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"Why, MELY HAND, is that you? Why, you skeered me most to death! How d'y' do to day?' thus puffed forth ELBRIDGE as soon as he could get his 'wind.'

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Pooty well, thank you,' returned the delighted damsel; 'but for massy's sake, what er you doin' with all them queer things-say?'

''Why, you see,' said ELBRIDGE, 'the ole man jes sent me fur a pig what he 'ngaged of 'Squire SMITH some time ago, and the ole woman told me as I come home to stop to Miss TILLSON's and git her sossige-cutter. We're goin' to hev some sossige; killed them big hogs er ours yisterday.'

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Sassige is good; ant it?' remarked MELY somewhat pensively, what with the seductiveness of such an idea.

'Well, 't is,' returned her equally appreciative lover; 'but I know suthin' a derned sight better. I say, MELY, ef I on'y hed a fair chance-ef I wus on'y in the right place, and could set down, I'd hev a reel good hug: that's so.'

''Pooh !' ejaculated the maiden with a fine blush, which was, however, well nigh extinguished in a blazing look of fun, 'I fur my part do n't see nothin' to hender. Yer could n't lay the pig down, 'n then set the sassige-cutter on the pig, 'n then slap me on the sassige-cutter, could yer?''

And it was done, doubtless. Where there's a will-but is not the whole told in 'Love's Integritie ?'

'OVER the mountaines

And under the waves,
Over the fountaines

And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest,
That doe NEPTUNE obey;
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will finde out the waye.'

OUR smoking friends may gather a good hint from

The Pipe Papers.


I AM a pipe-smoker. I know what it is and how it is done. I was elected to piping from my youth up, and in my manhood I did not depart therefrom. Even as I write, the amber tip is held between my teeth, and the short meerschaum sends up like an altar its smoke-to whom? Probably ad inferos—little care I. Probably, for first of all in the primeval æonic cycles of history, when, according to Mexican chronicle, the Conqueror went down into hell, the evil dæmons, to appease him, treated him to eigars.

I found that story in the book edited by my special friend, and one of the best of good fellows, (be his name known honorably in all lands!) Master NICOLAUS TRÜBNER, book-seller of London. That legend at one leap puts tobacco further back than frankincense-into Pre-Adamite ages. Imagine the scene. The fearful Lord - impassive and terrible in the mighty hour of triumph-the fierce fiends, golden, grotesque and hell-grimed, enormous flitting Chiriqui idols, passing around Mexican cigars. That lets us down a little, unless the cigars were better than those of modern Mexico, of which I bought, not long since, a small lot in Broadway, for two dollars a hundred. But doubtless, the cigars were like those which SAM SLICK gave the Judge, 'first chop' true Vuelta Abajos, fragrant as the odors which, in the gamut of perfume, as laid down by FOURIER and SEPTIMUS PIESSE gather around the spicy mystical note of santal-wood.

He who would enjoy a pipe, smokes mild. Believe in experience, O reader! I

have tried Persian tumback and some of the Sultan's own; Cuba 'shorts' have been mine, and OLDENKOTT's beste Varinas; the flavor of Beyrout 'Blue Seal' and Scafarlatti have I inhaled; but of all, give me good, mild Lynchburg, yellow-brown, pressed in those rectangular cakes, which look like the tempting preparations of concentrated vegetables, of which 'a small one makes soup for eight soldiers.' Mild, I say. Write it, O Sophomore! exultant in thy first meerschaum, on thy heart! Only the green-horn who deems it manly to affect every thing strong, ruins his nerves to come in after-years, with the abominations of burning Cavendish and fine-cut. Observe

I say mild. There is a fearful heresy gaining ground in the Church-fumant, of which I am an unworthy pastor, which I feel called on to confute. The youth of the present day, albeit lusty smokers, honest fellows and noble pipers as ever man need wish to see, have learned from some false teacher, that to color a meerschaum rapidly, one must use strong tobacco. Dico tibi veré, it is all gammon. Gammon, bosh, idleness, folly and deceit. Look ye, gentlemen, what is it that colors the clay? The oil of tobacco, latent in the black nicotine slime which gathers in the stem. Well, take this from a pipe where it has gathered from a mild tobacco, and see if it be not as black, as bitter and as intense as that from the strongest tobacco ever inhaled by peasant or sailor. Remember that the pipe can only retain a certain quantity of this oil, which penetrates slowly, and this quantity gathers as effectually in a very few smokes from mild tobacco as from strong. But that is not all. Why is meerschaum the best material for a pipe? Because it has a better flavor after it has been well smoked. You who believe the nonsensical gabble of ignorant and verdant smokers, who say that no one can tell in the dark whether his cigar be lit, give ear unto me. There was a time when, of six pet meerschaums, I knew each one, smoking it in the deepest mid-night, by its flavor. Now, a pipe which has been colored on strong tobacco, acquires a bad aroma, while one fed on light, dry, pure leaf, has a pleasant, refined and well-bred gout. The difference between stable and parlor is not greater than that between two pipes which have been respectively, strongly and mildly smoked. 'Think of this when you smoke tobacco!' It is the old comparison between Madeira and Rum let him who can profit by it. 'And when we next meet, let me fill my bowl from thy bag of Winnnebago.'

WE are indebted to a friend for the following reminiscence of 'SMITH:'

'SMITH, of this habitat, has a wife who believes in him. SMITH, in her opinion, can do every thing. If the Chinese language were mentioned, Mrs. SMITH would put in a claim to her husband's knowledge of the article.

'Now, if there's any thing that SMITH has n't got, it is the memory of texts and sermons. Yet, only yesterday, Sunday evening, his pretty wife asserted, that it was hardly worth while to go to church-SMITH could always repeat the whole. This I could n't stand. So I touched him up, asking for the text of the morning.

"Let's see,' said SMITH, turning around in his chair. 'H'm-yes. Well, it was to this effect: The grass-widders cut up!'

"Not quite, my dear,' said Mrs. SMITH, with a benignant smile. Not quite. It was, 'The grass withereth, and is cut down.' But (this was spoken triumphantly) you did come pretty near the general sense, did n't he? it was about grass, sure enough!''

Well, all flesh is grass, and grass, it is to be presumed,' always feels 'cut up' at the prospect of being cut down, whether said grass occur in the form of 'widders' or herbage. Which brings us exactly to a lyric, which KNICK is assured 'sings first-rate,' and, which like a Texas duel, may be accomplished 'with or without a second: '

Be Grass-Widow.

THERE's a beautiful cloak of rich rat-colored plush,
And two dimpled dumplings of cheeks with a blush,
And a fast little hand, with a glove always new,
And a lot of big rings, which distinctly show through ;
And a small parasol, with the air of a flirt,
And skirts always clean, though the streets be all dirt,
And the things all belong-like the song which I write
To the little grass-widow, who lives on our flight.

Her eyes are like puddles of 'MAYNARD and NOYES,'
But they sparkle like fire, when she bows to the 'boys;'
And oh! how they dart to the heart a keen ray,
When you meet her a-shopping some fine frosty day;
She fears not the wind, and she fears not the snow,
She fears but the prospect of missing a beau;
And oh! when she meets one, her smile is a sight!
The pretty grass-widow who lives on our flight.

And is n't she fond of good stories and jokes!
She discounts at billiards- -folks say that she smokes-

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[She whiffs cigarettes for neuralgian pain,
And then she has travelled in Cuba and Spain.]

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She has been to the East, she has roamed through the West,
She has danced where the balls were the brightest and best,
And was fresh when the morning came in with its light-
The pretty grass-widow who lives on our flight.

How she whirls like a fire-work in rapture away,
When you
take her a 'rocket-time' ride in a sleigh;
How she loves to be wrapped like a baby complete,
And begs you to carefully shawl up her feet.

O pshaw! she'd be glad to go ride on a hearse,

With a six-footer big-whiskered chap for her nurse;

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And would waltz with Old NICK if she found him polite -
The pretty grass-widow who lives on our flight.

One day she was sick, and expected to die,

I sat by her side

we were both on the cry

When she choked down the tears-wiped them off with a curl,
And murmured, 'I'm glad that old Death an't a girl.
He's a rather slim pattern of course for a beau,
But any thing's better than nothing, you know;
I wonder if flirting with him would be right,'
Said the pretty grass-widow who lives on our flight.

Then she suddenly cried, 'Why, I can't die at all,
Next Thursday's the night of the Bachelors' Ball!
There's my lovely new dress to come in, I declare
I've ordered the loveliest thing for my hair,
And my Baltimore pet will be sure to be there,
Why of course I must live-so she jumped up and dressed,
And at dinner was laughing aloud with the best,
For the thought of a frolic had set her all right,
The jolly grass-widow who lives on our flight.

To all lovers of temperance, KNICK commends:

Monsieur Achille sur les Boissons Americaines.

'By_gar, zese cockstails brak' me 'eart,
Zey gife me moche ze bloos:

I wiss' I s'all ratturn to France,


I feel so eendispose.


to dine my soazial frenz,

I gife zem one 'blow-wout,'

Mon DIEU! ze wine eet costs so dear

Zat mak's me moche poot out.

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'Vrai Cognac, zat ees not so bad,
Beeg Thing ees brandy strait;
Bote zen ze price, zat mak's me sad,
Zat is not var' fust rate!

Zen in ze one hoss groggariz

Zey concoc' emmetations

I sink zey most 'ave vinyards zere
Of all ze forraigne nations.

'Zey mak' you s'erry, port, or ailse
Že vary bes' champagne;
Gredin! zat's mad' of goazbarriz,
And gifes one stomach pain.

I ron 'srough all zey geevs to drink,

But more eet rons me s'rough

Lak one dam knife. I'm off for France,

And beeds zis land adieu !'

Let us hope that in wine-y viney France Monsieur ACHILLE Soon 'made up the difference.' WE pray all KNICKERBOCKER readers to take note of the publication in book-form, by PUTNAM, of KIMBALL'S 'Revelations (Undercurrents) of Wall-Street,' which is now ready for delivery. See our notice in this regard. The book and the KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE one year for Three Dollars! Send on your orders. - - A STATEMENT is now going the rounds to the effect that the literary matter of the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine is identical with that of the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY. It is needless to say that this is entirely false in every detail. Not one line of literary, or any other matter, has ever appeared in common between the two magazines — the one being printed and published in New-York and the other in Boston. Editors who have been misled into giving currency to this statement will confer a favor by publishing the truth. An examination of the two publications will convince any one at a glance that each is entirely original and different. THE reader, while

we beg him to be ever 'kindly mindful' of KNICK, will not take it ill should we say a word of KNICK's younger brother, the CONTInental Monthly, of which latter it is worth remarking that the sales of its first number, published in January, were greater than any ever before made of the first of any American magazine, the demand therefor being still continued. All desirous of reading a straightforward, out-spoken, unflinching publication, having among its contributors the first political writers and most popular men in the country, will find it, as we honestly believe, in the CONTINENTAL. The SEWARD papers, begun in February, which have excited so much comment from the press, will be found of special interest to all desirous of learning the higher secrets of our foreign and domestic policy. WILL our best of friends -the Contributors have patience? Many good things, now deferred, will appear in the April number.

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'Strength there must be, either of love or war.'-HOLYDAY.

DEAR reader—and especially dear lady-reader- during all the last chapter I have seen a slight shade of doubt, a delicate suspicion of dissent, gathering over your features, gliding over your glances and quivering in those negative nods of your head, as the rising breeze which goes before the hurricane shakes the queenly palm-tree. And now comes the remonstrance. All very well, Sir, very well, indeed; but when we come to facts, is it not true can you deny it? that pathos is tender, and that tenderness is exquisite, and that tears from the heart are the test of feeling and of love? weep, and I certainly do not believe that my griefs or - I suppose that I may say so—without poetry.'

When I am grieved I are without emotion,

Dear reader, this is a terrible dilemma, and one all the more painful because you of all the world—you, the representative of that sex in which all the best hopes of the future, its intellectual hopes, centre — you, really at heart agree with me more closely than you dream. We are both of the future - reflect.

Yes, reflect, that beneath this wild froth, this whirling, broken spray of life, lies a quiet depth of the same element which is not foam, not folly. O reader! if you be a woman, an earnest, truthful one, one with a deep and loving woman's heart, which knows itself, though the world knows it not; if you are one whose inmost soul is daily moved and grieved at the thought that you, crushed in by circumstance, are not what God gave you the secret power to be; if you are conscious that there is in your heart, under many a film, a priceless gem, which some would prize with worship could they see its light, then you, of all others, should read with woman's tact the struggles of one who VOL. LIX.


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