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"S-w-e-a-r-never'll go to Barton's agin." Here endeth the first

lesson.

The case of the second candidate contains nothing very remarkable. As his success hinged upon the question whether he was possessed of education, he was of course nonsuited, and of course also not suited; or rather he foresaw the result, and entered a "nolle prosequi," and there the matter ended.

The third candidate was a most notable character; allow us therefore to introduce to your acquaintance Mister Zimri Hartshorn. Look at him; he is a long, lank, lean, lazy loafer, six feet high, and shaped somewhat like a flatfish as to his three dimensions of length, breadth, and thickness; and, to say no more of the rest of him, he had the oddest phiz that ever mortal wore. We are sure-neither that, nor any thing like it, is alluded to in the second command

ment.

From his chin, the vanishing point of his countenance, his face suddenly expands to an enormous magnitude, sufficient to contain a huge pair of ivory semicircles, which, having a covering too small for them, exhibit an eternal grin. Now look a little above his mouth; you see that badly-defined, but red and lurid light, shaped somewhat like a small demijohn, with a hole or two in the bottom. Well, that's his nose; you can distinguish the light which proceeds from it, from that which his eyes emit, by its color-that of the latter resembling a pair of thick, horn lanterns. The whole is surmounted by a very modest, retiring forehead, above which appears a coarse thatchwork of muddy-colored hair; (can't say whether the color is natural.) This was his general appearance, except in cold weather, when he was accustomed to wear a crimson mitten on his nose.

Of his habits we have nothing to say, except that his use of his father's white steed had procured for him the appellation of " Death on the pale horse;" he was certainly death to the pale horse, for he had not the index of the merciful man.

This Zimri Hartshorn came to the conclusion that Mary Barton was the rib that Heaven had made for him, and we have now to show how he discovered his mistake. It was winter-and Zimri, who attended the same school with the object of his affections, thinking that a sleigh-ride would afford him the best opportunity to develop his passion and secure a reciprocation of it, wrote a note of invitation to Miss B. and dropped it on her book as he retired from school at recess, not doubting but that a man of his magnitude might be sure of the company of any lady at any time. We give it to our readers verbatim, as those who tread in his steps will doubtless be benefited by it, and all will be interested in the style.

"i am goin to briton [Brighton] next wensda and shud lik ure company if u are willing-i shud lik to no to nite."

Z. HARTSHORN. He waited two or three days for a reply, but he waited in vain. At length, supposing that some mistake had been committed, he em

ployed a mediator.

This was no other than his sister-the redoubtable Miss Polly Hartshorn, of equal longitude with himself, though much inferior in latitude, and still more deficient in the third dimension; she was indeed the shadow of a mighty pungent name.

Through her intervention he made the discovery that the mistake was all his own. Yet he did not despair-" faint heart," he said, "never won fair lady." So he called into exercise all his little cunning, and next attempted, through Polly's influence, to procure a visit from the ladies, but in this too he failed; yet the strife went on. In this contest, as in most others, the parties did not long contend alone; others were enlisted on either side. Zimri took to himself his father and his mother, his sister and his brother, &c.-the whole familyin all, seven spirits, more cunning though not so wicked as himself; and they entered into his plan and urged it forward, until the last state of that apology for a man was worse than the first. It had been good for him, as most people thought, if he had not been born; but he was born, and they determined to make the best of it. So a visit to the parsonage was decided upon by the whole family, hoping to take by assault the citadel which they could not sap; but the expedition proved a forlorn hope, and defeat was just ready to hand her victim over to despair. As our object is to interest, we regret exceedingly that we have not the particulars of an interview from which so much was expected, but we must let that pass, and return to our narrative.

The family cavalcade was moving homeward in silence deep as the lowest bass of the distant thunder, and the party had made about half a mile in their onward progress, when Zimri suddenly exclaimed, "By thunder, Mary is a darn'd ugly girl. I don't think she's a bit pretty-I never'll speak to her agin as long as I live." "I hope she'll die an old maid," quoth Polly. "I wish she was to Guinea,' added aunt Rue, who sustained the maternal relation to the rest of the party, with the exception of Zenas, her adored. "Well, by goll," said the major domo, "I'll not subscribe for preachin agin while parson Barton stays."

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How much farther this interesting conversation was carried has not been reported to us; but it might, without doubt, be obtained from aunt Nabby Werder, secretary of the gossiping society, who keeps the records and reports daily, nay, even hourly, upon every case of prospective matrimony in the town.

For our heroine we bespeak the sympathies of all who feel for human woe. You see her harassed, perplexed, distressed-you see her sufferings augmented by the keenest sensibility, so that she is unable to offer effectual resistance to the evils which press upon her. But let it not be retorted upon us that we should put our shoulder to the wheel' before we call upon others for their aid; we have done what we could-we have visited her repeatedly for the purpose of offering her consolation, and we humbly hope that our efforts have not been entirely in vain. L. T. H.

TRANSLATION.

FIRST ODE OF HORACE.

"Every way of man seemeth right in his own eyes."

MAECENAS, thou to kings allied,

My patron, and my pleasing pride!
Some joy, the Olympic dust to raise,
To shun the gaol with glowing wheels,
To crown their brow with blooming bays,
To gain, like gods, applauding peals.
Some feel their hearts with joy elate,
Whom fickle mobs combine to raise
To honors high and posts of state,
With zeal, and shouts of vulgar praise.
Some love their ample barns to fill,

With all that's reaped in Lybian vales.
Some love paternal glebes to till,

Old Author.

Who would not spread their swelling sails,
And timorous plough the Myrtoan main,
For all the Mysian monarch's hoard.
When tempests rage, the merchant fain
Doth prize the joy his lands afford;
But quick refits his shattered bark,
And soon as wasting winds abate,
He cleaves the billows deep and dark,

Resolved to shun the poor man's fate.
Some love to quaff old Massic wine,
In idleness to waste their days,
Outstretched beneath a verdant vine,

Or where a sacred fountain plays.
The trumpet's blast, the pomp of war,
The clarion's notes re-echoing shrill,
The fight, which mothers fond abbor,

Full many a breast, with raptures fill.
Huntsmen abroad all night abide,

Their tender consort's charms forget,
If faithful hounds a hind have spied,

Or boar has broke their well-wrought net.

Be mine, the poet's ivy wreath,

Be mine, the nymph and satyr choirs,

Be mine, the grove where zephyrs breathe-
To sing of these my soul aspires,

If Polyhymnia's pipe resound,

And Lesbos' lyre Euterpe string;

But if, 'mid lyric bards I'm crowned,

I'll strike the stars with soaring wing.

0.

ERRATA IN NO. 3.-Page 80th, 4th line fr. bottom, for treading read threading. Page 81st, 12th line fr. top, for "Lilliputian," read "Laputian."*

• Vide Gulliver's Travels, part 3d, chap. 2d.

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