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The State Press.
From the Picayune
NOTHING TO EAT
BY M. F. DI ONE V.
Nothing to cat ’tis the wailing cry
That standings utter in deep despair.
When they stretch themselves in pain to die
All lost*to hope; too weak for prayer.
Nothing to eatthe chainless mind
In famine becomes confused and blind ;
A thousand phantoms before it rise.
Mocking it still w ith taunting cries ;
Luring it off w here the demons reign ;
Every change is a change of pain ;
Still tn its madness it will repeat
Nothing to cat! Nothing to cat ’
Who will tell us of “N’**tbingt> Weal'
The gilded falsehood of Fashion’s queen
Os “Nothing to d'»” “to sny”—“to spare’
And all other Nothings which intervene?
Thev’rc are all as nothing, if w e compare
These several Nothings with that, I wren,
Which starving ones in their pain repeat
Nothing to eat! Nothing to cat !
In a lonely garret a mother lies
Draw near and look at those fearful cyc>
They were Beauty’s once ' Those lips so pale
\nd those sunken checks tell a mournful tale
Os the change which hunger and care can bring
When they prey on the fair w ith united sting
That starving mother and starving child ‘
They are dying noW—bow strange and w ild
Are their every look Bring bread ami w inc '
Come.lonely mother, avoir rand dine!
Ah! they’re brought too late from the board of
wealth
To bring back that mother to hope ami health !
Though she seems to feast with her fearful ey es ;
As if she fain would again be strong ;
That bread and wine ar. a tempting prize
Toon? with nothing t« rut >•• long.
Alone a maiden i • *»n the -ircrt,
A poor, a friendi a homck " on*
The freezing wind a..d the blinding sl -vt
Career like anger at -.■• of >un.
Where shall she go ' Ah who <an tc’l .
Hunger and pride in her thoughts re > •
How hard it is to restrain i 1 ride
How hard to ask and to be denied.
Thousands ar mnd her have wealth unb 1
Treasures of si!’. t r and treasures ot gold.
While thousands like her have nothing to eat.
Starving in garrets or on the street.
The rich pass on without thought orcarc,
And if alms are asked they've nothing to spare
They can spare to folk. can span to pride.
Con spare to ta.-'hion, but wo betide
The hungrv beings who dare entreat,
80-au.’C. foisooth, they’ve nothing to eat.
So the rich pass on to some gilded show.
They’ve Dotting io sj are to the poor and low.
Alone a maiden is on the street,
A pour, uf’ieudle.-s, a h n > les- one ,
Tn the freezing w ind and tl.»- blinding sleet.
She asks herself what shall be dune ?
With bcantv and virtue her only store ;
> ... | i ,i. as she ticads aloi e,
From street to street, and from door to door.
She has “asked for bread and received a stone.’
What shall be dour' What -Lull be done!
Ah! poor and lonely and friendless one!
Shall we judge thee’harshlv w hen hunger pleads.
And hope has proved a deceitful tale,
If thv answer br given in evil deeds.
When evil deeds can alone av ail ?
Cun.e stately .p. t n of tin* marble hall.
Pride of a “circle,” belle of the ball;
A stranger to cv en a single care,
With costly raiment and jewels rare.
And more than enough to eat and wear.
Thou must have a tender heart, indeed;
An open hand when the hungry cull;
\ willing cur when the helpless plead,
\nd boo for thy fellow creatures all.
Yet why didst thou spurn from thy marble hull
The starving maiden that asked tor bread ?
That act of thine w a- a deed of thrall;
It ended hope ami to ruin led !
To whom should a maid in distress appeal.
If a sister’s heart prove as han! as steel
If a sister’s v ice can bid her go,
All reckless of ruin or woman s wo.
And call her unjustly in wo;ds of shame,
thing <*f evil i*<» vile to name?
Ah ! when thus brand*-*! am! coldly -pumed
Is it strange that the maiden in madness turned,
As a last resource to the u ild ami rude.
And bartered her virtue herself for food !
( ome stately quocti of the mai lde hall.
If angels are glml when the vile reform,
Shmild’bt thou take pai l in a s’-ler’s fall
By driving h* r forth in a night of storm •
Remember th: t thou and* as fdr, as proud,
\ nd as pure a* thou, have w rakly bowed,
Like erring frailties, :.t Pass n’s shrine
Have tasted its manna and drank its wine.
With no excuse but n w .niton will
To lead them in error’s < »mipting way.
The) yield, but, in yielding, make efforts still
Tu bide th. ; r deeds from the light of day.
Nothing I ' vat' 'tis the fearful e:y
Os wild, united, half frantic men.
Who throng the streets. The sound swells high
Nothing to eat I again ! again !
What means it ? These an- the men of toil.
Why do they riot and cry for spoil ?
Whv do they batter the storehouse down.
And Kuttcr abtoad through the hungry town
The unbought f< <>d vvhi h in fi antic might
They wrest by force, without thought of right?
It is that Toil is no more repaid
liv pwishing food in the marts <>f trade;
That, im u art starving ; that children moan ;
That hunger is stronger than walls of stone.
Thev are starving fathers who throng the street ;
Their wives 1 children have nothing to vat !
.Nothing to e.d ! hi. .he burning thought
Os shipwrecked men uii the ocean wave;
Their foundered ves-c 1 the depths has sought,
And still around them the waters rave,
A crazy raft is their sole support;
Hunger increases »" hope decays;
The gull sweeps round them as if in sp<»rt.
And nearer and near* r th*' dolphin plays.
Thus has it been for days ami day s ;
Their cheeks arc sunken, their eyes arc wild.
Relief is distant, and famine pt v s
With increasing pang. Ah! one has smiled.
For him the sorrows of life are past ;
The wail of the sea, the sigh of the blast.
No more are heard. His nerves no nmre
Shrink back in tortute. A fairer shore
Than earth can boast, like a dr am, i« spread
In th*, airy realms where the seraphs tread.
O ! it w i r«* bliss o;i such shores to stray.
And angels whisper- nway ! away!’’
Another mullet s <*f nothing to cat
And stares at his fellows with wolfish eyes.
His ilj. ughts are fiends which would fain entreat
For him ra fit h when a comrade dies.
He curses himself his Go I. He raves
At the warring winds and the warring waves ;
II- i ursev his fHi >, as if thev viewed
In him a beast to be slain for food.
Thu, leaps in the flood like a dcnrnn grim
And 'wears none ever shall feast on him.
?f* t .Indy others await their doom.
Though every’ dav mak*- their number less :
A m ment seems lik«* an age of gloom
With >uch surrounding, in such distress.
At length, a hurricane sweeps the main ;
They sink; but s’ill in their thoughts repeat
The c<-h'*i-s loue of that sa l refrain
“Nothing to eat Nothing tu eat
New Orleans, October, I'i.’-T.
KORTS KISSING.
UY MA".
Bout a k - du you a»k ? It’s me that can tell ;
For, ould .* I’m n**w. 1 am minding it well.
Wh- n - spalpei n oftliree, with how much delight
My mithc-r kissed Kory and bade him good night,
But my uiitber she died and left R u v behind.
And die lasses I met brought her so to uiy mind,
I’hat at kissing 1 went, first one ami auitbvr.
Be* iuse they wore bunnvts ami looked like my mither.
At la ’. would vou think it, swat** Bridget O’Flinn
Had scarcely been kissed when sin* kissed me agin.
And tould m* a pracst away down in the city.
Would say, if we’d ask him, a bit of a ditty.
A dittty, swate Bridge ’. ami what might it be ?”
'Ne’er mind, my dear Rory, but come just vv id me !”
We trudged to the city, and sum us my life.
He said a short ditty and called her ti.< w ifc.
We got a wee cottage, a pig ami a spade ;
Bridget sickened; we hired her sister fur maid ;
The maid I was when, true as yc’r there,
1 felt t! ■ ould divil a pulling luy hair.
B»g or-. y«>u odd varmint !’’ I yelled m affright.
And ><*rt o’ turned round to be getting a sight ;
What did I diskiver? Instead of an elf.
Swale Bridget O’Flarhvrty there jist herself
• 0, Rorv ’’’ she blubbered, still pulling away,
lint sick is my heart vv id ver conduct to-day ;
\ kissing my sister while I’m in my bed.
Nor able to raise from the pillow my head !”
'Troth ! my Bridget,” says I. -perhaps ye can mind
When yi t • the kissing were greatly inclined,
V< kiss* d me and kissed me at Donnybrook fair,
And now by the jubvrs ye’re pulling my hair.
:wgrn*'! ye ould fool, wid a rumpus like this.
I’m only a larniny yer tisltr ti»
J-t> ‘ rhe most provoking <»f all auditors are
the literal class ; thus • who have a natural in
capacity for taking a joke, look solemn at the
aiin»Htncfrnent of a daring spi-eulation, and re
main entrenched in the fortress of a national
propriety, while the speaker is revelling in the
world of fancy.
THE STORY OF EUGENE ARAM.
KNARESBOROUGH CASTI.E.
A cohl and lowering February evening, in
the year 1744. was just about closing in—the
shadow* beginning to creep up darkly and
clotfdly from the cast and north, indicating the
approach of a night of sleet or heavy snow,
when two men, warmly’ and cosily wrapped up
in the staid and respectable tradesman s broad
cloth of the period—the square skirt and the
eoeked-hnt. indicating a remote fashion —might
have been seen walking briskly up towards
the old keep, crowning the hill on which the
ruins of Knareaborough Castle stretch them
selves in grey, and. just then, with an air and
aspect of stern, sullen dignity.
tion of the interior which was otherwise not
known to the world generally , they eautioiDly
descended besi<lc thv keep into a hideou- old
dungeon, and thence, after traversing a laby rin
thinc passage, by a sally-port into a covered
way . beneath the moat. Damp. foul, and re
pulsive as this subterranean spot in which they
now found themselves necessarily v.hs. and to
which they had directed thvmsslws by the
furtive gleams of a dark lantern < ne bad taken
from beneath a horseman's coat, they >at clown
upon some fragments of stone which had fallen
from the arch of a small chamber belonging to
a secret hiding-place, or ancient way of escape
or surprise, which thv ( iistle, with others ot the
period, possessed: and there began a conversa
tion. evidently as mysterious as the place ua*
aptly chosen for the depository of their dark
secret.
Thv first of the two was a bluff, jovial-look
ing man of middle age. whose oil-hand manner
might at first be taken for frankness, only that
there was a coarse and sensual expression lurk
ing about the month, and a cunning ami crafty
light shining in the eyes, which never looked
you right in the face, and destroyed the first
favorable impression. Dressed as he was, he
had the air of a thriving tradesman. Ilis name
was Daniel Clark, and he was a shoemaker in
the town of Kaare*borough.
His companion. Richard Houseman, a some
what younger man. was a flax-dresser <»f the
same town. A horseman’s whip and riding
coat, together with his bespattered boots,
showed that he had only recently dismounted
from his nag. after returning from a journey.
“So, so. Dick Houseman, you've kept tune,
ehf—and the matter goes swimmingly. dov>
it t" asked Clark, with chuckle.
“.Justus you could wish, old fellow. I sold
the leather you sent to York, and a quantity
of the cloth He re also, and 1 haveju.-t come
from Ripon, where 1 disposed of my tlax—ha!
ha! You've got Aram s bond, haven't you :
“Oh. yes. drawn on his friend, Mr. Norton,
too; so I shall give him twenty pounds to
night before going to 1 he cave, in order to keep
him <|uict and lull suspicion. He fell into the
trick as easy, bless you, as if, instead of being
the clever fellow he is supposed to be. he was
more than half a Idol and soft as any sponge.”
“ Take care he don't suspect you, or suspect
his wife, either, else you may wake up the
liond in him. lie’s not quite so shallow as
you think. I know that he’s had a devil ami
all of a life to lead with his flighty lady, and if
he don’t dream that you ami she are old sweet
hearts; it will be as well to keep that dark.
Houseman spoke this warningly, ami in an
earnest manner.
“Oh, that’s all right!” returned Clark:
“ besides, as we’ve buried some of the goods in
his own garden, (he was wrathy enough at
that till 1 told him it was Io avoid a search
from my creditors till I got my wife’s mom y.)
the fear of finding that out will keep him still f ’
“ Well, has it come—your wife’s expected
money f demanded Houseman anxiously.
“Aye. has it—a hundred and fifty pounds,
which I II bring to Aram's to-night when we
go to the cave for the plate. 1 was a bit
fright . lied, though, for my ‘missis' had a
qualm.”
“ Have you sent her away for a day or two ("
broke in Houseman, with an applauding laugh
and a nudge of the arm.
“ Sent her for a week to her friends, till 1
get the hou>c ready for our wedding-fca.-t—ha!
ha! ’ ami the knave laughed, in his low chuck
ling manner, at the success of a base scheme
of trickery that ha<l been in progress for some
time, ami was m>w rapidly ripening, lie had
not quite counted upon the harvest he might
reap, however. lloiDeinan again grinned his
applause, ami Clark proceeded.
•Well, there’s about five to eight hundred
ounces of plate —clips, tankards. di>hc* ami all,
come in—ami there it lies snugly buried in the
very heart of the cave, beaten up and broken
in regular pewter. I've seen to that, and all's
ready for to-night: and Aram s to be with us
to the last, d’ye sec f'
“1 see. J see.” responded Houseman. “Egad!
it was not a bad idea for you and me to pay
off our debts in this fashion, for deuce another
way could we do it than by leg-bail ami mak
ing our own creditors help us off. Pity Aram
must have the twenty ”
“I promised it him for books, you know,
and 'twill stave oil’ old Norton from bunting
me yet a bit. and someone must boon the spot
till we get the plate sold off. You see, when
I found Aram had married that precious piece
of his. I thought she might help me one day or
other. It has conic. I'm very fond other for
old times' sake, ami was to have married her
om e. Well, in America she’ll help me in a
scheme I've got. Never mind that now.—
Aram is a<pfiet, school-mastering fellow—poor
enough, (with her extravagance,) as all your
book-men are—ami I'm his bondsman, too, in
turn for some wormy old volumes he's had
from York. I thought my wedding spree
would pay; and Missis Clark -as is—had al
together by her a good two hundred, as you
know ”
u Ay, ay.” sa'u 1 Houseman; “but. zounds!
it's wry chilly here. I've brought a drop of
brandy with me!’’ ami taking out a flask, with
a shudder —for a keen blast went driving with
a melancholy wail through thv ruined arches
at the moment—he handed it to his compan
ion, who drank in turn.
•• Ah. that’s better!” continued Daniel Clark.
“ Well, you see, my credit, through my wife,
being good again, (only there's too much to
pay.) ami as she helped me to be on friendly
terms with Aram, he gives me a letter to some
of the gentry-folks as he has taught, ami the
inn ket pers arc trusting—ha! ha!—why, the
plate is right, am! Aram is the man who will
answer all questions”—and his detestable
chm kle ajain followed this explanation.
•• Am’. «o Aram's wife gees with you, does
-heasked Houseman, inquiringly.
“ Meets me at Haru ich in a week, nml brings
what she can lay hands on. Aram thinks of
nothing but hi" books, and does like a child,
all lie s told. Why, none but he would have
belic\e<l the story, that in the Parliamentary
wars they buried a lot of plate down the well
hero, and then < arried it through, under the
river, to St. Robert’s Cave—where, sure
enough, there is >o;nv —ami broke it up to car
ry it away am! sell it. He'll help us. for all he
l.v>i:ute<l. ‘lt's a iin*l.' says Ito him, “and
it's ours a> well as any one else's; and as a
share will drop to you.' I say s, • why you may
as well have it.’ Don't you see. Dick, how
square the story tells f '
“Excellent. Dan. excellent! Still. <*hoke
me if I like the woman's part in it. I'd rath
er
“ We can't alter it now.” was ( lark'" hasty
interruption. “ Any change would "poil the
whole, and any delay after to-night would
rniu us. I've got a cart ami horse in the obi
"tables by Griiuble Bridge, ami the plate won't
l»e much to share anmng us to curry off from
livre —and then drive off.’’
“Are the tools in the cave?’’ naked House
man.
“ Everything pick ami spade, hammers,
sacks—all right, and provision for a jolly sup
per before we start. But, come, let us to thv
cave for an hour—making some arrangements
—then separate just as we may settle. I must
sot his u ife for a minute or two first, as I
wasn't sure you'd be back to-night.” And
now. leaving the associates to concert still more
perfectly their infamous design . wt hall in-
troduce the reader to a third person in this re
markable criminal story.
| This is no other than Eugene Aram, whose
name, for more than a hundred years, has been
assoeiate<l with obloquy and the (•rime of mur
der; but as the whole of the evidence against
him was circumstantial, we hope to show that
he was the victim of an infamous conspiracy,
and of the sanguinary and merciless tendency
of the penal code of that day. as we find it t<?
have existed in England up to the commence
ment of the present century at least. We do
not know that it is much more merciful or
forlamring now.
Eugene Aram, who seems to us the most
finished tyq»e of the student-scholar, the learner
and the teacher—all in one—that his day pro
duced. was born, on the maternal side, of an
ancient yeoman family whose names were
identified with that of the lords of the town
ship of Haram, or Aram, on the Tees. His
father was a gardener, and a very able botan
ist. of Nottingham. Eugene received the ru
diments of a simple education at Skelton, near
Newby, and at Newby, up to the age of about
sixteen, followed thv bent of his fancy in the
study of mathematics, for which he seemed,
from the abstract bent of his mind and brain
—his fondness for retirement and books—to
be peculiarly fitted.
At sixteen he went to London, and served
as book-keeper in thv counting-house of a Mr.
Christopher Blackett, whence, in about two
years, he was obliged to return home, after
"Uttering severely from small-pox. Once more
at Newby, he resinned his mathematical stu
dies, adding thereto poetry, history, and a study
of ant’upiitics. When considerably over the
age of twenty , he was invited by some friends
to visit Netherdale—his native air—w here, in
his own words, he says, “J first engaged in a
school, and where, unfortunately enough for
me. I married.” He attributes —presently we
shall see with w bat justice- -the catastrophe
that subsequently overtook him—Lis prosecu
tion, his prison, his infamy and sentence —to
the misconduct of the woman lie was unhap
py enough to select and make the partner of
his existence. B tter for him—for her—that
she had never been born, or that they had nev
er met. Still, this is among those mysterious
sequence" of things which go to prove that
man is the creature of circumstance—that an
irresistible destiny govern" him—that be is in
the hands of a superior fate, against w hich lie
is utterly powcrles . to assist himself for any
purpose of good or of evil, kt him strive as he
may.
Educational advantages, beyond those which
he himself acquired, do not seem to have been
this extraordinary man s to any very great ex
tent. Sell-taught ami self-dependent, he mas
tered the Latin and Greek-languages, their
historians and j outs until he was familiar wiih
the w hole range of the classics, and their most
illustrious authors the companions of every
hour of his leisure. Adding to these the He
brew, the Chaldee, and his almost incredibly
extensive researches into the Celtic, he had
mastered the modern French, besides being
familiar w ith heraldy, botany, and the whole
circle of the physical sciences. In a word, he
must have been a sort of Admirable Chrich
ton ; and what is astonishing unless we attri
bute it to a certain trusting honesty of nature
he possessed, and the habits of abstraction
which had become to him almost a second na
ture—how it happened that he became in any
way associated with such persons as Clark and
Houseman—men who were necessarily imbued
with the tpialitications for shining in the New
gate Calendor—of l*>w birth, of vulgar educ a
tion, and in every w ay opposite to him in feel
ing, mind, thought, and daily action.
In the pursuit of learning, he had found it
hvck "-ary to faciliate his way through the al
most incredible obstacles in his path, by the
formation of a polyglot dictionary, upon a plan
ami method of hi- own; and perhap- the
-( heme was among the most stupendous, as an
iiitelleeturi task, which any one man h i- ever
undertaken to perform. A home devoid of
domestic happiness, .*• wife with w horn the worn
and pallid student had nothing in common,
though he fought nobly to discharge the re
sponsibilities undertaken—childless, with no
tie of low or affection to bind to the outer
world— almost friendless, save possessing that
rc-pect which his inoffensive and beneficent
life c impelled— in an evil hour these tempter
wit h a story us hidden plate found in the castle
well, and in the gloomy cave of St. Robert,
came aero— him. and. by touching on that cord
respondent to his yearning for rare and costly
book-, involved him in bonds, debt—in an al
most incredible mesh of difficulties; finding
him. in his despair and newly-awakened hopes,
a fitting tool to their purposes. Aram, at this
time, was a pale, abstracted, worn-looking, yet
singularly handsome man, of an intellectual but
melancholy countenance, as a potrait of him,
yet extant, shows, and just forty years of
The night, cold, bitter and bleak, had set in
with a snow-storm, the moaning winds driving
down the sleet and cloudy flakes in whirling
masses, totally obscuring every star in the
heavens. Eugene Aram, who had been upon
some monetary business to the house of his
friend. Mr. Norton, had called on Clark by ap
pointment; and not finding him at home, was
hastening to his own house to see if he were
there, as it was arranged that their final visit
should be paid to the dreadful cave on this dark
and dismal February night.
He had entered his garden by a back gate to
avoid a circuit, and advancing to the house, was
about to enter, when seeing a light in a small
back parlor, one shutter not being quite closed
to. he drew back with a shivering start as if he
had received a sudden -tab from an unseen foe.
Every drop of hi- hot and roused blood surging
at his heart, and with the whole hideous skele
ton of his sad and betrayed lite laid bare before
him, he saw Daniel Clark standing besidd hi
wife. passing some gold into her hand, then rat
ifying a treaty by an embrace and a kiss, a
they turned away to seek Aram’s chamlier.
where he might now every moment be ex
pected.
“ Blind and betrayed!” he muttered, his
whole nature shaken with the fierce repressed
tire of a new and baleful passion he had never
before known. “Oh, Judas! Judas! do you show
• yourself to me now !” and then he sank upon
a bench beside the now dark window, and sob
bed and w* pt such bitter burning tears as only
a man so constituted and so betrayed could
shed. An hour passed—and this was an hour
past midnight now. as the chimes told him
when he rose, his face as white as the -now
which sheeted him over, and with a calm,
deadly tranquility of aspect, he passed round to
the front, knocked ami entered, u here he found
Houseman and Clark impatiently waiting for
him. Just entering the apartment, he caught
the following words spoken in a hasty under
tone :
“ If lie hesitates—if he draw s hack at last—
if he betrays us—” he heard Hou.-ciiian say.
“ It he doe- cither the one or the other, then
by I'll shoot him!' 1 Clark responded;
and Aram >aw him strike his hand on the
breast of his coat, where the butt of a pistol
was visible. Calmly saluting them, but so
strangely pale that his wife was fain to ask
what ailed him. he coldly ordered her to quit
the room, and giving a reason for his delay, en
tered into their arrangement with a calmness
and nauy froid only to be understood in men
of a well-balanced, nervous, mental sytem.
M as it that he too had made his resolve to
play out the game to the last, and at last find in
the crisis a measured method of revenge, w hich
should be some equivalent to the shame and
the w rong they were so deliberately working
again-t him t Be that as it may. at two o'-
clock, dunked, and with whatever other im
plements they had ready, they prepared to set
forth.
“By the bye. Aram.” said Houseman. “1
wish xoil'd ask your wife to lend me a hand
kerchief to tie round my face—”
“Certainly! Mv wife is very obliging and
considerate, 1 know”—andjhe thought us that
handkerchief in the tragical story of “Othello”
with which the fiendish lago worked so much
wrong. It might be only another portion of
th* scheme against himself. What did it sig
nify uoaf It w asto nut-ave himself, but to be
avenged—that was now his pre-occupation. —
' The handkerchief being borrowed —though
I Aram’s wife could not see that look and light
in her husband's eye, apcaking to her what
made her dumb with terror and white with
•Iread, without an internal shudder, and an aw -
ful doubt—the three men. w rap|n*d in their
cloak e w<*nt forth ; Aram significantly saying
to hi« w ifc as he crossed the threshold —
“ Do not leave this house till 1 return ; you
will th«i> know why; and —and there may be
work for vou to <lo<
* ‘ «
Thickly fell the snow and fiercely the wind
howled along the streets. They parsed be
side the turbid and swollen waters of the Nidd;
and under the frowning rampart of rocks which
rose tow ering to a hundred feet above their
heads —where the yawning entrance to St.
Robert's cave was found.
The gloom and horror of this rave, w hen they
had passed into the interior and could sec by
the light of the lantern w hich they had brought
w ith them, can scarcely be described in suitable
words. The entrance being sinuous and nar
row. it was impossible for any one from with
out to know that it had any occupants. Aram,
b\ teeth (battering with cold, but bis blood at
a tierce and fervent heat, seated himself for a
w hile, and gazed about him.
“Queer place, eh, Aram, isn't it?” asked
. Clark.
“ It looks like a vault where they pile up the
dead," replied Aram, w ith a glittering look.—
“ A strange idea haunts me. how a man may
enter here alive and never come forth again.
What a silent, unspeaking grave might be found
here!’’
Houseman and Clark exchanged ]ook<.—
“Ah, how you talk!" said ( lark, laughing,
’’there's better stuffhere than dead men—'
Don't laugh.” said Aram, in turn, and with
a tragic solemnity of manner. “Suuppose you
' found a grave here—suppose you were never
to leave this place till y <»ur bones were shovell
ed out—”
“What the devil do you mean.'" began
('lark, angrily. “ Let us take some brandy,
and think of the wurk in hand. Here, House
man. get the pick and spade—”
•• Ay .to dig a grave!" said Aram. “Listen!
Do you bear how the wind is wailing a dirge
a moaning for the dead— ’’
I lead !—w bo's dead L'
•■ //” cried Aram, with a great outburst of
agony. “My nam< —-my good name—my hon
or, my reputation—my honest life—my wife
oh, wife no longer! all arc dead! and dig
quick and deep, that ail may lie and sleep in
peace forever!'
“He's mad. I think” growled Clark: and
looking towards Houseman for his determina
tion. as he played with the butt of his pistol.
“ 1 don't know,’’ replied Houseman; “but
there’s no hurry—”
“ Dig up the plate, continued Aram, spring
ing upward, “ with which you have befooled
me in a belief of your lying story. Dig up the
plate for which you have made me w rite myself
swindler and thief! —l. the student, the schol
ar. the schoolmaster—ha, ha, ha!” and he
laughed wildly. “Dig up the plate, dog! who
havedishoiiered my wife and destroyed me!
Dig it. up. but leave open space for a grave;
for by heaven or by ht-11—w hichever aids —one
lof us sleeps here this night!” and springing
at Clark's throat, he bore him to the ground
in an instant, throttling him like a rabid doir.
the latter loudly calling upon Houseman for
help.
“Not 1!” cried Houseman, as Clark Ly a
desperate eflbrL flung his weaker opponent
I otf. but who had possessed himself of the pDtoL
“ Not 1 ; but I ll help—and curse nic if 1 don't
think it will he the hot plan yet!” and ere
Aram could speak or interfere—had he so mi* •!
cd —Houseman had taken the spade, and by a
sweeping blow drove it into the luckless knave'."
"kull, ('leavingrit so effectually that with a >hort
sob. and a choking gurgle in the throat. Daniel
Clark fell dead before them. The deed wo
done, and the associates henceforth and for
ever in the horrible secret, stood gazings pct»ch
less upon each < ther.
*****
The two returned to Aram's house. House
man carrying with him a portion of the plate;
and then the latter gave back to the scared
woman the bhual-spotted handkerchief, bv
means of which she. years afterwards, auda
ciously swore away her husband's life. The
next day Clark was reported to have abscond
ed with the plate, bis wife's money and other
valuables. On making searc h in Eugene A
rain's house, naught was found t > inculpate
him. though some cloth wa< dug up in the
garden, w hich made him suspected ; but in the
absence of clearer proofs, it was siibse(|Uently
believed that Clark had really gone otf, having
not only made a tool of Aram, hut also of
Houseman; who. however, by skillful manage
ment, and by secretly visiting the cave, carried
. otf the rest of the propertv. At all events,
none was ever found there, when fourteen
years after they sought for the corpse of
('lark
Yes, fourteen years after the commission of
this dread and awful tragedy, when Eugene
Aram was fifty-five years of age, and in the
sad, quiet pursuit of his duties as usher of a
school in Lynn, the accidental discovery of
some human bones by one digging for limestone
in the huge and rocky matrix seperated from
that on which the castle stands, by the foaming
Nidd—fourteen years after, was Aram taken
up for the murder of Daniel Clark: and the
i unfortunate victim of a worthless woman, and
of a scoundrel whose word ought not have been
taken upon oath, was thus condemned to death.
Aram's confession has been urged again"!
him. hut the man simply abandoned his right
line of defence, and udmithd what he never
committed. Despite the extraordinary skill,
force and (mistaken) lucidity of his defence—
the most extraordinary on record —he was ad
judged to death. He made an attempt upon
his life in prison, hut was saved to expi
ate his misfortunes on the scaffold at York in
the year 1759.
If we have not already suflicien. top-. int out
the fallacy and the measureless wrong ot judg
ing upon circumstantial evidence, the story of
the gifted and hapless Eugene Aram may be
quoted as one evidence the more. 1 his, though
the last, is not the least inter* sting event con
nected with the history ot Knaresborougl.
Castle.
Iv:.ii«•.•! orotigh (’astir, situated in the Wot Rid
ingot Yorkshire, England, i> an of interest t*»
the the traveller, not alone from the picturesque 1 >-
culity of w hich it forms the centre, and the associa
tions with which the castle it>clf is connected, bat
bv the fact that in close proximity t<> it is thv Drop
ping Well, whose waters have the power ofpettilying
• almost everything they touch : that near this is th<*
spot where that curious prodigy. Mother Shipton,
w..s born manv of whose predictions reully can>«-to
pass; and finally, that in the same neighborhood is
a gloomy, large, winding cave, meinoraulr t* r a i.mr
der committed in it during the lust century, in which
the well-remembered, long-transinitsed name of Eu
gene Aram is conspicuous. \ writer in a London
periodical is giving illiuarations and histories < t the
old cast’cs of thv I'nited Kingdom, and in refcring
to the one in question, introduces the foregoing ver
sion of the appalling tragedy, which would seem to
prove the fact, which is we believe, now very gen
erally admitted that Eugene Aram was wrongfully
convicted of that nmrdvr
Kissim; at a (.'eetaix Age.—A celebrated
dandy was one evening in company with a
young lady, and observing her kiss her favor
ite potxlle. advanced and begged the like
favor, remarking that she ought to have a<
much charity for him as she had show n the
dog. “Sir.” said thv belle. “1 never kissed my
dog when he w as a puppy "
“How to make Leeches BnE.” is the cap
tion of an article going the rounds of the pa
pers. The best way. uihpi. stionably, is to pre
sent them a first rate im? at thirty days, w ith
an offer of 5 per cent. . month. They will
lute instantly, and never "top sucking until they
get the whole.
The I'tica lelegraph 1 a< an article headed
•Why Old Maids Multiply It has always hern
understood that they are just the ones who do
not multiply and replenish the earth.
that has spent mu< h of his time in
his study, will seldom he ( olleeted cwiqrh to
talk much in company.
THE PRESENTIMENT.
“ There was a sound of revelry by night.”
The moon was shining brightly upon the 1
polished muskets and the gorgeous equipments •
of a sentinel in the scarlet uniform of the Buffs I
—the crack regiment of the day—as he tra
versed liis brief round at the garden gate of
Greenwich street, behind the residence of Sir
Henry (Tinton, the commander-in-chief of the
British forces of America.
His stalwart figure and high grenadier cap
made his shadow appear gigantic beneath the ,
rays of (*ur full and glorious orb—the Western
moon. ('ecash»nally he would pause, as it lis
tening to the rich music w hich ever and anon
swelled forth from the residence of Sir Henry,
and his thoughts turned upon the youth and
beauty mingling in the dance w ithin.
(luce or twice he passed the back of his hand
across his eye, as if to stay a truant tear that
was stealing from it" fountain. His memory
rushed to the days of his early home in “ iner
rie England.”
“By George!” he muttered, half aloud, “I
did not think I could be childish. The sound
of the tune has put me in mind of old Devon
shire.'’
Say ing this he broke out into the military
song of Gen. Wolf, w hich, as tradition goes, he
sang while passing up the St. Lawrence, the
night before he tell on the Plains of Arahain:
“ Why, soldiers, why.
Should we be melancholy bovs.
Whose business ’tis to die/’ Ac.
His voice, naturally sweet, sounded perfectly j
melodious, as unconsciously, he forgot his duty
as a sentinel and gave to the song the full com
pass of his manly tones. At a little distance,
concealed from the sentinel by the shuhbery,
was an officer, upon whose arm leaned a beau
tiful girl—absentees from the bail room.
As the after fate of this brave officer forms
a memorable page in our country’s history, my
renders may perhaps like a description of his i
person. He was rather under the middle
height, of a handsome, well-made figure and
erect military carriage. His face was oval,
and the features decidedly handsome. The
main expression of his countenance displayed
franknc"." and sincerity. 1! is age seemed about
thirty. liisM arlet coat was faced with buff,
and hud’ breeches, with silk stockings, adorned
the lower part of his person. Such was the
ball-room costume of that period.
“You < ni melancholy to-night. Major An
dre.” said his fair companion. “On such a
night a" this you should be otherwise.”
“ And in such company, you should have
added. Miss Beekman. Pardon me for this ap
parent quietness; the thought that this might
be the last night I should spend in New York,
is enough to make one feel sad, is it not, fair
lady f’
Leave New York, Major Andres” said the
young lady, w ith surprise. Are you going
South with Lord Cornwallis"
*’ A soldier. Miss Beekman, must inform no
one of bis destination, and particularly one
like yourself, with a touch of the rebel feeling
towards your countrymen. This much 1 will
answer, 1 am not goingSouth.”
“Some new plan of Sir Henry's. I'll be
bound,” said the laughing girl. “ 1 do love
Washington, and that’s the truth. My father,
it is certain, remains firm in his allegiance to
King George, but I—l go with our Republican
George—tlie soldier from Virginia.”
1 cannot >ay I think less of you for such
fc» lings. Mi"> Beekman.” said Andre; “it is
natural that, we should Live our country.—
Washin :ton is a brave >oldier, and from all I
hear. Is a good man. Be that as it may. how
ever. he has no right to take up arms against
his lawful king, and w hen he i" taken, as he
must be. he will end his days on a gibbet.’ ”
“ "I wager yon this rose.” said the merry
herted girl, in a laughing tone, taking one from
her hair, “against the first new novel you le
eeivv by the London packet, that you will suffer
such punishment first; and that you know is
impossible. Major, for my countrymen treat
thv king s oflh ir* with the highest re* pent
when pri" ’icr-. Spies only are hung, and
neither Washington or yourself are likely to
undertake that profession.”
It seemed a' if a spasm passed through the
frame of the officer, for he trembled for an in
stant like a leaf—-an incident which washing
remembered by his fair c impanion w hen men
tioning liis melancholy fate.
“ You lire ill. Major. Let go in.”
“ No. no.” said be.” faintingly ; “ it was but
a momentary nervous affection, and has now
passed. There arc times. Miss Beckman, pre
sentiments of evil ia the human mind, that
conic without a real cause, and trouble us we
know not why. I cannot say but that my
physical health is as good as it ever was. The
night is beautiful, ami tin* scene w ithin Sir
Henry's mansion enchanting; but still there is
a heaviness about my spirits that I cannot shake
off. I seen danger before me, yet know not where
to guard against or how to meet it. Though
shadowy, it appears palpable and distinct.
Ah '. that song."
At this moment the silver tones of thv s<n
tinvl s voice rang sweetly upon the ear with
thv words of thv song we have mentioned.
Whilst thus engaged, the Mqjor and his fair
companion suddenly appeared before him. In
an instant his voice was hushed, and his mus
ket brought suddenly to “ present arms,” as he
stood motionless, in true military style, before
his superior.
“ Nay. nay. Whiteley, cease not your song,"
sail the Major, “on such a night as this 1 won
der not that you should feel like singing. 1
w ill stand responsible to the sergeant for such
u breach of discipline.”
•’ I should like much better to hear it in full,
soldier,” said the lady.
“ 1 only know it, lady,” said the sentinel,
“from herring Major Andre sing it. when I've
been on duty at his quarters. Perhaps he.
madam, will consent to favor you with it"
“ Well, Miss Beckman. 1 will not deny you,
but I cannot equal Whiteley in the song, as
you will soon find out.”
He then commenced ami sang with great
pathos and beauty. The calin splendor of the
night, his pensive air. ami the feeling with
which he entered into the words of the song
gave it great effect. As he concluded, he was
surprised to hear the exclamation “ Bravo,
A mire!” from numerous voices. In fact, he
was surrounded by a goodly portion of the
ball ro*im company, who had availed them
selves of a puase in the dam e to visit the gar
den.
“ Well done. Andre!" said a stout and port
ly gentleman, in military costume, with a
> large star on the breast of bis coat. ‘‘You
shall hereafter bear the title of song-master a>
well as Adjutant General to His Majesty’s
troops in America. But come, man, your po
liteness and gaiety seem to be on furlough
to-night. I'hc Baroness d • Reidcsel has been
looking all around for her partner. Step in.
my dear fellow, step in. Miss Beckman, will
you condescend to take my arm'”
“ 1 have been neglectful. Sir Henry, ami
will go instantly and repair the wrong,” said
Andre.
He entered the ball-room and w altzed with
lady Reidesel. the wife ot the Hessian General,
Burgoyne's second in command at Saratoga.
It was the last waltz :«id ball-room scene ever
engaged in by Andre—the night of the 19th
of September, 1780.
The hall was over, the guests had departed,
and it was waxing towards daylight, when
Andre left the private closet of Sir Henry
Clinton, and stood in the doorway looking to
wards Bowling Green.
” Now. my dear Major," said Sir Henry. * I
bid yon adieu. May success attend your ef
forts. It' your interview with Arnold term
inates as we have reason t<» expect. West Point
is ours, and a General's commission awaits
John Andre. Be cautious, I entreat you.”
“Adie(j, Sir Henry, I goto serve my king
and country. If I—but I will not sav it. Sir.
farewell.” *
Ik "hook the extended hand of Sir Henry
with emotion, and as he steppe*! into the
street, received for the last time the military
-alate of a British sentinel. He touched his
hat and passed on. At the water's edge he
sprang into a boat, and was soon after on the
deck of th< Vulture sloop-of-war. on his way
to hi- final intcrvkiv with Arnold.
In a little more than ten days the high-mind
ed soldier dangled on a gibbet. His hopes of |
glory were forever closed in the dust and ashes I
of the grave.
VALOR AND ITS " BETTER PART.”
“If thou cmbowl me to-day, I’ll give vou leave to
powder me and cat me to-morrow.” Shakapeare.
Reader if you have ever met with old \V—.
formerly of Louisville, yon will be better ena- ’
bled to appreciate the subjoined “inkling of
adventure.”
W . was very corpulent, fond of the good
things of this life, that is to say. the organ of
alimentiveness was fully developed—and a jol
ly go(xl-natured fellow he was. too; be would
rather run any time than to fight. W ell, he
left Louisville for “ the South,” where he in
tended to reside. When near his destination, at
some hotel, he had an altercation with a
Frenchman, who considering himself insulted,
challenged him.
W. went to a friend in great trepidation and
told him that he could not fight;—it was a
gainst hi- principles, and even were it other
wise. important reasons rendered the thing
impossible. The friend expostulated with him.
said it was imperatively necessary that he
should yo out— he bad come to live in a “sec
tion, where such thing- were recognized; if
he did not act up to the custom of the country
he would lose caste, and be, as it were, socially
dead. ‘ !
After much argument. W. was finally pre
vailed upon to “accept;” the preliminaries
were arranged, and the two ZrxD'Zr.* were to
meet next morning, and to render each other
ail the wff/x/acD'ozi w hich it is in the nature of
powder and lead to afford.
W. retired to his couch at an early hour in
the evening, but to him, it provcl neither a
couch of roses nor of rest. The fighting reso
lution he had formed, was loosing ground eve
ry moment, until he finally (■.• me to the conchi
>ion that he would be a fool to remain and be '
shot; and just then moreover, he recollected
that the steamer Washington was tu L ave, at
daybreak, settled liis bill at the hotel, and or
dered the porter to accompany him with his
baggage down to the Washington.
lie was walking along, quite pleased with
the idea of his escape from the tire-eating
Frenchman, when behold! as he turned the
corner of a street, leading to the landing, he
was astonished at seeing, a few feet in advance
of him, liis dreaded antagoni-t, with a servant
behind him carrying a trunk! W. followed
him at a respectable distance, and, how great
was his joy to sec him go on board the li ash
ton. which shortly after, puffing and snorting,
departed on her destined trip. It is needless
to remark that our fat acquaintance, puffing
and snorting equal to the steamer which had
just left, such was his haste to save his endan
gered honor, returned to hi- hotel, simply <ay
ing that he had ( hanged his mind about leav
ing. He w ent straight to bed. and was snor
ing loudly, when hi- friend arrived to prepare
him tor the meeting. Great was that friends
astonishment to find W. -leeping <ostctcf/y. and
after he was awakened to see him act so eool
1\ : his courage rose above j><ir in th.-.t friend’s
estimation.
They forthwith repaired to the place of com
bat. Our corpulent acquaintance never seem
ed in a more jocose and happy hum ir, appar
ently disposed to leave the world laughing, if
he left it ‘at all. rather than the reverse. But
his h» art fluttered, and hi- manhood was on
the point of forsaking him. when he saw. in
the distant e. as they approached the “ground,”
the figure of a man, walking backward and for
ward. w ith hasty strides •• That bloody French
man,” thought \V.. “it may be that he has re
turn* -(I.” liis courage was re-umed however,
on finding that it was only his antagoni-t s
second, who seemed to be greatly c!iargrin< d
at the non-appearance of hi- principal, and
who at the expiration of the appointed hour,
apologised therefor. But W. was not to be
satisfied! he complained of the co.v.-rdly con
duct of his opponent—he had lost his shot —
he would post "the fdloir"— he
y<>int<d! I his proved a -a 1 word for poor
\V. Hie absentee's second with the utm<-t
n.my ft-‘id., not only ottered but insisted upon
taking the place of the principal. “Sir. said
he. to the utmost horror ol \\.; —“l will imt
be refused; you shall not leave the groiiml dis
appointed.”
Sir Lu< ius never was in so “tight” a plat e
as tills! Honor cried “stand,” but grim death,
himself, said “go!'' There was a terrible
w eakness creeping up W. - lug, a queer twitch
ing seized upon his mouth, his throat worked
spasmodically, and his natural and acquired
red failed him entirely. At length, with an
effort which covered his heroic brow with
rather a suspicious dampness, he sputtered
forth:
“Sir, you admit that you- friend i. a coir
urd !' y
“ With shame, sir. I do!”
“ Will. sir. there's a pair of um," and yon
can settle it yourselves, by thunder!”
The last that was seen of W.. he w;is tum
bling himself over a fence, and the amused
seconds adjourned to their “cofi’ce” without the
cu.-toinary accompaniment of their “pistols.”
The Si ave Trade in Ci ba. —The slave i
trade flourishes amazingly. I have heard of
fouror five cargos of Bnzol negroes having
been landed since I last wrote you ; the la-t
but one, bevond Trinida I de Cuba, G<»o in num
ber, has been seized by Brigadier Morales de
Rada, who happened to to Le in that vicinity,
and w ho also made pri-oner- of all the partie s
concerned in the landing, i hey, with the Af
ricans, arc now on their way to this city. I bis,
certainly has the appearance of an attempt to
put a stop to the African -lave trade, flic last
cargo of Bozals was landed on a quay near San
ta Cruz. It had been found impossible to ef
fect their landing, without detection, on the
main land of this island, and so they were land
ed on the quay. There is an improbable report
that the-tcamship “Pajaro del Ot cano,” (Ocean
Bird.) now in this harbor, is being fitted up for
a trip to the African coast. She would carry
from 14 to 16 hundred negroes, and w ith her
unrivalled speed, could bid defiance to any
British cruiser afloat. Three more American
vesselshave been sold to the Spaniards, and
will most probably be employed in the slave
trade. Two have already sailed with a “sea
letter” under the Cnited States flag.— Harauna
t 'orrtxpoiidt nt.
HOW RAIN IS FORMED
To understand the philosophy of this phe
nomena. essential to the very existence of
plants and animals, a few facts derived f.ioni
observation and a long train of experiments
must be remembered. \\ *re the atmosphere
everywhere, at all times, at a uniform temder
ature, we should never have rain, hail, or snow.
The water absorbed by it in evaporation from
the sea and the earth’s surface would descend
in an imperceptible vapor, or cease to be ah- :
-orbed by the air w hen it was once fully satu
rated. The absorbing power of the atmos
phere. and consequently its capability to retain
humidity, is proportionabiy greater in warm
than in cold air. The air near the surface ot
the earth i- warmer than it is in the region ot
the clouds. The higher we ascend from the
earth the colder we find the atmosphere.—
Hence the perpetual snow on very high moun
tain- in the hottest climates. Now, w hen trom
continued evaporation the air is highly satu-j
rated with lapur —though it be invisible —it
it- temperature is suddenly reduced by cold
currents descending from above, or rushing
from a higher to a lower latitude, its capacity
to retain moisture is diminished, clouds are
formed, and the result is rain. Air condenses
as it cools, and like a sponge filled with water
and compressed, pours out thv water which its
diminished capacity cannot hold. How singu
lar, yet how simple, is such an admirable ar
rangement for watering tlw earth ?
Toledo paper reports a speech made
by a gentleman of that city, who had been i
elected to an important office in a military com- |
pany. The recipient of honors being called 1
out for a speech, mounted the rostrum : “My
brave men. them who vot«*d for me I myirrt--
them who didn't I du*ju>d.''
WIT AND HUMOR.
Di tch Candor. —Some ten years since an
old Dutchman purchased in the vicinity of
Brooklyn a snug little farm for nine thousand
dollars Recently a lot of land speculators
called upon him to buy him out. On asking
his price, he said he would take sixty thousand
dollars—no less.
“ And how much may remain on bond and
, mortgage ?”
“ Nine thousand dollars.”
‘•And why nut more?’’ interrogated the
would he purchasers.
“ Because the darned place is not worth any
more.”
Juliun.— Why am de beloved of my heart,
Miss Dinah, de sunflower of de hill, like a kind
oh cloth dry make in Lowell ?”
Sam. — I don't know, nigger: why?
Julian.— Cos she's an unblrachtd She-tiny !
Bouton Pont.
" Will ye dine wid me to-morrow. Mr. B?”
‘Faix.au’ I will, wid all my heart.” “Re
member, 'tis only a family dinner I'm axin’ yo
to.” “ And what for not—a family dinner’s
a mighty pleasant thing. What have* ye got"
’• Och, nothing uncommon—jist an illcgant
piece of corn'd bale and potatoes.” “Be the
powers, that bates the world—jist me own
dinner, barrin the base"
A banker asked a young lady of this citv
what kind of money she liked best.
“ Matrimony,'' she replied.
“What interest does it bring if” asked the
sharp banker.
“If properly invested it will double the orig
inal stock every two years,” she replied. °
He concluded .-he was a match fur him, but
the rest is a secret.
When a devout Ma—nlman found himself in
the midst ol a terrible tempest at sea. he ru
collected that he had violated Mahomadan's
law, by indulging in -wine's flesh on a partieu
• lar occasion. Having made due confession and
prayed for a<• . lion of the storm, in vain, he
pettishly exclaimed, “what a great fuss about
a little bit of pork !”
An Irishman, attending a Quaker mcetin* r ,
heard a young man make the following an
nouncement: “ B’-cthrvn and sisters, I am go
ing to marry a daughter of the Lord.” “ she
divil ye arc!” said Pat; “an' it'll be a long
time afore ye'll see yer father-in-law.”
At a late Hen Convention, finding it difficult
to raise the price of eggs, the feathered tribes
resolved for the future to lay only ten eggs to
t he dozen.
'I hat was a pretty conceit of a romantic hus
band and lather whose name was Rose, who
named his daughter “ Wild,” so that she grew
>.p under the appellation of “ Wild Rose.”
But the romance of the name was sadly spoiled
in a few war-, for she married a man by the
name . f “ Bull.”
“1 meant to have tould you of that hole.”
•aid an Irishman to his friend who was walk
ing with him in his garden, and tumbled into
a pit full of water. “No matter,” says Put,
blowing the mud and wat r out of his mouth,
“ I've found it.”
A printer, in settingup “we are but parts of
a stupendous whole," by mistake of a letter,
made it read, “ We are but parts ot a stupvn
(lous \\ hale."
Sonv? one commending Philip of Macedon,
for drinking freely :—“ That ” said Dvinos
thene-. “ i- a good qiuditv in a sponge, but not
in a king.”
It i -aid that Barnum i at present in full
( hast after a chap whu helped his wife at a
>teamb**at table, in prvt' reiice to another lady
who s;.f near ha i. He is considered the great
est curiosity extant.
A notorious miser, having heard a very ele
gant vliiirity -<rni!.‘ii —“This sermon,” said he
“prow- so strongly the necessity of alms, I
haw almost a mind to Leg.’’
A well-known broker being inquired of the
other day in rvg. i'd t • the health of his sick
child, an-”. (r*d. in tears, “Very HI. Wouldn’t
give two percent, fur his life.”
It i- u singular fa< t that a woman cannot
look from a prvcip'a e of any magnitude, with
out biK inii.g giddy. But what is still more
singular, the giddinc-s depart the moment
somebody puts liis arm around her waist to
keep her fr< m failing—queer isn’t it ?
“John, can you tell the difiert nee between
attraction (d‘gravitation and attraction of cohe
sion ?” “Y* •.. sir. Attraction of gravitation
pulls a drunke i man to th? around, and the at
traction ( I «•<»!.prevents hi.- getting up
again.''
“Sir -aid :• little blustering man to a religion
opponent. “u» what - •» t do you suppose 1 l.*v
l<-i!;: " “Weil 1 don't exactly know,” replied
the oth«-r. "but to judge from your size and
app ir.im*- 1 think >o’i belong to the cla-s
generally called in-sects.”
Going to jail i< fun in Raleigh, N. C. The
Spirit of the Age says, the prisoners are a mer
ry set, fiddling and dancing, whooping and
yelling, and cutting up all sorts of capers, even
to the annoyance of outsiders who are taxed to
support them.
Wc know a printer's apprentice, who being
too lazy to work, about once an hour bumps
hi-no.~c against a post t'.II it bleeds and then
sits down tu haw a good re-ting spell.
‘And you charge a dollar for killing a calf,
yon smutty thief,' said a planter to an old nig
ger. ‘No, no, niassa.' replied Sambo, ‘me
cliargus fifty cents for kill urn calf, and fifty
cents fur the know how.’
Ladies who wear hoops are kindly advised
by the Bellows Falls Argus “to look to their
rigging.” A few days ago. the editor observ
ed a lady sweeping along with the air of a
queen, with about two feet of whalebone stick
ing out lahiud!
An exchange paper tell- of a parson who
prefaced hi" sermon with “ My friends, let us
-:.y a few words before wc lagin.” This is
equal to the chap u ho took a short nap before
he went to sleep.
A jilted chemist finds low to be composed of
fifteen parts of gold, three of fame, and two of
affection.
To make hens lay perpetually, hit them a
well directed blow on the head.
“ The inan who was ‘filled with emotion,
hadn't room for his dinner.'’
Can an upright man be called a truly down
r" 1 honest fellow ?
THE GREAT ELEVATOR.
A Southern gentleman, at a Northern hotel,
perceiving that the dining room servant, a ne
gro, was bestowing his attentions elsewhere,
to his own neglect, called up John, and accost
ed him in this wise:
“John, I haw servants at home, and am
waited on as gentlemen should be. lam ne
glected here, and am tired of it. I give yow
fair notice* that I will whip you like a dog un
less yon behave better.”
The consequence was, that John became
wry attentive during the few days that the
gentleman remained. On going away, John
w:ls called up and presented with a dollar or
two. which he thus acknowledged:
“Tankee. massa. Southern gentlemen al
ways so—lick u- like blazes if we don't wait on
'em well, but, when dey go, dey allors gib us u
dollar or two.
“Now. dvse Abolition gemnien mighty hard
to suit, and want much waiting on, an’ when
dey go 'way shake yer hand, look up to de
wail an' say. ‘God bless you, my unfortunate
friend, an'elevate you in the s. <de ob humani
ty.’ or something like that, but dey,never gib
us a dollar or two to elewate us wid.”
—
24* r It is said that bleeding a partially blind
horse at the nose, will reston him to sight—
so much for the horse. Po ( pen a man s eye*,
you must bleed him at the p<*cktt.