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Distrust. A BRIEF TALE. List and I will tell you a story of real life as occurred in our very midst. The heroine of my story lived many years in Mobile ; was a native. 1 think, of this place; at all events her lot in life must early have been cast among us. Ma ny in this Fair Room have taken her by the hand ; for, at every hearth-stone she was a wel come guest, rendered so by her brilliant man ners, and engaging, lovely disposition. Every | body loved Dora Hammer.-!v, for -lie loved every ; body. She had been a widow nine years when I first made her acquaintance, and a more lovely ; woman in every point of view it has never been my lot to meet with. 1 often wondered at her perversity in remaining single, when 1 knew, with the world, that she had it so largely in her power not only to become an interesting wife, but a most useful member of society. She al ways parried my persuasions, by saying that she dreaded the dominion of a step-father over her only child, a sweet little girl of some ten sum mers. I noticed at the timer despite her effort to conceal it, that the poor woman was most im measurably wretched. She was not in love, for she was a woman of too firmly balanced a mind ever to sit down and mope on an unrequited passion. Her beautiful blameless life had been passed among us, with the exception of the five years of her married life, which she had spent elsewhere. It was during a brief visit she paid Mobile in 18—, while at her father’s house, she heard of her husband’s death. 1 shall never for get the shock it occasioned me, more for Dora’s sake, whom 1 knew to he so ardently attached to him. Time heals every wound, and 1 knew, in the common course of things, she must have long since ceased to grieve lor her husband’s death. The announcement, at last, that she was about to leave Mobile forever and settle in the West, filled (he large circle of her friends with the most unbounded astonishment. What! leave the dear friends, where she had been so petted, so caressed, for a home in a stranger land—far from the scene of her childhood—well might we wonder. I determined with mv husband’s per mission, to ask an explanation for this strange resolve. She was to perform her last pilgrim age to the graves of her parents, who were in terred in the old grave-vard, at head of Church Street. Thither we went together, and after sauntering through the old arena—anon stopping to listen to the wind, as it swept in yEolian strains through the overhanging gloomy pines --we reached at last an old broken wall, and bidding her sit down beside me, I took both hands in mine and implored her, by my past friendship and my present devotion to her inter ests, to frankly tell me the cause of her unhappi ness. “I am so glad you have touched upon this subject,” she hesitatingly said, ‘ - for, oh, 1 know that 1 would he so much happier if someone else beside myself knew the terrible secret of my past life.” Yes,” she jaid, “l will tell you all without reservation ; hut we must enter into a solemn compact first.” “Any thing in reason, Dora, and which it is in my power to perform, I will most willingly do.” “Will you promise not to hate me?” she convulsively sobbed- “Will you promise by the sacred dust of my parents, that you will still love me as you have hitherto done ?” “I will still continue to love you, Dora, though you had committed murder, ‘['here now, will that assurance satisfy you ?” She kissed me affectionately and began the .recital of her griefs. “Mind, you promise me not to interrupt me,” she said. “You will re member,” she continued, “that I was married in early life to one whom I more than idolized, -and went to Louisiana to live. It was during the last months of the five years that I sojourned in that State, that the seeds of my after unhappi mess were sown. I was young, Emily, and was •too prone-to put faith in all I saw and heard.— It has only been through the last two years of my close intimacy with you, that 1 have learned what a good wile should be. Oh, Emily, Emi ly, the precious pearls that I have cast from me, and trampled in the dust, because 1 knew not their value. Will you believe it. my friend, that my husband is now alive and the father of a large family in one of the West India Islands. Ii was my own fault,” she continued, as I was about to interrupt her; “1 listened to evil coun sel, Emil), and learned to distrust my husband. \es, I learned to distrus', and at last to hate (or at least thought I did) that husband who had al ways lavished on me every kindness. I never quarreled with him. No; I was too innately proud for that ; but 1 allowed myself to brood on my silent growing hate, and, oh ! there is no feel ing on this earth that so nigh warps the brain to madness as the hate born of jealousy. You Jknow my frank, open disposition, Emily. So 1 •went to him, and with my mouth in the dust, asked fora separation. Oh, never did the poor doomed-sacked victim ol the Bosphorus beg for life, as I for the blessed privilege—of going from his presence forever with our only child. He tried to reason with me, but I was mad, Emily, and have been mad since. I asked for nothing but my child, and pleaded with an earnestness which he saw it would he useless to resist So, Emily, I will pass on to the announcement of my widowhood. When I went forth to the world a hypocrite in widow's weeds, my husband wrote to me three times during the first year of our sep aration, imploring me by every precious tie to permit him even by stealth to look once more up on the face of his child ; to every entreaty I re turned a cold, stern, hard answer, and for all this I have dearly bitten the dust since. The years spod on which return no more, and mv child began to expand into a loveliness which was almost superhuman, (Strange a* it may up. pear to you, 1 again learned to love my husband through his child ; when she spoke to me it was ! with her lather’s voice, every lineament is his. i and I so loved my child that 1 again loved mv husband through her. Strange inconsistency [ you may call this, but it is nevertheless true. I knew that he was alive, for regularly every year I hate received a small provision for our main- j tenance through unknown hands. This, with ! the little patrimony received from my father en abled me to live above want—actually aflbrdiim ! many of the luxuries of life. You little know i how I have yearned to look once more upon mv ■ husband’s face. Oh, Emily! I thought if I could j but see him, all might he made up. I was pre pared to humble myself in the very dust To be ta ken to his heart mice more. I knew not where to direct a letter to hirn, and like a poor condemn ed criminal I dared not make open enquiry ; for in the eyes of the world I was a widow and mv ! poor child, was an orphan. So well have I play, j ed my part in hypocrisy, that no one lias ever ; dreamed of my husband’s existence. “1 believe that I knew, and loved yon too. for : nearly four years—this brings me to a widow- j hood ot thirteen years, 1 had almost outlived the hope of ever seeing my husband, when about three weeks since 1 received a small note from him announcing that he was in Mobile, and j most anxious to sec the child of his youth that he would call on the evening of that day, as an old triend of the family, promising under any circumstances not to reveal himself to Ada.— Oh J the hours of that day were so ‘leaden pa ced.’ At last he came with < o clock. I part- , ed from my husband—a tall slight figure, with i light blue eves, and dark curling hair—and I shook hands with him after a lapse of thirteen years—a perfect Indian in complexion—an en larged robust figure—eyes somewhat darker, and his hair, instead of grey, was as black as night, lying in thick masses of large manly crispy curls! Never would I have recognized the husband of my youth in the fine looking mid dle-aged man I presented my daughter as the friend of her father. I had prepared her to re ceive him affectionately, and the warm welcome she extended, assuring him that any one who had known her father should have the warmest corner of her heart, was beyond conception painful to both of us. They had a long and in teresting conversation—he inquired about her studies, and seemed pleased with the progress she had made, making her promise (with my permission) to correspond with him under the assumed name of Dutislow. While in conver sation with his child, 1 had written a few lines, stating mv earnest recantation of my former er rors, and earnestly asking for a reconciliation. He was terribly agitated during the whole inter view, and when I gave him rny note to read, the strong man shook like an ague fit. “He scanned it several times, walked the floor in terrible agitation— looked at me once with the concentrated agony of a life of human suf fering—and approaching Ada gave her a minia ture of himself, which he said she must keep for her father’s sake a: well as his own—kissed herseveral times,and bidding her farewell, ask ed me to take a turn with him on the - tlcony. ■Dora,’ he said, as he nervously closed the door, ‘years ago you passed the fiat of our sep aration—you know how earnestly and hopelessly l sued for terms—you turned a deaf ear and a hard heart to all my solicitations—you were the victim, I too well know, Dora, of a wicked con spiracy ; had you hut listened to the counsel con tained in the last letter I wrote you, twelve years ago, all would have been well ; as it is, you sow ed the seeds of your own unhappiness, by-dis trusting your husband, and at best have reaped i but Dead Sea fruit. I grieve for you—l grieve more for my daughter who must go forth to the world without a father’s proteeting arm. After your utter rejection of all overtures on my part, I went to the West Indies, obtained a divorce from yourself and married a Spanish woman, jw ho could not speak one word of English. By my last marriage I have three children, all daughters. You will hear often from me through your child. God bless you, madam!’ “And without even one kiss, Emily, my husband van ished from my sight. One affectionate, kindly c aress, Emily, would have been so little from hih, and such a precious remembrance to me. May be, this is w hat men call retribution !” Slowly we pursued our way home waul, and I ceased to wonder at those eccentricities in my friend, which formed the comments of so many. Dora IJammersly le't Mobile six years since, and set tied in the West, lie r daughter, as everyone tells me, is worthy her mother —has married i well, and moves with her mother among the first ! women of the nation. Farewell, gentle reader; ; many thanks for your kindly attention ; may we meet often on earth, and at last in heaven, is the sincere prayer ol one who has tried to benefit her sex by this simple narrative of real life. [Cupid's Bow. How he won Her. We hope the moral of the following sketch will he productive of much good. Young men who are ambitious of success in the matrimonial line, should study well the grand secret. Our friend who furnished the sketch, says he sees no reason why it should not he true : A young lady of eccentric character, hut of rare mental endowments and extraordinary per j sonai attractions, had five suitors equally assidu ! ous in their attentions. Unable to decide upon which she would bestow her hand, she gave them notice to call upon her at a certain day, and each state his claims in the presence of the others. At the appointed time the lovers arrived. Four of them were confident of success; hut the fifth had a downcast look, and sighed when he gazed on the object of his devotion. “Gentlemen,” said she, “you have honored me with proposals of marriage. I have, as yet, neither refused nor accepted any one ofyou ; state your claims to my hand, that 1 may know upon what ground I may he justified in bestowing it.” A. answered as follows: “If you marry me, you shali live in a splendid house, have carriages and servants at your command, and enjoy all the luxuries of fashionable life. lam rich.” B. spoke next: “My rival .has said very truly that he is rich, and that he offers you a strong inducement; but lamof a noble descent. My grandfather was a duke, and although not weal thy, I am of a family with whom an alliance would be considered an honor to the wealthiest heiress in the land,” C. slated his claims : ‘‘l am a politician, and have now a reputation that older persons have envied. Next year I shall run for Congress, arid have no doubt ot success. By marrying me your name xviil he handed down to posterity.” D. twisted his mustache with the air of an ex quisite, and said: “Angelic creature! ’Pon my word, l think you have already made up your mind in my favor. You know how much lam admired. Who is the most fashionably dressed in town ? Who frequents the most fashionable places? Who is a better judge of the opera? Humor says D., but, ’pon my honor, I’m too mod est to insist upon it.” When it came to E.’s turn to speak there was ; a pause. Ail eyes were turned towards him. ’ Poor fellow, he was dreadfully embarrassed. “Well,” said the beauty, “what say you Mr. “Alas !” was the reply, “I yield to those gen ’ tlemen. ‘1 hey have the advantage of me in ev. cry respect.” And he took up his hat to leave. “Stop,” said the lady, “make your statement, no matter how humble may be your claims.” “I am poor —” “Go on.” “I am not of noble family—” “Go on, sir.” “I am unknown in the world—” “No matter ; proceed.” ! “I have neither the taste nor the means to dress fashionably. I work for my livelihood. It is ffardlv possible that I can make you happy, for I can afford none of the inducements held out by my rivals.” “1 am to judge of that, sir; what next?” “Nothing, only l love you, and take a news paper.” At this, Messrs. A., 8., C., and D. burst out in a loud laugh, and exclaimed in one voice, “So do we ! I love you to distraction! I take four newspapers, ha! ha!” “Silence,” said the lady. “In one month you shall have my answer. You may all withdraw.” At the end of the month the hve suitors again appeared. Turning to each one in succession the lady answered : “Riches are not productive of happiness.— Boasted nobility ©f blood is the poorest of all recommendations. Faroe i3 fleeting, and he §2)53¥00 §IB 1 S> i KITT OKOi IL 0 that hath the garb of a gentleman is to be pitied. I have found out the names of the papers to which you all subscribe, and have ascertained that none of you who have boasted of wealth, nobility, and fame, or fashion, have paid the printer.— Now, gentlemen, this is dishonest. I cannot think ot marrying a man who would he guilty of a dishonest act. I have learned that Mr. E. not only subscribes for a paper, but pays the printer. Therefore, I say, he is the man ; I give him my hand with the full conviction that he is the one every way calculated t© make me happy.” Need we extend our narrative? The disap pointed gentlemen disappeared quite suddenly ; and the lucky suitor was united to the object of his devotion ; and in a few years, by honesty and industry, became not only a distinguished hut a wealthy man, and was esteemed by all. Young man, he paid the printer. Is there no moral in this ? To my Little Daughter’s Shoes. Two little, rough-woru, stubbed shoes, A plump, well trodden pair, W ith striped stockings thrust within, Lie just beside my chair. Os very homely fabric they, A hole is in eacli toe, They misfit have cost, when they were new, Some fifty cents or so. And yet, this little worn out pair, Is richer far to me, Than all the jeweled sandals are Os Eastern luxury. This mottled leather, cracked with use, Is satin in my sight; These little tarnished buttons shine With all a diamond's light. Search through the wardrobe of the world ! \ ou shall not find me there, So rarely made, so rarely wrought, So glorious a pair. And why ? Because they tell of her, Now sound asleep above, Whose form is moving beauty, and Whose heart is heating love. They tell me of her merry laugh— Her rich whole-hearted glee ; Her gentleness, her innocence, And infant purity. They tell me that her wavering steps Will long demand my aid ; For the old road of human life Is very roughly laid. High hills and swift descents abound ; And on so rude a way Feet that can wear these coverings Would surely go astray. Sweet little girl, be mine the task Thy feeble steps to tend ; To be thy guide, thy counsellor, Thy playmate and thy friend ! And when my steps shall faltering grow, And thine be firm and strong, 1 hy strength shall lead my tottering age In cheerful peace along. i COTTON. The London Economist and other well in -1 formed English Journals maintain, that the hu man family neewl lull 3,000,000 bales of Arneii i can Cotton a year- I'o produce this crop, on the land now under cultivation, some 9,000,000 acres must be ever under the action of the plow and the hoe. Whether the acres arc gradually improved, or gradually made poor and poorer, is a matter of importance to the cotton growing States. We ask the reader to weigh well the fact, that these States can never emigrate, let their natural fer tility* he ever so much impaired. A wrong done to them will tell disastrously on their children now unborn. A generation soon passes away; and as (rod gives fruitfulness to the earth, man is bound to his race, never to leave an acre of arable land less fertile than he found it. The duty and the interest of (he planter, coincide in urging him to husband the few elementary bodies in his soil, which nature demands in making good crops of cotton and grain. The needless waste ol the raw material for forming bread, meat and clothing—things of inestimable value, which never come from nothing—is the error i which we labor to correct. Such is the pro- I gross of civilization, and such the increase of i our species in the world, that it will soon demand ; five and perhaps ten millions of bales a year, ot our great staple. Hence good cotton iands will rapidly appreciate in value; and the reno vation ot fields, in a cheap and economical man ner, be regarded as an object worth investiga ting. It is a subject upon which the writer has bestowed no little thought; and if he remain! long in Washington, an effort shall he made to j illustrate his views in a practical way 7 . The re is a great deal of meaning in the fact that 100 pounds of bird dung called “Guano,” are now annually adding 400 pounds to the seeds of wheat invested in England. Turn this fertili zer over and over as you will, and there stands recorded the unquestionable truth ffat one pound of matter added to the soil, may give a gain .of j four pounds of good bread at the harvest. Eng- j land has more than doubled her crop of wheat per acre ; and may we not hope to see the annual j harvest of cotton, coin and wheat at the South j also doubled ?'\lf science applied to agricul ture, be so useful on the “pastern side of the At- i lantic, is it fair advance, that it is j worthless in the laws of chemistyiffnd of vitality are the same in America as in Europe. These must he studied ! and obeyed, before we can hope to grow large and cheap crops, and at the same time improve the land under cultivation. A planter should have a pretty clear idea in his head how much cotton, corn, or wheat, a cubic foot of his soil really contains before he begins to extract from it the things which make wheat, corn or cotton. [Southern Cultivator . Rice Waffles.—Warm a tea-cup and a half of boiled rice with a pint of milk, mix it smooth, and take it from the fire; then stir in a pint of cold milk and a teaspoonful of salt; add four well beaten eggs, ! and gradually flour enough to make a thick batter.’ ! Roiling Potatoes, —An Irish paper gives the following directions lor rooking potatoes : Put them in a pot or kettle without a lid, with water just suffi cient lo cover them. After the water comes nearly to a boil, pour it oIF, replace it with cold water, into i which throw a good portion of salt. The cold water I sends the heat from the surface to the heart and j makes the potato mealy. After they are boiled and ! the water poured off, let them stand on the lire ten or fifteen minutes to dry. . Truth Beautifully Expressed.—The talented editor of the Genesee Farmer, in the January n um ber of his good book, truthfully and poetically ob serves : “Parents should teach their children to love and prac tice gardening. It will learn them system and order, patience and hope ; it will ge strength to the body aitd mind ; it will improve the head and the heart. It will teach them self-reliance—that success is the reward of industry and perseverance, while failure is the result ol negligence. It will teach them to ‘Look through Nature up to Nature’s God.’ “What affords pleasure like visiting the scene of ouNchildhood, and there beholding, growing in majes ty and pride, the trees we planted in our childish glee ! What music so sweet as the shouting of the tempest in their lofty tops !” Death from a Tight Boot.—At New York, on Monday morning, a man named Patrick Callaghan, died in the City Hospital, from erysipelas, brought on by wearing a tight boot. ‘•Alps Well that Ends Well.” ROMANTIC MARRIAGE. Every day’s experience tends to convince us of the fact, that stranger things actually occur in our transit life, than “are dreamt of in philoso phy- How often is it that the spells which a brilliant writer has for the moment cast around us, are suddenly dissipated by our fancied con viction—that the fiction, ingenious as it is, is ut terly incompatible with probability? And yet does not frequently something of a similar, per haps even of a more extraordinary character, come particulirly under our own knowledge, which, had we read of in the pages of the novel ist, we should not have credited ? That “truth is oftentimes stranger than fiction” is generally allowed, and that point being conceded, comes the question, have we not at times done mani fest injustice to the talents of many eminent writers ? The only charge alledged against the immor tal Shakspeare is, that at times his mighty gen ius drew too largely on his imagination. Yet are these allegations correct ? Mow many of his characters do we not see daily defore us ? A singular incident recently occurred in France, that reminds us somewhat ol Helena and Bertram in his admirable comedy of “All’s well that ends well,” although, perhaps, the lady in our tale possesses a little more of the Lola Mon. tez spirit than did the,heroine so beautifully por trayed by the Bard of Avon ; but as we have al ready, in these remarks, trespassed on the pa tience. of our readers, we shall, without further comments, proceed to relate it. Mons. 1* , an old military officer—a man of harsh and unbending character—had resolved to marry his son to a daughter of one of his brother officers. The young man fold formed other prospects —had dreamed of another union ; but, being of an exceedingly timid disposition, dared not openly resist his father’s wishes. His first words of dissent having been answered by a torrent ol abuse on the part of the old gentle man, poor Arthur permitted the month of be ; trothal to pass without further opposition ; whilst his fiancee , Mil. L , mistook his sighs—his melancholy—for proofs positive of his passion fur her, and considered herself in duty bound to adore him. The wedding day having arrived, the fiances , with their attendants, presented themselves at i the Mayoralty. Arthur was gloomy and rcserv. ! ed, and seemed to have his mind made up to I some desperate resolve. The countenance of | Emma was radiant with happiness. 1 he preliminaries having been duly arranged, the Mayor of C (M. Morband) put to the ! groom the usual question, “Arthur P , will you take, this woman, Emma C , for your ! wife ?” etc. Arthur slowly raised his head, and in a trem ! bliug, yet clear, emphatic lone, answered— j “No !” Os course, then followed a scene, to the por- I trnyal of which w e cannot hope to do justice. , All was confusion. The party separated in dis order—the relatives of the interested bride in dignantly demanding an explanation of Mons. ,I’ , senior, who looked the picture of petrifi ! cation. As for Arthur, he had already escaped, and started directly for Paris. A few days subsequent to this extraordinary | occurrence, a young girl was seen rapidly as cending the stairs of a hotel garni in Rue St j Honore. She had learned from the potter that J Mons. Arthur P , arrived the preceding ! night. It was Emma C , come with her father and intended father-in-law, in search of the fugitive fiance, who had so cruelly insulted her. But she was now- alone. She tapped at the door of No. 17, and entered without waiting for an answer. The young man was reclining S in bed, reading a newspaper. Emma walked straight to the lied side, and drawing from under her shawl an immense horse-pistol, which i doubtless she had procured from her father — i “Sir, ’ said she to Arthur, her eyes flashing j with anger, “you have grossly insulted me, and : I demand reparation ! Refuse this reparation j at the peril of your life ! Let us return at once i to the Mayoralty of C , both in marriage 1 costume. \Y hen the customary question is put j to you, you will answer * 17.s\’ and I w ill answer | ‘JVo,’ when my honor will be satisfied.” Emma seconded hei persuasive eloquence by ! brandishing her pistol with both hands. It was | a powerful argument. After all, she was light, \ or nearly so—at least such was Arthur’s opinion. J He promised, and set out the same day with his i father, who ground his teeth, during the journey, j but uttered not a word. j Finally, they presented themselves again at j the Mayoralty, before the same Magistrate.— i Arthur brarely answered “Yes,” as arranged, ! and prepared his countenance to express the pro- ! per degree of indignation when he should hear I the reply of his betrothed. The Mayor resumed—“ Emma C ,do you i consent ?” etc. “Ye,?,” answered Emma, in the most natural tone possible. Mons. I* , senior, was delighted; he de clared that this union commenced under such auspices, would end like the fairy tales. And they are now actually living together, as happy as the days are long, thus practically demonstra ting that All's icdi that ends well” The Polished Boots—Or, the Rich Brussels Carpet. ! A Thrilling Eleven Hundred and Twenty-Four Dollar Prize Tale. “<;o IT, BOOTS.” MILTON. Sec ’em ! See those new boots standing quietly as a sum mer’s cloud, upon the rich Brussels carpet! Black as the night of doom, they sit quietly up on the rich Brussels carpet. Ten thousand tem pest clouds made up of lamp black, midnight and little niggers, could not rival in darkness tho ? e ryjw calf-skin boots, titling quietly upon the new | Brussels carpet. How still they arc ! j I.ike a black Berkshire pig, on some sum- I mer’s day, half buried in mud, unstirred by the j gentle gale, sit the boots upon the carpet. Look again ! The sun, just sinking in the west like a huge Orange county cheese. The splendiferously golden curtains are unrolling around his evening couch. The plough boy is preparing to turn out his team, and the milk maid, as happy as a Peri with anew bonnet, is about to milk the gentle cows. How beautiful! The rich, golden sunshine peers in at the raised window, and bathes in a flood of li<*ht the room with the rich Brussels carpet, How it lingers on the new calf-skin boots, sitting so still ! N<t a sound is heard, yet how the hoots shine in the golden sunshine! They glitter like a warrior’s buckler, all scoured up. Like a negro’s heel in a dark night, appear the boots, in°the golden sunshine, upon tho rich Brussels carpet, at the close of day. The boots were paid for! That day they had been purchased. What ecstasy J The first new pair of calf-skin boots Is there a free born American citizen whose heart does not throb at the mention of such things ? Point him out, anu let him be branded as some misanthropic wretch who entered upon the great stage of life w-ith nothing but coarse cowhide stogies to hide his homely feet. Yet every rose lias its thorn. Every pleasure has its pain. Every stick of candy has an end. We remember well that as we looked upon those new calf-skin boots, bathed in a flood of golden sunshine and sitting quietly upon the rich Brus sels carpet fust at the decline of day, that some ill-fated offspring of a cow had been slain in cold blood, his sleek, glossy skin cut from his quivering flesh, and plunged into tan bark and lime, while the bereaved mother was mourning for the calf that should bleat no more or caper around with his hind legs and tail in air. Calves must die ! Whether upon two legs or lour, we solemnly reiterate the truth, that calves must die. As we thought of thee things, a tear came in the eye. We brushed it away and turned boldly to the future, as we looked upon the new boots, sitting quietly upon the rich Brussels carpet. A Smart ltoy. “Well, sonny, whose pigs are these ?’’ “Old sow’s, sir.” “Whose sow is it?” “Our old man’s, sir.” “Well, then, who is your old man ?” “If you’ll mind the pigs, I’ll run home ami ax the old woman.” “Never mind, sonny, I want a smart hoy,what can you do ?” “Oh, I can do more than considerable. I milk the geese, ride the turkeys to water, ham string die grasshoppers, lights fires for flies to court by, cuts the buttons oIV dad’s coat when lie’s at prayers, keeps tally for dad and mam when they scold at a mark—old woman is al ways ahead.” “Got any brothers ?” “Lots of’em—all named Bill, except Bob, his name’s Sam—my name’s Larry, but they call me Lazy Lawrence for shortness.” “Well, you’re most too smart for me.” “Travel on, old stick-in-the-mud, I shan’t hire you for a boss to-day.” O’ “What is the matter with the tea this morning ?” said a lady to a newly imported maid. “Is it thetas* you mane, ma’am ? Sure an’ 1 thought the cot Fee an’ tay too wake intirely? !*<> I mixt ’em together to make ’em sthrong, me lady.” “Were you present, and did you see the pris oner at the bar strike Mr. Jones?” said an at torney. “lies, sir-ee ! I didn’t see nothing else; and lie struck him a-purpose, too, for 1 seed him, I did. I’m gwine to sware ali about it, too, for lie tried to buy me off for a dollar and seventy-five cents ; but I just told him old Joscy Rouse didn’t swear to no lies for a dollar and seventy-five cents, by a jug full, and if my edification wasn’t woith two dollars, he might go to thunder and I’d out the whole story and more too, if Jones wanted it. Ugh! a dollar and seventy-five cents ! Old Josey Rouse ain’t bought up lor that money!” O” A gentleman of Paris, when he had considera ble company to dine, would not l?t his son, about six years of age, sit at the table with him, saying, “The boy’s beard is too short.” The boy took a seat at a side table, where a large cat tried to take away bis food, when he exclaimed, “ Go and eat with my father; your board is long enough.” A Ijtf.rai.ist or a Joker. —We see a paragraph going the rounds, to the effect that tiie Bishop of Ox ford had sent round to the church-warden* of his diocese a circular of inquiries, among which was: “Does your officiating clergyman preach the gos pel, and are Ilia conversation and carriage consistent therewith ?” The church-warden near Wallington replied : “He preaches the gospel, but does not keep a car riage.” O’ “Do you see anything ridiculous about this wig?” saida young gentleman t Curran. “Noth ing,” said Cui ran, ‘but the head in it.” O “Beautiful is the love, and sweet the kiss of a sister.” Dobbs says that a kiss from a more distant relative isn’t much worse to take. Being Sure. —“ Look out, Patrick, and if von see any rock ahead of tiie boat, let us know—keep a sharp eye.” “Yes, your honor.” The next moment bang goes the boat on a reef. “Yon blunderhead— didn't i tell you to sing out when you saw a rock ?” “Och plase, sure*. I wasn’t quite sure it was a rock J saw—so 1 waited till we struck before 1 told ye 1” IT “My name is Ben D ! I live at No. Bo'.vry, I do. I ‘ keep a deppo there for buck-wheat flour, apple-pass, eggs and butter. Ido business on my own book, I do. I don't keep no clerks at a thousand dollars a year, to eat up the profits, and steal the rest, I don't. 1 keep my books in my head, and my safe in my breeches pocket; sleep on the coun ter o’ nights; and when Igo out in the morning and put on iny hat, my house is shingled ; and when I’ve had my breakfast, my family’s fed for half a day ; if ’taint, you can take my hat!” A Dream.—“l once dreamed,” said Pat, “f was with the Pope, and he axed me wud I drink ? Thinks I, wud a duck swim ?—and seeing Innishow en, and the lemons, and the sugar, on the sideboard, I told him I didn’t care if l tuk a drap of punch.” “ Void or hot V’ asked the Pope, “lint, yer holiness, and be that, he stepped down into the kitchen for the bilin* water, ami before he got hack, I woke strate up, and now it’s distressing me that I didn’t lake it could” A son of the Emerald Isle, meeting a countryman whose face was not familiar, after saluting him most cordially, inquired his name. “Walsh.” replied the gentleman. “Walsh— Walsh,” said Paddy; “are ye from Dublin? I know two ould maids of that name; is ait her of them your mother /” o^7” “How much will you charge me for a horse aad carriage to-day ?” asked a well known iudi vidua! of a stable keeper, on a day when horses were in great demand. ‘ Four dollars,” respr.n ded the other, and pointing to an antiquated frame ©fa quadruped at that. “Ah! my dear sir, you must have misunderstood me; l wish to hire the h orsc, not to buy him.” if? hen a woman lospth her good name she can’t get it back again. Such is precisely the case with a dog made into sausages—he’s gone forever. IT An Irishman received a challenge to fight a duel, but declined. On being asked the reason, Och, said Pat, “would ye Imvc me lave his mother an orphan ?” Very Poor. —A trifling sort of a fellow in one of onr neighboring counties, not long since, won the affections of the daughter of a bluff, honest Dutch man of some wealth. On asking the old man for hir, he opened with a romantic speech about his be ing a “poor young man,” &c. “Ya,ya,” says the old man, “I know all apoutit; but you ish a little too tarn poor—you hash neider money nor character.” IT “Am I not a little pale?” inquired a lady who was rather short and corpulent, of a crusty old bach elor. “You look more like a big tub!” was the blunt reply. (The following is the best conundrum with which we have met for -‘these many days.” Why is a newspaper like a tooth-brush ? Answer —Because everybody should be pro vided with ono of his own and no: borrow fats neighbor’s. Scenes in a School-House. Under this head we find, in the York Spi r . it, some humorous reminiscences, from which we extract the following spicy scenes in a country school.house : “First class, rise !” thundered our old school, master. Well, the first class did rise. “Now, answer every question correctly, or I’ll break every bone in your ugly little bodies,” was the next pronunciamento of the old auto, crat of our red school-house. “John Brown, what do you understand by acoustics ?” “Why, a stick to drive cows with, I suppose.” “Get out, you young vagabond ! Did I not see you reading about the science of sound V T “Guess not; that was about SyJ fester Sound : the Somnambulist.” “It was, eh ? Sarah, you are John’s young’- er sister ?” “Yeth, thir.” “What is acoustics ?” “1 know, thir—it ith, it ith the art of making’ a noith and hearing a noith.” “You are right. Explain it.” “Yeth, thir. If you thtick your finger in | your mouth and then pull it out thuddenly. the j cold air rusheth into the vacuum, and produth* e.th a thound that thtrikes upon the tymoan of the ear, which maklh the thound audible, and is denominated the thienih of acouthtixth.” “You are quite right, Sarah. John, can you now tell me what is meant by the science of acoustics ? Be careful, sir, or you’ll feel my stick.” “Yes, sir. A cow sticks your finger in her mouth—kicks over the tin pan, which sounds awlul, and is called the science of a cow’s kick.” “Well, John, you do credit to your teacher. You may take your books and run home.” “Willy Chase, what is the currency of the United States /” “Cash and money.” “Wnat are its denominations ?” “Coppers, bogus and Bungtown cents, pen. nies, ftps, pics, fourpencc.hap’nie*, levys, nine, pcnces, Spanish quarters, and shinplaslers.” “That will do.” “Jones, what is the standard weight of the United States ?” “Scale weight and a little longer. 1 “Samuel, how many kingdoms are there in the material world J” “Four.” “Three, only three.” “Four, I think, sir.” “W ell, name them—what are they ? “Mineral kingdom, animal kingdom, vrgeta ble kingdom, and kingdom come.” “Now, how many kinds of motion nre there V* “Four.” *N o. only two ; voluntary and in voluntary.” “Simon says iheie’s four.” “What does Simon say they are ?” “Point, point up. point down and wig.wag.” “You rascal ! I’ve a mind to wig.wag your jacket! Hadn’t you better describe the motion of my stick ?” “I can. sir.” “And its effect ?” “Yes, ?ir. Up stroke and down stroke—the up stroke regular and easy, tho down stroke spasmodically electrifying, and its efleets strik ingly indescribable.” “You understand that, I see.” “George Smith, do you recollect tho story of David and Goliah ?” “Yes, sir; David was a 11 vern-keeper, and Goliah was an intemperate man.” “Who told you that ?” “Nobody ; 1 read it ; and it is said that David fixed a sling for Goliah, and Goliah got slewed with it.” “Wasn’t David a musician ?’* “Yes, sir—he played psalms on the harp, a favorite instrument with the Jews, and at th present day it is called a jew sharp. I have one in my pocket ; here it is. Place it in vo-if mou h, thus—breathe on the tongue gently— ! then strike it with your fingers this way, and the ‘psalms, in harmonious corncob, fructify on j the ear as natural as thunder.” “That’s sufficient ; you can pocket your harp.” “Jane, what is time ?” “.Something that flics, any how. “How do you make that out 1” “\\ hy, tempos fug it.” “W hat’s that ?” “Latin ; it means that time flics, and how can time, if it flies, he anything else than iom. thing that flies ?” “Excellent. What is the meaning of requi. escat in pace 1” “Rest, quiet cat, in peace.” “Well, Jane, at Latin you are perfectly an fait, which, translated, means perfectly awful ; it is a great phrase, from the classics, and appli. cable to this class particularly. Now take oft’ your jackets, and I will give you ‘rvward merit.’ Those who get more than they merit can keep the overplus as a token of my special affection for them ; and those who get less can have the mistake rectified by meniroruug Lt to> me.’’ Taking a Lesson. —Waiting in a friend’s library the other day for the servant to announce our presenco, we were much amused on ovcr hearing the following in an adjoiuing room ; “Vot note you call dat ? Eh ?” “.Minim.” “Mee-:mm ; very good. Now vat you call him vil de black face ?” •‘Crotchet.” “Cm-shay; ah! tres bien. Now vat you call him vit de tail ]” “Quaver.” “Quee-vrc ; aha ! Now, ma-dame, you see , de mee-num go twice as sass as de setni-brave* de cro-shay as tie ince-num, dc quee-vre as do cro-shay, and so fort. Now, vat you call hims % “Those are semi-qnavers, tied.” “Aha ! Now him ?” “Demi-semi-quavers, tied.” j “And him?” ] “Hemi-demi-semi-quavers.” | “Oui. Now, ma-datne, y6u see if you tie do cro-shay, he will go twice as sass as himself. You see? He is de quee-vre. If you tie him JeetJe more, den he vill go more sass as de quee vre. He is de sema. quee-vre. If you tie him once, twice, tree toims more— vy de more you tie him, de fasser he will go. Bimeby he vill kick de sema-quee-vre to de debble, he vill trn so sass ! Eh ? You see ?” ® GO” “Is that clock right over there ?” asked a visitor the other day. “Right over there?” sakl ‘ho bov ‘“aim no whore ebe.”