The North-Carolina Standard. May 2, 1838
FROM THE NEW YORK NEW ERA.
REMINISCENCES OF THIRTY-SEVEN.
BY LEIGH CLIFFE, ESQ.
And so the poor old year is gone
Where its numerous ancestors slumber,
And Time's writing an epitaph on
The defunct for his annual number!
Oh! it really and truly is dead
Of an illness years never surmounted;—
I knew 't had a cold in its head,
And some thousand pulsations I counted.
'Twas attack'd with dyspepsia last spring,
When the chimney-pots tumbled about
Like urchins, just breech'd, in a ring
They have form'd to fight ill-humor out.
Then symptoms appeared to decline
Just when the last summer was over,
And gossips hint at the last Wine
—Season 'twas not very sober.
After that the poor sufferer knew
Low spirits, which set e'en clouds weeping;
And this I can vouch to be true,
For I once was their kerchief while sleeping
At ease on a hillock of hay,
Till they soused me all o'er with their fears;
And a rheumatic twinge this fine day
Brings to mind this departed of years!
It had a sad chill last November,
And got rather wet in the feet;
And a warm-vapor had in December,
Instead of a shower-bath of sleet.
And it died! 'Twas a sad blow indeed
To me:—it kept turkeys from riding
From Norfolk to tempt me to feed,
And silence my wife's tongue from chiding.
I had “half an idea” of a ham,
As we now call a very thin slice;
A whole one of jellies and jam,
All under the cost-selling price;
And two or three Tiddington chicks—
And four or five hares from the hills;
Larks, neatly arranged on white sticks—
But instead came some long Christmas bills.
Small accounts, just for bread and for wine,
With other odd items between,
Which will never be paid by the Nine
Old maids of Parnassus, I ween.
One long bill of pleasure and pain,
Sent in by a will-proving proctor,
Which should have been brought up last reign—
But the devil a line from the doctor!
From Urlings, and Brussels, and Point;
Flowers, feathers, and satins, and gloves,
A foolscap, whose huge double-joint
Might frighten the marrying loves.
A list from the tailor, so long
That it looks the whole length of the piece;
Some hints from the warblers of song
That a concert brings forward a niece.
A benefit started for Miss,
And her family—(tickets enclosed,)
A subscription for that and for this,
Ask'd by one who must not be opposed.
And then there's a host of invites
To soirees, and balls:—but what's worse,
This dressing and dancing o' nights
Makes a terrible hole in the purse!
There's a knock! Oh! I'm sure 'tis a dun—
I could swear to the horrid rat-tat:—
Is't the tailor?—No, no, 'tis the son
Of the man who tick'd me my new hat.
Shut the door—say I'm out—any thing—
So it leaves me in comfort and peace;
If not I shall mourn till the spring,
Poor old 'Thirty-Seven's decease!
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...
THE CHEROKEES.—The Colonel of this Regiment
of North Carolina has had a requisition
made upon him by the Governor for one company
of Volunteers to be in readiness to repair to
the Cherokee country, if necessary, to enforce
the removal of those Indians, which is to take
place on the 30th ultimo. We understand a
similar requisition has been made upon the Regiments
west of us. We hope our citizens will
prove their readiness to obey the call of their
country.—Western Carolinian.
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...
HEAVY TALK.—'Look here Sam Jonsing, is
you gwoin to tha theatre to night?'
'No—is you?'
'Dat I is. Don't you see de great 'traction
dere on de bill?'
'Yes, I does. Say, nig, what's de name ob
dat big piece down dere at de bottom?'
'Well, I can't zackly specemfy de name ob
dat piece, but dey say it's one dat possesses de
biggest kind of interestariety.'
'Dat's enuff—dat last 'spression of yours conwinces
me—I'm gwoin.'
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...
ADVICE FROM A WHIG.—The following is
from the New York Herald, a Whig paper:—
Change your name, Whigs. It now means
blood, blood, nothing but blood. Must re-organize,
and take a new name—a new departure.
Separate yourselves from the men of blood—from
the wretches who gave you the name you
bear. Change your name—change your name.
