Shell Baptists, but I'd rather have a hard shell as no shell at all. You see me here to-day, my brethring, dressed up in fine clothes; you mout think I was proud, but I am not proud, my brethring, and although I've been a preacher of the gospel for twenty years, an' although I'm capting of the flatboat that lies at your landing, I'm not proud, my brethring. I am not gwine to tell edzactly whar my tex may be found; suffice to say, it's in the leds of the Bible, and you'll find it somewhar between the first chapter of the book of Generations, and the last chapter of the book of Revolutions, and ef you'll go and search the Scriptures, you'll not only find my tex thar, but a great many other texes as will do you good to read, and my tex, when you shall find it, you shill find it to read thus:"And he played on a harp uv a thousand strings -sperits uv jest men made perfeck." My text, my brethring, leads me to speak of sperits. Now, thar's a great many kinds of sperits in the world-in the fuss place, thar's the sperits as some folks call ghosts, and thar's the sperits uv turpentine, and thar's the sperits as some folks call liquor, an' I've got as good an artikel of them kind of sperits on my flatboat as ever was fotch down the Mississippi river; but thar's a great many other kinds of sperits, for the tex says, "He played on a harp uv a t-h-o-u-s-and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." But I'll tell you the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex, is FIRE. That's the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex, my brethring. Now thar's a great many kinds of fire in the world. In the fuss place there's the common sort of fire you light your cigar or pipe with, and then thar's foxfire and camphire, fire before you're ready, and fire and fall back, and many other kinds uv fire, for the tex says, "He played on the harp uv a thousand strings, sperits of jest men made perfeck." ADAM laid down and slept;-and from his side A woman in her magic beauty rose; But I'll tell you the kind of fire as is ment in the tex, my brethring-it's HELL FIRE! an that's the kind uv fire as a great many uv you'll come to, ef you don't do better nor what you have been doin'for "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." Now, the different sorts of fire in the world may be likened unto the different persuasions of Christians in the world. In the first place we have the Piscapalions, an' they are a high sailin' and highfalutin' set, and they may be likened unto a turkey buzzard, that flies up into the air, and he goes up, and up, and up, till he looks no bigger than your finger nail, and the fust thing you know, he cums down, and down, and down, and is a fillin' himself on the carkiss of a dead hoss by the side of the road, and "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." And then thar's the Methodis, and they may be likened unto the squirril runnin' up into a tree, for the Methodis beleeves in gwine on from one degree of grace to another, and finally on to perfection, and the squirrel goes up and up, and up and up, and he jumps from limb to limb, and branch to branch, and the fust thing you know he falls, and down he cums kerflumix, and that's like the Methodis, for they is allers fallen from grace, ah! and "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." And then, my brethring, thar's the Baptist, ah! and they have been likened unto a possum on a 'simmon tree, and thunders may roll and the earth may quake, but that possum clings thar still, ah! and you may shake one foot loose, and the other's thar, and you may shake all feet loose, and he laps his tail around the limb, and clings and he clings furever, for "He played on the harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." Dazzled and charmed, he called that woman bride, And his first sleep became his last repose. CAST-OFF GARMENTS. 66 WELL, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her-as ladies are apt to be found, She turned as I entered-"Why, Harry, you sinner, Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, mon I should like above all things to go with you there; 66 Nothing to wear! go just as you are; Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, (That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, "How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, No matter how fine, that she wears every day!" "The pearl-colored "—"I would, but that plaguey Has had it a week"-" Then that exquisite lilac, As more comme il faut-" "Yes, but, dear me, that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." "Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine; That supurb point d'aiguille, that imperial green, That zephyr-like tarleton, that rich grenadine "Not one of all which is fit to be seen," Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation; And by all the grand court were so very much courted." The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, "I have worn it three times at the least calculation, And that and the most of my dresses are ripped up!" Here I ripped our something, perhaps rather rash. Quite innocent, though; but to use an expression More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," And proved very soon the last act of our session. "Fiddlesticks, is it, Sir? I wonder the ceiling Doesn't fall down and crush you-oh, you men have no feeling, You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, wear, And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care, "I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. I mildly suggested the words-Hottentot, hailed Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite To express the abusive, and then its arrears EXCERPTS. BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. A JUDGE in Indiana threatened to fine a lawyer for contempt of court. "I have expressed no contempt for the court," said the lawyer; "on the contrary, I have carefully concealed my feelings." An Alabama editor says, in an ill-natured paragraph, that he is "very unlike the gentleman of the Louisville Journal." The latter replies that he is probably unlike any gentleman. We think it is an undeniable truth that the Africans, let them go to what part of the world they may, retain more unequivocally than any other people the odor of nationality. A paper, calling itself literary and miscellaneous, advertises that it intends to swallow up every thing around it "like a great maelstroom." We have little doubt that it will prove a great "take in." An editor says that he gives no heed to what we say-that our words go in at one ear and out at the other. We have no doubt of it. Things pass easily through a vacuum. A bitter writer in a sectarian newspaper calls his opponent a "hypocrite and a hyena." There is some similarity between the two animals. One prays, and both prey. A western editor talks of giving in one of his columns the fibs of his neighbor. We presume that the other thirty-five are to be filled with his ownas usual. The question is discussed in some of the Missouri papers whether raising hemp is a good business. A much better business certainly than being raised by it. A Canada editor says he has "a keen rapier to prick all fools and knaves." His friends, if they are prudent, will take it from him. He might commit suicide. A man in the interior of Kentucky has brought suit against his neighbor for bruising his shins. If the jury award damages they should order the amount to be paid in shin-plasters. A Richmond paper says that "the moon has been rising for some nights with a face as red as a toper's." No imputation ought to be cast upon Cynthia's sobriety. She fills her horn only once a month. A contemporary wants to know whether fat men are not more kind and compassionate than lean ones. Perhaps they are as a general rule, but all bowels are not bowels of compassion. A western editor, not noted for brilliancy, says that he "would rather put questions than respond to them." He is perhaps right. He has probably read that fools may ask questions, but that it takes wise men to answer them. Mr. Thomas Pott, a citizen of Western Texas, publishes a violent communication against his neighbors in general because he has had an axe stolen. His rage is evidently a tempest in a T' Pott. A Kentucky editor thinks he is to be pitied because he has been "a whole week without mail intelligence." Perhaps some are still more to be pitied for having been all their lives without intelli gence of any sort. The Washington Union asks whether any party that acts from mere policy can long retain power. Certainly it can, if it acts from a wise policy, and most especially if it acts from the best of all policies, honesty. A country editor says that we may question his veracity, but that we have no veracity to question. We should never think of questioning such veracity as his, for it won't answer. A lady has just sent us a basket of fruit, the very sight of which, she thinks, must make us smack our lips. We thank her, and would greatly prefer smacking hers. Brigham Young in a recent sermon, told the Mormons that it was "more important to raise saints than to raise crops." No doubt he thinks it the more agreeable husbandry of the two. A contemporary wants to know in what age women have been held in the highest esteem. We don't know. But certainly fashionable ladies fill a larger space in the world now than they ever did before. A lady who could not conceal even from herself the plainness of her face, boasted that her back was perfect. "That is the reason, suppose, that your friends are always glad to see it," said one of her listeners. A dishonest and malignant critic, by severing passages from their context, may make the best book appear to condemn itself. A book, thus unfairly treated, may be compared to the laurel-there is honor in the leaves but poison in the extract. We have heard of men celebrating their country's battles, who, in war, were celebrated for keeping out of them. THE LITERATURE OF MIRTH. BY EDWIN P. WHIPPLE. THE ludicrous side of life, like the serious side, I like heat lightning; that of Milton blasts and burns has its literature, and it is a literature of untold wealth. Mirth is a Proteus, changing its shape and manner with the thousand diversities of individual character, from the most superficial gaiety, to the deepest, most earnest humor. Thus, the wit of the airy, feather-brained Farquhar, glances and gleams like the bolt. Let us glance carelessly over this wide field of comic writers, who have drawn new forms of mirthful being from life's ludicrous side, and note, here and there, a wit or humorist. There is the humor of Goethe like his own summer morning, mirthfully clear; and there is the tough and knotty humor of old Ben Jonson, at times ground | er high his rank, but knows that every week he may down to the edge to a sharp cutting scoin, and occasionally hissing out stinging words, which seem, like his own Mercury's, "steeped in the very brine of conceit, and sparkle like salt in fire." There is the incessant brilliancy of Sheridan,— Whose humor, as gay as the fire-fly's light, Played round every subject, and shone as it played; Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, be pointed at by the scoffing finger of that omnipotent buffoon, and consigned to the ridicule of the world. The pride of intellect, the pride of wealth, the power to oppress,-nothing can save the dunce or criminal from being pounced upon by Punch, and held up to a derision or execration which shall ring from London to St. Petersburg, from the Ganges to the Oregon. From the vitriol pleasantries of this arch-fiend of Momus, let us turn to the benevolent mirth of Addison and Steele, whose glory it was to redeem polite literature from moral depravity, by showing that wit could chime merrily in with the voice of virtue, and who smoothly laughed away many a vice of the national character, by that humor which tenderly touches the sensitive point with an evanescent grace and genial glee. And here let us not forget Goldsmith, whose delicious mirth is of that rare quality which lies too deep for laughter; which melts softly into the mind, suffus Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade. There is the uncouth mirth, that winds, stutters, wriggles and screams, dark, scornful, and savage, among the dislocated joints of Carlyle's spavined sentences. There is the lithe, springy sarcasm, the hilarious badinage, the brilliant, careless disdain, which sparkle and scorch along the glistening page of Holmes. There is the sleepy smile that sometimes lies so benignly on the sweet and serious diction of old Isaak Walton. There is the mirth of Dickens, twinkling now in some ironical insinuation, and anon winking at you with pleasant mali-ing it with inexpressible delight, and sending the ciousness, its distended cheeks fat with suppressed glee, and then, again, coming out in broad gushes of humor, overflowing all banks and bounds of conventional decorum. There is Sydney Smith,-sly, sleek, swift, subtle,-a moment's motion, and the human mouse is in his paw! Mark, in contrast with him, the beautiful heedlessness with which the Ariellike spirit of Gay pours itself out in benevolent mockeries of human folly. There, in a corner, look at that petulant little man, his features working with thought and pain, his lips wrinkled with a sardonic smile; and, see! the immortal personality has received its last point and polish in that toiling brain, and, in a strait, luminous line, with a twang like Scorn's own arrow, hisses through the air the unerring shaft of Pope,-to Dash the proud gamester from his gilded car, There a little above Pope, see Dryden keenly dis- -owned, without dispute, soul dancing joyously into the eyes to utter its merriment in liquid glances, passing all the expression of tone. And here, though we cannot do him justice, let us remember the name of Nathaniel Hawthorne, deserving a place second to none in that band of humorists, whose beautiful depth of cheerful feeling is the very poetry of mirth. In ease, grace, delicate sharpness of satire, in a felicity of touch which often surpasses the felicity of Addison, in a subtlety of insight which often reaches farther than the subtlety of Steele,-the humor of Hawthorne presents traits so fine as to be almost too excellent for popularity, as, to every one who has attempted their criticism, they are too refined for statement. The brilliant atoms flit, hover, and glance before our minds, but the subtle sources of their ethereal light lie beyond our analysis,— And no speed of ours avails To hunt upon their shining trails. mirthful benefactors, these fine revellers among huAnd now, let us breathe a benison on these our man weaknesses, these stern, keen satirists of human depravity. Wherever Humor smiles away the fretting thoughts of care, or supplies that antidote which cleanses Throughout the realms of Nonsense, absolute. There, moving gracefully through that carpeted parlor, mark that dapper, diminutive Irish gentleThe stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff man. The moment you look at him, your eyes are That weighs upon the heart,dazzled with the whizzing rockets and hissing wheels, streaking the air with a million sparks, from wherever Wit riddles folly, abases pride, or stings the pyrotechnic brain of Anacreon Moore. Again, iniquity,-there glides the cheerful spirit, or glitters cast your eyes from that blinding glare and glitter, the flashing thought, of these bright enemies of to the soft and beautiful brilliancy, the winning stupidity and gloom. Thanks to them, hearty grace, the bland banter, the gliding wit, the diffu- thanks, for teaching us that the ludicrous side of sive humor, which make you in love with all man- life is its wicked side, no less than its foolish; that kind, in the charming pages of Washington Irving. in a lying world there is still no mercy for falsehood; And now for another change,-glance at the jerks that Guilt, however high it may lift its brazen front, and jets of satire, the mirthful audacities, the fret- is never beyond the lightnings of scorn; and that ting and teasing mockeries, of that fat, sharp imp, the lesson they teach, agrees with the lesson taught half Mephistophiles, half Falstaff, that cross between by all experience, that life, in harmony with reason, Beelzebub and Rabelais, known in all lands as the is the only life safe from laughter-that life, in harmatchless Mr. Punch. No English statesman, how-mony with virtue, is the only life safe from conever great his power, no English nobleman, howev⋅ | tempt. |