Ye Philadelphienne spekythe more slowlie in hir speeche than dothe ye New-Yorkere, and ever callyth a calf a caeff, and a laugh a laeff, which soundeth far more sweetlie, even like the lingua Toscana in bocca Romana. Shee loveth ye opera even as shee loveth ye ice-creme, whych shee buyeth at Mrs. Burns’s, or old Auntie Jackson’s, where shee often goeth of warm sumer-nightes.  Shee is graceful in hir miene, and gracious in hir manner—­trulie, in all ye worlde I know of none sweeter in this laste itemm.  And thatt shee may ever keepe up hir pleasante fame for beinge ladyly, gentyll, and fayre, is the herte’s prayere of

CLERKE NICHOLAS.

* * * * *

GALLI VAN T is again active in setting forth the rural trials and troubles of artists—­which it seems are many.  Listen!

DEAR CONTINENTAL:  ’Twas in the merry summer-tide, some seven years since, when I went with a friend catching trout and sketching scenery in the valley of the Connecticut.

We thought we knew the value of a lovely view.

We didn’t.

True, we could appreciate it to a dollar, when transferred to canvas. 
Otherwise we had much to learn.

C. Pia, Esq., and myself were hard at it one morning—­making such beautiful sketches, and doing it all with nothing but just a lead-pencil and some paper—­as a young admirer of our works was wont to assure her friends.  Suddenly appeared a man of great muscle, with pie dish shirt-collar, and a canister-shot-eyed bull-terrier, gifted with seven-tiger power of biting.

‘Stop that are!’ was his courteous salutation.

‘Stop what?’

’Stop making them are d—­d picters.  I don’t have no such doings reound here!’

I looked at C. Pia—­he was venomous and unterrified, and I felt encouraged.  So I firmly asked the intruder what he meant.

‘I mean what I say.  There’s property there that I’m a goin’ to buy.  I know what you’re arter.  You’re makin picters of the place for that are in-fernal Kernal Smith who owns the land, so’s he can show ’em round and pint out the buildin’ lots.  And I’ll jest lick you like ——­ if you dror another line!’

‘See here, young man,’ quoth I, ’I’ve something to say to you.  In the first place you’re a scamp who would keep a gentleman from getting a fair price for his own property.  Secondly, you’re an ignorant fellow and don’t know what you’re talking about.  I never heard of your Colonel Smith—­I’m not drawing up real estate lots or plots of any kind.  Thirdly, I solemnly swear by Minos, Alianthus, Rhododendron, Nebuchadnezzar, and all the infernal gods, that if you touch a hair of our heads I’ll see Colonel Smith—­I’ll map the whole property and advertise it in every newspaper in New-York and Boston till it brings ten thousand dollars an acre.  Now sail in—­dog or no dog—­we’ll settle you, any how.’

The glare of fury in our visitor’s eyes died away as he listened to this oration.