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Which suggesteth a story. Some years ago, SANDFORD, of Philadelphia, was debating with the Rev. Dr. as to the merits and demerits of the well known one of the most famous bon-vivants, rare good fellows, joyous scholars, and accomplished story-tellers in America.

The Reverend Doctor was not observing the precept of de mortuis nil nisi bonum. In fact he was rather putting the deceased below par, disapproving principally of his rolliсksome ebriety and frequent vinousness.

"Ah! yes, SANDFORD,' quoth he, “poor had much wit; but when the wine is in, the wit is out.'

'Precisely so, Doctor,' was the reply, “and when the wine was going in our friend, you could hear the wit coming out and it did n't come slow, either, I can assure you.' True as Veritas herself.

But to our poem.

The New-Year's Call.
MR. LIONEL LIGHTFOOT, a dashing young beau,

Had been only three weeks in the city,
And by those I've been told who had reason to know,

That never till then, (what a pity!)
Had the clear, sparkling goblet been filled to the brim,
Or the nectarine poison sipped lightly by him;
For, though friends and companions had hooted and sneered,
Laughed, scoffed, and persuaded, tormented, and jeered,
Though in club-room and bar they would oftentimes meet,
He ne'er treated, nor could be entreated to treat.

But now it was New-YEAR — a happy New Year,

And he'd surely be guilty of treason,
Should he fail to the fair ones in person to pay

His dues with the dues of the season.
So calling on FAIRFACE, an exquisite dandy
An ardent believer in brands of good brandy,
He found him perturbed -- in a barbarous passion.
His mustache had been trimmed quite too close for the fashion ;
His head, too, (oh! shocking to add to the list!)
Two hairs on the left the Macassar had missed.
But LIGHTFOOT restored him the former, he said,
Looked so foreign, distingué a beautiful red,
He fain would have added, but paused, lest the ire
Of his comrade might set his adornment on fire..
Then, waiting till FAIRFACE, made smooth as a die
For the fiftieth time, his . miwaculous tie,'
With 'assurance his collar just touched his goatee,
Without varying in distance the thousandth degree;
With cane between kid just as tight as would squeeze on,
They turned toward Miss Mabel's, the belle of the season ;
And listening the while to her glowing narrations,
of the healths she had drank with her sparkling potations,
Since first the bright New-Year had mounted his throne,
They basked in her smiles as the moments sped on;
Then, ere they departed, she pressed them to share
The wine and refreshments spread temptingly there;
And while FAIRFACE accepts, and complacently sips
The juice that reflects the soft blush of her lips,
Your health, cries ma belle : returns LIGHTFOOT, 'Excuse me,
I never indulge.' What, on New-Year's, refuse me!
Politeness demands it — beside,' soft and low,
Champagne is so perfectly harmless, you know.'
O woman! fair temptress! thou knew'st not the while,
The doom that was sealed by that innocent smile;
Or how fatal the spell in that voice that was given
To lure man from vice, and direct him to heaven.
Thou saw'st not the phantoms that clutched at the bowl,
Or the serpents that fastened their fangs in his soul;

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Thou heard'st not the clank of the chains that were wound, !
By fiends who kept mocking the spirit they bound.
Thus LightFOOT was tempted and yielded at last,

Beguiled by this siren of beauty;
And, quitting her presence, he carried along

Hér smiles of approval as booty.
A dangerous tribute, these smiles of the fair,
They melted his good resolutions to air;
For, though he had reasoned, 'I'll only partake
This once of the wine for the fair charmer's sake,'
He was sadly mistaken - the breach had been made,
The fortress surrendered, its inmates betrayed;
The noble resolves that had guarded the tower
Where faith held her torch in temptation's dark hour;
The purposes high that had stamped on his brow,
The glory of manhood, oh! where were they now?
Next they called on Miss FANNIE - a witching young elf,

With eyes so transparently blue,
They looked like great jewels in pure sapphire set,

With crystals of violet dew.
Like some weird enchantress, her magical wand
Makes Lightroot a slave to her slightest command.
He sees not the nectar that flushes the cup,
But the exquisite fingers now raising it up;
He marks not the glass she so gracefully sips,
But the full, crimson tide that ebbs from her lips;
And thus taken captive, transported, enchained,
He quaffs to her health till the goblet is drained.

But why follow on with the twain as they flit

From bower to bower, partaking;
Or tell how the feeble resolves of the one

Were seized with an ague of shaking?
How, long before nightfall, he fancied his brain
Was dancing a reel on a circular plain;
How houses, inverted, in warlike array,
Wheeled backward and forward in endless chassé.
We pass these sad pictures; nor linger to tell,
How step after step from true manhood he fell;
How, at first, he took naught but the choicest of wine,
Madeira undrugged, or old Port superfine;
How he drank but with gentlemen, such as would deigu
To touch no cheap brandy or third-rate champagne.
Alas! for poor Lightfoot! As well might he fling
His form among scorpions, escaping their sting,
As hope to pursue without danger, the plan
That raises the brute and debases the man.
Behold him, at length, in some vice-crowded den,
Where skulk the crouched forms of what once ranked as men;
Where the pestilent fumes from each whiskey-scorched throat,
The pure air of heaven with plague-spots have smote;
Where malice, pollution, and wretchedness teem,
And guilt stalks among them to mock and blaspheme;
There see him the victim of beauty's soft smile,
Debauched and corrupted, degraded and vile.

Again it is New-Year – each long, silken lash,

On Miss Mabel's flushed cheek is reposing;
Her beautiful lips, ere they part in a smile,

Look like rose-leaves before the unclosing,
Or like shells, whose deep blushes balf hidden must be,
Till their crimson lips open to moan of the sea.
Miss Mabel is weary; the day has been passed
In calls and refreshments -

-- a type of the last;
She is languid, yet woos a calm slumber in vain ;
The vanished excitement has heated her brain.
She dreams - 't is of LightFOOT she tempts him to drink;
He quaffs at her bidding, then ceases to shrink
From frequent indulgence of evils the worst;
His hopes are all blasted — his life is accursed;

She sees him descending from bonor, renown,
And sinking to ruin, down, hopelessly down;
There, battling with rum-fiends, in fury he raves,
Like a soul reft of reason on life's maddening waves.
O ladies, dear ladies! when next round the wine,
Your delicate fingers caressingly twine;
When like a soft blessing, the breath of your lip
Floats over and hallows the juice that you sip,
Just call the crouched form of poor LIGHTFOOT to view,
And know that the dream of Miss MABEL was true.
Then, by your allurements teach man to refrain,
And prove that your charms were bestowed not in vain;
Let your spotless example illustrate the plan,
That woman was made as a help-meet for man.
To warn him from treading the pathways of sin,
By the beautiful love-light that glows from within.

THE ENGLISH HOFFMAGANDER.—If proof were needed that England is fast falling into senility, and in second childhood needed the playthings of its boyhood, we need only point to the leaders in the Times to prove our assertion. The writers for that aged sheet, as if playing with a certain well-known toy, present the public with a pot of 'alf and 'alf in the pewter, and when their thirsty old readers endeavor to seize the pot, presto! a spring is touched, and there appears a horrid scare-crow called war with the United States. When the aforesaid old readers are duly frightened, the string is again pulled down, and only the froth of the enticing malt is seen, again to lure them on to try to take another drink. The London Times is England's ‘Hoffmagander.'

In that small-beer sheet of October 21st, there appeared an article touching our country, which we believe an analysis will prove to be as full of all deleterious drugs as many English chemists wish us to believe are to be found in their celebrated malt drinks. It commences with the usual preface of prevaricators : ‘It is said that there prevails among certain classes in Lancashire a wish to see our government take a more active part in American affairs.' On this text is developed a sermon the morale of which is that, “It would illbecome England to make herself the tool of the machinations of the so-called Confederate Government.'

It has undoubtedly been the misfortune of some of our readers to have met with a very old and very sour-dispositioned lady, who has in a very short time managed to completely destroy the pleasant impression created by the sight of some young and modest girl, solely by the hints, innuendoes, and “it is said' remarks of the aforesaid bitter old woman. But when, your gall and anger being excited, you have plainly asked, “Is not that young lady beautiful and good ?' the old harridan has undoubtedly astonished you by saying, 'Of course she is !' — then we recognize the same animus that leads the Times to vilify and abuse our country — ay, malignity and viciousness !

Continuing our examination of the above-named leader, we find the following : “As the interest of a people is, so, for the most part, will be their principles.' Mind you this is laid down in all sober and serious earnestness ! -- and the world learns that in a Christian community interest is paramount to principle. A more open confession of a nation's degradation was never made : made, too, by its recognized mouth-piece. Again the Times asks: 'If the North does not emancipate the slaves, why should it forbid the transmission of the produce which Slavery gives to mankind ? No principle is involved in the contest, and so Englishmen, they think, may with a safe conscience take which side they like.

In answer to this we would ask, Is the North at peace with the South ? Is it probable that in war we would permit the transmission of an enemy's produce, be that the result of slavery or not; and enrich our enemy by giving him a market for his produce? Aged Hoffmagander, to reply to your buffoonery we must don the cap and bells ! Asserting in one breath that ‘Interest is paramount to principles,' and in the next breath, 'No principle is involved in the contest,' we must ask, where does your interest lie? - we should then know that it was superior to your principles !

Farther on we read: They (the extreme party of English manufacturers) may think that a loud outcry, producing a chance of a collision between the two countries, may dispose the people of the Northern States to come to terms, and put an end to the war.' Aged Hoffmagander, when English troops landed in China, were they scared by the outcries of the Chinese, their gong-beatings, their fire-crackers ? We answer, NO! And do you think that the outcries of your Brummagem or Lancashire weavers will scare Our Army? Try it on!

The touch of hypocrisy, “We should be sorry that any such conviction (that of England bringing to the side of the rebels “the largest navy in the world') should gain ground in the South,' is inimitable; yes, 0 Times writer, you have heard of Uriah Heep-you are sorry- we know you are.

We SEE you! And when we see you, it is in company with Mawworm and Aminidab Sleek !

The condescending admission, Whenever the Northerners have established an effectual blockade, they will be free to keep it up without interference on our part,' we have never heard equalled for stupidity, save once; it was at an election, the drunken orator then proclaimed: "The hour of triumph is the hour of victory!'

The dictatorial tone which the Hoffmagander assumes in the sentence, We would therefore remind the Government of Washington, that it is only a real blockade that foreign nations are bound to recognize,' is passing strange and blunderful. How long since was the Times hired to follow Alexander, and exclaim, Thou art a man! But it does it, and does it well, and every tremulous word proclaims it feels the truth of the words it cries out in the conqueror's

Servile to the last, the London Times would degrade the intelligence of the English nation it feels itself unable to cultivate, and turning itself into a Hoffmagander, endeavor to ruin by folly, men whom it has not the power to control by wisdom.


H. P. L.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. — “A righte olde friende' of KNICK GEORGE T. METCALFE — a merry man and one who ‘having lost a left leg,' as he tells us, ' about two years ago, claims to know when other people write good poetry,' sends us the following anent one of the most promising of Young Americans :

'I KEEP four offsprings, viz. : namely: one grown clear up; one having fits for college ; one far off on a clipper-ship between San Francisco and Calcutta — there are two little cherubs that sit up aloft' to keep watch over him; one five years old, boys. I have not seen one of their dear faces for two years and a half. On the fourth birthday of him ‘last aforesaid,' he was exalted to a seat at the dinner-table, having theretofore eaten bread and milk in extemporaneous places. A glass of wine was placed beside him, and all the family drank to his health, happiness, etc., seriatim, that is, very seriously. At the end, he rose and said : ‘Live or die, sink or swim, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote.' He had been taught to spout that speech, and therefore said what he knew.'

There be many others who would give their hearts and hands to that vote, if a good dinner be one.

Our Chicago friend, 'Ruth HALL' hath also somewhat to say of the little ones :

Chicago, Oct. 25th. My story shall possess at least the first requisite of wit, namely, brevity, as well as the questionable recommendation of truth.

* The heroine of the piece is a little girl of four years and a half, (I have good reason to know her age, for she is very noisy, and only last week I suggested the propriety of sending her to school, and was reminded that she lacked six months of the proper age,) and the only child of my Milesian washerwoman, herself remarkable only for industry, love of offspring, and lack of brains, while Miss Biddy is sharp as cider vinegar. She had been holding a desultory conversation with her doll, when she broke out with the startling query:

"Ma,' (the lower orders are great sticklers for this mode of address,) 'where did you get me?' As the husband in this case resembles ‘Mrs. HARRIS' — often heard of,

– that circumstance added zest to the question. Judy was dumbfounded. Shure that's a quare thing to ask,' she evasively replied. * Where did you get me?' was reïterated, emphasized this time by both head and hand.

"In the misthress's barn, thin, and I raised ye.' “Was I dead then ?' with the look and tone of a crabbed lawyer cross-examining a witness; then, seeing the look of hopeless bewilderment in her mother's face, whose powers of invention were utterly exhausted by the first effort, and with contempt of her maternal relative's power of solving the problem, she answered herself, saying : 'Och, I guess I was, for I don't mind any thing about it.”.

SOMEWHAT of soldier-life reaches us in the following, from one who follows the drum and notes well the humors of war :

never seen

Camp Corwin, near Dayton, O. 'DEAR OLD KNICK. : I have been wondering why some wit has not turned his atten. tion to camp-anecdotes, in these war times. Soldiers do n't have much fun; but what little they have is fun. Let me give a sample or two: In this camp (First Regiment 0. V.) our worthy Major L and other officers have been making vigorous and praiseworthy

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