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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.