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And e'er with my increasing years Increased my sorrows and my fears; And I bedewed my path with tears

Through every stage of life.

"As I was passing through the grounds of an ancient burial-place in this goodly city of Baltimore," writes an antiquarian friend, "I copied a few epitaphs from stones that will soon be removed, for streets and houses are now making room for the living among the forgotten dead. No living being cares for the ashes that are lying under the stones from which I copy:

IN MEMORY OF PETTER LITTIG.

drank as much or more was sleeping and snoring near the altar. Parson Wiggins opened the Bible, but in doing so, he made such a shuffling in the rude pulpit that he waked up the sleeper Bones, who now sat bolt upright with one eye curiously cocked at the preacher and the other closed. Wiggins read his text, and began: 'My Brotherin.' "Not another word could he manage to enunciate.

Evidently a great struggle was going on within the parson-a struggle between celestial spirits and ardent spirits—a struggle between good religion and bad whisky. Again he essayed to speak and said, 'My Brotherin.' A few round,

"Words failed him once more.

Was born December 10th, 1754, and departed this life pearly drops of sweat stood out on his forehead,

April 30, 1799.

Peter Littig was his name,

Heaven, I hope, his station,
Baltimore was his dwelling-place,
And Christ is his salvation.
Now he is dead and bawried,

And all his bones are rotten;
Remember him when this you see,
Lest he should be forgottin.'
IN MEMORY OF SUSANNA SMITH,
Who died May 27, 1792, in her 47th year. Whose amiable
and virtuous character is described in the 81st chap-

ter of Proverbs, beginning at the 10th verse.
Dear Travelers, all who pass by me,

Think on that Great Eternity.

I am not dead, but here do sleep,

Tho' buried in this Clay so deep,

Till the Archangel rends the skies,
And Christ my Saviour bid me rise
Where Saints and Angels, joy fulfilling,
Hallelujahs to their King.""

How refreshing to the soul of the disconsolated editor of this department, this opener of the Drawer, and the dispenser of its contents, is the finding of such a gem within it as the following letter from an unknown but evidently very accomplished friend in Cumberland, Virginia! How can we fail to admire the ease and grace of his style, his felicitous selection of adjectives of praise, his sound and dis- | criminating judgment— all apparent in the introductory lines of his very acceptable contribution! But we must let him speak for himself, which he does in such agreeable words that the Drawer does not feel at liberty to hide them from an appreciating world. He writes:

"Your Drawer has become one of the institutions of the country. Filled with memories of the olden time; rich in racy anecdotes, that tickle the reader to the extremest tendon; abounding, at times, in the tenderest pathos; and decked with the daintiest gems of verse, it visits our hearths in its monthly round, dispensing the most genial gladness, and provoking smiles even from the Hardest Shells."

And with these words of cheer, the writer proceeds to tell us of one of those Hard Shells of whom we have said before we wish to hear no more: let them alone: but the story he tells is too good to keep in the Drawer, and so we throw it out:

which he wiped away with his red bandana. Bones on a bench before him uncocked the one eye, closed it and cocked the other at him, as the preacher again opened his mouth, and this time managed to say:

"My Brotherin, I feel like a corn house what's locked up and the key is done lost.'

"Bones broke out, 'And if you was to find that key, Brother Wiggins, and was to onlock that are corn house, you'd find precious little corn, and that would be nubbins!'

"Wiggins acknowledged the corn. He sat down a minute, then got up again and said his feelings wouldn't allow him to go on after such remarks from his unfortunate Brother Bones, who had evidently been drinking more than was good for him. He had no doubt that Brother Bones, when he came to himself, would see the impropriety of his observations and make an apology.

"Brother Bones never sufficiently recovered to see the necessity of any such thing.'

IN 1797 the following proposals were issued for publishing, in two volumes, a "History of Snuff and Tobacco:"

"Vol. I. to contain a description of the NoseSize of noses-Whether long noses are symptomatic-Origin of Tobacco-Tobacco first manufactured into Snuff-Inquiry who took the first Pinch-Essay on Sneezing-Whether the Ancients sneezed, and at what-Origin of pocket handkerchiefsDiscrimination between snuffing and taking snuff; the former applied only to candles-Parliamentary snuff-takers-Troubles in time of Charles the First as connected with smoking.

"Vol. II. Snuff-takers in the Parliamentary Army-Wit at a Pinch-Oval snuff-boxes first used by the Roundheads-Manufacture of Tobacco-pipes-Dissertation on Pipe-clay--State of Snuff during the Commonwealth-The Union-Scotch Snuff first introduced; found very pungent and penetrating-Accession of George the SecondSnuff-boxes then made of gold and silver-George the Third-Scotch Snuff first introduced at Court the Queen-German Snuffs in fashion-Female Snuff-takers-Clean tuckers, etc. Index and List of Subscribers."

We should be glad to see these two volumes in the Drawer. If they were ever published there was matter in them not to be sneezed at, but mightily laughed at, beyond a doubt.

"Some time ago there lived near the Blue Ridge in Virginia an old Hard Shell Baptist preacher named Wiggins. Like the rest of his sect, he was addicted to the use of the low wines of distilleries, bald-face whisky, pug brandy, hard cider, etc., of Here is a tale to be laughed at. It is detailed to all which, severally and collectively, he could swig us, and we retail it to our readers with the assura marvelous quantity. One Sunday he was preach-ance that it comes to us with substantial vouchers ing, after having taken even more than he was ac- for its sober truth. A Baltimore correspondent customed to drink, and one of his hearers who had writes:

THE cattle of his neighbors kept getting into the pasture of Deacon Johnson. The pasture was bad enough for the Deacon's cattle, and was mighty poor feed for other people's, when they sought to share it. Deacon Johnson had tried, with his hired man, to keep them out, and couldn't, and at last Pat said, with a scratch of his head,

"In the family of a relative of mine, a few weeks | merriment that went up drowned Old Hiram and since, one of the boys in a freak of mischief chopped Runnels together. off the tail of his father's dog. The poor animal ran about, howling and bleeding, until he found a secure retreat from the eye of man, and there he lay until hunger compelled him to leave his hidingplace. Then he came out toward the kitchen in search of food. His master had taken the dismembered member and placed it on the railing of the kitchen porch. The dog saw it, and doubtless recognizing it as his own, he took it down, licked it lovingly, and then deliberately turned around and sat down with the stump upon it, to see if it would grow on again!”

Was it instinct only?

THE old Keystone State sends us the best election incidents: here are two from a correspondent in York County:

"I was one of the Election Board. The time had come for the closing of the polls. But we were waiting for one more vote that the knowing ones had been told was sure to come, and perhaps the fate of Old Buck might hang on that one vote. Presently loud cries of Yer he is!' Hurry up, ole feller!' assured us he was on hand, and the independent voter approached, extending his hand with his Democratic ticket and the destiny of his country in it. It was necessary to swear' him, and I asked:

"Do you swear or affirm?'

"He hesitated a moment and said, 'What?' "I repeated: Do you swear or affirm?' "No,' says he, 'I'm a shoemaker!' "In the course of the day another man had discovered the same ignorance by replying to my question:

"Do you swear or affirm?'

"Yes, Sir, I'm firm! Yes, Sir, very firm!""

OLD Hiram is with us yet. You don't know Hiram, and can not understand the mischief he makes by everlastingly putting in his word when somebody would be better pleased if the half-drunk, | half-witted fellow would keep his mouth shut.

Dick Runnels was running for Congress. Though a lineal descendent from an old and noted Tory family, Dick is great at patriotizing, and all the more because he has nothing to brag of in that line. One day, in the height of an electioneering appeal, he demands:

"Whose brows were blackened by the powdersmoke on Bunker Hill? Whose breasts braved the hail-storm there ?"

"None of your folks, you blamed old Tory, you!" roared out Old Hiram, and the laugh that broke in broke down the orator, and he retired after a few more incoherent observations. But he was to speak again in a few days, and taking Old Hiram into his confidence and treating him liberally to brandy and water, he made a bargain with Hiram not to interrupt him again, promising him as much brandy as he could drink at the close of the meeting if he kept quiet. Runnels went on swimmingly. His patriotism rose with the tide of his eloquence, and at length he exclaimed,

"We cherish the useless musket and rusted sabre of our forefathers as holy things."

"Runnels, Runnels !" shouted old Hiram; "I can't hold in. I'll pay for the brandy myself, but I can't hold in. Them muskets and sabres is too much for Old Hiram!" and the maddened roar of

"I'll tell you, Mr. Johnson, how you can be after gitting shut of thim beggarly cows that come here thaving their feed."

"And how shall we do that thing, Pat?"

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'Why, Sir, whin they git in agin, just let us go and put up the finces and kape them in, and my word fur it, Sir, they'll all starve to death in a week, Sir!"

"FOR more than fifty years I have practiced medicine," writes to us a rural physician, "in a wild section of country, and have met with many original characters, among them an old sea-captain, who, beating about the West India Islands during the Revolutionary War, was accustomed to say that he made the celebrated Bingham's fortune. He lived about ten miles from me, and his old-time stories furnish us often and great amusement. One morning I received a note from him requesting me to come and see one of his negroes, who had had a fit of sickness, through which I had just attended him, and left him convalescing, but charged him not to indulge his returning appetite. The note ran thus:

"DEAR DOCTOR,-Hasten over immediately. Jack hath eaten four large potatoes, three big drop dumplings, one boiled fowl, and bread according, and is now in violent pain. Therefore, dear Doctor, hasten over immediately. Yours, J. W.' "Although it was fair to conclude that Jack was dead from cramp-cholic, I mounted my horse and rode over. As I approached the house, the Captain, walking the piazza, espied me, and, flourishing his hand, called out,

"Light, Doctor, light. Jack's off.' "Sure enough, before the messenger had got a mile from the Captain's, Jack was gone."

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OUR Charlie is a nice boy, with a wonderful fac

ulty of picking up acquaintances. Not a spavined horse can be led by the door without Master Charlie somehow finding the way upon his back, to the great admiration of the neighborhood. His head is sure to be poked under the sun-bonnet of every barefoot, five-year-old feminine that passes, and all the dilapidated fowls in the street flock to our basement window to be fed with pound-cake. The other day he came in, dragging an ungainly, old-looking lad by the hand. "Ma," said he, "mayn't this nice little boy stay to tea with me? His mother keeps the candy store, and he's given me his big knife, and two sticks of candy for my little knife." The "nice boy" had clearly the best of the bargain; but as Master Charlie had disposed

of the candy, the "nice boy" firmly declined all propositions to "trade back." He offered, however, to give two more sticks of candy for the knife, which offer was gladly accepted by Charlie. The nice boy didn't stay to tea.

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Fashions for November.

Furnished by Mr. G. BRODIE, 51 Canal Street, New York, and drawn by VOIGT from actual articles of Costume.

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FIGURES 1 AND 2.-PROMENADE COSTUME AND CHILD'S DRESS.

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