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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- 295