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1852.]
ror lie at length got off the stage into the
orchestra, and commenced singing an old
English song entitled “the Poacher,” the
burden of which is,
“It’s niy delight of a shiny night
In the season of the year,”
to the great merriment of the audience,
who bore with him very good humoured
ly. Having succeeded in getting him be
hind the scenes, he was vociferously
called for, and after a parley, it was
agreed that he should finish the play. On
lie went again, and again the manager’s
fears were intense. “Finish as quick as
you can,” said he, in a whisper from the
wing. On which the Sir Edward walk
ed forward and said : “Ladies and gentle
men, 1 have been directed by the mana
ger to finish this as quickly as possible,
and sol'll finish it at once ; here, YVilford,
catch me?” saving which, and throwing
himself into his arms, he “did the dying
scene,” and the curtain was rung down,
amid roars of laughter. At Pittsburg,
one evening, Mr. Eorrest was about to
play Montezuma, when Mr. Booth came
in, and said he was going to support him
l>y playing the Indian chief Antonio, for
which part he dressed and made up, when,
instead of going on to the stage, he walked
out and took the cars, attired as lie
w its.
In this city, some twenty-five years
ago, he was arrested in much the same
condition, and as he refused to give any
other name than that of Lucius Junius
Brutus, he was sent by Justice Wyman’s
to the old Bridewell. Jn the course of
the day, Simpson and Price, the mana
gers, came in search, stating that he had
suddenly left the theatre the night before.
The Justice, on discovering who he was,
sent an order for his release from durance
vile, and in the afternoon a cart load of
provisions of various sorts, with fruit,
wine, &c., were delivered, together with
a letter from Ju. ius, to “the gentleman
inmates, with whom he had the honour
of spending a few hours in the morn
ing.”
lie once played Oronoko with bare
feet, insisting that it was absurd to put
shoes on a slave. But the most extraor
dinary freak, perhaps, was his perform
ance of Richard the Third on hoiseback,
which he did at the circus in the York
road, Philadelphia. Many similar stories
are told of him, some of which are doubt
less exaggerated, but the above freaks we
have heard from those upon whom we
can rely. —A r . Y. paper.
Antioch, in the beginning of the fourth
century, discovered the importance, as a
matter of police, of lighting the streets.
But the discovery lapsed ; and it was only
in the middle of the sixteenth century
that Paris lighted up her streets by fires
made of pitch and rosin.
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
Eor the Southern Literary Gazette.
SONNET.
Lady ! I will not wrong thy womanhood,
By crowning thee with praise which is not thine,
I see thee lovely, and I think thee good,
Bat yet no angel and not all divine ;
For on thine brow and o’er thy beauteous face,
As evident in sadness as in mirth,
is a most bewitching look of earth,
Pure, but the dearer for its mortal grace.
Aye ! ihou art earthy, and so tender-meek,
That I would deem much love hai made tiue
weak,
Did not, at times, in some excited hour,
A flash that lights the darkness of thine eyes
Reveal a secret and a deeper power,
A spirit lie has hardihood who tries.
Aglaus.
WM. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Mr. Thackeray was born in Calcutta
in 1811, one year before Dickens; so
that these two distinguished novelists
seem to have been designed by Nature
for something like a neck-and neck race,
Thackeray having a little the start in
time. Dickens has passed him, no doubt;
but we venture to predict that Thackeray
will not be second when the race is done.
Both made the mistake of straying into
the law; both happily got out of it,
and became what they are; Thackeray,
the great antagonist of snobbism through
out Christendom, the inheritor of the
mantle of Fielding, and the writer of the
best historical novel in our language;
and Dickens, —but we are not writing
about Dickens, and we must abstain
from parallels. Making parallels like
making “puddens” is ojous in the words
of Miss Bella Macartuy. Because the
long and short of the matter is, that
every man is more like himself than
like anybody else, Plutarch and Dr. John
son to the contrary notwithstanding. It
is an old, worn-out trick of composition,
and poor at best. Os course, some light
may be thrown upon a character by an
incidental contrast with another; but a
long, formal, premeditated comparison is,
as we have just intimated, “odorous.”
Mr. Thackeray lived the life of other
young men, and, having wasted a pretty
ample inheritance, was driven to litera
ture for a support. But here his loss was
our gain. He then engaged in a number
j© t © ©
of unsuccessful literary enterprises; and,
though he had contributed much and of
ten to the English periodicals, it was not
until the publication of “Vanity Fair”
that his reputation was fairly estab
lished. — To-Day.
Dickens’ “Household Words” is now
republished by Thomas McElrath, No.
17 Spruce-street, at $2,50 a year. Mr.
McElrath adds to each number three
pages of home matter, under the head of
| “U. States Weekly Register,” and seve
ral pages of American advertisements.
An Intelligent House. — Some yea ,s
ago the citizens of Centreville, Indiana,
were often amused bv the conduct of a
horse, when, with others, he was turned
into the barn-yard to be watered. One
day, approaching the trough and finding
it empty, he seized the pump handle, t<>
the surprise of the witnesses between his
teeth, and pumped water sufficient for him
and the other horses. Having thus be
gun, he was allowed, when so inclined, to
wait upon himself and companions after
wards. But it was obseived that he al
ways drove the other horses away until
he had quenched his own thirst, after
which he pumped for the rest.
Cintnr’s Uni ini ninth
*
CHARLESTON: SATURDAY. DECEMBER 25. 1852.
CHASING A WORD.
Tliis is one of the most trying difficulties of
composition. We confess that we have some
times spent, wiih short intervals of rest, the grea
ter part of a day in chasing a single word. The
operations of the mind in the search are very
amusing indeed.
We have an idea, or think we have one, which
fails to suggest its corresponding sign. We are
sure, however, that it will occur to us soon. It is
trembling, at this very moment, upon our lips.
Pshaw ! we have it ! no ! it has dodged us, and
gone to hide itself in some obscure corner of the
brain. We proceed to grope through the cham
bers of the mind, but it eludes us at every turn,
like a girl playing at bo-peep. Or like a star in
the twilight, seen and lost in the space of a se
cond. Or like a bird thut flutters about you, al
most touching the hand, until she lias drawn you
away from her nest, and then soars away hope
lessly out of reach. Like any thing that provokes,
and puzzles, and pleases, and therefore, of course,
like a preity coquette. At last, we determine, for
the present at least, to give up the search—we
will resume it at some brighter and more favoura
ble moment. We take up a book, or if the time
be night, wo go to bed and endeavour to sleep.
We have hopes that in the morning the tormentor
will surrender itself a willing prisoner. But we
do not sleep. The word comes peeping into our
eyes, it cuts all sorts of capers in our head—teas
ing us to chase it again, as though we were sev
erally engaged in a game of blind man’s buffi
We turn over fitfully and peevishly, muttering
something very naughty indeed. With a feeling
of shame we try to compose ourselves by resort-
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