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126° ‘
FRANK’. LESLIE'S‘ NEW °-YORK ‘JOURNAL. . ‘
Random Readings. ~ :
WnHen ‘is a new dress older than an old one ?}—
When it is moire fore) antique.
Wrnuat is the difference between a coal merchant
and a coal’ heaver?—The one sells coals and the
other cellars them.
Waar is the best thing fora man to do witha
sensation after he has created it?
‘HE young lady who was “ buried in grief” is
now alive and doing well. It was a case of prema-
ture interment.
«For sale, an excellent young horse—would suit
any timid lady or gentleman with a long silver éail.”’
A Doa-sTEALER being told that he would be sent
to prison to pick opium, was so enraged that he
vowed he would pick it all to picces.
Many powder their faces that their skin may
seem white; it is as a poulterer flours an old hen,
that it may pass for a tender chicken. .
In ancient days the celebrated precept was “Know
thyself ;’? in modern times it has been supplanted
by the far: more fashionable maxim, * Know thy
neighbor, and everything about him.”
‘Yue best heater to resist winter with is a benevo-
lent heart, Those who have tried improved stoves
and failed, will please to remember that a load of
wood given to a poor person warms you almost as
much asit does him. ‘Try it.
Ifow does it happen that when ever you chance
to stop out late, upon your retiring as quietly as
possible, every door creaks ten times as much as
usual, and the stairs go off like parks of artillery?
We must pause for a reply.
A Lavy of experience contends that a kiss on the
forehead denotes reverence for the intellect; a kiss
on the cheek, that the donor is impressed with the
beauty of the kissed one; but that a kiss imprinted
on the lips shows love. °
Tuovcuttess exclamations have sometimes a
queer effect. “Land of Liberty!” exclaimed ‘a
young lady the other day, who had been rather
tightly enclosed in a too fashionably-fitting bodice.
«Rather say, ‘State of "Bondage !?” quietly re-
marked a juvenile sister present.
A Portversz sculptor, who svas suspected of free
thinking, was at the point of death. A Jesuit who
came to confess him, holding a crucifix before his
eyes, said, Behold that God whom you have so
much. offended. Do you recollect him now?”
«Alas! yes, father,” replied the dying man, “ it
was I who made him.”
You arz A Brick.—A certain college Professor
had assembled his class at the commencement of the
term, and was reading over a list of names to see
that all were present. It chanced that one of the
number was unknown to the Professor, having just
entered the class. .
«What is your name, sir?” asked the Professor,
.looking through his spectacles, ‘You are a brick,”
was the startling reply. -
*¢ Sir!” said the Professor, half starting out of his
chair at the supposéd impertinence, but not quite
sure that he understood him correctly, “Sir, I did
not exactly understand your answer.” | « You are
a brick,” was again the composed reply.
« This is intolerable !’’ said the Professor, his face
reddening. ‘Beware, young man, how you at-
tempt to insult me.” « Insult you!” said the stu-
dent, in turn astonished; «*how have I done it?”
« Did you not say I was a brick?” returned the
Professor, with stifled indignation. “No, sir; you
asked me my name, I answered your question.
My name is U. R. A. Brick—Uriah Reynolds An-
derson Brick.” .
“Ah, indeed!” murmured the Professor, sinking
back into his seat in confusion. “It was a mis-
conception on my part. Will you commence the
lesson, Mr.—ahem ?—Mr. Brick.”
Manniep.—Mr,. George Hair to Miss Lucy Comb.
It is presumed that Lucy will comb George's hair,
but whether with a three-legged stool, or otherwise,
remains to be seen. ‘
Gross Innxumaniyy.—Compelling an actor who
had just died a “violent death,” to appeer before
the audience two minutes later, and return thanks
tor witnessing his death struggles.
Demise or an Hursrorrca, Cuaracter.--'Uncle
Sam” is dead. His name was Samuel Wilson, and
he died in Troy, New York, in August, aged 84.
We first labelled Government goods, from which
practice the soldiers originated the name of “ Uncle
Sam,’ instead of * Jonathan.” .
Scene in A Know Noturna Lopar.—Question;
Will you hereafter do all in your power to extend
and perpetuate the pofato rot, in order to keep the
Irish out of the country ?—Answer: I will; and
furtbar, 1 will extend and perpetuate rot-gut wh isky,
War. is that, of which the common sort is the
best ?—Common sense.
“Tug Reason Wur!’”’—In a small village not a
hundred miles from the city of Durham, which
boasts of a’ school and schoolmistress, and also a
oodly number of juveniles, the said mistress was
rather annoyed by one of her pupils, a young Hi-
bernian, only’ bringing on the Monday morning
one-half of the sum (ewo pence) she charged for
weekly instruction. Determined to know the rea-
son why, she sent her home on Monday morning to
tell her «* mamma” that she wanted another penny.
After the lapse of a reasonable time the school-room
door was rather unceremoniously opened by a huge
daughter of the Emerald Isle, who leading the little
girl by the hand advanced toward the mistress in
a manner that would have made a stouter heart
than’ hers tremble, and vociferated in a voice of
thunder—* How dare yez be afther charging tup-
pence for a lassie that’s only got one eye!”
Wuat 1s Harprvess?—I ask again, what is
happiness?. It ain’t bein’ idle, that’s a fact—no
idle man or woman ever was happy since the
world began. Eve was idle, and that’s the way she
got tempted poor crittur; employment gives both
appetite and digestion. Duty makes pleasure doub-
ly sweet by contrast. When the harness is off, if
the work aint too hard, a crittur likes to kick up
his heels. When pleasure is the business of life it
ceases to be pleasure; and when it’s all labor and
no play, work, like an unstuffed saddle cuts into
the very bone. Neither labor nor idleness has a
road that leads to happiness—one has no room for
the heart, the other corrupts it. Hard work is the
best of the two, for that it has, at all events, sound
sleep; the other has restless pillows and unrefresh-
ing sleep—one is a misfortune, the other is a curse ;
and money ain’t happiness, that’s as clear as mud.
A Perriexep Inisuman.—A few days since, a
gentleman, who was taking a ride, accompanied . by
his Irish servant, had the misfortune to have his
vehicle smashed up, and himself and companion
thrown violently to the ground, by his horse taking
fright and running away. The gentleman was
somewhat bruised, but not seriously, his principal
loss being that of his wig, which had been shaken
off; but on picking himself up, he found Pat in a
much worse condition, holding on to his head with
the blood trickling through his fingers, and his
master’s wig in his other hand, which he was sur-
veying with the utmost ludicrous alarm and horror,
“Well, Pat,” said his master, “are you much
hurt?” «Hurt, is it?) Ah, master dear, do you
see the top of my head in my hand?” Pat, in his
terror and confusion, had mistaken his master’s
portable head-piece for his own natural scalp, and
evidently regarded his last hour as arrived. |
Vittictsms on SaMvet Foo're.—An accomplished
writer in the Quarterly Review makes an effort to
revive an interest in that brilliant wit and satirist,
Samuel Foote. Foote deserved a better fate than
the neglect which has fallen to his lot; and the ar-
ticle.in our contemporary will assuredly help to set
him up in the light once more. In. his day Foote
was a power in the world, In conversation he had
a readiness which was overwhelming—a_ readiness
never equalled, perhaps, except by a celebrated wit
of our own day, .The Quarterly has gathered some
of his bright repartees together. He was talking
away one evening, at the dinner-table of a man of
rank, when, at the point of one of his best stories,
one of the party interrupted him suddenly with an
air of most considerate apology, “1 beg your par-
don, Mr. Foote, but your handkerchief is halt out
of your pocket.” — «Thank you, sir,” said Foote,
replacing it; ‘*you know the company better than
Ido:” and finished his joke—One night at his
friend Delaval’s, when the glass had been circula-
ting freely, one of the party would suddenly have
fixed a quarrel upon him for his indulgence of per-
sonal satire. ‘Why, what would you have?’ ex-
claimed Foote, good-humoredly putting it aside;
“of course, I take all my friends off, but [use them
no worse than myself, I take myself off.””--* Gadso !’
cried the malcontent; “that I should like to see?”
upon which Foot took up his hat and left the room,
—Dining when in Paris with Lord Storemont, that
thrifty Scotch peer, then ambassador, as usual, pro-
duced his wine in the smallest of decanters and dis-
pensed it in the smallest of glasses, enlarging all the
time on its exquisite growth and enormous age,
“It is very little of its age,” said Foote, holding up
his diminutive glass, A stately and silly coumtry
squire was regaling a large party with the number
of fashionable folk he had visited that morning.
And among the rest,” he said. I called upon
my friend, the Earl of Chol-mon-de-ley, but he
in order to kill ’em after they get here,
was not at home.”’—*That was exceedingly sur-
prising,” said Foote, «* what! nor none of his pe-o-
le ?”"—Being in company where Hugh Kelly was \
mightily boasting of the power he had as a reviewer
of distributing literary reputation to any ‘extent,
‘Don’t be too prodigal of it,’ Foote quietly. inter-
posed, ‘or you may leave none for yourself.”—The
then Duke of Cumberland (the foolish Duke, as he
was called) came one night into the green-room at.
the Haymarket Theatre.’ Well, Foote,” said he,
«shere I am, ready as usual, to swallow all your
good things.’’~-« Really,”’ replied Foote, « your royal
highness must have an excellent digestion, for you
never bring any up again.”——« Why are you for-
ever humming that air?’ he asked a man without
a sense of tune in him.—« Because it hauntsme.”—
“ No wonder,” said Foote, you are forever mur-
dering it.”’—Much bored by a pompous physician
at Bath, who confided to him asa great secret that
he had a mind to publish his own poems, but ha
so many irons in the fire he really did not wel.
know what to do: Take’ my advice, doctor,”
said Foot : ‘and put your poems where your irons*
are, : po,
Srrine iy Maperra.—The. admirer of nature
who has passed a long winter at the mountains’
base, contented merely to gaze upon’ the towering
peaks, which, though clear and cold at night, seldom
reveal hemselves during the day with sufficient
constancy (through the heavy canopy of cloud
which hangs around them) to warrant an ascent,
hails with unbounded joy the advance of. spring,
knowing that the time is at hand when he will be
able to revel at large in this ‘Atlantic paradise, in
Temote spots seldom visited by strangers, and at
altitudes where the fierce elements of winter shall |
give way at last to perpetual sunshine and the fresh
breezes of a calmer sea. here is something ama-
zingly luxurious in betaking oneself ‘to tent-life,
after months of confinement and annoyance (it may
be entirely—partially it must be) in the heat. and
noise of Funchal. We are then perhaps more than
ever open to the favorable impressions of an alpine
existence ; and who can adequately tell the ecstacy.
of a first encampment on these invigorating hills!
To turn out, morning after morning, in the solemn
stillness of wrial forests, where not a sound is
heard, save ever and anon a woodman’s axe in some
far-off tributary ravine, or a stray bird’ hymning >
forth its matin song to the ascending. sun; to. feel
the cool influence of the early dawn on the upland
sward, and to mark the thin clouds of fleecy snow,
uniting gradually into a solid. bank, affording
glimpses the while, as they join and separate, of the
fair creation stretched out beneath; to smell the .
damp, cold vapor rising from the deep defiles around ,
us, where vegetation is still rampant on primeval
rocks, and new generations of trees are springing up
untouched by man, from the decaying carcases of
the old ones ; to listen in the still, calm evening air.
to the humming of the insect world (the most active
tenants of these elevated tracts); and to mark as
the daylight wanes, the unnumbered orbs of night
stealing one by one on to the wide arch “of heaven,
as brilliant as they were on the. first evening of
their birth ; are the lofty enjoyments, all of which
the intellectual mind can grasp in these transcen-
dent heights. :
_ Be Enerceric about any honest employment Pro-
vidence throws in your way. «
1. It isthe way to be happy. ©“ Ihave lived,”
said Dr. Adam Clarke, “ Tong enough to know that
the great secret of human happiness is this; never
suffer your energies to stagnate. The old adage of
“foo many irons in the fire” conveys an untruth.
You cannot have too many—poker, tongues, and’
all Keep them all going.” oe
2. It is the way to accomplish a vast deal i
short life. The jate Wm. Hazlitt remarked : “There
is room enough in human life to crowd almost every ©
art and science into it. The more we do, the more :
we can do; the more busy we are, the more leisure ..
we have. : : :
3. It is the way to be contented. Theunemploy-,
ed-are always restless and uneasy. Occupation.
quiets the mind, by giving it something to do. Idle-
ness makes it, like an empty stomach, uneasy. The .
mate of a ship, having put. everything tu rights, .
called on the captain for what next should be done.
“Tell them to scour the anchor,” was the reply ; on ,
the principle that occupation, however. needless, |
saves from the discontent of idleness,
4. It isthe way to disappoint Satan. He comes
up to the idler with assurance of a victim; from the
well occupied he departs as a roaring lion robbed ef
his Prey: The one welcomes, che other repulses
Paive and roughness may turn one’s humor, but.
flattery turns one’s stomach.
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