Eureka Daily Sentinel

[Communicated.]
EXCERPTA.
Vineland has a Celebration,
Some years ago we were in the habit of meeting a one-eyed man, who was a "euchre sharp." He was a rough old sea captain, named Landis, and was the father of Landis, of Vineland, who some months ago shot and killed an editor. Young Landis founded the Temperance, Free-Love and Yankee Elysium of Vineland, about thirty miles from Philadelphia, redeeming from alluvium a splendid blackberry and grape patch. Young Landis married a daughter of Commodore Meade. The Commodore was non compos, and chased young Landis around for some time with a navy persuader, but Landis evaded him. Vineland is a suburb an village, where people tired of dissipation go to recruit their faculties-no liquor is sold there-brush up the sentimental bumps, and deal in euphuisms; in fact, a made magdalen asylum, with Landis for its padre.
Newport comes in for its share of journalistic puffs. Newport is a summer city on a crescent-shaped bay, where aristocracy builds its cottages; where revenue cutters and other Government vessels anchor, and send their gold-laced snobs and feeders at the public crib to the hotel hops; where foreign coachmen and valets assume their masters' titles, and monopolize heiresses; and where snobs, with comfortable houses at home, pay enormous prices for accommodations below those of a mining camp. Newport has its displayed columns in its praise. John Morrissey has his line. We remember a fellow with a slouched hat and a broken nose, and a pair of black eyes, some twenty-five years ago-that was him.
Superintendent Wickersham, of Pennsylvania, says: "I am not sure but that if half the money expended in the schools of our cities were expended in the erection of shops to teach boys and girls trades, it would be better."
Mem: We had a "gurl." Her name was Beck Plum. At the door of the church we waited for that "gurl." Some fellow stepped in front of us and offered her his arm. Beck didn't see it, and as she walked off hooked to our sinister wing, we said: "Who was that fellow?"
"Why, don't you know?" said Rebecca. "That was Mr. Wickersham; he had a select school of half a dozen young Arabs and was then a rising man."
Ben. DeBar is dead. He died as Falstaff, but he killed Falstaff first. Warren was the Falstaff in this country, and after him Hackett-Rip Van Winkle-Mons. Mallet. Monsieur Tonson Hackett, Ben. DeBar was too vulgar for Falstaff. We knew Ben. well, and his wife too-his last wife. She was a ballet dancer, Miss Vallee, and whose father was a locksmith-not a gunsmith as the press says-and has a shop on Pine street above Eleventh, Philadelphia, or had four years ago.
In connection with numerous obituaries of Davenport we find the name of Joe Jefferson. A good many years ago Charley Burke produced at the old Chestnut street Theater a light haired, slim shanked, awkward boy, his half-brother. His name was Joe Jefferson, and as the grandson of the celebrated old Joe, he was received kindly, though his first efforts were of a very awkward kind, and his attenuated figure most unprepossessing. He grew, however, and he is now the Rip Van Winkle of the stage.
In Pennsylvania politics a gentleman named Passmore has been nominated for Auditor General over H. J. Rudy. The nomination recalls this reminiscence: Rudy is the son of And. J. Rudy, of Eastern Pennsylvania, once a Governor of one of the Provinces. In 1861 young Rudy was a student at Princeton, and so was a young man who is now an Episcopal clergyman, named Fullerton, a Philadelphian and son of A. J. Fullerton, Esq. Fullerton got off some red hot rebel sentiments, and Rudy with several others put him under the pump in the campus, and got expelled for their tricks. Rudy joined the army and Fullerton took orders and is now a fat, lisping, and English mimicking liturgist, and Rudy a politician.
Running over a Philadelphia Press has evoked these memories, and I give them to you as souvenirs of the past. They may not interest your readers, but they interest me amazingly.
F.