text: r 4Sl?vyr - ;y?^a^^fe^wfc^< ; --*fegy&ga-~ \ I ------ ~ vr -•? •4y^.v-- : - . • . 1 TrL it iijiffiMßiMfc ' -jails ~"Z2?~ - ~ =s^^^^^a^g aMgaß:s ' Uw , *‘^^gßßj tem iL-—_ liyS MBEIIIiIb .:■ , wgsfi ffg /C?2§sfiSk ___■<• , _JKJI. . ' : ‘ ''' ’ . Y-Y—, x-- - ' >► ;, ' ... l waJ'TyL, • __- 7,1 /'i ik\ u <:^\\ 'A 7isteUik?><M 7^SBSww*^swMwiM|||B|l|||MM||BM||r^^iteffM|^MM^BMs^^^^ 1 «» ffi®& » —"~"'’“~ra r\ Xi'' "\27 nJ ’3lYYYJsfjWJßgffisy,wWW* ooo M oo muoiluauoijal 0000030001 ay^»'g^gfe ~~ = -— t YX—X '-'* *“r' '\ ‘ X 4 -* “.I*' l ']: |“vrL”&-” -’'’LzSi ' 'V -> \ VOLUME 3, NO. 41. [Original.] A Comparison. BY T. JEFF. SMITH, JR. It stands alone—a little cot, Fenced from .«eet, with woodbine trailing o’er the porch, And ’round the rustic seat. The smoke-cloud curling o’er Its brow] The city’s glare and din, r Around it linger wistfully, Yet trcs pass not within. Its garden small, with fragrant breath, Allures the passer-by, And tempts him from his path to stray, And seek its brighter sky. While bending o’er the wicket gate, Most fanciful in mood, I thought upon the little cot, Cast ’mid a scene so rude. ’ So, oft, it haps, a sunny heart, Devoid of taint or guile, Will wander, mingling with the crowd, And breathe it# worldly wile. Yet pure amid the cold impure, While genial nature sways, It chills temptation’s ardent glance— From guilt unerring strays. &])£ IB attic of 2Ujf)rini. At a time, says the St. Louis Reveille, when the wonder is coldly expressed by many—who have had something better to do, perhaps, than to peruse Irish history—as to “how the Irish will fight,” a graphic sketch of one of their battles may not be out of place. The battle of Aghrim was the final struggle made by the adherents of the weak King James, whose lack of nerve and character, at the Boyne Water, had left him without a hope, and driven him an exile from among a people who had already but suffered too much through his pusillanimity. St. Ruth, the French commander, fell during this engagement, and here Sarsfield drew his last sword, as a defender of his native soil. The following description we take from the clever Irish story of Torlogh O'Brien. The memorable 12th of July, 1801, rose over the destined field of battle, in one of those heavy fogs which portend unusual heat. Before seven o’clock, scouts came spurring in with the exciting intelligence, that the whole English force was rapidly crossing the River Suck, at Ballinasloe, and the fords adjacent, just three miles distant from the field of Aghrim. At eight o’clock, the columns of Irish infantry were formed all along the front of the camp; and with colors displayed, and drums beating, began to march down the slope of the hill, and get into position. The cavalry destined for the outposts moved forward—and the artillery, with all its lumbering appliances, advanced to occupy the several batteries, whence its fire was to play upon the enemy. ailing army. A few words must here be said in explanation of the Irish position. The hill of Kilomedan is in no part very steep—it forms a gradual slope, extending almost due north and south from end to end, a distance of about a mile and a half; and at the time of which we speak, it was perfectly open and covered with heath. Along the crest of this hill was pitched the Irish camp; and the position in which St. Ruth was resolved to await the enemy, extended along its base. The foremost line of the Irish, composed entirely of musketeers, occupied a series of small enclosures, and was covered in front throughout its entire extent by a morass, throughout which flows a little stream; and this swamp, with difficulty passable by infantry, was wholly so for cavalry. Through two passes only was the Irish position, thus covered, assailable upon firm ground, the one at the extreme right, much the more open of the two, and called the pass of Urrachree, from an old house and demesne, which lay close to it; and the other, at the extreme left, by the long straight road leading into the town of Aghrim. This road was broken, and so narrow that some annalists state that two horses could not pass it abreast; in addition to which it was commanded by the Castle of Aghrim, then as now, it is true, but a ruin, but whose walls and enclosures nevertheless afforded effectual cover, and a position such as ought to have rendered the pass impregnable. Beyond these passes, at either side, were extensive bogs; and dividing them the interposing morass. The enclosures in which the advanced musketeers were posted, afforded excellent cover, and from one to the other communications had been cut, and at certain intervals their whole length was also traversed by broad passages, intended to admit the flanking charge of the Irish cavalry, in case the enemy’s infantry should succeed in forcing their way thus far. The main line extended in a double row of columns, parallel to the advanced position of the musketeers, and the reserve of the cavalry was drawn up upon a small plain, a little behind the Castle of Aghrim, which was occupied by about two thousand men. The Irish army numbered in all perhaps about twenty thousand men, and the position which they held extended more than an English mile, and was indeed as powerful a one as could possibly have been selected. Many of our readers are no doubt aware that the field of Aghrim was fought upon a Sunday, a circumstance which added one to the many thrilling incidents of the martial scene. The army had hardly moved into the position which was that day to be so sternly and devotedly maintained, when the solemn service of high mass was commenced at the head of every regiment, by its respective chaplain; and during this solemn ceremonial, at every moment were arriving fresh messengers from the outposts, their horses covered with dust and foam, with the stern intelligence that the enemy were steadily approaching; and amid all this excitement and suspense, in silence and bareheaded, kneeled the devoted thousands, in the ranks in which they were to receive the foe, and on the very ground for which they were, in a few hours, so desperately to contend. This solemn and striking ceremonial, under circumstances which even the bravest admit to be full of awe, and amid the tramp and neighing of horses, and the jingling of accoutrements, and the distant trumpet signals from the outposts, invested the scene with a wildness and sublimity of grandeur, which blanched many a cheek, and fluttered many a heart with feelings very different from those of fear. And now, from the extreme left, resting upon the Castle of Aghrim, high mass being ended, arose a wild shouting—the deep, stern acclamation of thousands of human voices swelling over the heathy swamp of Kilcomedan, and wildly pealing onward, and gathering as it came; while foremost among a brilliant staff, with his chief officers about him, dressed in a uniform which actually blazed with gold, and with a snow white plume (which tradition still records tossing in the three-cocked hat, which he raised as he greeted each regiment in succession,) rode the man who carried in his head alone the plan of that day’s battle—the Marquis de St. Ruth. A word or two he spoke at the head of every regiment, and though his language, which was French, was not of course understood, except by the officers, his stern and animated voice, the splendor of his appearance, and the emphatic gesture with which he pointed with his plumed hat in the direction in which the enemy, shrouded in the intervening mist, were known to be advancing, these were appeals sufficient for hearts charged with the wild and stern excitement of impending battle. At every brief, stern sentence from the Irish rinks, in the irreparable enthusiasm of that grand and terrible hour, broke rapturous gratulations and responses, in the wild and passionate Celtic dialect, which swelled and gathered as he passed on, in one long cheer of high and pealing menace, far more thrilling and glorious than all the clangor of the martial music that rose along the line. THE BATTLE. Deeper and more exciting every moment grew the suspense—all the outposts from the opposite hills, only a mile distant, had been driven in, and upon their misty outlines every eye was turned to discern, if possible, the columns of the enemy, whose presence was already indicated by the sharp roll of drums, and the other signals which accompany military movements. At length, however, at twelve o’clock, under the blaze of the noon-day sun, the interposing mist rolled slowly away like a solemn curtain, and disclosed to each army the stern military spectacle which confronted it. “Jeeu guard us!” said O’Gara, addressing Torlogh O’Brien, who, at the head of his regiment, occupied the right of the line at the pass of Urachree, “it is a powerful army. I fear we are much outnumbered;” and his dilated eye wandered over the low and undulating hills which confronted him, upon which were slowly moving the compacted masses of the enemy. “These are Cunningham’s dragoons, me thinks,” said Torlogh O’Brien, lowering the glass through which he had been scrutinizing the foremost regiment of the immensely preponderating force which threatened the pass of Urachree. “We shall have a brush with them presently. See there to the left: they are getting their great guns into battery.” Yonder are the Danes, and look there the Huguenot foot; there again are the white Dutch, and there the blue.” As Torlogh O’Brien thus pointed out, in detail, as far as he distinctly could, the various regiments which formed the opposing army, the sight over which the eye of the young priest wandered was, in truth, a stern and splendid one. There were masses of cavalry, some in buff jerkins, others in steel breastplates—wide seas of tossing plumes and manes—huge columns of pikemen, reflecting from their burnished head-pieces, cuirasses, and greaves, the blaze of the meridian sun—there were the musketeers, too, in their bright cloth uniforms, varying according to the national equipment of every country in that wondrous confluence of nations assembled there—and every regiment, headed by its colonel, trailing in his own right hand a veritable pike, according to the then military usage, as stiff with gold lace, with flowing periwig, and lawn neckcloth, he marched in the van of his men. “See,” added Torlogh, abruptly, “an aide-de-camp from Ginkle’s staff is now speaking with the commander of Cunningham’s regiment; take my advice, Mr. O’Gara, and ride back towards the camp; for, unless I’m mistaken, the action will begin presently.” He had hardly said thus much, when a single troop of dragoons filed off from the regiment, to which their attention was directed, and began to trot down the opposite slope, into the plain which interposed between the two armies, followed by the main body at a walk; and now, indeed, many a heart beat thick, and all was silent as the grave! —for the threatened attack upon the pass of Urachree was actually about to open, and with it the momentous battle on which the destinies of the kingdom were suspended. At the same moment the Irish battery commanding the pass of Urachree opened its fire upon the advancing troops; and the opposing hills pealed back the successive explosions—while the British detachment from a trot broke into a charge, and with cuirasses and swords flashing through the clouds of dust that rose around them from the parched soil, came thundering down upon the outposts which guarded the entrance to the pass. “I pray you, ride a little back,” said Torlogh, addressing the priest a second time, as the smoke of the cannon driving slowly over the light breeze, darkened their faces in its shadow. “The battle has commenced. My men may be engaged ere many minutes more.” Reluctantly the priest obeyed; and just as He did so, St. Ruth and his staff gallopped up to the spot. Every glass was now raised to watch the issue. “Right, right!” exclaimed St. Ruth, in his native tongue, as he watched intently the movements of the opposing parties — “our men give ground as I directed.” Good! —the English cross the rivulet—and now the whole regiment are about to follow! Colonel O’Brien,” he continued, addressing that officer, who was instantly at his side, “as soon as they are all across, charge them in flank.” Torlogh bowed and rode back to the head of his regiment; and in a few seconds more, the splendid cavalry he commanded were following him at a gallop down the slope. The intervening distance was cleared in less than a minute, and with a wild cheer the splendid corps dashed into the English cavalry, ere they had well time to form, and bore them back in utter confusion, pursuing them beyond the stream they had already crossed, hurling men and horses over in the tremendous rush, and sabering the riders in spite of their cuirasses and steel-cased hats. When the dust cleared off, it disclosed O’Brien’s regiment halted in line, beyond the stream, and the English cavalry retiring in confusion—on the ground lay strewn many a steed and rider, and many a horse, with empty saddle, scampered wildly over the plain. “By my faith, a beautiful charge!” said St. Ruth, in irrepressible exultation. “These Irish will immortalize themselves today.— We must take some care of the brave fellows, however. Desire my Lord Galway to move his horse a little forward,” he added, addressing one of his aid-de-camps; and then to another he said—“tell O’Brien to draw his men again behind the brook.” The officers spurred off upon their respective missions, and the orders were duly attended to. These movements were followed by repeated skirmishes between the Irish and English cavalry at the same flank, but with a like result; and after two hours’ conflict the latter had not made an inch of ground. Meanwhile, the remainder of the British force was halted much in the position they had occupied when the attack upon the pass of Urrachree was commenced; and the cavalry which had been engaged was now withdrawn. An anxious interval followed; and up to fire o’clock, it was undecided whether the attack should be renewed or not: at that hour, however, the enemy were once more put in motion—and now, indeed, it became evident that a general action was about to commence. The Danish cavalry moved forward upon the same point, and under cover of their advance, the Danish and Huguenot infantry marched up to the enclosures occupied by the Irish musketeers, and commenced the attack in earnest, upon the extreme right. Now rose the roar of musketry, sharp and sustained—and hedges, fields, and plain, were speedily shrouded in one white mass of smoke, through which were seen the dense columns of the assailants, and the rapid and ceaseless blazing of the guns. Other columns of English infantry, marching along the edge of the morass, in front of the line, soon began to move upon various points of the Irish center, across the intervening swamp; and thus, in little more than an hour, the whole line, with the exception of the extreme left, at the pass of Aghrim, was hotly engaged. The English artillery, planted at the verge of the morass, played upon the Irish center, and was answered from the Irish batteries; while, throughout the whole length of the line, in one continuous roar, the musketry poured on, enveloping all beyond it in impenetrable cloud. The Irish, in accordance with the order of their general, retired in perfect order, from one enclosure to another, wherever they were pressed, and thus drew the impetuous assailants onward. The Huguenots upon the right were thus surrounded, and at last forced to give ground under tremendous slaughter. Precisely a similar maneuver was practised with a like success upon the center—three times were the enemy driven headlong through the morass, which they had crossed, and forced, with dreadful loss, back to the very muzzles of their cannon. The Irish line, throughout its entire extent, was unshaken—its center was victorious, and its left untouched. The evening was already far spent, and the issue of the struggle, whatever it might be, could not now be remote. St. Ruth, seeing the British centre thus repeatedly beaten back, could not restrain his exultation and rapture at the heroism of the Irish infantry, of whom before he had thought so meanly, when he beheld them, for the third time, drive their assailants pell-mell through the bog, and pursue them to their very batteries. Tradition says, he threw his hat up into the air and cried, “Now, then, I will beat them back to the gates of Dublin.” Meanwhile the right wing of the English, consisting of several regiments of their best cavalry and infantry, together with a party of artillery, began to advance along the narrow road to Aghrim; this approach, as we have already said, was greatly the most difficult, and was, moreover, entirely commanded by the castle and its enclosures, in which were posted nearly two thousand men; it was, moreover, swept by one of the Irish batteries, and was so very narrow, that two men could with difficulty, if at all, ride abreast along it; no wonder, then, if St. Ruth considered this pass altogether impractical. This force marched down the long and narrow causeway, which we have described as forming the only pass by which the left of the Irish line was approachable upon solid ground; and having reached a point some three or four hundred yards in advance of the Castle of Aghrim (whose ruined walls and ditches closely overlook the road,) they began rapidly to form into a column, upon a small esplanade of firm soil, which there expanded to an extent of some few acres. The artillery unyoked their guns, and the infantry, quitting the road, began to march, or rather to wade and scramble through the swamp, keeping their ranks, as best they might, under a continued fire from the Irish batteries; at the same time the English cavalry began to file along the road toward the castle, and their cannon, over the heads of the advancing columns, returned the pealing fire of the Irish guns. St. Ruth rode a little up the hill of Kilcomedan, whence he might command a view of the entire field. From end to end, like one continued roar of thunder, pealed the musketry; and the unbroken cloud of white smoke spread entirely across the plain, and swept round the bases of the opposing hills. The glorious evening sun streamed redly over the scene of havoc—blazing on the extended splendor of martial pomp—and all along the line rose, deep and stern, the wild shouting of tens of thousands of human voices—while, from the opposing batteries, rang out the sustained discharge of artillery, and the roar of round shot—speeding, through dust and smoke. Upon their deadly mission. Nobly, upon every point, were the Irish infantry sustaining the assault; the English centre was absolutely beaten, and thrown into confusion; the pass of Urrachree was maintained with invincible resolution; the infantry who had crossed near Aghrim were driven, under the tremendous fire of their opponents, back again, with fearful loss, to the verge of the bog; and the cavalry were moving slowly along the broken road, in files, and approaching the castle—occupied, as we have said, by nearly two thousand infantry—under whose shot it seemed impossible that a single horseman of the whole force thus fearfully exposed could escape destruction. Almost at a glance, the practised eye of the general took in all that we have described. “What do they mean, there?” said he to Lord Galmoy, who stood next him, and pointing with his glass to the English cavalry. “They mean to force the pass,” replied he. “Then we have won the field,” said St. Ruth; “but they are brave fellows; it is a pity they should be so exposed. Order two foot regiments,” he added, promptly, “from the left rear, to move toward Urrachree, at quick time;” the aid-de-camp dashed away down the slope with the orders; “and the reserved cavalry to mount, and two regiments to move hither,” he continued, addressing a second messenger, who sped away upon the errand; while, springing from his jaded and foam-streaked horse, St. Ruth himself mounted the gray charger which the groom held for him close by the battery; the third steed, and the last, as tradition says, which he betrothed that day—and then, in a few brief words, he issued his final orders to the gunner for the direction of his fire. Now, indeed, the fate of the day seemed well-nigh settled, and many an Irish soldier grasped the hand of his comrade in the enthusiasm of anticipated victory, as they watched the heroic exploits of their resolute brethren in the van. Fortune, however, on a sudden declared for the English. A fatal blunder was too late discovered. The regiment who occupied the Castle and its enclosures, whose fire must have exterminated the cavalry, in their difficult, nay desperate advance, found cannon-ball, instead of bullets, in the casks with which they were supplied. Messenger after messenger was dispatched in furious haste, to repair this ruinous error—but, in vain. The enemy’s cavalry was now advancing almost under the walls of the Castle Pebbles, but tons—everything that the moment could supply—was in requisition; but, shotted with such missiles, their fire was ineffectual. Under this shower of gravel, and ramrods, and buttons, the cavalry, but partially disfigured, pressed onward, passed the Castle, and formed upon the left flank of the Irish infantry. At the same moment, by a misapprehension of St. Ruth’s orders, two columns, from the front instead of the rear of the Irish line of infantry, began to march—from the flank now most severely pressed—towards Urrachree. The English infantry, seeing their support thus withdrawn from the musketeers who had hitherto effectually held them in check, now boldly recrossed the bog; and a cry of treachery began to spread along the Irish line. The cavalry whom St. Ruth had ordered in advance were, however, now formed upon the hill-side. The general, confident of their resolution, and having seen their prowess already, in full assurance of sweeping the English horse, with ease, from their present lodgment, rode to the head of the magnificent column who awaited his orders. "They are beaten," said he, with stern exultation, "let us beat them to the purpose." Every thing depended on the promptitude of the movement; and at this critical moment, when the fortunes of kings and kingdoms hung trembling in the scale, a round shot from one of the English batteries shattered the head of St. Ruth to atoms. The white plumed hat rolled down the hill before the breeze. Wildly plunged the maddened charger. The lifeless body swayed for a minute in the deep saddle with all its resplendent trappings, and tumbled to the ground. The cavalry halted; some of the French guard dismounted and threw a cloak over the headless trunk, which was thus carried to the rear. The cavalry, thus left without orders or general, fell back in uncertainty. The infantry, first at the left flank, then at the center, and finally at the right, began to give ground, at first slowly, and soon in confusion, running pell-mell toward the camp. The Irish cavalry, abandoned by the foot, retreated by the road to Loughrea; and in one huge mob, the now routed infantry ran toward the bog which extended in the rear. Among this broken and wide-spread mass the infuriated English cavalry plunged and hewed, and trampled with merciless slaughter—a giddy, frightful scene of rage and terror, confusion and butchery, on every side. Instead of the stern huzzas which had filled the air not half an hour before, now rose, wild and appalling, one fearful chorus of wailing, terror and despair. “We killed,” says Story, “seven thousand of the Irish upon the spot, as was generally believed, and there could not be many fewer, for looking among the dead three days after, when all our own, and some of theirs were buried, I reckoned in some small enclosures one hundred and fifty, in others, one hundred and twenty, &c., lying most of them by the ditches where they were shot; and the rest, from the top of the hill where their camp had been, looked like a great flock of sheep scattered up and down the country, for almost four miles round.” Thus ended the last battle, in which the Irish nation rallied the fragments of its ancient aristocracy and native people, in military array against the power of England. In the choir of St. Patrick’s cathedral are suspended what are alleged to be the gloves and spurs of St. Ruth; nay, even the shot that slew him in its flight. His ashes lie, as tradition asserts with clear and circumstantial detail, in the roofless church of Athenry, beside those of Lord Galway, who fell upon the self-same field of battle. To this hour, by many a peasant hearth, tradition tells her tales of that memorable day— the rustic laborer from time to time turns up the whitened bones of those who fought and fell so bravely upon the tranquil and deserted fields, where once the fate of Ireland was determined; and many a rusted spur and pike-head still is found, just where the chances of the battle had flung it so many years ago. Kindness. —The humble current of little kindnesses, which, though but a creeping streamlet, yet incessantly flows, although it glides in silent secrecy within the domestic walls, and along the walks of private life, and makes neither appearance nor noise in the world, proves, in the end, a more copious tribute into the store of human comfort and felicity than any sudden and transient flood of detached beauty, however ample, that may rush into it with a mighty sound. A landless people can have little patriotism. How can a nation be expected to have love of a country which does not belong to them —of which they have been robbed, that it be given to absentees, court sycophants and royal parasites, who have chiefly distinguished themselves by persecution of the people whose property they have confiscated. NEW YORK, SUNDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 1, 1848. [Original.] Wry Clerks, AND THEIR CUSTOMERS. NUMBER FIVE. BY BROADWAY. Those ladies who are ambitious of being known as “first rate shoppers,” fancy it a compliment to be so called. Whether they are correct in this supposition, I shall leave others to judge. Those who thus designate themselves, wish to convey the idea that they are superior judges of goods, have excellent taste in making selections, and above all “have the faculty,”—that’s their common expression—to purchase a little cheaper than any of their friends. They are, therefore, in constant requisition among their neighbors and friends, who wish to secure their valuable services whenever they have any purchases to make. . And whenever they are out with a party, their approval or disapproval of any article, settles the question at once. Their word is law. They know and to contradict them is high treason. It is entirely useless for any clerk to undertake to tell them anything about goods, for they will unhesitatingly tell him they don’t believe a word he says. It is a common thing for one of this class to say to a clerk that presumes to recommend any article to her— “Oh, it’s all very well for you to say so—it’s your business. You are placed behind the counter to try and sell your goods, and of course you must recommend them, it will answer well enough to tell that sort of stuff to some people, but”—and then the air of profound knowledge, and wisdom, and self-conceit, she will assume is truly ludicrous—“but,” she will continue, “it is quite useless to talk to me in that manner, as I happen to know a little something about goods.” And after making the speech she will look round with the utmost self-complacency at her friends, and give a knowing nod, which is as much as to say, “I’ve fixed him—I’ve let him know who he has got to deal with, he understands now that he can’t humbug me.” And after she has given you to understand and know, who and what she is, she expects all deference to be paid to her opinions—and she then commences a display of her knowledge to her friends, by pointing out and Explaining the difference between an “Italian silk” and a “Gros d’Rine;” how one will “cut” and the other will not; one will wear smooth and the other will wrinkle, and so on until she has exhausted the subject. She must next look at Cashmere shawls for: she is great on them! There is an opportunity for the display of knowledge in examining them that must not be lost. She can tell a “Chain Laine” from a “Silk warp,” and then the grand secret as to whether a shawl contains any cotton, requires close examination and the severest scrutiny; a thread of each color must be carefully picked out with a pin and chewed, or perhaps even burned, before she will decide so momentous a question! While this grand examination is being made, if the clerk ventures to assure her that it is “all wool” she will indignantly ask him how he dares to presume upon telling her anything about the shawl when she is examining it for herself. It will, I think, readily be perceived what I annoyance and trouble this class of “swops” give to Broadway clerks. They appear to take great delight in accompanying every lady they may chance to encounter, whether invited or not, in order to give them the benefit of their knowledge, sagacity and skill. No greater insult could be offered to them than to insinuate that they were guilty of believing anything a clerk had told them in regard to any article they had been inspecting. Their greatest delight is to go out shopping with a party of friends from the country, who really wish to purchase, and probably would buy in the first store they entered, but for the meddling interference of your “first rate shopper,” who has no idea of having her chance for making a display limited to one or two or even half a dozen stores. She must, in a case of this kind, traverse the whole city, which frequently occupies two or three days, before she will allow them to buy. If they really were what they profess to be, persons of taste, and good judges of goods they could make their purchases in the first or second store they entered, quite as well or even better, than by visiting a dozen; but no, their chief end aim is to make a display of themselves, and their supposed knowledge of goods. And they are eminently successful in proving to everyone, but themselves, and. Perhaps the poor dupes who accompany them; that their ignorance is only equalled by their assurance, and that their vanity exceeds both. As an evidence of this, I will relate a little incident which occurred during the past week, and one which perhaps shows that the best way to manage this class of “swops” is by appealing at once to their vanity. A lot of some half dozen, led by a “first-rate shopper,” who acted as a kind of bell-weather to the party—who were evidently from the country—came in the store late in the afternoon, having no doubt been led about most of the day by their kind friend. They wished to purchase a large bill of goods, but had thus far been prevented by her, in whose judgment they confided. A shrewd clerk took hold of them, and he saw at once the difficulty he had to contend with, and resolved to conciliate her by flattery. He commenced by congratulating the parties who wished to purchase, on their being so fortunate as to have secured the services of Mrs., naming the “old swop,” as her taste and judgment were pre-eminent and undisputed; and to prove what he said was correct, he would give them evidence of it on the spot. There had just been received in the store a case of Barnsley sheetings; he selected three pieces of different quality—all Barnsley, remember— and placing them on the counter, said one was “Barnsley,” one “Irish,” and the other “Scotch,” and that no one except a superior judge could tell the difference. He was satisfied, however, that Mrs. could discriminate and name each piece. Being thus appealed to, she commenced a very careful examination of the three pieces, and in a very short time named which piece was Scotch, which Irish, and which Barnsley, much to the astonishment of her friends, who could see no difference in them. And when the clerk informed them that she had decided correctly, their amazement was intense, and her amazement gratified; she received their congratulations with great modesty, and declared it was nothing! She “could almost have told the difference with her eyes shut!” It will be seen that by this stroke of policy—this flattery so gross, as to be discerned by anyone not stolidly, stupidly ignorant, and blinded by vanity and conceit—the clerk accomplished. His object without any further trouble. She established her reputation with her friends, and to keep it up went on and recommended each particular article in turn—the clerk constantly plying her with flattery as to her nice discrimination in colors and in style—while she would favor her friends with her opinion as to which they had best purchase, and which would wear and wash best, and so on until he succeeded in selling them all they wished. I think if they only knew the real opinion entertained of them by those who best know them, and have an opportunity to judge correctly, they would not be ambitious of acquiring the reputation of, or being designated as, “first rate shoppers.” What possible enjoyment there can be in looking at goods, day after day, and week after week, without any desire or intention to purchase, is one of the mysteries that few intelligent persons can understand, and let me add for the benefit of each and every class who are engaged in it—that few, if any, intelligent people are to be found among the number who so extensively practice it. In my next, I will give some account of those who are known as “genteel swops.” London, with a population of 2,000,000, consumes 4,363,000 lbs of animal food weekly, which is washed down by 26,923 barrels of beer exclusive of other liquors, pays £12,000,000 duty on articles of luxury, and has 573 churches, 207 dissenting places of worship, upwards of 4,000 public houses, and 16 theatres. Knickerbocker gossip. From the September number of the Zincherbocker Magazine, (John Allen, No. 139 Nassau street, publisher,) we extract a few of the fresh and freshly told jokes which illuminate the monthly gossip. They are good first-rate—but Clarke, we are sorry to say, has got stuck this time with one undoubted old Joe. “His funeral” is as aged as a venerable nigger, and was illustrated years ago by Manning: It will be some time, if not longer, before we shall awake the echoes of our quiet sancum with a laugh so irrepressible as a guffaw which has just escaped us, at a mercantile anecdote inimitably related by a German friend. An old fellow living at Frankfort on the Main, sent to a business correspondent at Frankfort on the Order a large consignment of cotton stockings, and at the same time, to another correspondent, in the same place, an equally large consignment of cotton night caps, the product of his own manufactory. He wrote to each the price at which they were to sell, but the sum designated was found to be too large, of which fact they took occasion to inform him. He yielded a little in his demand, but still there were no offers for his fabrics. Again he writes, in reply to other letters from his correspondents, naming a yet smaller amount; but weeks elapse, and still no sale. At length he writes to each correspondent to make some disposition of his manufactures; if they can’t get money for them, at least to exchange them, no matter at what reasonable sacrifice. For any other goods. Under these instructions, the stocking factor calls upon the night-cap agent, both unknown to each other in connection with their principal, and “names his views;” he wishes to exchange a lot of superior cotton stockings for some other goods; he is not particular what kind, as the transaction is for a friend, who is desirous of “closing his stock.” The man at first can think of nothing which he would like to exchange for so large a supply of stockings; but at length a bright thought strikes him. “I have,” said he, “a consignment of cotton night-caps from an old correspondent, which I shall not object to exchange for your stockings.” The bargain was soon closed. He had exchanged his stockings for “a superior article of night-cap.” In equal quantity, which he was assured were likely to be in much demand before a great while! The next day came a letter from the night-cap agent, announcing his success, and appended to the letter was a big bill for commissions! As Yellowplush would say, “Fanzy that gentleman’s feelings I’ll tell you.” You remember the Yankee deacon who took occasion at prayer meeting to put up a long petition on behalf of a man with whom he had a quarrel? Somebody expressing surprise, “Why,” observed the deacon, with a chuckle, “do good to your enemies and you heap coals of fire on their heads; and I guess I gave that fellow a pretty smart singing!” Our friend J has a forcible illustration of the evasion of an intended rebuke. An old Yankee spinster, living formerly in Utica, returned to that pleasant city after a prolonged absence. She visited one evening a dwelling which her father had built, now occupied as a boarding-house; and as she entered saw with horror a party of gentlemen playing whist in a lower apartment. “I don’t know if you know it,” said she to the landlady above, “but there’s folks playing kirk's down stairs! I see them doing on it as I come up!” The landlady manifested no surprise, nor did she make any response, and the spinster resumed; “My father built this house; he was a pious man, he was; He brought up nine children, and brought them up well; he had everything nice about him; and he had—he had few nice peach orchards! The reader can easily see, from the commencement of the old maid’s family reminiscence, what she was going to “drive at but what consideration it was which caused a sudden change of the subject is rather to be “ guessed at” than proved. There is in Webster’s old spelling book a spelling and defining lesson of words of four syllables. A friend mentions a ludicrous mistake made by a district school-boy in the country, in the exercises of this lesson. One of the words happened to be “Jephania, without a head.” It was divided as usual into its separate syllables, connected by a hyphen, (which “joins words or syllables, as sea-water!) which probably led the boy to give a new word and a new definition; “Ikun spell it and d’fine it!” said a lad, after the boy above him had tried and missed; “Ikun do it; and he did: “Jl-c-e-p-h, cef, Aoefh— a lous without a head.” In a certain town in New Hampshire, a certain inhabitant thereof required for his comfortable enjoyment at least a pint of ‘white-faced New England,’daily. He had become reduced in his pockets, so that it became necessary for him, like the Israelites of old, to procure somehow a double portion on the day before the Sabbath, that he might quietly enjoy his church, of which he was a constant attendant. On one Saturday he had been very unfortunate; for the shades of evening began to fall, and yet he had not gathered his “spiritual” manna for the day of rest. A neighbor at that moment requested him to throw some wood into his shed: and after the small job was completed, gave him a few cents. He saw that the old fellow looked sad and unsatisfied, and he said to him: “Is n’t that enough for the work? Why, you can get half-a-pint with that money; and can’t you keep Sunday on that?” “Why,” said the old fellow, “I’m not going to be a fool.” I suppose I could, ’Squire, but then, (looking up with a most disconcerting visage,) but then, ’Squire, how would it be kept?” This anecdote by a clever correspondent reminds us of another, which we shall venture to relate in this connection, though it must needs suffer by the juxtaposition. Mr. G, who had by degrees become so attached to his cups that he could not comfortably go by eleven o’clock without his “nip” of brandy, and who was yet anxious to avoid the suspicion of being an habitual drinker, was in the habit daily of inventing some excuse to the bar-keeper and those within hearing. They must be a precious set of men in Kingston, Canada, to permit a poor mother to drop down dead in the street, at burning noon-day, in her distress at being unable to procure bail for her little boy who had been sent to prison for taking a few apples from the garden-orchard of a citizen! That citizen-prosecutor’s name was Hamilton; and we hope the American press will aid us in passing it down to infamy. This “wooden country” of ours is really beginning to be thought something of “on the other side!” As the English cockney said of Niagara Falls, “it is very clever—very!” An ex-governor, “whose name we suppress out of regard for his family,” relates a good story of a man whose life had not been entirely unspotted, who applied to a worthy deacon for admission into his church. Unwilling to offend him, and yet uninclined to receive him, the deacon replied: “The church is full just now; when there is a vacancy, I will notify you!” Sydney Smith, in one of his “Plymley Letters," addressing the English bishops in palliation of what were considered the offenses of the Catholics, says “The State has nothing to do with theological errors; it leaves these to you and to such as you. Don’t you have every tenth porter in your parish for refuting them?” We thought of this remark while reading recently in Scott the account of the death of the old Laird of Dumbedikes. 