PETER CRAM: OR THE ROW AT TINNECUM: A SKETCH OF LONG-ISLAND. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE KUSHOW PROPERTY.' THE village of Tinnecum, situated on Swan-Creek, Long-Island, has hitherto escaped the observation of travellers; happy, however, in this respect, if she has likewise escaped their ill-natured remarks and maledictions. There is, it is true, little here to attract the eye. A church, a school-house, a shop, a tavern, and a blacksmith's forge, supply the spiritual and temporal wants of those who make up the small society. By some extraordinary oversight, the Postmaster-General has neglected to establish a post-office in this place, so that the inhabitants, who are wonderfully fond of news, can get little except what they manufacture on the spot. Nevertheless I must not forget to mention that a newspaper has just been established, which manages to get wind of the great revolutions which take place in the world, long after they have ceased to be matters of surprise or wonder. It is a pity that Tinnecum lies off the mail routes. It makes it a very dull place. The rumbling of coach-wheels, and the clear bugle of the post-man, as he brings up gallantly after creeping for miles at a snail's pace, is never heard. There is no gathering together in groups at the post-office, to catch the rumors of the day, but all things exhibit a stagnation and repose, imaged forth by the languid waters of Swan Creek, which rest upon the profound mud. When the November elections come round, there is indeed more excitement; and recently, when the political party who have always had the upper hand in this neighborhood, gained a renowned victory, and succeeded in sending the blacksmith to the legislature, in opposition to the store-keeper, who was 'too much of a gentleman,' they thought that this was rather too large an exploit to rest in silence; and in order that no one might be ignorant of what they had done, from the north to the south, and from the sea-coast to the Rocky Mountains, they got an immense show-bill struck off, and liberally dispensed, which was headed in flaming capitals to this effect: TINNECUM ERECT!' But the waters of Swan Creek were to be agitated yet more violently than they had ever been 'within the memory of the oldest inhabitant.' There was to be, it seems, a puddle in a storm. To speak more plainly, the event which had lately taken place in Tinnecum was of that exciting character, and is the subject of such vehement remark, that it really seems worthy of being recorded in her annals; and the attention of the reader is requested for a few moments to the narrative of one who would not willingly 'extenuate, or set down aught in malice.' One evening in the middle of November, Mr. Jonas Weatherby, school-master, who taught all the arts and sciences which it was necessary for the inhabitants of Tinnecum to know, came home very much wearied after the labors of the day, and sat himself down before a good fire to read the 'Tinnecum Gazette.' He had been for some time so engaged, and was beginning to doze comfortably over the learned disquisitions of the editor, when he was observed suddenly to wake up and look bright; his eye-balls expanded and became large; he held the paper first near, and then afar off, as if he had got the wrong focus, and did not read aright; then shaking himself in his chair, he began to sniffle in a way indicative of contempt and indignation. The cause of all this feeling was a simple announcement in the Gazette, in the following terms: 'INSTRUCTION IN THE ART OF SINGING. 'MR. PETER CRAM, of the State of New-Hampshire, respectfully informs the inhabitants of Tinnecum, that he intends to open a singingschool in this village, provided sufficient encouragement is given. The course of instruction will be twenty-four lessons, in RHYTHM, MELODY and DYNAMICS. He proposes to meet those who are desirous of instruction in music, at the Big-room of the Tavern, on Tuesday evening, when the first lecture will be delivered GRATIS, at which the public generally are invited to attend.' 'Here is a pretty illustration of bringing coals to Newcastle!' thought Mr. Weatherby, as he reflected on this impudent invasion of his musical province. Here comes a New-Hampshire Yankee, green from the mountains, who cannot pronounce three words |