ing the sere and yellow leaf of life made her appearance. Though her eyes had lost some of their pristine brilliancy, their glances were still quick and subtle, and evinced a distrustful watchfulness of all over which she had control. She was told by the Recorder to state the complaint she had to make against Theophilus Travere-and this led us into the secret of the romantic gentleman's nomenclature.

The old, or rather the more than middle-aged woman, before commencing a recital of her wrongs, adjusted her gloves and threw back her black veil over her bonnet, leaving the margin of it to hang gracefully over her forehead as so much drapery :-"O, sir," said Mrs. Williamson, cooling her temples with an artificial current of air created by the motion of her fan—“ O, sir, I wants to have this here man put in the penitentiary."

"In the penitentiary!" said the Recorder, with surprise; "why what has he been doing?"

"There's what he has been doing," said Mrs. Williamson, drawing a pocket-book from her reticule and drawing from the pocket-book some half dozen letters, fancifully folded, some in diamond shape, and others in the form of a triangle. "There's what he has been a doing; writing love-letters to my daughter till he has fairly turned her head."

They were addressed to Miss Clementha Clarinda Levina Williamson, and were 66 sure enough" love-letters, as full of rhapsody and romance, of poetry and plighted vows, as a balloon is full of gas.

The Recorder was proceeding to open these missives, forged in Cupid's arsenal and aimed at the heart of the amiable and interesting Clementha Clarinda Lavina Williamson, when Theophilus Travere entered his protest against such a proceeding in the following words:

"I waise my pwotest against any man, even the Rocawdaw of this onowable court weading my pwiwate lettaws or papaws."

"It is necessary I should read them," said the Recorder, "in order to discover the nature of your offence."

"Well then, to save the cooat twoble," said Theophilus, "I at once admit I am the awthaw of those pwoductions. Í have, fo' the first time, felt the tendaw passion fo' the admiwable Miss Williamson, and have made these bwief epwistles the medium of communicawting to my soul's idol the intensity of my passion."

LOVE AND LETTER WRITING.

189

Here is one of the billet deaux, which we think should find a place in the next "Ready Letter Writer."

"

No. 17., street, March, 1841.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun would move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love!"

Angelic Clementha Clarinda Lavina

"Fairest of creation's fair! most adorable of thy sex! my soul's best idol! will not love, pity or compassion move you to grant me an interview? Will the admonitions of a morose mother, prevail over the ardent solicitations of your impassioned lover? Can it be that a soul enshrined in a form so lovely as yours, is insensible to the influences of the platonic passion, and that eyes beaming with such beauty will apply no salve to the wound which they have, unconsciously no doubt, made? O, dearest Clementha Clarinda Lavina! I am being consumed by the wasting fire of love, which your charms have enkindled in my bosom, and unless you form some scheme of seeing me ere long, you will leave me like the phoenix in my nest to burn!

"Alas! that love, so gentle in his mien,

Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Adorably ever thine,

THEOPHILUS TRAVERE.

"P. S. I send this by the negro woman Dinah, who will wait on you this afternoon for an answer.

T. T.

"P. S. S. Don't let that petrified piece of mortality, your anxious mother, see this.

T. T.

"P. P. S. S. My name is not signed with red ink, but with my blood -my heart's blood. Is not that a proof of the sacrifice I am prepared to make for your sake.

T. T."

The Recorder having perused this document and the others which were of a similar import, facetiously smiled and informed Mrs. Williamson that, so far as he could judge from the letters before him, Mr. Theophilus Travere was not guilty of a penitentiary offence, or indeed of any offence at all of which the law could take cognisance, unless writing nonsense might be considered a capital offence-a supposition which any thing he read in the books" did not warrant him in coming to. He discharged the case, but cautioned Theophilus against doing any thing that would disturb the peace of Mrs. Williamson's family.

Theophilus bowed and retired. Mrs. W. retired without bowing.

A LIVE HOOSIER.

We love to look at a real, genuine, live Hoosier, and we love to talk to him. We do not mean those fever and ague affected fellows who find their way into Indiana and out of it again, and who are little better than locomotive medicine chests; we mean those stalworth sons of the soil, with sound hearts and strong arms, who are "to the manner born." Such a one is John Whitworth, whom we met yesterday in the Second Municipality police office. John came to Orleans in his favourite mode of conveyance, a flatboat. The captain of the flatboat, in paying off John, gave him a bad ten dollar bill, of which he was not aware. John caught our fancy wonderfully, and while setting on a side seat, waiting for proof of his innocence, we sat beside him with a view of bringing him out. "What height are you?" said we.

"Six feet three, scant," said John.

"Why, how did you find room for yourself in the watchhouse?" said we.

"I coiled myself up," said John.

"What age are you," said we.

"Twenty-two, come next husking time," said John. "Ever been in a calaboose before?" said we.

"No, sir-r-r; it was my first time to look through the iron bars," said John.

"What is your politics ?" said we.

"I'm touched off mighty strong with whiggery, I tell you, stranger," said John.

"Why are you not a locofoco?" said we.

"I couldn't no how," said John-"I live too near the old coon (Harrison) for that."

"Indiana is a fine country to live in, no doubt," said we— 66 plenty of corn, bread, whiskey and all that.”

"Yes, sir-r-r," said John-"it's an extensive country; plenty of corn, bread, pork and all that, as you say, andwhiskey out of the ashes."

What this last phrase meant, we could not divine, and we candidly confessed our ignorance to John, who seemed to pity us for our limited comprehension, but told us it meant "lots," "plenty." The dialogue broke off here. We need not say that John was honourably discharged.

A NEGATIVE BEAUTY.

191

A NEGATIVE BEAUTY.

In the countenance of Catharine Gafney many of the essentials to beauty exist, but they are not arranged or regulated well. But for a slight misplacing of these essentials, Catharine would be a charming creature, and indeed as it is, we can only say that her style of countenance differs from our beau ideal, though to others she may still be all fascination. We were early prejudiced in favour of red lips, and consequently we cannot easily reconcile ourselves to seeing the ruby of beauty transferred from the lips to the nose. Neither can we easily surrender our preference for a full row of pearly teeth, instead of a cavern of stumps

"Like broken bottles on an old dead wall."

We like blue eyes and black eyes, but we have a foolish antipathy to eyes that are black and blue. Hair is undoubtedly an ornament to man and woman, yet, as there may sometimes be too much of it, so there may sometimes be too little. Catharine has just thirty-seven hairs, and as she scorns to wear a wig, this fact is fully apparent. Of these thirty-seven hairs, Catharine at any rate boasts a pleasant variety in the way of colour, ten of them being gray, ten brown, ten red, and seven yellow. Catharine's eyes are red, caused, probably, by her looking crosswise continually at her ripe red nose. Catharine's lips are blue, her cheeks yellow, her forehead and neck brown, and with admirable taste her dress is composed of an assortment of these same colours-blue, brown, black, red, gray, saffron, every colour but white is mingled in Catharine's dress; and with commendable independence of mind she has, in spite of the tyranny of fashion, abandoned the health-destroying corset, so that her motley coloured gown

"Floats as wild as summer breezes,
Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as heaven pleases."

Catharine stood yesterday in the Recorder's court-not like a Madonna, nor a Muse, nor like Madame Lecomte, nor like Venus

but like her own identical and not-to-be-counterfeited self, Catharine Gafney.

Recorder." So, Mrs. Gafney, you're here again."

Catharine." Troth, thin, I dare say I am here, since your honour says so. Sure it's not there ye are sittin' to be tellin'

lies."

Recorder- "What could I do for you now, Mrs. Gafney, to induce you to give over drinking and become a respectable woman?"

Catharine." Seduce! Is it me? me, is it your honour would seduce? Troth thin, yer a broth of a boy, and I'll be yer bonny Kate, and

Recorder. "Silence, woman! You are wilfully perverse." Catharine.-"Divil a bit of it, I'm Catharine Gafney." Recorder. "Lock her up."

1999

Catharine."What, on a Patrick's day in the morning!' Recorder." Take her away."

Catharine commenced blubbering; in the middle of her tears breaking out into a plaintive song, and stretching her arms imploringly towards the magistrate, she breathed forth, in soultouching pathos,

"Though I leave thee now in sorrow ;"

the exquiste words receiving new beauty from the melodious. brogue of Catharine. She continued,

"We will meet again to-morrow."

"No we wont," said the magistrate. "Officer, lock her up for thirty days. We'll keep her sober for a month, at any rate." Poor Kate was led away to durance.

A PUBLIC PATRIOT.

OR, AN ACUTE ALLEGHANIAN.

THOMAS JEFFERSON WASHINGTON JONES was yesterday brought before the Recorder, on the charge of gathering a crowd and creating a disturbance the evening previous, at the corner of St. Charles and Gravier streets.

Mr. Thomas Jefferson Washington Jones is a gentleman of a full habit but scanty wardrobe-plus of patriotism, but minus of means.