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About Richards' weekly gazette. (Athens, Ga.) 1849-1850 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 9, 1850)
_ r, n o r—. lA & l f&PXJtm A HMM FlffiEJ ZmmMi, BBVOTEB TO UTIMTUM, Til MTS MB SffISHGSS. MB TO 6SB£fiiL IHmMGSHCS. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. A DREAM.—“ TO THEE.” BY WILLIAM C. RICHARDS. 1 am with thee, in fancy, to-night, love— Thy cheek is pressed closely to mine ; Thy fond eyes upon me beam bright, love— Thy soft arms around me entwine. Thy heart in sweet unison beats, love, To mine that is throbbing with bliss— And what tho’ the fond fancy cheats, love!— I press thy dear lips with a kiss. Thy voice like the strains of a lute, love, I seem, in my rapture, to hear ; While 1. with deep extaoy mute, love— Have nought but its ceasing to fear. I know that the tones arc not real, love— That the vision is fnl.*e as ’tis fair; I know it will fade, and reveal, love, Thine absence still harder to bear. Yet ah! the delusion is dear, love, That gives thee once m<>re to my breast; And the dream that can bring thee so near, love. With all my heart's f<*rvor is blest! Charleston , Jan 28, 1850. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. TO GERALDINE A Valentine. Maid of Charleston, ere I go, Tell me plainly yes or no ! Now you smile and now you pout, And you leave me still in doubt ; Dost thou love me, Geraldine — Thou of Charleston maids the queen ? In the meshes of thy smiles, Caught by thy resistless wiles, While I struggle to be free, Closer am I drawn to thee ; Nor hoots it to be brave or wise, ’Neath the glances of thine eyes. Say, O mistress of my fate. Do you love or do you hate 1 If you will not live for me, I at least can die for thee ! Maid of Charleston, ere I go, Tell me plainly yes or no ! Say, my charmer, Geraldine, Will you be my Valentiue 1 JI'LIE.X. Charleston . Feb.. 1850. •urn For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THE valentine: OR, EFFIE CLARE. BY MRS. C. W. DUBOSE. “ But then her face •So lovely, yet so arch—so full of mirth, The overflowing of an innocent heart: — It haunts me still, though many a year has fleil. hike somo wild melody.”—Rogers’ Italy It was the fourteenth of February, but as bright and beautiful a spring day as ever dawned upon our sunny land. The clouds which for the last few days had ob scured the heavens, occasionally sending down their light showers, and threatening a heavy rain, had all dispersed, and the sun rose bright and fair in a cloudless sky. Ihe breeze came sweet and balmy from the south, and the birds, those blythe har bingers of .Spring, twittered merrily in the budding trees. The influence of ihe weath er seemed to be felt by the inhabitants of the little town of S , for young and old were alike enjoying its invigorating freshness. Gay groups, dressed in holiday attire, sauntered slowly along the irregular streets, or gathered in busy knots to ex change friendly greetings. Old women stood together at the gates, to gossip on the news of the town —and bright eyes Peered slyly from half-opened windows, to watch the postman in his busy rounds— their fair owners blushingly listening for his knock, as one after another of the cu riously-folded, mysterious-looking billets, yclept Valentines, found their way from his wallet into fairy hands. At the end of the long street, and par tially hidden from view by a little wilder ness of evergreens, stood a low white cot- tage, with a cosy-looking latticed porch, in which stood, on this particular morning, a fair young girl, who might, perhaps, have counted the blossoms of some eighteen summers—but her eye still wore the sunny gleam of early girlhood, and her wealth of auburn hair, thrown back from her white brow, floated with all the careless grace of ! childhood over her rounded figure. One j dimpled hand was raised to screen her eyes from the sunlight, as she gazed eagerly down the street, and the other rested light ly on the lattice work that surrounded the little porch. She had stood thus for some minutes, when a gay voice recalled her I wandering thoughts, exclaiming: “ W by, how now, Piffle ? Os what are | you dreaming, that you cannot bestow even one poor smile upon your loving cou sin. Surely, you must have been reading , a chapter in Lamentations, to give your ; sunny face the doleful expression it wore but now !” and turning suddenly, the young girl encountered the roguish glance of Mau rice Elierton, who had approached her un perceived. Blushing deeply, she gave him her hand, saying— “ Nay, cousin Maurice, I was not dream j ing—and you are heartily welcome to a | dozen sn iles; but I was wondering why the postman was so much longer than usual in going his rounds.” “Ha! ha!” laughed Maurice, “so his; visit is of some importance to my fair cou- I i sin to day! But what say you to my en- j ! acting the postman, eh, Effie V’ and the wild youth drew from the capacious pocket ;of liis hunting coat, a tiny billet and a bouquet of exquisite flowers, which were somewhat crushed by his rough handling. Holding them up, at arm’s length, he ex claimed— “ Now for a kiss, Effie, and these pre- ; cious documents shall be your's. What say you ?” “Fie! cousin Maurice, you shall not have the kiss; but if the flowers are mine, give them to me—do not teaze me !” and a bright drop stood pleadingly in her sunny eye. “There, then, take them. I never could withstand a woman’s tears. But acknow ledge that I deserve your thanks, for I have been all the way to M this j morning, to see Charles and bring those silly things to you.” “ Thank you then, a thousand times, dear cousin; but when is Charles coming?” ] “Your note will tell you. There now, run to your room; never mind me, for I know you are dying to read it.” Effie waited for no further permission, but springing lightly up to the staircase, was soon secure in her own little room— while Maurice stood playing with his ri ding whip in the neat parlor, with a ro guish smile upon his good-humored face. “ Dear little Etfie,” he soliloquized—“ l have half a mind not to give her up to this , dignified, grave-looking Charles Weston: j but then he is a noble fellow, ami she loves him. Heigho! I see I shall have to lose my bright little cousin. But what will the j old gentlemrn say?” At this moment, Mr. Clare, the father of j Effie, stepped in from an adjoining room, j and saluted his handsome nephew, with— “ Good morning, Maurice. Are you alone ? I thought I heard Effie’s voice.” “ She will be hack in a few minutes, un cle ; she has just gone to her own room.” j Anti even while he spoke, the bird-like voice of the merry girl was heard carolling i snatches of a lively song, and her fairy foot descending the stairs. She entered, with the bouquet in her hand, and two or j three fresh rose-buds twined in her waving | hair. “Come here, you little witch,” said her, father. “Is not this Valentine’s day ? j But where is your's, Effie ? Does no one send a Valentine to my darling girl ?” Effie blushed deeply, but made no reply, and Maurice laughed outright. Mr. Clare looked from one to the other in surprise, and noticing the bouquet in Effie’s hand, j exclaimed— “ Flowers ! my pet; where got you those bright tilings at this season of the year?— | and what means that bloom on your cheek! Verily, it rivals the rose you hold!” This time Effie’s neck was fairly dyed with the blush, but looking up at her fa- ‘ ther with a timid, appealing glance, she placed in his hand the missive she had so lately received, and stole out of the room. With some curiosity, Mr. Clare opened the note, while Maui ice watched him in- 1 tently, though affecting to hum an air with careless ease. It contained only a simple impassioned poem, addressed to “ Effie Clare,” and a few lines at the bottom, ex pressing the fervent admiration and un changing love of the writer, and was sign ed “Charles Weston.” “Weston,” he murmured, “the son of my enemy ! Can it be that Effie favors j him ? Maurice.” continued he sternly— “know you aught of this? Answer me truly, young man!” “I know, sir, that my friend Weston is one of earth's noblest creatures, and that he has lately opened a law office in M and is already exciting much attention.— j He met my cousin in the city when he was I pursuing his studies last winter, and then knew and loved her.” “And does Effie return his love ?” “ Indeed, sir, I should think the blushes that dyed her cheek but now, were suffi cient. A woman never blushes so when her heart is untouched.” “ Well then, sir, you may tell your cou sin, from me, that I desire she would cease all intercourse with this young man ; and I desire you to say to him, that his addres ses to my daughter are quite superfluous, for I will never listen so them a moment;” and in high displeasure, Mr. Clare left the I loom. “ Whew !” whistled Maurice, “ I did not think the old gentleman was so touchy. | I wonder what he would say to me, if I I were to ask him for his daughter. Call me an impertinent dog, doubtless! But never mind, my cousin shall have her way, if I can manage it, bless her bright eyes !” Poor Effie wept bitterly when Maurice communicated her father's message ; and ; tor many days he missed her merry laugh ] and joyous carol, but as time wore on, the J light returned to her eye, and her gay laugh again echoed in the cottage, for hope whis pered fondly to her heart that her father would relent and no longer oppose the wishes of his darling. Maurice was her friend, too, and his cheering words comforted her, as day after day passed by, without bringing any signs of relenting to her father's manner. Once he remarked casually, “ Weston is a rising young man. He will be an honor to his profession.” And Effie’s heart gave a bound of hope ; hut the next day it was as suddenly chilled, when her little sister Lily bounded into the room with a handful of beautilul flowers, which she held up to Effie, exclaiming, in her artless way— “ See, sissy, what lovely flowers Mr. Westpn has given me. Oh ! he is such a handsome gentleman, and I love him— don’t you, sister?” The poor child was frightened almost to tears by the sternness of her father’s voice, as he said— “ Have done with that nonsense, child, and don’t trouble your sister with your foolish flowers.” But after her father was gone, she stole up to Effie’s side, and putting her little dimpled arms affectionately round her neck, whispered— “ Don’t cry, sister; you shall have some of Lily’s flowers, though papa does call them foolish ; and 1 will like Mr. Weston, for cousin Maurice says he is a good gen tleman, and he asked me so many ques* tions about you, dear sister!” Effie kissed the lovely prattler, and re tired to her own room, to indulge her grief in secret, for she saw from her father's man ner that his resolve was as firm as ever. But anew trial awaited her. Maurice was suddenly called away on business, and thus her only means of communicating with her lover were cut off; and just about this time, a celebrated beauty and heiress came to spend the summer months in the village where Weston resided, and rumor at once assigned him as her devoted admir er. From lime to time, reports reached her ear, of walks and pic-nics and woodland excursions, in which Weston was said to be ever by the side of the gay heiress, who seemed not at all averse to his attentions : and once, as Etfie was rambling alone in the woods that bordered the village, she almost encountered them on horseback— but turning with a palpitating heart down a little path near by, they passed her un noticed, though she could hear their gay i ° voices through the trees. It was even ’ whispered that the day was fixed for their bridal, and arrangements making for the reception of the fair bride. Effie could not believe this, but still, occasionally, some whispered report sent a pang to her heart already aching with hope deferred; but she bore it bravely, for if, as the summer wore on, her cheek grew a shade paler, and her fairy step lost a portion of its buoyancy, and the traces of tears some times dimmed her eloquent eyes, she was evei the same gentle, affectionate Effie, with a kind smile and word for all—and the sick and the poor blessed her for her gentle voice and ready sympathy, which were never asked in vain. Towards the close of the summer, Mau rice returned, and learning how affairs stood, was not sparing in his invectives against Charles, whom, with the impetu osity of his nature, he at once concluded to be faithless-hearted, and as such, condemn ed him. Effie defended her lover with a woman’s truthfulness; but Maurice would not listen to anything she could say. “ Well, then, Effie.” he exclaimed laugh ingly, “I will go and win this heiress my self, and punish him for his defection to you!” Effie laughed at his proposition, but her heart was sad, and her cousin was pained to see the changes which a few months of anxiety had wrought in her blooming coun tenance. The next day, he entered the room where she was sitting, and threw a card into her lap, saying— “ There, Effie, I have brought you an invitation to a pic-nic in Glenn’s woods. Weston will be there, and if you will com mit yourself to my care, 1 will show you off against his fine heiress! What say you ?” After much entreaty, Etfie consented to go, hut protested strongly against being | “shown off,” as Maurice expressed it. Early on the appointed morning, she j stood waiting for him in the porch. She was simply arrayed in white, and her little straw hat, with its wreath of “Lilies of the Valley,” sat becomingly on her flowing ringlets. A single moss-rose bud nestled in her bosom, and a bloom as delicate tint |ed her cheek. With a bright smile she | welcomed her cousin as he drove up ; and springing lightly to her seat, away they ; dashed over a smooth road to their place of destination. Weston was there, and i the heiress too, who. although very love- I ly, was tivalled by our pretty rural Effie, in beauty and in grace. Maurice seemed quite captivated, however, by her lively ! wit, and, in the course of the day, managed ’ to attach him-*e)f to her fide, so that Wes ton was free to seek Effie, with whom he had only exchanged a formal greeting.— She had wandered away from the compa ny, and stood leaning against a tree that overhung the stream, gazing sadly at her own reflection in the water. Drop after drop fell from her bright eyes and mingled with the pellucid waves. Sadness was j depicted in her very attitude, and her little foot played listlessly with the flowers that lay beneath it. A leafy screen concealed her from the rest of the party, but the sound of their merry voices came indistinctly to her ear. She had remained there some time, her tears falling unheeded into the stream, when suddenly a low voice mur mured “Effie,” and a well-known form was reflected beside her own in the bright waters. She started, and would have fall en Into the stream, but a ready arm sus tained her, and drew her gently to a seat. Weston threw himself at her feet, and taking her hand, pressed it warmly to his j lips. “Oh! Effie,” he murmured, “how I have longed to see you—to assure you of my unchanging affection, of my sorrow at our cruel separation, and of my determina tion to wed no other bride ! But you are weeping, my love ! Why these tears ? do you not love me still ?” “ Alas! Charles, they told me you were false—that you had bowed at a golden shrine, and forgotten your poor Effie ; and have I not to-day witnessed your devotion j to the lovely heiress?” “Believe it not, Effie; it is untrue.— Miss Manly is my cousin, and already loves you dearly. It is by my mother's express commands, that I attend her so constantly; but believe me, my heart has never swerv ed in its fealty to you, sweet Effie!” “ Then you do really loe me, Charles, and I have been deceived?” “Indeed you have, dearest. Did you receive my Valentine, and can you believe that the heart which indited those impas sioned strains, could ever know another love ? Oh! trust me, sweet lady, and know that diowever dark fate may frown between us, you are still the one bright star that leads me on to high and noble deeds —the beacon light to happiness! I have suffered these long months, as well as you, my Effie!” Effie's timid glance now showed her that Weston’s cheek was thin and pale: and though his eye flashed with all its old fire, it wore traces of long-continued sadness.— Her heart relented in an instant, and the old snide relumed to her face. “ But, Charles,” she said, “ Maurice has resolved to rob you of your heiress cousin. Indeed, I expect he is, even now, doing his best to supplant you.” •‘ Let him do it. Indeed, I wish he may succeed, for Harriet is a noble girl, and well worthy even of Maurice Elierton, but my Effie is fairer far to me.” And the lover stole his arm around her slight form, and drew her head, with all its wealth of sunny ringlets, to his bosom, wheie it rest ed with all that confiding tenderness which is such a charm in woman. Hburs flew ! lightly by, wafted by gentle coursers; and ; there is no telling how long they might | have sat there, but that their absence was noted by their companions, and the names ! of “Effie Clare” and “ Weston” rang start l lingly through the woods. Recalled tore collection by this interruption, they hastily rejoined their friends, and soon the party separated, but not before Effie had been in troduced to Miss Manly, who received her with a winning smile. Weeks sped on, and Miss Manly return ed to the city, but the wooing of Maurice prospered finely, though, after her depar ture, Effie laughed mischievously at his dismal face. “Why, how is this, cousin Maurice,” she would exclaim; “who is the dreamer now, I wonder? You and 1 must have changed characters. Who ever expected to see my wild, teazing cousin, metamor phosed into a sighing lover !” * * * * * . It was now the middle of winter, and the intense cold of the last few days had cov ered the river with a thick coating of ice, which, however, had already begun to thaw, from the influence of our warm cli mate. Mr. Clare had been taking his cus tomary ride, and unaware of the insecurity of the ice, determined to take a shorter cut home, by crossing on it, and thus gaining a private road which led to the village.— Urging his horse forward, he had arrived at the middle of the stream, when suddenly the ice gaze way with a crash, and horse and rider were precipitated into the water. The noble animal struggled well, but the broken pieces of ice impeded his progress, and his limbs becoming numbed by the coldness of the water, he was finally borne down by the current, while his master sav ed himself from immediate destruction, by clinging witli Doth hands to the ice, which still remained tolerably firm; but it was impossible for him to regain his footing, and he must have perished, but for the ex ertions of a young man, who was attract-’ ed to the spo: by tfic crash of thp ice and his repeated calls for help. Approaching the place as near as he could, he seized the broken branch of a tree which lay near, and held it out to the drowning man. By this means, I e guided him round the jag ged points of the ice, to a place where he could approach him with greater security, but still at tlie imminent risk of his life. Happily, however, his strong arm succeed ed in rescuing the almost frozen man from a watery grave, and supporting his feeble steps to the shore, he managed to assist him to mount his own horse, which stood near, and then, leading him slowly onward, they finally arrived at the cottage. Maurice ran eagerly out to assist them, ami Effie’s face turned deadly pale as she saw her father brought in, his clothes drip ping wet, and his face as colorless as mar ble. But a change of clothes, and a resto rative cordial, soon banished the effects of his recent danger, and he had lime to no tice the young man who had so generous ly perilled his lire to rescue him. “Noble stranger,” said he, “how can I ever suffi ciently thank you for your generous cpn ducl. You have saved my life, and what do 1 not owe you ?” “ You owe me nothing, sir. I have but done my duty, and I deserve no thanks for that. But when you recall this day, let its memory be associated in your mind with the name of Charles Weston.” And bow ing gracefully, he hastily left the cottage. “ Effie, my daugh'er,” exclaimed Mr. Clare, “is this the Weston who sent you the Valentine ?” “The same, my father,” murmured Effie. “ And do you love him still ?” “I will answer for that,” said Maurice. “Call him back then, Maurice. This noble act must not go unrewarded.” Right gladly did Maurice follow the re treating footsteps; and in a few moments, Westoon stood again in the presence of Mr. Clare, who bent keenly upon him his searching glance. Then, as if satisfied with the scrutiny he exclaimed, “Young man, your father was my enemy, but he is gone, and I forgive him for his son’s sake. You love my daughter?” “ More than my life,” replied Charles, in a firm voice. “Come hither, child ;” and as Effie ap proached, he took her hand, and placing it in that of her lover, added, “Take her then; you are worthy of her; and may God bless you both !” Then, without wait ing for thanks, he left the room, and Mau rice stealing quietly away, they were left alone! How bright the prospect that now dawn ed upon them ! What a long vista of hap piness opened up for them in the future! How light were the hearts which but new were so heavy with sadness. When Mau- rice returned, he found them still sitting side by side on the old sofa, with Effie’s head resting tenderly on Weston’s shoul der, who was looking earnestly into the clear depths of the blue eyes that beamed so smilingly upon him. Maurice was now taken into their con fidence, and informed that they had fixed ujton the coming fourteenth of February for their marriage; and Weston added laughingly, “ You can go and get my cou sin, and we will have two weddings in one da) !” Maurice shook his head myste riously at this, but the mystery was solv ed, when, in a few days, they received in vitations to attend his wedding in the city of , and as he would hear of no ex cuse, they were obliged to go and see him made a Benedict. He brought his fair bride to the cottage of Mr. Clare, and with her assistance, Ef fie’s simple preparations progressed rapid ly. Again Valentine’s day dawned bright and fair over the village : but now the in habitants were assembling to witness the nuptials of the fairest maiden in all the country round. A bridal train issued from the door of the cottage, and gaily took its way to the church. With an air of manly pride, Charles Weston led his blushing Effie to the little altar, where a hand of maidens, clad in white, were waiting to receive them.— There stood the venerable clergyman, who was to make them one for weal or woe ; and as his tremulous voice pronounced the words which united them forever, Mr Clare responded witli a fervent “ Amen !” Then followed all the tears and smiles, kisses and congratulations, which are ever attendant on a wedding, but the bridegroom bore his part bravely, for lie was too proud of his lovely bride to think of aught else; and all Maurice's teazing could scarcely win him from her side throughout that happy day. When the fun and frolic was over, and the joyous crowd dispersed, Maurice ex claimed—“ Mrs. W’eston, do you remember a certain unfortunate Valentine, which your humble cousin delivered to you one year ago to-day ? and the tears you shed over it ? You have been more chary with them to-day, methinks, and more liberal of your smiles!” And Weston, folding his young bride to his heart, murmured—“ God bless you, my Effie. You are the dearest prize—my own sweet love! my Valentine!” tii & a ii id lulu & CUTTING IT THICK. Many years since, there did dwell, in a certain town, not a hundred miles from that far-famed place where orthodox di vines are fitted up for their profession and calling, a certain D. D., notorious for his i parsirrioniousness, which would run to the wildest extremes. “ Like a peach tliut's got the j ailers, With its meanness bustin’ out.” Hosea Bigelow. One day. this doctor of divinity chanced into a hat store in this city, and after rum aging over the wares, selected an ordinary looking hat, put it on his reverend head, ogled himself in the glass, then asked the very lowest price of it, telling the vender that if he could give it cheap enough, he thought he might buy it. “But,” said the hatter, “that hat is not good enough for you to wear. Here is ; what you want,” showing one of his best beavers. “'Tis the best I can afford, though,” re- j turned the theologian. “ Well, there, doctor, I'll make you a [ present of that best beaver, if you'll wear j it, and tell your friends whose store it came from. I’ll warrant you’ll send me custom- j ers enough to get my money back with in terest; you are pretty extensively ac quainted.” “ Thank you, thank you !” said the doc tor, his eyes gleaming with pleasure at rai- j sing a castor so cheaply—“ how much may i ‘this beaver be worth ?” “We sell that kind of hat for eight dol lars,” replied the man of nap. I “ And the other ?” continued the reve rend gentleman. “ Three.” The man of sermons put on the beaver, looked in the glass—then at the three dol lar hat. “I think sir,” said he, taking off the beaver, and holding it in one hand, as he donned the cheap “tile,” “I think, sir, that this hat will answer iny purpose full as well as the best.” “But you’d better take the best one, sir; it costs you no more ” “ B-u-t, b-u-t,” replied the parson, hesi tatingly, “1 didn't know—but—per-haps you would as lief I would take the cheap one —and leave the other—and perhaps you would not mind giving me the difference in a five dollar bill!” LAST.CASE OF ABSENCE OF MIND. Journeying from Opeleika to Montgom ery, by Rail Road, on a hot day in Octo ber, with the usual crowd of ladies and gents wending their way from summer re creation towards winter toils, we formed a variety from both sides of the Atlantic.— Nothing of an extraordinary character oc curred until the Conductor called out, •Franklin! dine here, gentlemen !’ All pro ceed to do justice to the good things which i ‘mine host’ always spieads, and as they fin ish, with the customary vSO els.) how, pro ceed to the cars. All are on the train, when a negro waiter runs up, and holding a hat to public gaze, asks, ‘What man hab got de wrong hat ?’ A passenger on the plat form lakes it. and repeats the question with as little effect, then turns it round, and af ter a slight glance at the inside, cries, ‘No. 158! who claims the baggage!’ (the ma ker had the number of his store in very large figures) presto, change! A French man at the extreme end of the car jumps up, looks forward, and rushing hatless to the door, exclaims, ‘Numbaire von hun dred fevety-eight, my hat!’ takes it, and goes to his seat, muttering —‘Ah, ze hat, moi hat.’ The r.egro desiring an exchange, the pas senger went to No. 158, and the following dialogue ensued : ‘The waiter wants the hat you brought out.’ ‘ Massa Ned’s waiting for it.’ ‘Ah, mon ami, ze hat, moi hat, num baire 158.’ ‘ Well, where is the other ?’ ‘Ah, me expiainez—you see, me meet at dinnaire one personne, vare parliculaire fren of moine. Ibe vare much engage vis conversation vis him—ve valk out—l so much engage vis my fren I tink lav ze hat in my han ail ze time. 1 sit down in ze car, and I no tink nevaire of ze hat —ven you hollaire vare loud, “whose hat No. 158 ?” I know zat numbaire, moi hat.— Ah, mon ami, ze hat moi hat.’ ‘But where the devil is your other hat?’ Reaching under the seat, he drew forth a—napkin, for a moment looked at it a ghast, and then, with a smile (such as is a Frenchman’s alone) said, ‘Ah, mon ami, pardonnez moi, 1 zink it vas ze hat; I take him in moi han—l valk out —I so much engage in conversation vis my fren, I zink lav ze hat in my han. I put him undair ze seat—you see, dis [the napkin] is not my hat—dis, No. 158, ze hat, moi hat.’ And amidst a general burst of laughter, the napkin, as the train moved off, was thrown to the negro, who stood crying out I —‘l want Massa Ned’s hat.— Spirit of the i Times. Jtegr My name is Ben D . 1 live at No. Bowry, I do. 1 keep a deppo I there for buckwheat flour, apple-sass, eggs and butter. Ido business on my own hook, 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. I’ keep my books on my head, and my safe in my breeches pocket: sleep oil the counter o’ nights; and when I go out in the morning and put on my 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!”— Knickerbocker. ffiaT’ it is said that the young ladies of New Jersey are so tender-souled, that when a poor fellow waxes in want of a wife, they place themselves in his way, and pop the question. Good. —A German writer observes, in a recent volume on the social condition of J Great Britain : “There is such a scarcity of thieves in England, that they are obliged I to offer a reward for their discovery.” jgyThe G. W. P. of the Sons of Tem perance in Petersburg, Va., is Mr. R. Drinkhard.
