put down the rebellion"--I b'lieve, upon my soul, this
illustris man would enlist as a Brigadier Gin'ral, and git his
Bounty.
. . . .

I was fixin myself up to attend the great war meetin', when my
daughter entered with a young man who was evijently from the
city, and who wore long hair, and had a wild expression into
his eye. In one hand he carried a port-folio, and his other
paw claspt a bunch of small brushes. My daughter introduced
him as MR. SWEIBIER, the distinguished landscape painter from
Philadelphy.

"He is a artist, papa. Here is one of his master-pieces--a
young mother gazin' admirin'ly upon her first-born," and my
daughter showed me a really pretty picter, done in ile. "Is
it not beautiful, papa? He throws so much soul into his
work."

"Does he? does he?" said I--"well, I reckon I'd better hire
him to whitewash our fence. It needs it. What will you
charge, sir," I continued, "to throw some soul into my fence?"

My daughter went out of the room in very short meeter, takin'
the artist with her, and from the emphatical manner in which
the door slam'd, I concluded she was summat disgusted at my
remarks. She closed the door, I may say, in ITALICS. I went
into the closet and larfed all alone by myself for over half
an hour. I larfed so vi'lently that the preserve jars rattled
like a cavalry offisser's sword and things, which it aroused