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THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA

THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH

BY PHOEBE CARY

Not a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone, As the man to his bridal we hurried; Not a woman discharged her farewell groan, On the spot where the fellow was married.

No useless watch-chain covered his vest, Nor over-dressed we found him; But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best, With a few of his friends around him.

Few and short were the things we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we silently gazed on the man that was wed, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we silently stood about, With spite and anger dying, How the merest stranger had cut us out, With only half our trying.

Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone, And oft for the past upbraid him; But little he'll reck if we let him live on, In the house where his wife conveyed him.

But our hearty task at length was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the spiteful squib and pun The girls were sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we turned to go,-- We had struggled, and we were human; We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe, But we left him alone with his woman.

THE SPRING BEAUTIES

BY HELEN AVERY CONE

The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church; A thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch. "Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them; But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them. "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!" Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee, Half parson-like, half soldierly.

The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the thrushes; And when that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass, They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass. All because the buff-coat Bee Lectured them so solemnly-- "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!"

GOING UP AND COMING DOWN

BY MARY F. TUCKER

This is a simple song, 'tis true-- My songs are never over-nice,-- And yet I'll try and scatter through A little pinch of good advice. Then listen, pompous friend, and learn To never boast of much renown, For fortune's wheel is on the turn, And some go up and some come down.

I know a vast amount of stocks, A vast amount of pride insures; But Fate has picked so many locks I wouldn't like to warrant yours. Remember, then, and never spurn The one whose hand is hard and brown, For he is likely to go up, And you are likely to come down.

Another thing you will agree, That "Codfish Aristocracy" Is but a scaly thing at best. And Madame in her robe of lace, And Bridget in her faded gown, Both represent a goodly race, From father Adam handed down.

Life is uncertain--full of change; Little we have that will endure; And 't were a doctrine new and strange That places high are most secure; And if the fickle goddess smile, Yielding the scepter and the crown, 'Tis only for a little while, Then B. goes up and A. comes down.

This world, for all of us, my friend Hath something more than pounds and pence; Then let me humbly recommend, A little use of common sense. Thus lay all pride of place aside, And have a care on whom you frown; For fear you'll see him going up, When you are only coming down.

THE SET OF CHINA

BY ELIZA LESLIE

"Mr. Gummage," said Mrs. Atmore, as she entered a certain drawing-school, at that time the most fashionable in Philadelphia, "I have brought you a new pupil, my daughter, Miss Marianne Atmore. Have you a vacancy?"

"Why, I can't say that I have," replied Mr. Gummage; "I never have vacancies."

"I am very sorry to hear it," said Mrs. Atmore; and Miss Marianne, a tall, handsome girl of fifteen, looked disappointed.

"But perhaps I could strain a point, and find a place for her," resumed Mr. Gummage, who knew very well that he never had the smallest idea of limiting the number of his pupils, and that if twenty more were to apply, he would take them every one, however full his school might be.

"Do pray, Mr. Gummage," said Mrs. Atmore; "do try and make an exertion to admit my daughter; I shall regard it as a particular favor."

"Well, I believe she may come," replied Gummage: "I suppose I can take her. Has she any turn for drawing?"

"I don't know," answered Mrs. Atmore, "she has never tried."

"Well, madam," said Mr. Gummage, "what do you wish your daughter to learn? figures, flowers, or landscape?"

"Oh! all three," replied Mrs. Atmore. "We have been furnishing our new house, and I told Mr. Atmore that he need not get any pictures for the front parlor, as I would much prefer having them all painted by Marianne. She has been four quarters with Miss Julia, and has worked Friendship and Innocence, which cost, altogether, upwards of a hundred dollars. Do you know the piece, Mr. Gummage? There is a tomb with a weeping willow, and two ladies with long hair, one dressed in pink, the other in blue, holding a wreath between them over the top of the urn. The ladies are Friendship. Then on the right hand of the piece is a cottage, and an oak, and a little girl dressed in yellow, sitting on a green bank, and putting a wreath round the neck of a lamb. Nothing can be more natural than the lamb's wool. It is done entirely in French knots. The child and the lamb are Innocence."

"Ay, ay," said Gummage, "I know the piece well enough--I've drawn them by dozens."

"Well," continued Mrs. Atmore, "this satin piece hangs over the front parlor mantel. It is much prettier and better done than the one Miss Longstitch worked of Charlotte at the tomb of Werter, though she did sew silver spangles all over Charlotte's lilac gown, and used chenille, at a fi'-penny-bit a needleful, for all the banks and the large tree. Now, as the mantel-piece is provided for, I wish a landscape for each of the recesses, and a figure-piece to hang on each side of the large looking-glass, with flower-pieces under them, all by Marianne. Can she do all these in one quarter?"

"No, that she can't," replied Gummage; "it will take her two quarters hard work, and maybe three, to get through the whole of them."

"Well, I won't stand about a quarter more or less," said Mrs. Atmore; "but what I wish Marianne to do most particularly, and, indeed, the chief reason why I send her to drawing-school just now, is a pattern for a set of china that we are going to have made in Canton. I was told the other day by a New York lady , that she had sent a pattern for a tea-set, drawn by her daughter, and that every article came out with the identical device beautifully done on the china, all in the proper colors. She said it was talked of all over New York, and that people who had never been at the house before, came to look at and admire it. No doubt it was a great feather in her daughter's cap."

"Possibly, madam," said Gummage.

"Oh! yes, madam--quite enough," replied Gummage, suppressing a laugh.

"To cut the matter short," said Mr. Gummage, "the best thing for the china is a flower-piece--a basket, or a wreath--or something of that sort. You can have a good cipher in the center, and the colors may be as bright as you please. India ware is generally painted with one color only; but the Chinese are submissive animals, and will do just as they are bid. It may cost something more to have a variety of colors, but I suppose you will not mind that."

"Oh! no--no," exclaimed Mrs. Atmore, "I shall not care for the price; I have set my mind on having this china the wonder of all Philadelphia."

Our readers will understand, that at this period nearly all the porcelain used in America was of Chinese manufacture; very little of that elegant article having been, as yet, imported fro be happy in it, but the phrase died away in uncertain accents.

Dinner at length came to his relief; he then was attention itself, but the repast could not last for ever; and, when the servants had left the room, Lord Fitzhenry's embarrassment returned worse than before. Emmeline had lived so little in society, and, consequently, had so little the habit of general conversation--and the six years during which she and her husband had been separated, had so entirely broken off the first intimacy which had existed between them when children, that, timid in his company, and now unassisted and unencouraged by him, she felt it impossible to keep up any thing like conversation. It was, therefore, no small relief when, after an awkwardly protracted silence, she saw him leave the room.

As the door closed upon him, Emmeline involuntarily fell into a reverie not of the most pleasing nature. "This is all very strange!" thought she; and over her usually gay countenance a sadness crept. She sighed, she hardly knew why; and, when her thoughts wandered back to her former happy home, her parents, and their doating fondness, some "natural tears" stole down her cheek, and she felt herself, as in a dream, neglected and deserted.

Emmeline was very young, even for her age. With a most superior mind and character, with tender, even romantic feelings, her innocence and simplicity of heart were so great, and all her qualities had as yet lain so dormant, that her character was scarcely known even to herself; and, to common observers, she passed for a mere gay, good-humoured, pleasing girl. She was, however, no common character, nor what one would have supposed the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Benson to have been. Nature sometimes seems to amuse herself with playing such fanciful tricks; and Emmeline's natural superiority made it appear as if she had been thrown into a sphere totally different from that for which she had been originally designed, and that she now was only restored to her own proper station, when raised, by her marriage, to be the companion of Fitzhenry.

To explain how such a being came to be thus passively united to a man who seemed already to have repented the step he had taken, it will be necessary to go back a little in our narrative.

Do I entice you? do I speak you fair? Or rather, do I not in plainest truth Tell you--I do not, nor I cannot love you?

MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

LORD ARLINGFORD had, early in life, entangled himself in pecuniary difficulties by every species of thoughtless extravagance, in which an expensive, fashionable wife had assisted him. Her fortune and health both soon declined, and a consumption rapidly carried her to the grave while still in the prime of life, and when her only child, Ernest, was but ten years old. That which extravagance began, indolence soon completed; and long before his son came of age, Lord Arlingford found himself, in the language of the world, to be totally ruined.

Mr. Benson had been always much employed and consulted by Lord Arlingford's family in all matters relating to business; and to him, in the present desperate situation of his affairs, his lordship was obliged to have recourse for advice and assistance. Mr. Benson had toiled all his life as a merchant, and was now one of the most opulent bankers in London. He had an only child; and to her he meant to bequeath all his wealth, provided she made a marriage to his choice; by which, he meant one in that rank of life, which, with all his useful good sense, he had the folly to imagine essential to human happiness.

Being every way an excellent man of business, Mr. Benson was appointed to be one of the trustees, into whose hands it was now deemed necessary to consign Lord Arlingford's estate; in order, if possible, to retrieve his affairs, and protect the interests of his son.

One day, when talking over his difficulties with his client, and when Emmeline was but seven years old, Mr. Benson first proposed, in the form of a joke, as a means by which all might be set to rights, that their children should be united in marriage. He finished his speech by a loud laugh; but it was one of mere agitation, for he anxiously looked into Lord Arlingford's face to see how such a proposal agreed with the ancient, aristocratic pride of the Fitzhenrys.

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