of her appearance that I threw a veil over her charms. Here comes the lady; her elegance and accomplishments will announce themselves.

Enter LETITIA, running.

LET. La, cousin, do you know that our John O dear heart! I didn't see you, sir. (Hanging down her head and dropping behind MRS. RACKETT.)

MRS. R. Fie, Letitia - Mr. Doricourt thinks you a woman of elegant manners. Stand forward and confirm his opinion.

LET. No, no; keep before me. He's my sweetheart, and 'tis impudent to look one's sweetheart in the face, you know.

MRS. R. You'll allow in future for a lady's painting, sir-ha, ha, ha!

DORIC. I am astonished.

LET. Well, hang it, I'll take heart. Why, he is but a man, you know, cousin -and I'll let him see I wasn't born in a wood to be scared by an owl. (Half advances and looks at him through her fingers.) He, he, he! You have been a great traveller, sir, I hear. I wish you'd tell us about the fine sights you saw when you went over sea. I have read in a book that there are some other countries, where the men and women are all horses. Did you see any of them?

MRS. R. Mr. Doricourt is not prepared, my dear, for these inquiries he is reflecting on the importance of the question, and will answer you-when he can.

LET. When he can! Why he's as slow in speech as Aunt Margery when she's reading Thomas Aquinas-and stands gaping like mumchance.

MRS. R. Have a little discretion.

LET. Hold your tongue! Sure I may say what I please before I am married, if I can't afterwards. D'ye think a body does not know how to talk to a sweetheart? He is not the first I have had. DORIC. Indeed!

LET. O, lud, he speaks! Why, if you must know, there was the curate at home. When papa was a hunting, he used to come a suitoring and make speeches to me out of books. Nobody knows what a mort of fine things he used to say to me -and call me Venis, and Jubah, and Dinah. DORIC. And pray, fair lady, how did you answer him?

LET. Why, I used to say, "Look you, Mr. Curate, don't think to come over me with your flim-flams, for a better man

than ever trod in your shoes is coming over sea to marry me. begin to think I was out. Parson Dobbins was the sprightfuller man of the two. DORIC. Surely this cannot be Miss Hardy?

LET. Laws, why don't you know me? You saw me to-day-but I was daunted before my father, and the lawyer, and all them, and did not care to speak out-so maybe you thought I couldn't. But I can talk as fast as anybody when I knows folks a little. (Introduced song.) And now I have shown my parts, I hope you'll like me better.

Enter HARDY.

Mr.

HAR. I foresee this won't do. Doricourt, maybe you take my daughter for a fool, but you are mistaken; she's as sensible a girl as any in England.

DORIC. I am convinced she has a very uncommon understanding, sir. (Aside.) I did not think he had been such an ass!

LET. (aside). My father will undo the whole. Laws, papa, how can you think he can take me for a fool, when everybody knows I beat the 'pothecary at conundrums last Christmas-time? And didn't I make a string of names, all in riddles, for the Lady's Diary? There was a little river and a great house: that was Newcastle. There was what a lamb says and three letters: that was ba, and k-e-r, ker, baker. There was

HAR. Don't stand ba-a-ing there— you'll make me mad in a moment. I tell you, sir, that for all that, she's devilish sensible.

DORIC. Sir, I give all possible credit to your assertions.

LET. Laws, papa, do come along. If you stand watching, how can my sweetheart break his mind and tell me how he admires me?

DORIC. That would be difficult, indeed, madame.

HAR. I tell you, Letty, I'll have no more of this. I see well enough

LET. Laws, don't snub me before my husband-that is to be. You'll teach him to snub me too--and I believe by his looks he'd like to begin now. So let us go. Cousin, you may tell the gentleman what a genus I have (HARDY pulls her again)-how I can cut watch papers and work catgut-(pulls her)-make quadrille baskets with pins and take profiles in

DORIC. O, mere water-colors, madame. The lady has caricatured your picture. MRS. R. And how does she strike you on the whole ?

DORIC. Like a good design spoiled by the incapacity of the artist. Her faults are evidently the result of her father's weak indulgence. I observed an expression in her eye that seemed to satirize the folly of her lips.

MRS. R. But at her age, when education is fixed and manner becomes nature, hopes of improvement

DORIC. Would be absurd. Besides, I can't turn schoolmaster. Doricourt's wife must be incapable of improvement-but it must be because she's got beyond it.

MRS. R. I am pleased your misfortune sits no heavier.

DORIC. Your pardon, madame. So mercurial was the hour in which I was born, that misfortunes always go plump to the bottom of my heart, like a pebble in water, and leave the surface unruffled. I shall certainly set off for Bath, or the other world, to-night-but whether I shall use a chaise with four swift coursers, or go off in a tangent, from the aperture of a pistol, deserves consideration-so I make my adieus.

MRS. R. O, but I entreat you, postpone your journey till to-morrow. Determine on which you will, you must be this night at the masquerade.

DORIC. Masquerade!

MRS. R. Why not? If you resolve to visit the other world, you may as well take one night's pleasure first in this, you know. DORIC. Faith, that's very true; ladies are the best philosophers after all. Expect me at the masquerade.

(Excit.)

MRS. R. He's a charming fellow-I think Letitia shan't have him. (Going.) Enter HARDY.

HAR. What, is he gone? MRS. R. Yes; and I am glad he is. You would have ruined us! Now I beg, Mr. Hardy, you won't interfere in this business; it is a little out of your way.

(Exit.)

HAR. Hang me if I don't, though-I foresee very clearly what will be the end of it, if I leave you to yourselves; so I'll e'en follow him to the masquerade and tell him all about it. Let me see-what shall my dress be? A great mogul? No. A grenadier? No-no-that, I foresee, would make a laugh. Hang me if I don't send to my favorite little Quick and borrow his Jew Isaac's dress-I know the dog likes a glass of good wine; so I'll give him a bottle of my forty-eight, and he shall teach me. Aye, that's it-I'll be cunning little Isaac. If they complain of my want of wit, I'll tell them the cursed Duenna wears the breeches and has spoiled my parts.

ON MULES.

The mule is haf hoss and haf jackass, and then kums tu a full stop, natur diskovering her mistake. Tha weigh more accordin tu their heft than enny other creeter, except a crowbar. Tha kant heer enny quicker nor further than the hoss, yet their ears are big enuff fur snowshoes. You kan trust them with enny one whose life aint worth more than the mule's. The only way tu keep them into a paster is tu turn them into a medder jineing and let them jump out. Tha are reddy for use jest as soon as tha will do to abuse. Tha aint got enny friends, and will live on huckleberry bush, with an akasional chance at Kanada thissels. Tha are a modern invention. Tha sell fur more money than enny other domestic animal. You can't tell their age by looking into their mouth enny more than you could a Mexican cannon. Tha never have no disease that a good club won't heal. If tha ever die tha must come right to life agin, fur I never herd nobody say "ded mule. Tha are like some men, very korrupt at heart. I've known them to be good mules for six months, just to get a good chance to kick somebody. I never owned one, nor never mean to, unless there is a United States law passed requiring it. The reason why tha are pashunt is bekause they are ashamed of themselves. I have seen educated mules in a sircuss. Tha couid kick and bite tremenjis. Enny man who is willing to drive a mule ought to be exempt by law from running for the legis

latur. Tha are the strongest creeters on arth, and heaviest according tu their size. I herd of one who fell oph from the towpath of the Eri canawl, and sunk as soon as he touched bottom, but he kept on towing the boat tu the next stashun, breathing through his ears, which was out of the water about two feet six inches. I didn't see this did, but Bill Harding told me of it, and I never knew Bill Harding to lie unless he could make something out of it.

ON DOGS.

JOSH BILLINGS.

Dogs are various in kind, and tha are various in number. Tha are the onla animal ov the brute perswashun who have voluntarily left a wild state ov natur, and cum in under the flag ov man. Tha are not vagabones bi choise, and luv tew belong tew somebody. This fact endeers them tew us, and I have alwas rated the dog az about the seventh cusin tew the humain specious. Tha kant talk, but tha can lik yure hand; this shows that their harts iz in the plase where other foaks lungs iz! Dogs in the lump are useful, but tha are not alwas proffittable in the lump. The Nufoundlin dog is useful tew saiv children from drowning, but you hav got tew have a pond of water, and children running around kareless, or else the dog aint proffittable. Thar aint nothing made boarding a Nufoundlin dog. Rat Tarriers are useful tew ketch rats, but the rats aint proffittable after yu hav ketched them. The Shepard dog is useful tew drive sheep but if yu hav tew go and by a flok ov sheep, and pa more than tha are wuth, jist tew keep the dog bissy, the dog aint proffittable, not much. Lap dogs are very useful, but if yu don't hold them in yure lap all the time tha aint proffittable at all. Bull dogs are extremely useful, but yu have tew keep a bull tew, or else yu kant make ennything on the dog. The Coach dog iz one ov the most usefullest ov dogs i kno ov, but yu have got tew hav a coach (and that aint always pleasant) or yu kant realise from the dog. Thus we see that while dogs are generally useful thare are times when tha aint generally proffittable. I don't really luv a yaller dog, nor a Bull dog; but with these tew unfortunate excepshens it is dredful hard work for me tew say a word agin enny

:

dog. The wag ov their tails is what takes me. Enny man who will abuse a dog will abuse a woman, and any man who will abuse a woman iz thirty-five or forty times meaner than a pale yaller dog. These are my centiments, and i shant change them until I receave nuse that the camil has smoothed down the humps of his back, and the sarpent ceased tew wiggle as he wanders.

JOSH BILLINGS.

WIT OF CHARLES LAMB. Coleridge, in 1799, went to Germany, and left word to Lamb that if he wished any information on any subject, he might apply to him (i. e., by letter), so Lamb sent him the following abstruse propositions, to which, however, Coleridge did not "deign an answer.

Whether God loves a dying angel better than a true man?

Whether the archangel Uriel could knowingly affirm an untruth, and whether, if he could, he would?

Whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever sneeze?

Whether an immortal and amenable soul may not come to be damned at last, and the man never suspect it beforehand?

MOVING.-What a dislocation of comfort is implied in that word moving! Such a heap of little, nasty things, after you think all is got into the cart; old dredging boxes, worn-out trunks, gallipots, vials, things that it is impossible the most necessitous person can ever want, but which women, who preside on these occasions, will not leave behind, if it was to save your soul; they'd keep the cart ten minutes to stow in dirty pipes and broken matches, to show their economy. They can find nothing you want for many days after you get into your new lodgings. You must comb your hair with your fingers, wash your hands without soap, go about in dirty gaiters.

BOILED MUTTON.-A farmer, Charles Lamb's chance companion in a coach, kept boring him to death with questions as to the state of the crops. At length he put a poser: "And pray, sir, how go turnips?" Why, that, sir," stammered out Lamb, "will depend upon the boiled legs of mutton.'

66

In idle rhymes we waste our days,
With yawning fits for all our praise,
While Bacchus, god of mirth and wine,
Invites us to a life divine.
Apollo, prince of bards and prigs,
May scrape his fiddle to the pigs;
And for the Muses, old maids all,

Why let them twang their lyres, and squall
Their hymns and odes on classic themes,
Neglected by their sacred streams.
As for the true poetic fire,
What is it but a mad desire?
While Pegasus himself, at best,
Only a horse must be confess'd;
And he must be an ass indeed,

Who would bestride the winged steed.

Bacchus, thou who watchest o'er
All feasts of ours, whom I adore
With each new draught of rosy wine

That makes my red face like to thine-
By thy ivied coronet,

By this glass with rubies set,

By thy thyrsus-fear of earth

By thine everlasting mirth,

By the honor of the feast,

By thy triumphs, greatest, least,

By thy blows, not struck, but drunk,

With king and bishop, priest and monk,
By the jesting, keen and sharp,

By the violin and harp,

By the bells, which are but flasks,
By our sighs which are but masks
Of mirth and sacred mystery,
By thy panthers fierce to see,
By this place so fair and sweet,
By the he-goat at thy feet,
By Ariadne, buxom lass,
By Silenus on his ass,

By this sausage, by this stoup,
By this rich and thirsty soup,
By this pipe from which I wave
All the incense thou dost crave,
By this ham, well spiced, long hung,
By this salt and wood-smoked tongue,
Receive us in the happy band
Of those who worship glass in hand.
And, to prove thyself divine,
Leave us never without wine.

sible to his friend Furet. It simply invites him to leave Fontainebleau and return to Paris. Here is some of it. Mark how he changes his mood from grave to gay:

But why from Paris art thou torn?
Was it a sudden yearning, born
Of the sweet spring; once more to see
The rocks, the trees, the forest free,
The lake reflecting on its breast
The foliage deep, the earth at rest,
And while the sky is warm and still
To mark how over tree and hill,
As if they dread the thunder near,
Vibrate the trembling waves of air;
To mark how in their wayward guise
Hover and flit the butterflies,
As bright as if they were indeed
The very flowers on which they feed?

Or else, alone and pensive, while
You ponder 'neath the greenwood aisle
On some far back mysterious theme
Fit subject for a poet's dream,
To find some dark and sombre glen
Fitting your sadden'd soul, and then
Deep in the darkest shade to write
Verse worthy of the brightest light.

Is it for fancies grave or gay,

My friend, you leave us? Prithee, say.
Furet, they cry, is absent yet
From tavern and from cabaret;
He rhymes no more of cups and wine—
Unworthy follower of the vine.
And Bacchus, king of me and thee,
By well-known law, hath made decree
Thou shalt not drink, save that alone
Which flows along the Seine and Rhone.
Thou friend of water!-couldst thou go,
For Paris taking Fontainebleau?
Paris-where Bacchus holds all hearts;
Paris, where Coiffier* bakes his tarts;
Paris where Cormier† hangs his sign,
An apple-tree that points to wine;
Paris, which offers to our eyes
Another apple; greater prize
Than that of gold, which by belief
Brought gods and goddesses to grief;
An apple from the tall fir-tree-
Thou know'st that it has shelter'd thee.
Paris, that cemetery vast,
Where all our griefs are buried fast;
Paris, that little world, in short,
Of sweet delight and pleasant sport;
Paris, whose joys bring more content
Than heart can wish or brain invent.

A well-known restaurateur and confectioner. + A cabaret kept by Cormier, which means an "apple tree." The sign of the “Fir Apple.”

Ha! see. My words begin to press,
You speak not, but your eyes confess:
You cannot leave our Paris till
Yourself you leave, against your will.

Leave care to other, duller heads;
Leave lakes to fish, to cows the meads;
Let wild beasts watch for April showers;
Let snails eat up the sweet wild flowers;
And--bless me-now I mark your face,-
Once brimming o'er with mirthful grace-
I never saw a change so great:
Come back, come back, 'tis not too late.
For sure the air that suits you best

Where corks fly out and glasses clink; Where singers sing, and jesters jest,

Where waiters wait and drinkers drink; Will please you more, I know, I know, Than all the woods of Fontainebleau.

THE GOTHIC STEED.

[R. H. NEWELL, deceased, one of the editors of the New York Sunday Mercury. His satires on the mismanagement and maladministration of the Northern army were published in that journal, under the title of the Orpheus C. Kerr Papers.]

Washington, D. C., Oct. 6th, 1861. The horse was the swarthy Arab's bosom friend, the red Indian's solitary companion, and the circus proprietor's salvation. One of these noble animals was presented to me last week by an oldmaid relative, whose age I once guessed to be "about nineteen." The glorious gift was accompanied by a touching letter. She honored my patriotism and the selfsacrificing spirit that had led me to join the gallant Mackerel Brigade, and get a furlough as soon as a rebel picket appeared. She loved me for my mother's sake; and, as she happened to have ten shillings about her, she thought she would buy a horse with it for me. Mine affectionately, Tabitha Turnips.

Ah! woman, glorious woman! what should we do without thee? All our patriotism is but the inspiration of thy proud love, and all our money is but the few shillings left after thou hast got through buying new bonnets. Oh, woman! thoughtful woman! the soldier thanks thee for sending him the pies and cakes that turn sour before they leave New York: but don't send any more Havelocks, or there'll be a crisis in the linen market. It's a common thing for a sentry to report, "Eighty thousand

more Havelocks from the women of America."

But to return to the horse which woman's generosity has made me ownme be-yuteous steed. The beast is fourteen hands high, fourteen hands long, and his sagacious head was shaped like an oldfashioned pick-axe. Viewed from his rear, his style of architecture is Gothic, and he has a gable-end, to which his tail is attached. His eyes are two pearls set in mahogany, and before he lost his sight they were said to be brilliant. I rode down to the Patent Office the other day, and left him leaning against a post while I went inside to transact some business. Pretty soon the Commissioner of Patents came tearing in like mad, and says he :

"I'd like to know whether this is a public building, belonging to the United States, or a second-hand auction shop?" "What mean you, sirrah?" I asked majestically.

"I mean, says he, "that some enemy to his country has gone and stood an old mahogany umbrella-stand right in front of the office."

To the disgrace of his species, be it said, he referred to the spirited and fiery animal for which I am indebted to woman's generosity. I admit that when seen at a distance the steed somewhat resembles an umbrella-stand; but a single look into his pearly eyes is enough to prove his relations with the animal kingdom.

I have named him Pegasus, in honor of Tupper, and, when I mount him, Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, says that I remind him of Santa Claus sitting astride the roof of a small Gothic cottage, holding on by the chimney. Villiam is becoming rather too familiar, and I hope he'll be shot at an early day.

At an early hour yesterday morning, while yet the dew was on the grass, and on everything else green enough to be out at that matinal hour, I saddled my Gothic steed Pegasus and took a trot for the benefit of my health. Having eaten a whole straw bed and a piece of an Irishman's shoulder, during the night, my architectural beast was in great spirits, and, as he snuffed the fresh air and unfurled the remnants of his warlike tail to the breeze of heaven, I was reminded of that celebrated Arabian steed which had