withdraw his business, and adopt some other member of his family-Blanche Crowder for instance, whose husband, the doctor, has had high words with poor Fitzroy already, of course at the women's instigation. And all these accumulated miseries fall upon the unfortunate wretch because he was good-natured, and his wife would have a Little Dinner. TESTY NEIGHBORS. There lived at one time, in the fashionable quarter of Dublin, an eminent lawyer, who afterwards came to occupy a position on the judicial bench. He was a man of high professional attainments, but of testy and irritable temper. His next-door neighbor was a retired major, noted for the eccentricity of his habits. Between the two there was anything but a friendly feeling, and they did all in their power to annoy and harass each other. One night, memorable in Ireland as "the night of the great storm," the major's chimneys were blown down Crash they went through the roof of the lawyer's house, and thence down through floor after floor, carrying havoc in their course. The man of law was in no good humor as he contemplated the destruction; and what made matters worse was that it was the major's chimney that had occasioned the wreck. His mind was actively engaged in devising some process by which he could get satisfaction from his arch enemy, when a missive arrived from the latter, couched as follows: "Send me back my bricks immediately, or I'll put the matter into the hands of an attorney." among vinegar cruets, and face as placid The traveller loomed up like a ten-pin moving away from the crowd of jarvies, as a pan of milk, was calmly and silently who looked after him with something like amazement, when a sudden thought seemed to strike one, who, running after him, seized hold of one of the handles of his travelling bag-"Deaf and dumb asylum, sir? Going right up?" This laugh, and the driver got a fare for a was too much. Dignity relaxed into a down-town hotel. He was taken sick in the night, and in her youthful ignorance she made two mustard plasters, and put one in front and one behind, and then with horrid sarcasm she asked him how he felt. But he was a well-bred man, and merely said that he realized with a tenderness he had never known before, the true position of a sandwich in the community.-Norwich Bulletin. EXPLANATORY.-Jones assumes, on coming home to dinner, the bearing of an enraged husband. 66 Why is it, Mrs. Jones, that you ride through Wall street in the very equipage I am struggling to maintain for you at high charge, and cut your husband?" AN ENTERPRISING HACKMAN. A tall, portly, dignified citizen, well known in Philadelphia, arrived in New York, the other day, and having no baggage but a light travelling satchel, was utterly oblivious to the appeals of the hackmen as he emerged from the railway" You certainly would not have your station. "Fee-thavanoo Hotel? Fifth avenoo --go-in' ritup! Fifth avenoo?" Mrs. Jones at once reassures him, wife, from a five-thousand dollar barouche, bow to a man who is at work for his living!" THE BON GAULTIER BALLADS. "My uncle, the Alcayde, he waits for me at home, And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. [These celebrated contributions to literature were I cannot bring him water-the pitcher is in chiefly the joint production of the late Professor W. E. Aytoun, and Theodore Martin. We reprint only about pieces half of them, the other half being only of ephemeral And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops ali interest "hits of the times"-which have long since lost their interest. Sir Theodore Martin in his biography of Aytoun, says, "Some of the best of those ballads were exclusively his nieces." "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me! Aytoun's, such as "The Massacre of the Macpherson, So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me 'The Broken Pitcher,' and that best of all imitations of the Scottish Ballad The Queen in France.'" "The Dirge of the Drinker" is a clever imitation of kisses three; And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, Aytoun's “Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," by Theodore To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Martin.] THE BROKEN PITCHER. IT was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell, When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo. "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide, And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?" Alcayde." She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water, "Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!" A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo ; "I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight She waits the coming of her love, the Count so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way; And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot How he met the Moorish maiden beside the tell, Through the stabled portal spring! Midway in his wild grimacing Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown; And the thunders of the audience Nearly brought the gallery down. Saw ye ever such a maid, Through the scarlet grooms and all. And she beckoned for her courser, Such a gentle freight to bear: Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk. Round she flew, as Flora flying Spans the circle of the year; Swifter than the Tartar's arrow, Here she soars, and there she kneels, While amid her floating tresses, Flash two whirling Catherine wheels! Hark! the blare of yonder trumpet! Rose the cat's triumphant call, Donna Inez Woolfordinez! Why those blushes on thy cheek? Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, He hath come thy love to seek? Fleet thy Arab-but behind thee Onward, onward, panting maiden! From his glistening saddle-bow. 'Quipped as Shaw, the Life-guardsman.* Right and left his whizzing broadsword, Like a sturdy flail, he throws; Cutting out a path unto thee Through imaginary foes. Woolfordinez! speed thee onward! He is hard upon thy track,— Paralyzed is Widdicombez, Nor his whip can longer crack; Leaps from out his nether garments, O'er the buckle, heel and toe! Danger all but her-forgets; Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez, *Shaw, the life-guardsman, at Waterloo, killed five Frenchmen with his own sword. Now his courser's flanks he lashes, O'er his shoulder flings the rein, And his feet aloft he tosses, Holding stoutly by the mane! Then his feet once more regaining, Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls; Pinions from his heels are bursting, His bright locks have pinions o'er them; And the public sees with rapture Maia's nimble son before them. Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez! You might hear a pin to drop; One tremendous bound and stride, By his Woolfordinez' side! Raised her in his manly arms; And the stables' closing barriers THE STUDENT OF JENA. ONCE, 't was when I lived at Jena,At a Wirthshaus' door I sat; And in pensive contemplation, Ate the sausage thick and fat; Ate the kraut, that never sourer Tasted to my lips than here; Smoked my pipe of strong canaster, Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer; Gazed upon the glancing river, Gazed upon the tranquil pool, Whence the silver-voiced Undine, When the nights were calm and cool, As the Baron Fouqué tells us, Rose from out her shelly grot, There beside a pile of linen, Stretched along the daisied sward, Stood a young and blooming maiden'T was her thrush-like song I heard: Evermore within the eddy Did she plunge the white chemise; And her robes were loosely gathered Rather far above her knees; Then my breath at once forsook me, Standing in the glancing stream— And from that remembered day, Every evening to the Wirthshaus Took I my enchanted way. Shortly to relate my story, Many a week of summer long, Came I there, when beer-o'ertaken, With my lute and with my song; Sang in mellow-toned soprano, All my love and all my woe, Till the river-maiden answered, Lilting in the stream below:"Fair Undine! sweet Undine! Dost thou love as I love thee?" "Love is free as running water," Was the answer made to me. Thus, in interchange seraphic, Did I woo my phantom fay, Till the nights grew long and chilly, Short and shorter grew the day ; Till at last-'t was dark and gloomy, Dull and starless was the sky, And my steps were all unsteady, For a little flushed was I,To the well-accustomed signal No response the maiden gave; But I heard the waters washing, And the moaning of the wave. Vanished was my own Undine, All her linen, too, was gone; And I walked about, lamenting, On the river bank alone. Idiot that I was, for never Had I asked the maiden's name. Was it Lieschen-was it Gretchen? Had she tin-or whence she came? So I took my trusty meerschaum, And I took my lute likewise; Wandered forth in minstrel fashion, Underneath the lowering skies; Sang before each comely Wirthshaus, Sang beside each purling stream, That same ditty which I chanted When Undine was my theme, Singing, as I sang at Jena, When the shifts were hung to dry, "Fair Undine! young Undine! Dost thou love as well as I?" But, alas! in field or village, Or beside the pebbly shore, Did I see those glancing ankles, And the white robe nevermore; And no answer came to greet me, No sweet voice to mine replied; But I heard the water rippling, And the moaning of the tide. BURSCH GROGGENBURG. But 't is really past endurance, When you squeeze my hand!" And he heard her as if dreaming, Heard her half in awe; And the meerschaum's smoke came streaming From his open jaw; And his pulse beat somewhat quicker Than it did before, And he finished off his liquor, Staggered through the door; Bolted off direct to Munich, And within the year But at length this dire deboshing And he knew it was not prudent Longer to remain; So, with weary feet, the student At the tavern's well-known portal, Hiccups through the door,- Like a fiery comet bristling, Rose the young man's hair, But he did no deed of vi'lence- Then he hired an airy garret Near her dwelling-place; Grew a beard of fiercest carrot, Never washed his face; Sate all day beside the casement, Sate a dreary man; Found in smoking such an easement As the wretched can: Stared for hours and hours together, Till in fine and sunny weather, At the baker's door, Stood, in apron white and mealy, That beloved dame, Counting out the loaves so freely, Selling of the same. Then like a volcano puffing, Smoked he out his pipe; Sigh'd and supp'd on ducks and stuffing Ham, and kraut, and tripe: Still his eyes in anguish turning, Till with apron white and mealy, Selling of the same. So, one day-the fact 's amazing! On his post he died And they found the body gazing |