comes him in his white apron; and as the marbled beef lies stretched on the counter, he has reserved the choicest parts and tender-loins for his most respected and valued customer. It does the butcher good to see him come, in the early morning, with his cane in his hand; and very hearty are their congratulations, while there is a freshness, and a sweetness, and a cleanness, in the whole market which awakens ideas very far from those of butchery. The servant follows with the white-willow basket, which is soon replenished with vegetables and the fresh and crisp celery; and the old merchant, having finished his marketing, passes on to his counting-room, through billets of log-wood, and going into an upper room overlooking the shipping, reads letters until the time of high change. At the old-fashioned hour of three o'clock, he arrives at his own door, not in those high latitudes of the city, it is true, where the more splendid and modern mansions of merchants are built, but about half-way down among the old quarters. His wife and daughters are in the parlor, waiting the arrival of Pa, who, as he enters, thrusts his hand in his pocket, and draws forth many little things with whose purchase he had been charged, and not one of which he has forgotten. Pleasant and respectable parlors! destitute of immense mirrors, but filled with furniture, considered massive and handsome in Revolutionary times. The Liverpool coal blazes cheerfully behind the big, round, iron-bars, within the polished brazen fender. There is no splendor, but all is comfortable, genial, and happy. Many a passer-by on the opposite side of the street looks over at the light reflected through the red curtains, and thinks that there is much comfort within. It is a pleasure to dine with such an old citizen. He carves beautifully, because he knows that there is a good piece of beef before him, and helps you to the very fat of the land. The vegetables are also freshly-pulled that very morning on the sand-hills of Long-Island, or on the banks of Hoboken. The old cook, whether she be named VENUS or DINAH, is up to all modern inventions of gravies and sauces. In old-fashioned decanters of cutglass, the wine sparkles brightly, not put there for mere show. It is dispensed liberally, partaken temperately, and it maketh glad the heart of man, because it is of an old vintage, and is truly good.

'When dinner is over, the respectable old citizen sleeps for a few minutes on the sofa, and arises refreshed like a new man. He then takes his hat and cane, and wraps his tippet about his neck, and goes into the street, either to his relatives, or a neighbor's, to play his game of whist; after which he returns at an early hour, lets himself in by his own key, and retires for the night. This is his apparent and visible life; all calm and peacefulness, but his inner thoughts are too secret to be divined. When a dark cloud of pestilence or tribulation lowers above the city; when the enemy hovers about the coast, or the winter is severe, or the poor want wood and shelter, he is not absent in the country. He can be found surely at his counting-house, or at his residence; and his counsel and assistance are not sought in vain. He is a resident of the city; an integral part and portion of it; he has grown up with it; he is identified with all its interests; knows all men of mark by their Christian names; and although he does rct live in a palace, he will never desert the mansions of the poor.

'Such is a denizen of the city, or the old fogy, if you please. When I think of the life of a man like this, and then of a country-farmer, who raises his crops in the old way, and lives in equal comfort, the thought comes up, how vain it is to institute comparisons between the happinesses of two estates. It reminds one of those questions which are sometimes argued in the debating-societies of boys: 'Whether was CINCINNATUS a greater man than NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE?' or 'whether has the art of printing conferred more good on mankind than the invention of gun-powder has evil?' and so also, whether is a thatched cottage more desirable than a splendid mansion in the town?-questions of very difficult solution, to be sure. A merchant, a farmer, and a soldier, are all well in their way. The secret of each man's happiness lies, first of all, in his own integrity, energy, perseverance, and virtue. Viewed in this light, all positions are equal, and the blind man and the one who has eyes, and the poor man and he who has wealth, and the sick and the healthy, if they are gifted with a noble spirit, are as truly equal as two sides of an equation can be.

'But there is something to be considered beyond this. If blindness, as in the case of MILTON, may be productive of an inward and splendid vision, still it is not desirable to be blind. If the poor man may reap a harvest of good from his misery, it is not in itself a blessing to be destitute and poor. If the sick may make the best of his situation, yet the natural estate of the body is health. Therefore we are not to argue from an ability of adaptation, but from the absolute value of things:

"GOD made the country, man made the town!'

'For fear of becoming too didactic, I shall not continue this subject, until my next letter, wherein I shall have something like a dialogue between a ' respectable old citizen,' sometimes denominated a fogy, and an unsophisticated countryman, wherein they will stand up for town and country by the best logic which they can wield.'

A PROFITABLE RAIL-ROAD INVESTMENT.-A grave body of rail-road directors were not long since moved from their propriety by a proposal to subscribe for stock, payable in real-estate: the writing literally was as follows: 'A hundred acres of land, under good improvement, well-timbered, oak and poplar unsurpassed, excellently-watered, lying on the head of Wolf-Creek, four miles west of. -, two miles from the Wolf-Creek Catholic Church, three miles from the Pipe-Creek Catholic Church; joins the 'German neighborhood' on the east, connected with an excellent neighborhood on the west, south, and north; half a mile from the United-Brethren Church, where the two Societies, Methodists and Brethren, worship harmoniously, and where a Sabbath-school is conducted, not surpassed by any country-school; and within half a mile of a good school-house, where the Butler township library will probably be kept. There is a good hewed log-house, and door-yard somewhat ornamented with ornamental shrubbery. P. S. A good grocerystore and post-office half a mile distant.' The stock was not 'delivered.'

'THREE DAYS IN A PER-RAI-RIE.'-A right-pleasant correspondent, who has been heard from before, 'to great acceptability,' in these pages, sends us an amusing epistle, from which we take the liberty of extracting the following: 'I once wrote you a letter in which the bray of a mule was described as 'an asthma carried on by powerful machinery.' You declared it equal to any thing ever written by DICKENS, or 'words to that effect.' I bought your 'Knick-Knacks,' and behold! your words were transferred to that everywhereprevalent book. This may be 'small-talk' for you, but it's 'great guns' for me. I always thought I should be famous somehow or other, and there it is! I go down to posterity on that. True, nobody knows I wrote that description, but I know. I did that thing; 'solitary and alone, I set that ball in motion.' I shall now try again. I will not be like the tailor who made the cockney's vest: he made but that one and died. I am now 'perrai-rie '- bound. A few days ago, I was loaded into a rail-road car, wadded with emigrants, and shot off indefinitely toward sun-set. I am lodged in the heart of a fine per-rai-rie, at the end of rail-road navigation. The man I want to do business with is not to be had for some days, and, consequently, I lic-up in waiting. I reached my tavern at dusk. Faces there were in plenty, but they were to me as so many blank leaves. I knew them not. There was plenty of 'speculation in those eyes,' but no hieroglyphic, no index pointing to any inner nature I cared to read. The lazy Wabash had luxuriously gone to sleep under its canopy of trees. The undulating sweep of the broad 'per-rai-rie,' with now and then a farm-house shining through corn-fields, 'like a good deed in a naughty world,' was becoming indistinct, and night without stars was settling over my dismal soul. No books, no papers, no nothing!

'But what is that, gleaming from yonder corner, standing out and challenging attention from every sign-post in this extraordinary 'city'? In large letters behold 'THE CHAMBER OF DEATH!' Approach nearer, and 'phanzy my pheelinks' when I read that the 'Chamber of Death' is to be done at Corinthian Hall, by Mr. and Mrs. HIGGINS, and Mr. and Mrs. TOODLE, with a fancy-dance by the infant prodigy, LA PETITE TULIP, and an after-piece. My timely arrival was worth just thirty-five cents to that 'legitimate drama '; twenty-five for a regular ticket, and ten more for a reserved seat. The orchestra consisted of three fiddlers; an old gentleman, boss-fiddler, and two younger fiddlers. They played waltzes all the time, and played them very well, too. It was music to me. Where you pay large prices, and expect to be astonished and rapt with a grand orchestra, perhaps you will be, and perhaps not. When you visit a splendid conservatory for flowers, perhaps you will gain the joy you seek, and perhaps not. But find an unexpected solitary flower in the wilderness, or hit upon a strain of music in a dull place, and your heart will grow large in a moment. Very well. I liked the fiddling. The curtain rose, and the 'Chamber of Death' was enacted. The description, please excuse. I have an unhappy proclivity to find amusement in every thing. I am sure it's all wrong. I ought to be miserable, a thousand

times, when I am rather happy than otherwise. Get up a theatrical company for the purpose of burlesque, and the chances are ten to one that the thing is overdone, and a failure. But just imagine an ordinary company to be a burlesque, and the more serious they are, the richer the sport. Here, for instance, was a female, quite thin in the face, with watery eyes and a treble voice, dressed in short breeches, and other things to match, playing the part of a quarrelsome young lord. She had a sword, and was ready to fight. Her legs below the knee were covered with flesh-colored silks, and as innocent of calves as those of a Shanghai biddy. To see her assume careless, sprawling attitudes, strain her thin cheeks on big, quarrelsome words, and hear her intensely-feminine voice; to see her strut, and swagger, and roll her eyes, under the impression that she was doing the thing like a lord! Then, there was a queen, and a robber, who had interviews, and laid plots, uttering their secret plans in loud theatrical rant, and making points on sotto-voce remarks. I am sure it was all wrong to be amused: but I was! LA PETITE TULIP undertook her dance. Her shoes were too big, and she kicked them off. It was 'no go.' She cut some shuffles in her stocking-feet that FANNY ELSSLER never dreamed of, and retired. I'll wager that the heroine of the after-piece, whose youthful attractions made young 'CHAWLS' crazy to possess her, is the mother of at least a dozen children. Before the performances closed, a new bill was posted before the audience. They were going to do, the next night, 'The Lady of Lyons,' and for an after-piece, the last act of RICHARD III. The 'City'- paper, next morning, accounted for the succession of full houses and the continued success of the company, by saying, that it was the first company that had been here for ten years, who had the ability to sustain a succession of engagements of the highest order of tragic excellence!'

"The best amusement of the succeeding day was, to see a dirty-faced little urchin of some four years, run with a long strip of paper, reaching two squares. I think he had stolen it. At any rate, he made off with great speed, holding to one end. The wind would seize the other and whirl it about in a manner quite perplexing. At dinner, I violated the Maine-Law. A glass of new cider, fermented liquor, was placed before me. Had it been kept out of sight, I could have let it alone-might not, in fact, have thought of it and might have gone on leading a life of innocency. But there stood the 'inebriating cup.' It was too much. I seized the 'damning bowl,' and poured the burning tide of desolation down my throat, quaffing it to the very dregs. Nay, more. I 'filled again!' I do not feel that I am responsible. Let them tear down their cider-mills, and cease to lead me into temptation. I will then be a good citizen. But when new cider is about, and sparkling like a fiend, I seize the maddening liquid, and it disappears. Now, see what was the result. Rushing from one unnatural excitement to another, with poison in my veins, I got some old Tribunes, containing reports of the World's Convention, the Whole-World's Convention, and the Women's Convention, with the Convention of Vegetables, and read them all through. With unconsecrated lips I pronounced the names of Reverend ANTOINETTE L. BROWN, Miss LUCY STONE, and objurgated the convention which would not

allow to sit upon the platform any person 'not dressed in men's clothes'! Did they suppose that Rev. ANTOINETTE, or Miss Lucy, would have waited for a resolution to dress in men's clothes, could they have worn them with propriety? Comparatively easy the task to get on platforms with men's clothes, but to whom these are denied, 'hic labor, hoc opus est!' The female is not only bound to get on the platform, but her clothes must be elevated also.

'The cause, the cause is every thing. It were comparatively a matter of indifference whether Rev. ANTOINETTE, or Miss Lucy, were down or up, except as representatives of the rights of the sex. In this respect, their courage is admirable. They should never tire, but should get on all platforms; thinking nothing of their clothes, except as representing woman: but, if the Old Fogies object that they are not in men's clothes, principle requires that they should not get down, nor permit their clothes to be put down by any thing short of a formal resolution. Young America to the rescue! Fogies avaunt!

'The Tribune finished, there is no resort left but the book-store. There, my attention is divided between the Life of MONROE EDWARDS and the Poems of ALEXANDER SMITH. But for the new cider I had taken, my choice might have been easy. But I confess to an inclination to read the daring adventures of that sublime rascal, which may be supposed to be the poetry of crime, rather than the mere words of Mr. SMITH. However, I said to my soul (privately intending to put it in writing): 'Soul, I will pour no defiling streams into thy clear depths. I am measurably responsible to see thee safe through the world. I had thee from a GREAT FRIEND: thou hast furnished, from thy cool recesses, many cups of consolation, and helped me to see pleasure in much that is only wearisome to others: thou art the resort of clean-footed joys, and shalt not be converted into a stable for foul thoughts. I will keep thee sweet, and return thee pure as when I had thee, and thou shalt not come to harm!' Soul replied, that the speech was very long, but very good; that it had no objections; and to go ahead! So I bought the Poems of ALEXANDER SMITH. I guess ALEXANDER will do for a poet. He is certainly the most combustible gentleman I have met for a long time. He has a fancy for mild maidens,' and 'slumber-parted lips,' and 'dew-drops clear,' and 'flaming stars.' So had I, once, and so, I dare say, had you, Mr. KNICK. They are not bad to think of, even yet. It is not a bad thing to lie under a tree in summer and look up into VIOLET's eyes, but if you are not careful, it plays the deuce with your rheumatism. Besides, if VIOLET has become the mother of three or four babies, the time of day for sitting under trees is just the time when she must give them bread-and-butter. As for the stars, they are very well in their way, but there is no use in watching them. A few years of married life, getting up at night to dandle VIOLET'S babies, who have the colic, gives one great confidence in the stars, and makes him willing to let them off easy. VIOLET, the wife and mother, even if she snores a very little, is a much more charming personage than VIOLET, the girl who looks in your eyes under a tree. All this, I hope, is in store for ALEXANDER: for he has a boiling-hot nature, which must naturally take to