californy by way of Pike's Pick. [Same route taken by Horace

Greeley.] If nothin happens onto you, you won't meet with no

accidents and will get through pleasant, which you otherwise will

not do under all circumstances however, which doth happen to all,

both great and small, likewise to the rich as also the poor.

Hearken to me! There has been deaths in your family, and there will

be more! But Reserve your constitution and you will live to be

seventy years of old. Me child, HER hair will be black--black as

the Raving's wing. Likewise black will also be her eyes, and she'll

be as different from which you air as night and day. Look out for

the darkish man! He's yer rival! Beware of the darkish man! [We

promised that we'd introduce a funeral into the "darkish man's"

family the moment we encountered him.] Me child, there's more

sunshine than clouds for ye, and send all your friends up here.

"A word before you goes. Expose not yourself. Your eyes is saller,

which is on accounts of bile on your systim. Some don't have bile

on to their systims which their eyes is not saller. This bile

ascends down on to you from many generations which is in their

graves, and peace to their ashes."

MADAME CROMPTON.

We then proceeded directly to Madame Crompton, the other fortune-

teller.

Below is her bill:--

MADAME R. CROMPTON,

The World-Renowned Fortune-Teller and

Astrologist.

Madame Crompton begs leave to inform the citizens of Cleveland

and vicinity that she has taken rooms at the

FARMERS' ST CLAIR HOUSE,

Corner of St Clair and Water Streets,

Where she may be consulted on all matters pertaining to

Past and Future Events.

Also giving Information of Absent friends, whether

Living or Dead.

P.S.--Persons having lost or having property stolen of any kind,

will do well to give her a call, as she will describe the person or

persons with such accuracy as will astonish the most devout critic.

Terms Reasonable.

She has rooms at the Farmers' Hotel, as stated in the bill above.

She was driving an extensive business, and we were forced to wait

half an hour or so for a chance to see her. Madame Crompton is of

the English persuasion, and has evidently searched many long years

in vain for her H. She is small in stature, but considerably

inclined to corpulency, and her red round face is continually

wreathed in smiles, reminding one of a new tin pan basking in the

noonday sun. She took a greasy pack of common playing cards, and

requested us to "cut them in three," which we did. She spread them

out before her on the table, and said:--

"Sir to you which I speaks. You 'av been terrible crossed in love,

and your 'art 'as been much panged. But you'll get over it and

marry a light complected gale with rayther reddish 'air. Before

some time you'll have a legercy fall down on to you, mostly in

solick Jold. There may be a lawsuit about it, and you may be

sup-prisoned as a witnesses, but you'll git it--mostly in solick

Jold, which you will keep in chists, and you must look out for them.

[We said we would keep a skinned optic on "them chists."] You 'as a

enemy, and he's a lightish man. He wants to defraud you out of your

'onesty. He is tellink lies about you now in the 'opes of crushin

yourself. [A weak invention of "the opposition."] You never did

nothin bad. Your 'art is right. You 'ave a great taste for hosses

and like to stay with 'em. Mister to you I sez: Gard aginst the

lightish man and all will be well."

The supernatural being then took an oval-shaped chunk of glass

(which she called a stone) and requested us to "hang on to it." She

looked into it and said:

"If you're not keerful when you git your money, you'll lose it, but

which otherwise you will not, and fifty cents is as cheap as I kin

afford to tell anybody's fortune, and no great shakes made then."

1.46. FROM A HOMELY MAN.

Dear Plain Dealer,--I am a plain man, and there is a melancholy

fitness in my unbosoming my sufferings to the "Plain" Dealer. Plain

as you may be in your dealings, however, I am convinced you never

before had to DEAL with a correspondent so hopelessly plain as I.

Yet plain don't half express my looks. Indeed I doubt very much

whether any word in the English language could be found to convey an

adequate idea on my absolute and utter homeliness. The dates in the

old family Bible show that I am in the decline of life, but I cannot

recall a period in my existence when I felt really young. My very

infancy, those brief months when babes prattle joyously and know

nothing of care, was darkened by a shadowy presentiment of what I

was to endure through life, and my youth was rendered dismal by

continued repetitions of a fact painfully evident "on the face of

it," that the boy was growing homelier and homelier every day.

Memory, that with other people recalls so much that is sweet and

pleasant to think of in connection with their youth, with me brings

up nothing but mortification, bitter tears, I had almost said

curses, on my solitary and homely lot. I have wished--a thousand

times wished--that Memory had never consented to take a seat "in

this distracted globe."

You have heard of a man so homely that he couldn't sleep nights, his

face ached so. Mr. Editor, I am that melancholy individual.

Whoever perpetrated the joke--for joke it was no doubt intended to

be--knew not how much truth he was uttering, or how bitterly the

idle squib would rankle in the heart of one suffering man. Many and

many a night have I in my childhood laid awake thinking of my

homeliness, and as the moonlight has streamed in at the window and

fell upon the handsome and placid features of my little brother

slumbering at my side, Heaven forgive me for the wicked thought, but

I have felt an almost unconquerable impulse to forever disfigure and

mar that sweet upturned innocent face that smiled and looked so

beautiful in sleep, for it was ever reminding me of the curse I was

doomed to carry about me. Many and many a night have I got up in my

nightdress, and lighting my little lamp, sat for hours gazing at my

terrible ugliness of face reflected in the mirror, drawn to it by a

cruel fascination which it was impossible for me to resist.

I need not tell you that I am a single man, and yet I have had what

men call affairs of the heart. I have known what it is to worship

the heart's embodiment of female loveliness, and purity, and truth,

but it was generally at a distance entirely safe to the object of my

adoration. Being of a susceptible nature, I was continually falling

in love, but never, save with one single exception, did I venture to

declare my flame. I saw my heart's palpitator walking in a grove.

Moved by my consuming love, I rushed towards her, and throwing

myself at her feet began to pour forth the long-pent-up emotions of

my heart. She gave one look and then

"Shrieked till all the rocks replied;"

at least you'd thought they replied if you had seen me leave that

grove with a speed greatly accelerated by a shower of rocks from the

hands of an enraged brother, who was at hand. That prepossessing

young lady is now slowly recovering her reason in an institution for

the insane.

Of my further troubles I may perhaps inform you at some future time.

Homely Man.

1.47. THE ELEPHANT.

Some two years since, on the strength of what we regarded as

reliable information, we announced the death of the elephant

Hannibal, at Canton, and accompanied the announcement with a short

sketch of that remarkable animal. We happened to be familiar with

several interesting incidents in the private life of Hannibal, and

our sketch was copied by almost every paper in America and by

several European journals. A few months ago a "traveled" friend

showed us the sketch in a Parisian journal, and possibly it is

"going the rounds" of the Chinese papers by this time. A few days

after we had printed his obituary Hannibal came to town with Van

Amburgh's Menagerie, and the same type which killed the monster

restored him to life again.

About once a year Hannibal

"Gets on a spree,

And goes bobbin around."

to make a short quotation from a once popular ballad. These sprees,

in fact, "is what's the matter with him."

The other day, in Williamsburg, Long Island, he broke loose in the

canvas, emptied most of the cages, and tore through the town like a

mammoth pestilence. An extensive crowd of athletic men, by jabbing

him with spears and pitchforks, and coiling big ropes around his

legs, succeeded in capturing him. The animals he had set free were

caught and restored to their cages without much difficulty.

We doubt if we shall ever forget our first view of Hannibal--which

was also our first view of any elephant--of THE elephant, in short.

It was at the close of a sultry day in June, 18--. The sun had

spent its fury and was going to rest among the clouds of gold and

crimson. A solitary horseman might have been seen slowly ascending

a long hill in a New England town. That solitary horseman was us,

and we were mounted on the old white mare. Two bags were strapped

to the foaming steed. That was before we became wealthy, and of

course we are not ashamed to say that we had been to mill, and

consequently THEM bags contained flour and middlins. Presently a

large object appeared at the top of the hill. We had heard of the

devil, and had been pretty often told that he would have a clear

deed and title to us before long, but had never heard him painted

like the object which met our gaze at the top of that hill on the

close of sultry day in June. Concluding (for we were a mere youth)

that it was an eccentric whale, who had come ashore near North

Yarmouth, and was making a tour through the interior on wheels, we

hastily turned our steed and made for the mill at a rapid rate.

Once we threw over ballast, after the manner of balloonists, and as

the object gained on us we cried aloud for our parents. Fortunately

we reached the mill in safety, and the object passed at a furious

rate, with a portion of a woodshed on its back. It was Hannibal,

who had run away from a neighboring town, taking a shed with him.

. . . . .

DRANK STANDIN.--Col. -- is a big "railroad man." He attended a

railroad supper once. Champagne flowed freely, and the Colonel got

more than his share. Speeches were made after the removal of the

cloth. Somebody arose and eulogized the Colonel in the steepest

possible manner--called him great, good, patriotic, enterprising,

&c., &c. The speaker was here interrupted by the illustrious

Colonel himself, who arising with considerable difficulty, and

beaming benevolently around the table, gravely said, "Let's (hic)

drink that sedimunt standin!" It was done.

1.48. HOW THE NAPOLEON OF SELLERS WAS SOLD.

We have read a great many stories of which Winchell, the great wit

and mimic, was the hero, showing always how neatly and entirely he

sold somebody. Any one who is familiar with Winchell's wonderful

powers of mimicry cannot doubt that these stories are all

substantially true. But there is one instance which we will relate,

or perish in the attempt, where the jolly Winchell was himself sold.

The other evening, while he was conversing with several gentlemen at

one of the hotels, a dilapidated individual reeled into the room and

halted in front of the stove, where he made wild and unsuccessful

efforts to maintain a firm position. He evidently had spent the

evening in marching torchlight processions of forty-rod whisky down

his throat, and at this particular time was decidedly and

disreputably drunk. With a sly wink to the crowd, as much as to

say, "We'll have some fun with this individual," Winchell assumed a

solemn face, and in a ghostly voice said to one of the company:

"The poor fellow we were speaking of is dead!"

"No?" said the individual addressed.

"Yes," said Winchell; "you know both of his eyes were gouged out,

his nose was chawed off, and both of his arms were torn out at the

roots. Of course, he could'nt recover."

This was all said for the benefit of the drunken man, who was

standing, or trying to stand, within a few feet of Winchell; but he

took no sort of notice of it, and was apparently ignorant of the

celebrated delineator's presence. Again Winchell endeavored to

attract his attention, but utterly failed as before. In a few

moments the drunken man staggered out of the room.

"I can generally have a little fun with a drunken man," said

Winchell, "but it is no go in this case."

"I suppose you know what ails the man who just went out?" said the

"gentlemanly host."

"I perceive he is alarmingly inebriated," said Winchell; "does

anything else ail him?"

"Yes," said the host, "HE'S DEAF AND DUMB!"

This was true. There was a "larf," and Winchell, with the remark

that he was sorry to see a disposition in that assemblage "to

deceive an orphan," called for a light and went gravely to bed.

1.49. ON AUTUMN.

Poets are wont to apostrophize the leafy month of June, and there is

no denying that if Spring is "some," June is Summer. But there is a

gorgeous magnificence about the habiliments of Nature, and a teeming

fruitfulness upon her lap during the autumnal months, and we must

confess we have always felt genially inclined towards this season.

It is true, when we concentrate our field of vision to the minute

garniture of earth, we no longer observe the beautiful petals, nor

inhale the fragrance of a gay parterre of the "floral epistles" and

"angel-like collections" which Longfellow (we believe) so

graphically describes, and which Shortfellows so fantastically carry

about in their buttonholes; but we have all their tints reproduced

upon a higher and broader canvas in the kaleidoscopic colors with

which the sky and the forest daily enchant us, and the beautiful and

luscious fruits which Autumn spreads out before us, and

"Crowns the rich promise of the opening Spring."

In another point of view Autumn is suggestive of pleasant

reflections. The wearying, wasting heat of Summer, and the deadly

blasts with which her breath has for some years been freighted, are

past, and the bracing north winds begin to bring balm and healing on

their wings. The hurly-burly of travel, and most sorts of publicity

(except newspapers), are fast playing out, and we can once more hope

to see our friends and relations in the happy sociality of home and

fireside enjoyments. Yielding, as we do, the full force to which

Autumn is seriously entitled, or rather to the serious reflections

and admonitions which the decay of Nature and the dying year always

inspire, and admitting the poet's decade--

"Leaves have their time to fall,

And stars to set,--but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!"

There is a brighter Autumn beyond, and brighter opening years to

those who choose them rather than dead leaves and bitter fruits.

Thus we can conclude tranquilly with Bryant, as we began gaily with

another--

"So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan, which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."

1.50. PAYING FOR HIS PROVENDER BY PRAYING.

We have no intention of making fun of serious matters in telling the

following story; we merely relate a fact.

There is a rule at Oberlin College that no student shall board at

any house where prayers are not regularly made each day. A certain

man fitted up a boarding-house and filled it with boarders, but

forgot, until the eleventh hour, the prayer proviso. Not being a

praying man himself, he looked around for one who was. At length he

found one--a meek young man from Trumbull County--who agreed to pay

for his board in praying. For a while all went smoothly, but the

boarding-master furnished his table so poorly that the boarders

began to grumble and to leave, and the other morning the praying

boarder actually "struck!" Something like the following dialogue

occurred at the table:--

LANDLORD.--Will you pray, Mr. Mild?

MILD.--No, sir, I will not.

LANDLORD.--Why not, Mr. Mild?

MILD.--It don't pay, sir. I can't pray on such victuals as these.

And unless you bind yourself in writing to set a better table than

you have for the last three weeks, NARY ANOTHER PRAYER YOU GET OUT

OF ME!

And that's the way the matter stood at latest advices.

1.51. HUNTING TROUBLE.

Hunting trouble is too fashionable in this world. Contentment and

jollity are not cultivated as they should be. There are too many

prematurely-wrinkled long and melancholy faces among us. There is

too much swearing, sweating and slashing, fuming, foaming and

fretting around and about us all.

"A mad world, my masters."

People rush outdoors bareheaded and barefooted, as it were, and dash

blindly into all sorts of dark alleys in quest of all sorts of

Trouble, when, "Goodness knows," if they will only sit calmly and

pleasantly by their firesides, Trouble will knock soon enough at

their doors.

Hunting Trouble is bad business. If we ever are induced to descend

from our present proud position to become a member of the

Legislature, or ever accumulate sufficient muscle, impudence, and

taste for bad liquor to go to Congress, we shall introduce "a

william" for the suppression of Trouble-hunting. We know Miss

Slinkins, who incessantly frets because Miss Slurkins is better

harnessed than she is, won't like it; and we presume the Simpkinses,

who worry so much because the Perkinses live in a freestone-fronted

house whilst theirs is only plain brick, won't like it also. It is

doubtful, too, whether our long-haired friends the Reformers (who

think the machinery of the world is all out of joint, while we think

it only needs a little greasing to run in first-rate style), will

approve the measure. It is probable, indeed, that very many

societies, of a reformatory (and inflammatory) character, would

frown upon the measure. But the measure would be a good one

nevertheless.

Never hunt Trouble. However dead a shot one may be, the gun he

carries on such expeditions is sure to kick or go off half-cocked.

Trouble will come soon enough, and when he does come, receive him as

pleasantly as possible. Like the tax-collector, he is a disagreeable

chap to have in one's house, but the more amiably you greet him the

sooner he will go away.

1.52. DARK DOINGS.

Four promising young men of this city attended a ball in the rural

districts not long since. At a late hour they retired, leaving word

with the clerk of the hotel to call them early in the morning, as

they wanted to take the first train home. The clerk was an old

friend of the "fellers," and he thought he would have a slight joke

at their expense. So he burnt some cork, and, with a sponge,

blacked the faces of his city friends after they had got soundly

asleep. In the morning he called them about ten minutes before the

train came along. Feller No. 1 awoke and laughed boisterously at

the sight which met his gaze. But he saw through it--the clerk had

played his good joke on his three comrades, and of course he would

keep mum. But it was a devilish good joke. Feller No. 2 awoke, saw

the three black men in the room, comprehended the joke, and laughed

vociferously. But he would keep mum. Fellers No. 3 and 4 awoke,

and experienced the same pleasant feeling; and there was the

beautiful spectacle of four nice young men laughing heartily one at

another, each one supposing the "urban clerk" had spared him in his

cork-daubing operations. They had only time to dress before the

train arrived. They all got aboard, each thinking what a glorious

joke it was to have his three companions go back to town with black

faces. The idea was so rich that they all commenced laughing

violently as soon as they got aboard the cars. The other passengers

took to laughing also, and fun raged fast and furious, until the

benevolent baggage-man, seeing how matters stood, brought a small

pocket-glass and handed it around to the young men. They suddenly

stopped laughing, rushed wildly for the baggage-car, washed their

faces, and amused and instructed each other during the remainder of

the trip with some eloquent flashes of silence.

1.53. REPORTERS.

The following paragraph is going the rounds:--"How many a great man

is now basking in the sunshine of fame generously bestowed upon him

by the prolific genius of some reporter! How many stupid orations

have been made brilliant, how many wandering, pointless, objectless,

speeches put in form and rendered at least readable, by the unknown

reporter! How many a disheartened speaker, who was conscious the

night before of a failure, before a thin, cold, spiritless audience,

awakes delighted to learn that he has addressed an overwhelming

assemblage of his enthusiastic, appreciating fellow-citizens, to

find his speech sparkling with 'cheers,' breaking out into 'immense

applause,' and concluding amidst 'the wildest excitement!'"

There is considerable truth in the above, we are sorry to state.

Reporters are too apt to smooth over and give a fair face to the

stupidity and bombast of political and other public humbugs. For

this they are not only seldom thanked, but frequently are kicked.

Of course this sort of thing is wrong. A Reporter should be

independent enough to meet the approaches of gentlemen of the

Nincompoop persuasion with a flat rebuff. He should never gloss

over a political humbug, whether he belongs to "our side" or not.

He is not thanked for doing it, and, furthermore, he loses the

respect and confidence of his readers. There are many amiable

gentlemen ornamenting the various walks of life, who are under the

impression that for a dozen bad cigars or a few drinks of worse

whisky they can purchase the "opinion" of almost any Reporter. It

has been our pleasure on several occasions to disabuse those

gentlemen of this impression.

Should another occasion of this kind ever offer, we feel that we

should be "adequate" to treat it in a similar manner. A Reporter,

we modestly submit, is as good as anybody, and ought to feel that he

is, everywhere and at all times. For one, let us quietly and

without any show of vanity remark, that we are not only just as good

as anybody else, but a great deal better than many we know of. We

love God and hate Indians: pay our debts; support the Constitution

of the United States; go in for Progress, Sunshine, Calico, and

other luxuries; are perfectly satisfied and happy, and wouldn't swop

"sits" with the President, Louis Napoleon, the Emperor of China,

Sultan of Turkey, Brigham Young, or Nicholas Longworth. Success to

us!

1.54. HE HAD THE LITTLE VOUCHER IN HIS POCKET.

L-- lived in this city several years ago. He dealt in horses,

carriages, &c. Hearing of a good chance to sell buggies up West, he

embarked with a lot for that "great" country. At Toledo he took a

Michigan Southern train. Somebody had by way of a joke, warned him

against the conductor of that particular train, telling him that

said conductor had an eccentric way of taking up tickets at the

beginning of the journey, and of denying that he had done so and

demanding fare at the end thereof. This the confiding L--

swallowed. He determined not to be swindled in this way, and so

when the conductor came around and asked him for his ticket he

declined giving up. The conductor insisted. L-- still refused.

"I've got the little voucher in my pocket," he said, with a knowing

look, slily slapping the pocket which contained the ticket.

The conductor glanced at L--'s stalwart frame. He had heard L--

spoken of as a fighting man. He preferred not to grapple with him.

The train was a light one, and it so happened that L-- was the only

man in this, the hind car. So the conductor had the train stopped,

and quietly unhitched this car.

"Good day, Mr. L," he yelled; "just keep that little voucher in your

pocket, and be d--d to you!"

L-- jumped up and saw the other cars moving rapidly away. He was

left solitary and alone, in a dismal piece of woods known as the

Black Swamp. He remained there in the car until night, when the

down-train came along and took him to Toledo. He had to pay fare,

his up through-ticket not being good on that train. His buggies had

gone unattended to Chicago. He was very angry. He finally got

through, but he will never hear the last of that "little voucher."

1.55. THE GENTLEMANLY CONDUCTOR.

Few have any idea of the trials and tribulations of the railway

conductor--"the gentlemanly conductor," as one-horse newspapers

delight in styling him. Unless you are gifted with the patience of

the lamented Job, who, tradition informs us, had "biles" all over

his body, and didn't swear once, never go for a Conductor, me boy!

The other evening we enlivened a railroad car with our brilliant

presence. Starting time was not quite up, and the passengers were

amusing themselves by laughing, swearing, singing, and talking,

according to their particular fancy. The Conductor came in, and the

following were a few of the questions put to him:--One old fellow,

who was wrapped up in a horse-blanket, and who apparently had about

two pounds of pigtail in his mouth, wanted to know, "What pint of

compass the keers was travelin in?" An old lady, surrounded by

band-boxes and enveloped in flannels, wanted to know what time

the eight o'clock train left Rock Island for "Dubu-kue?" A

carroty-haired young man wanted to know if "free omyibuses" ran

from the cars to the taverns in Toledo? A tall, razor-faced

individual, evidently from the interior of Connecticut, desired to

know if "conductin" paid as well eout West as it did deoun in his

country; and a portly, close-shaven man with round keen eyes, and

in whose face you could read the interest-table, asked the price of

corner lots in Omaha. These and many other equally absurd questions

the conductor answered calmly and in a resigned manner. And we

shuddered as we thought how he would have to answer a similar string

of questions in each of the three cars ahead.

1.56. MORALITY AND GENIUS.

We see it gravely stated in a popular Metropolitan journal that

"true genius goes hand in hand, necessarily, with morality." The

statement is not a startlingly novel one. It has been made,

probably, about sixty thousand times before. But it is untrue and

foolish. We wish genius and morality were affectionate companions,

but it is a fact that they are often bitter enemies. They don't

necessarily coalesce any more than oil and water do! Innumerable

instances may be readily produced in support of this proposition.

Nobody doubts that Sheridan had genius, yet he was a sad dog. Mr.

Byron, the author of Childe Harold "and other poems," was a man of

genius, we think, yet Mr. Byron was a fearfully fast man. Edgar A.

Poe wrote magnificent poetry and majestic prose, but he was, in

private life, hardly the man for small and select tea parties.

We fancy Sir Richard Steele was a man of genius, but he got

disreputably drunk, and didn't pay his debts. Swift had genius--an

immense lot of it--yet Swift was a cold-blooded, pitiless, bad man.

The catalogue might be spun out to any length, but it were useless

to do it. We don't mean to intimate that men of genius must

necessarily be sots and spendthrifts--we merely speak of the fact

that very many of them have been both, and in some instances much

worse than both. Still we can't well see (though some think they

can) how the pleasure and instruction people derive from reading the

productions of these great lights is diminished because their morals

were "lavishly loose." They might have written better had their

private lives been purer, but of this nobody can determine for the

pretty good reason that nobody knows.

So with actors. We have seen people stay away from the theater

because Mrs. Grundy said the star of the evening invariably retired

to his couch in a state of extreme inebriety. If the star is

afflicted with a weakness of this kind, we may regret it. We may

pity or censure the star. But we must still acknowledge the star's

genius, and applaud it. Hence we conclude that the chronic weakness

of actors no more affects the question of the propriety of

patronizing theatrical representations, than the profligacy of

journeymen shoemakers affects the question of the propriety of

wearing boots. All of which is respectfully submitted.

1.57. ROUGH BEGINNING OF THE HONEYMOON.

On last Friday morning an athletic young farmer in the town of

Waynesburg took a fair girl, "all bathed in blushes," from her

parents, and started for the first town across the Pennsylvania line

to be married, where the ceremony could be performed without a

license. The happy pair were accompanied by a sister of the girl, a

tall, gaunt, and sharp-featured female of some thirty-seven summers.

The pair crossed the line, were married, and returned to Wellsville

to pass the night. People at the hotel where the wedding party

stopped observed that they conducted themselves in a rather singular

manner. The husband would take his sister-in-law, the tall female

aforesaid, into one corner of the parlor and talk earnestly to her

gesticulating wildly the while. Then the tall female would "put her

foot down" and talk to him in an angry and excited manner. Then the

husband would take his fair young bride into a corner, but he could

no sooner commence talking to her than the gaunt sister would rush

in between them and angrily join in the conversation. The people at

the hotel ascertained what all this meant about 9 o'clock that

evening. There was an uproar in the room which had been assigned to

the newly married couple. Female shrieks and masculine "swears"

startled the people at the hotel, and they rushed to the spot. The

gaunt female was pressing and kicking against the door of the room,

and the newly-married man, mostly undressed, was barring her out

with all his might. Occasionally she would kick the door far enough

open to disclose the stalwart husband, in his Gentleman Greek Slave

apparel. It appeared that the tall female insisted upon occupying

the same room with the newly-wedded pair; that her sister was

favorably disposed to the arrangement, and that the husband had

agreed to it before the wedding took place, and was now indignantly

repudiating the contract. "Won't you go away now, Susan, peaceful?"

said the newly-married man, softening his voice.

"No," said she, "I won't--so there!"

"Don't you budge an inch!" cried the married sister within the room.

"Now--now, Maria," said the young man to his wife, in a piteous

tone, "don't go for to cuttin' up in this way; now don't!"

"I'll cut up's much I wanter!" she sharply replied.

"Well," roared the desperate man, throwing the door wide open and

stalking out among the crowd, "well, jest you two wimin put on your

duds and go right straight home and bring back the old man and

woman, and your grandfather, who is nigh on to a hundred; bring 'em

all here, AND I'LL MARRY THE WHOLE D--D CABOODLE OF 'EM AND WE'LL

ALL SLEEP TOGETHER!"

The difficulty was finally adjusted by the tall female taking a room

alone. Wellsville is enjoying itself over the "sensation."

1.58. A COLORED MAN OF THE NAME OF JEFFRIES.

One beautiful day last August, Mr. Elmer of East Cleveland, sent his

hired colored man, of the name of Jeffries, to town with a two-horse

wagon to get a load of lime. Mr. Elmer gave Jeffries 5 dollars with

which to pay for the lime. The horses were excellent ones, by the

way, nicely matched, and more than commonly fast. The colored man

of the name of Jeffries came to town and drove to the Johnson Street

Station where he encountered a frail young woman of the name of

Jenkins, who had just been released from jail, where she had been

confined for naughtical conduct (drugging and robbing a sailor).

"Will you fly with me, adorable Jenkins?" he unto her did say, "or

words to that effect," and unto him in reply she did up and say:

"My African brother, I will. Spirit," she continued, alluding to a

stone jug under the seat in the wagon, "I follow!" Then into the

two-horse wagon this fair maiden got and knavely telling the

"perlice," to embark by the first packet for an unromantic land

where the climate is intensely tropical, and where even Laplanders,

who like fire, get more of a good thing than they want--doing and

saying thus the woman of the name of Jenkins mounted the seat with

the colored man of the sweet name of Jeffries; and so these two

sweet, gushing children of nature rode gaily away. Away towards the

setting sun. Away towards Indiana--bright land of cheap whisky and

corn doin's!

1.59. NAMES.

Any name which is suggestive of a joke, however poor the joke may

be, is often a nuisance. We were once "confined" in a printing-

office with a man named Snow. Everybody who came in was bound to

have a joke about Snow. If it was Summer the mad wags would say we

ought to be cold, for we had Snow there all the time--which was a

fact, though we sometimes wished Snow was where he would speedily

melt. Not that we didn't like Snow. Far from it. His name was

what disgusted us. It was also once our misfortune to daily mingle

with a man named Berry, we can't tell how many million times we

heard him called Elderberry, Raspberry, Blueberry, Huckleberry,

Gooseberry, &c. The thing nearly made him deranged. He joined the

filibusters and has made energetic efforts to get shot but had not

succeeded at last accounts, although we hear he has been "slewd"

numerously. There is a good deal in a name, our usually correct

friend W. Shakespeare to the contrary notwithstanding.

Our own name is, unfortunately, one on which jokes, such as they

are, can be made, we cannot present a tabular statement of the times

we have done things brown (in the opinion of partial friends) or

have been asked if we were related to the eccentric old slave and

horse "liberator," whose recent Virginia Reel has attracted so much

of the public attention. Could we do so the array of figures would

be appalling. And sometimes we think we will accept the first good

offer of marriage that is made to us, for the purpose of changing

our unhappy name, setting other interesting considerations entirely

aside.

1.60. HE FOUND HE WOULD.

Several years ago Bill McCracken lived in Peru, Indiana. (We were

in Peru several years ago, and it was a nice place we DON'T think.)

Mr. McCracken was a screamer, and had whipped all the recognized

fighting men on the Wabash. One day somebody told him that Jack

Long, blacksmith of Logansport, said he would give him (McCracken) a

protracted fit of sickness if he would just come down there and

smell of his bones. The McCracken at once laid in a stock of

provisions, consisting of whisky in glass and chickens in the shell,

and started for Logansport. In a few days, he was brought home in a

bunged-up condition, on a cot-bed. One eye was gouged out, a

portion of his nose was chawed off, his left arm was in a sling, his

head was done up in an old rag, and he was pretty badly off himself.

He was set down in the village bar-room, and turning to the crowd

he, in a feeble voice, said, hot tears bedewing his face the while,

"Boys, you know Jack Long said if I'd come down to Loginsput he'd

whale h--ll out of me; and boys, you know I didn't believe it, but

I've been down thar and I FOUND HE WOULD."

He recovered after a lapse of years and led a better life. As he

said himself, he returned from Logansport a changed man.

1.61. "BURIAL IN RICHMOND AND RESURRECTION IN BOSTON."

A drama with this title, written by a colored citizen (an artist by

profession), the characters being performed by colored citizens, was

played at the Melodeon last evening. There were several white

persons present, though most of the audience were colored. The

great variety of colors made a gay, and indeed we may say gorgeous

spectacle.

A hasty sketch of this great moral production may not be

uninteresting. Act 1st, scene 1st, discloses a log-cabin, with

fifteen minutes' intermission between each log. "William, a

spirited slave," and "John, the obedient slave," are in the cabin.

William, the spirited slave, says he will be free, "Why," says

William, "am I here thus? Was this frame made to be in bondage?

Shall THESE voices be hushed? Never, never, never!" "Oh, don't say

it thus," says John, the obedient slave, "for thus it should not be.

An' I tole ye what it was, now, jes take keer of them pistiles or

they'll work yer ruins. Mind what I say, Wilyim. As for me I shall

stay here with my dear Julia!" (Immense applause). "And so it has

come to this, ha?" said William, the spirited slave, standing

himself up and brandishing his arms in a terrific manner. "And so

it has come to this, ha? And this is a free land, so it has come to

this--to this--TO THIS." William appeared to be somewhat confused

at this point, but a wealthy newsboy in the audience helped him out

by crying, "or any other man." John and William then embraced,

bitter tears moistening their manly breasts. "Farwel, Wilyim," said

John, the obedient slave, "and bless you, bless you, me child." The

spirited slave walks off and the obedient slave falls into a swoon.

Tableau: The Goddess of Liberty appears in a mackinaw blanket and

pours incense on the obedient slave. A member of the orchestra gets

up and softly warbles on a bass drum. Angels are heard singing in

the distance. Curtain falls, the audience being soaking wet with

tears.

Act 2, scene first, discloses the house of Mr. Lyons, a slaveholder

in Virginia. Mr. Lyons, as we learn by the play, is "a member of

the Whig Congress." He learns that William, his spirited slave, has

escaped. This makes him very angry, and he says he will break every

bone in William's body. He goes out and searches for William, but

cannot find him, and comes back. He takes a heavy drink, is

stricken with remorse, and declares his intention to become a nun.

John, the obedient slave, comes in and asks permission to marry

Julia. Mr. Lyons says, certainly, by all means, and preparations

are made for the wedding.

The wedding takes place. The scene that follows is rather

incomprehensible. A young mariner has a clandestine interview with

the obedient slave, and receives 10 dollars to make a large box. An

elderly mariner, not that mariner, but another mariner--rushes madly

in and fires a horse-pistol into the air. He wheels and is about

going off, when a black Octoroon rushes madly in and fires another

horse-pistol at the retreating mariner, who falls. He says he is

going to make a die of it. Says he should have acted differently if

he had only done otherwise, which was right, or else it wouldn't be

so. He forgets his part and don't say anything more, but he wraps

himself up in the American flag and expires like a son of a

gentleman. More warblings on the bass drum. The rest of the

orchestra endeavor to accompany the drum, but are so deeply affected

that they can't. There is a death-like stillness in the house. All

was so still that had a cannon been fired off it could have been

distinctly seen.

The next scene discloses a large square box. Several colored

persons are seen standing round the square box. The mariner who was

killed in the last scene commences knocking off the cover of the

box. He pulls the cover off, and up jumps the obedient slave and

his wife! The obedient slave and his dear Julia fall out of the

box. Great applause. They rush to the footlights and kneel. Quick

music by the orchestra, in which the bass drum don't warble so much

as she did. "I'm free! I'M FREE! I'M FREE!!" shrieks the obedient

slave, "O I'm free!" The stage is suddenly lighted up in a gorgeous

manner. The obedient slave and his dear Julia continue kneeling.

The dead mariner blesses them. The Goddess of Liberty appears

again--this time in a beaver overcoat--and pours some more incense

on the obedient slave. An allegorical picture of Virtue appears in

a red vest and military boots, on the left proscenium, John Brown

the barber appears as Lady Macbeth, and says there is a blue tinge

into his nails, and consequently he is an Octoroon. Another actor

wants to define his position on the Euclid Street improvement, but

is hissed down. Curtain descends amidst the admiring shouts of the

audience, red fire, music, and the violent assertion of the obedient

slave that he is free.

The play will not be repeated this evening, as was announced. The

notice will be given of its next performance. It is the greatest

effort of the kind that we ever witnessed.

1.62. A MAYORALTY ELECTION.

Messrs. Senter and Coffinberry, two esteemed citizens, are the

candidates. Here's a faint attempt at a specimen scene. An

innocent German is discovered about half a mile from the polls of

this or that ward. A dozen ticket-peddlers scent him ("even as the

war-horse snuffs the battle," etc.), see him, and make a grand rush

for him. They surround him, each shoves a bunch of tickets under

his nose, and all commence bellowing in his ears. Here's the ticket

yer want--Coffinberry. Here's Senterberry and Coffinter. What the

h--l yer tryin' to fool the man for? Don't yer spose he knows who

he wants ter vote for, say! 'Ere's the ticket--Sen--Coff--don't

crowd--get off my toes, you d--d fool! Workin' men's tickets is the

ticket you want! To h--l wid yez workin' men's ticket, 'ere's the

ticket yez want! No, by Cot, vote for Shorge B. Senter--he says

he'll py all the peer for dems as votes for him as much more dan dey

can trinks, by tam! Senter be d--d! Go for Coffinberry!

Coffinberry was killed eight times in the Mexican war, and is in

favor of justice and Pop'lar Sovrinty! Oh gos! Senter was at the

battle of Tippe-ca-noo, scalped twelve Injuns and wrote a treatise

in Horse-shoeing! Don't go for Coffinberry. He's down on all the

Dutch, and swears he'll have all their heads chopped off and run

into sausages if he's lected. Do you know what George B. Senter

says about the Germans? He says by -- they're in the habit of

stealing LIVE American infants and hashing 'em up into head cheese.

By --! That's a lie! T'aint--I heard that say so with my own

mouth. Let the man alone--stop yer pullin--I'll bust yer ear for

yer yet. My Cot, my Cot, what tam dimes dese 'lections is. Well

yez crowd a poor Jarman till death, yer d--d spalpanes, yez? Sen--

Coff--Senterberry and Coffinter--Working Men's--Repub--Dem-whoop-h-

l-whooray-bully-y-e-o-u-c-h!!

The strongest side got the unfortunate German's vote and he went

sore and bleeding home and satisfied, no doubt, that this is a great

country, and that the American Eagle will continue to be a deeply

interesting bird while his wings are in the hands of patriots like

the above. Scenes like the above (only our description is very

imperfect) were played over and over again, at every ward in the

city, yesterday. Let us be thankful that the country is safe--but

we should like to see some of the ward politicians gauged to-day,

for we are confident the operation would exhibit an astonishing

depth of whiskey.

Hurrah for the Bar--Stangled Spanner!

1.63. FISHING EXCURSION.

The Leviathan, Capt. Wm. Sholl, left the foot of Superior Street at

6 o'clock yesterday morning for a fishing excursion down the lake.

There were about twenty persons in the party, and we think we never

saw a more lovely lot of men. The noble craft swept majestically

out of the Cuyahoga into the lake, and as she sped past a retired

coal-dealer's office the Usher borrowed our pocket-handkerchief

(which in the excess of his emotion he forgot to return to us) to

wipe away four large tears which trickled from his light bay eyes.

On dashed the Leviathan at the rate of about forty-five knots an

hour. The fishing-ground reached, the clarion voice of Sholl was

heard to ejaculate, "Reef home the jib-boom, shorten the main-brace,

splice the forecastle, and throw the hurricane-deck overboard!

Lively, my lads!" "Aye, aye, Sir!" said Marsh the chaplain of the

expedition, in tones of thunder, and the gallant party sprang to

execute the Captain's orders, the agile form of first-officer

Hilliard being especially conspicuous in reefing the jib-boom.

Lines were cast and the sport commenced. It seemed as if all the

fish in the lake knew of our coming, and had collected in that

particular spot for the express purpose of being caught! What teeth

they had--sufficiently good, certainly, to bite a cartridge or

anything else. The Usher caught the first fish--a small but

beautiful bass, whose weight was about three inches and a half. The

Usher was elated at this streak of luck, but his hand did not

tremble and he continued to hand in fish until at noon he had caught

thirteen firkins full and he announced that he should fish no more.

Cruelty was no part of his nature and he did not think it right to

slaughter fish in this way. Cross, Barney, and the rest, were

immensely successful, and hauled in tremendous quantities of bass,

perch, Mackinaw trout, and Connecticut shad. Bone didn't catch a

fish, and we shall never forget the sorrowful manner in which the

poor fellow gazed upon our huge pile of beautiful bass which

occupied all of the quarter deck and a large portion of the

forcastle. Having fished enough the party went ashore, where they

found Ab. McIlrath (who was fanning himself with a barn door), the

grand Commandant (who in a sonorous voice requested the parties, as

they alighted from the small boats, to "Keep their heads out of

water"), the General (who was discussing with the Doctor the

propriety of annexing East Cleveland to the United States), and

several distinguished gentlemen from town, who had come down with

life-preservers and ginger pop. After disposing of a sumptuous

lunch, the party amused and instructed each other by conversation,

and about 3 o'clock the shrill whistle of the Leviathan was sounded

by Mike the urbane and accomplished engineer, and the party were

soon homeward bound. It was a good time.