Our host was serene and affable in the morning, and I had no need to apologize; but, gentlemen, imagine what an escape I had, and have mercy on my client." Uncle Abe made a side splitting speech all through, and Douglas followed with a "constitutional" argument. The Jury returned a verdict of "guilty of scaring the girls," and the Judge sentenced the culprit to be whipped in the back yard, by the girls he had scared. Dr. Wallace, the acting Sheriff, (no, a paymaster in the army,) went out and bought a cow hide, and the fellow was soon tied up to a post, and the girls made per force to give him thirty-nine well laid on. The whole affair was a rich evening's divertisement, and cost nothing more than a few lost vest buttons and strained button holes. It is needless to say that the fellow became a _non est_ man from that day thenceforth. "Thank God for the Sassengers." Most of the readers of this have perhaps read a good story of Oliver Ditson, the celebrated Boston Music publisher. After he had been in business several years, his New Hampshire friends invited him to open his Thanksgiving in his native town, he accepted the invitation and started with some of his friends. On the way Ditson was the great man of the occasion, and was therefore placed at the head of the table, when it devolved upon him to ask the blessing. Now Oliver practiced more religion than he knew the exact forms for, and he was in a sad dilemma; but he essayed boldly the task. He thanked God for all the 'creature comforts' there were upon the table--for all there ever had been--for all that was expected. But how to quit? He went on, thanking and trying to think at the same time how 'blessings' ended, but to no purpose. Knives rattled, plates moved, and Oliver saw the hungry people were getting impatient, and he came to the end in a real business like style, with--"Yours, respectfully, OLIVER DITSON." Almost as good an anecdote is told by Uncle Abe of one of his old friends, a Mr. Sawyer, who merchandized either in Macon or Champaign County. Sawyer, was a Yankee, and distinguished for little besides an immoderate liking for "sassingers," as he called that "linked sweetness" which polite people call sausages. When Uncle Abe was stumping the Sangamon District for Congress, it befell that he and Sawyer met at the same country hotel, which was kept by a hardshell Baptist, whose foible was long prayers and blessings at table. They--Lincoln and Sawyer--happened to be going to the same town by the same coaches. So they were up betimes and ready, but breakfast was delayed. They at last got to the table, and the Deacon was just closing his eyes preliminary to the blessing, when the stage horn blew. "Bless me, Deacon, there's the stage ready," cried the Sawyer; "thank God for the sassengers, and let us fall too." I hardly need say the Deacon's blessing--and perhaps his breakfast were spoiled. But Sawyer had his "sassengers." Was'nt Murder After All.