The glare of fury in our visitor's eyes died away as he listened to this oration.
'Thunder!' he exclaimed; 'what a lot you city fellers with l'arnin' into you do know! Ten thousand dollars an acre! Ad-ver-ti-sin'! What an idee! I guess I'll buy the land on a morgidge right away. Hee, hee, hee—it's a first-rate notion—and I a-dopt it. Mister, if you want a drink o' cider, you can get it at that are red house you see down yander. Good-mornin'!'
And off he went.
'You've made that fellow's fortune—when you ought to have caved his head in,' remarked C. Pia as the two brutes disappeared.
'It is the mission of the artist to benefit every body except himself,' I rejoined. And refilling my pipe I went on with my 'picter.'
Yours truly,
Galli Van T.
Truly 'Art is—well—a—it's a great thing, and hath its many lights and shadows,' as Phoenix or some body once ascertained. And we trust that Galli Van T. will continue to depict the same in his peculiarly affecting style.
Among the curiosities of literature which the war has brought forth, one of the most piquant is a little pamphlet entitled, Southern Hatred of the American Government, the People of the North, and Free Institutions, recently published by R.F. Wallcut, of Number 221 Washington street, Boston. It consists entirely of selections from the columns of Southern newspapers—all of them rabid, and we may very truly add, ridiculous; especially since the fortunes of war have made so much of their Bobadil bluster appear like the veriest folly. Many of them are old acquaintances—who, for instance, can have forgotten the following, from the Richmond Whig?
'This war will test the physical virtues of mere numbers. Southern soldiers ask no better odds than one to three Western and one to six of the Eastern Yankees. Some go so far as to say that, with equal weapons, and on equal grounds, they would not hesitate to encounter twenty times their number of the last.'