interpollate, "profane not the high calling of the Italian hero with frivolous conundrums."

"Jerk that monster out of my sight!" roared GAMBETTA to a sergent de ville, and pointing his long, skinny fore-finger full at me.

I turned mournfully upon the crowd, and asked in a plaintive tone:—

"You hear what he says. Do lunatic asylums exist in vain? Men of Tours, is there a 'jerkist' among you?"

They must have observed that my feelings were moved, for they came between me and the officer, as if to protect the latter. 'Twas a kind movement, but useless; as I couldn't have hurt him.

"Monsieur GAMBETTA," I then went on to say, "don't you think that this horrible epidemic of gas, that is now filling with its deleterious effluvia the brains and the throat of the French Government, ought to be stopped? Don't you think, Monsieur GAMBETTA, that you, yourself, could cut off your supply-pipe for a while and still have enough to light up with on public occasions?"

I rested my right fore-finger upon one side of my nose and struck an attitude of interrogation while putting these questions. The Minister's face turned to an ashen hue, and then the blood came coursing back like lava to the Crater's surface, without breaking through.

"Fiends seize the man, is a minister of France to be insulted in his own capital?"

"Friend, calm yourself," I said: "Don't let the crabs run through your brain like that. Cool off. Take those hot coppers out of your pantaloons and fan yourself a little. That's what's the matter with France, to-day. You Frenchmen fizzle, and crack, and shoot up into the air, and otherwise get away with yourselves so fast, that no wonder the Germans can't always find you when they go for you. Take my advice. Stop running red-hot pokers down your backs. Drink more Vichy water and less brandy. Keep your sky-rockets till next year. Lock your 'language' up in the dictionary. Send VICTOR HUGO back to England. Tie a church steeple round GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN'S neck, and sink him off Toulon. Burn all your proclamations. Throw rhetoric to the dogs. Put a head on the government that ain't full of torpedoes. Present a solid front to the enemy. Simmer down generally, and talk reason to BISMARCK, and, on the honor of PUNCHINELLO, I can solemnly assure you that things won't be so 'speckled' as they now are."

Saying which, I gathered the drapery of my duster gracefully about me, and left.

DICK TINTO.

THE SHE THAT IS TO BE.

By a Prominent Member of Sorosis.

1.

2.

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO XI.

The Poet having now advanced so far in his work as to make a very respectable collection of poems, and beginning to run short of matter, casts his eyes around him in search of aid, hoping to find inspiration in some fortuitous moment from the many little incidents that are always occurring, and which only observing minds would notice. For the time he sees nothing that would suggest even to the most sparkling intellect the shadow of a rhyme, and he begins to be in despair. He walks up and down his dingy room, thrusts his long fingers amid the raven locks that adorn his poetical cranium, and gently at first, then furiously, irritates the cuticle of his imaginative head-piece, hoping thereby to waken up his ideas and find a foundation upon which to erect another stone in the edifice of his never-fading glory.

This process does not seem to be as successful as usual: the ideas refuse to come at his bidding, and he glares around in consternation, Can it be possible that he has exhausted himself; that his ideas are entirely run out; that the fountain is dry, and the Muse has ceased to smile upon him; that he must descend from his high elevation as the poet of the family, the hope and pride of his friends and the admiration of himself, and sink to the level of his earthy brothers and become one of them, no better and no worse? No—perish the thought! never again will he mingle with those rude and vulgar natures, having no thoughts or feelings above their creature comforts: content to live like animals, uninspired by the divine afflatus, untouched by the poetic fire. Full of determined energy never to yield the high position he has acquired, he rushes forth into the open air and takes his winding way through the green meadows and leafy wilds. Here, sitting on the stump of an old tree, he spies little Bob Peepers, weeping as if his heart would break: the briny tears coursing down his ruddy cheeks form little rivulets of salt water with high embankments of genuine soil on either side, and a distracted map of a war-ridden country is depicted upon his grief-stricken countenance. Full of compassion for the suffering, the tender heart of the Poet melts at the sight, and in mellifluous tones he asks, "What is the matter, BUB?"

Sobbingly digging his fists into his eyes, and carefully wiping his classic nose on the sleeve of his jacket, the heart-broken mourner murmurs:—

and bursts forth into a prolonged howl. That heart-rending cry of agony is too much for the gentle Poet, who, sinking upon the ground beside the weeper, ventures to whisper a hope that Time, or some of the neighbors, may bring back the lost sheep and restore happiness and tranquillity to the agitated bosom. The suggestion is met with incredulous scorn and another burst of uncontrollable sorrow, amid the pauses of which Bob recounts to his sympathetic friend how, "being wearied with watching the gambolling sheep, he laid himself down in the meadow to sleep, and never awoke till a blue-bottle fly, who buzzing about so tickled his eye that sleep fled away. Then he rose to his feet, and looked around for the gambolling sheep, but found, they were gone he couldn't tell where: so he threw himself down in the deepest despair, bemoaning his strange unaccountable loss, and the horrible beating he'd get from the Boss, when at night he went home with his sad tale of woe. He was sure he would never have courage to go."

The sad tale so pathetically and ingenuously told melted the already simmering heart of the hearer, who counselled tranquillity and philosophy in the words

and jocularly added, as he saw a ray of hope lighting up the eye of the boy, like the first rays of the sun seen through a fog,

The brilliant idea of their tails coming behind them instead of before them tickled the risibilities of the sympathizing friends, and for a few moments the woods echoed to their responsive mirth.

The laugh did them good. The poet perceived instantly he had a theme upon which to build his verse, and hastily bidding BOB "good-by," he flew exultingly to his paternal abode, rushed up the garret stairs, seized his goose-quill, and amid the tumultuous beatings of his over-charged heart and throbbing brain jotted down on the instant, in all the enthusiasm of poetic fervor, the incident that had fallen under his inspired observation. Not to be too personal, and still to preserve the truthfulness of the history, he dropped a few letters from BOB PEEPER'S name, while, with a wonderful accuracy unknown to modern writers, he keeps to the subject of his verse, its misery, the remedy and result, and facetiously gives to the world the same cause for laughter and inspiration that he received so gratefully.

THE POLITEST NATION IN THE WORLD.

We had always considered JOHNNY CRAPAUD as the pink of politeness. But we are now satisfied that JOHNNY BULL goes ever so far ahead of him. We have never known that Frenchman yet, who would oblige his enemies by killing himself. But the recent loss of the Captain shows that the noble Englishmen are prepared to do this by wholesale. One could wish our enemies no worse luck than to have a few such Captains given them. And how lavish the expenditure! It takes no end of money to get up one of those big iron-plated coffins. It is certainly a dramatic, auto-da-fé and a most obliging act, considered with reference to one's possible enemies. No Frenchman ever thought of such a thing. In fact, they go no further than positively declining to do anything bad with their navy.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

"THERE WAS A SURPRISE PARTY AT No. 9,999 TWENTY-THIRD STREET LAST EVENING. UPON RETURNING FROM THE OPERA, THE PROPRIETORS FOUND THEIR MANSION FULL, OF GUESTS."

A DRY SETTLEMENT.

There is a little young village in Denver which rejoices in the name of Greeley. To this place came a benevolent bar-keeper, bringing a cheerful stock of whiskey. Down upon his grocery came the enraged Greeleyites, and to prevent their own stomachs from being burned, they burned the building. We can imagine these very particular pioneers passing a great variety of the most astonishing laws, with various penalties. For chewing tobacco—one month's imprisonment; for subscribing to The N.Y. Evening Post—death; while for the hideous misdemeanor of eating white bread, the offender would be left to the pangs of his own indigestion.

Fact. Fancy, and Fun-ding.

THE FUNDING BILL, as a step towards making the Erie Canal free, should commend itself to any one, since if it becomes a fact, it will, we fancy, prevent this noble industrial enterprise from becoming, like its first cousin, simply an eyrie for the vultures of finance.

THE LATEST STYLE.

AS MEN'S CLOTHES ARE CUT HOUR-GLASS FASHION NOW, PUNCHINELLO SUGGESTS THE ABOVE PATTERN AS AN APPROPRIATE ONE FOR THEM.

THE ALARM-BELLE AT RYE.