"Dead! not a-dead, only hurt. You're a Spanish conjuror, and got as many lives as a cat. But come, we'll go at once to the wardrobe,' and pulling Mr. Barebones by the skirts of his ample coat, he limped after the comedian, and both made their way to the repository of

costume.

The first movement here was to select as grotesque a contrast of garments as the wags could lay hands on, and after considerable overhauling and confusion, during which the Down Easter was pulled almost to bits, his spindle legs were inserted into a pair of dilapidated tights, and then thrust into enormous russet boots that looked as if they were in the last stage of jaundice. A fine cambric habit-shirt was the next article "applied," over which was buttoned an immense flowered waistcoat, such as rich old uncles from India wear in the comedies. A military coat, open in front, followed; and on his head was placed a gigantic helmet that concealed at least one-third of his stupid physiogomy. A red-hot poker that had been used in the last pantomime was then thrust into his hands, on which were drawn enormous boxing gloves, and thus attired, he was marched down on the stage with all of the honours.

The tragedy rehearsal was just over, and a number of coryphèes in short skirts and round-toed faded pink slippers were waiting about in groups in anticipation of the "ballet call," as Mr. Barebones, en costume, made his appearance. Such a shriek as those mad-cap hoydens sent up when they beheld the "make up" of the new comer. One told him to brandish his poker; another pinched his legs, and then giggled as if her slippers would burst in the merriment. One pert little puss insisted on his dancing the Polka with her; and still another ironically addressed him as "Mister Garrick," and seemed curious to know the period that his dress represented.

"Now look here, you gals, go away," at last exclaimed he, "I'm a monerk, and mustn't be made free with. Jist stand aside and let me speak a piece to my friend here," meaning Mr. Gleely.

While all this was going on, the comedian had given instructions to the mechanist to go below and have in readiness a trap, which was to be worked at the signal of a bell. A theatrical mechanist is not slow to execute an order where fun is at the bottom, and he was promptly at his place.

"Ladies and gentlemen, do as our mighty monarch commands ye," said Mr. Gleely, coming forward and placing the Yankee on the prepared trap aforesaid. "He is now about to open the portals of his regal jaws, and we listen with breathless attention, eager to drink in every word."

A general huddle commenced among coryphées, actors, supernumeraries, and everybody, in arranging themselves about the speaker.

"Now, sir, stand in that position," pursued Mr. Gleely, placing his pupil's legs closely together, and casting a pointed glance at his surrounding colleagues. "That's well. Now shoulder your poker like a musket. Good! Remember, no matter what happens, you must not move, because if you do it will break the spell. REMEMBER!"

"All right, I won't budge an inch," quoth Yankee, elevating his head and blinking under the weight of the huge helmet.

"Now, sir," said the comedian, "you must repeat what I utter." "Ya-as."

Hugum snugum wo belorem

As far as it was possible he obeyed. "Ji-ni-guy-wherem

Another attempt with less success. "Plus nus, and-DISAPPEAR!"

At that moment a bell faintly tinkled, and the next instant the candidate for histrionic laurels was disappearing with more swiftness than was comfortable to his nerves. Down he went, and in closed the floor

with the rapidity of thought.

The assembled wags joined in one mighty scream; the coryphèes got such pains in their sides, it was full an hour before they could "get on with the Pas des Poignards. Mr. Gleely consoled himself with having cured a young man of a dangerous infatuation-the mechanist crawled quietly from the basement-and the last seen of the Yankee, he was, minus the helmet and poker, mildly inquiring the way to "that place whar he left his clothes."

A STORY WITH MORE OR LESS SPICE IN IT.

A thousand droll stories have been related in which the effects of spirituous liquors played considerable part. Whiskey from time immemorial has been famous for creating "shindies ;" and if two-thirds of the rows of the universe were subtly analyzed, King Alcohol-as Father Mathew christened it-would be found to have a large hand in their outbreak. Every other half-quartern of "something hot'' seems to have a quarrel hid in the bottom. The exhilarating pop of champagne frequently ends in the alarming pop of pistols, and the sudden production of broadswords have been known before now to grow out of the sparkle of the beaker. It is a pity that pale sherry and discord are so closely allied, and very abstemious people would tell us that to avoid the effect we should shun the cause.

We are not agoing to moralize just at this moment, but here take occasion to "return thanks to the genius that "rules the waves" of the lakes of liquor that are annually manufactured, for so arranging it that fun as well as feuds frequently "come out " of the bottle. Many a jest has been born of a jorum, and the godfather of Repartee is assuredly Champagne. Charles Lamb said that wit comes in with the candles, and we are of the opinion that it makes its appearance likewise with the goblet.

How many taciturn men have been moved to sensible loquacity by the convivial passage of the "loving cup"! for there is no doubt that the best key to unlock the treasures of diffident tongues is whis-key. The aforesaid very abstemious people will condemn this last sentence as an

old joke wrapped up in a base theory, and possibly may go so far as to not read another line in consequence: however this may be, we must farther protest that, in many cases, what oil is to machinery, wine is to the intellect, causing the ideas to run easier, and preventing those disagreeable stops and stumbles that bashful soberness will sometimes create. What armies of puns, countless as Pharaoh's host, have risen like so many jovial Venuses from the foam of "sherry cobblers"! and there is no kind of doubt existing in our mind, that if a quizzical narrative of all the queer haphazard gay doings of this life were candidly written, a Bacchantic physiognomy would now and then peep out like a wild and mirthful mask, during the recital.

This subject reminds us of an anecdote we remember to have heard in "Yankee Land," of a young man that had but just entered into the silken bonds of matrimony. His wife, a most amiable creature, had a mortal hatred of liquor; and though Tom often indulged on the sly with his convivial companions, he took care always to be "right side up when he went home. He would not have his wife find him in such a state for all the gold in the universe; and yet he could not sign the pledge of total abstinence, from the fact of being the vice-president of a club of jolly fellows, all of whom believed in grape juice. For at least six months after his marriage, in the presence of his "better half" he was as "straight as a pin," and she had set it down that a blessing in the shape of a strictly sober husband had fortunately fallen to her lot. "Tom," one morning said she lovingly, we have now been a wedded couple half a year, and never once have I had the slightest occasion to reproach you.'

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Of course Tom was delighted to hear his dear little wife talk so encouragingly, and express happiness at his behaviour; and he repeated assurances of his determination always to be an attentive, sober husband.

But in the ocean of life how little we can foresee the breakers of temptation! Tom had to dine that very evening with the "Owls' (the ornithological title of his club); and he felt in admirable spirits, and his health was drunk warmly and frequently after the removal of the cloth; the consequence was that by the time the company separated he was in a happy state of elevation, with a vivid notion of men, women, and all things terrestrial.

Hic-c-c, I r-r-eally believe I'm d-d-runk!" soliloquized Tom, poising himself on his heels, with his arm clasped endearingly around a lamppost. "W-w-hat the d-d-evil's to be done. Am I d-d-reaming, or am I d-d-runk-which is it? Will somebody tell me?"

A knot of wags passing at the moment, hearing his voice, roared in combined tones-"You're drunk-beastly drunk !"

"There, now it's out, and no more than I s-suspected," continued Tom mournfully, in a maudlin voice. "What will Clara say-ugh! Curse that last julep, I say—if it hadn't been for that I'd have passed muster; but now she can tell it by my eyes-I f-f-feel as if I had a dozen pair of eyes; and as for ton-tongues, I've got a score all waggin' away for dear life."

Tom here losing a proper and important equilibrium, his heels suddenly flew higher in the air than is necessary for every day cases of

pedestrianism, and per consequence he was the next moment in a most ungracious position in the gutter.

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Hic, hic, this is r-rich I m-m-ust say. 'Spose Clara should s-see me now 'twas on-ly to-day she p-p-praised my in-in-tegrity. Tom, Tom you're a b-b-yes you are, so don't deny it—you're a b-beast!"

By dint of a series of vast efforts he succeeded in gaining his feet, and proceeded towards home reeling, and talking to himself all the way. After mistaking the house next door, the door front of which was the same, for his own, he had an undecided search of at least an hour for his latch-key, which he at length found in his boot, it having slipped down his trouser leg through a hole in his pocket.

Now in the hall, he leaned up against the wall and undertook a cogitation. He could sufficiently gather his senses to remember the clock in his wife's room was out of repair, and as she had retired, she would not be able to tell the time he had got in. That was a grand point gained.

"I know what I'll do ; I'll go to bed in the dark, and then she won't notice my eyes," ruminated Tom. But hold on-I'd like to forgot it—she'll smell my breath-how can I fix that?”

He puzzled for a few moments, and in the end concluded to seek the kitchen, and meddle slightly with the spice-box. Down the stone stairs he went, and after putting his hand into half-a-dozen various fluids, feeling into a row of pans, jugs, and dishes, at length he found a handful of cloves, which he thrust into his mouth as if they had been so many sugar plumbs.

"T-t-their d-devilish hot," spluttered Tom, with his face all aglow; "but they answer the purpose. How I wish Bob Stiles was here to tell me whether the brandy is sufficiently disguised."

Satisfied that the fragrance of the cloves had out-odoured the scent of the "ardent," he mounted the stairs, and with the exception of a couple of small stumbles, gained his chamber in safety. Now he would have been indeed happy had his wife not been wide awake.

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Why, Thomas, how late you are," said she ; "where's the candle ?" "Oh, never mind the candle," said he, in as steady a tone as he could assume. "It's not late."

'I should judge it was very late," said she; that clock fixed."

"dear me, I must have

"Y-e-s, so we must," said Tom with miraculous deliberation, for one solitary hiccup would have betrayed him. As to the clock's uncertain condition it was a phenomenon of good luck for him.

"Does it look like rain, dear!" kindly inquired Clara.

Now if Tom had been put on his oath he could no more have answered correctly, in regard to the appearance of the weather, than the man in the moon, and not half so much, for it is fair to suppose that if there be a man in the moon, he is not addicted to the practice of drinking, and therefore keeps a bright look out on things below.

He replied guardedly-Pon my word I don't know, but I'll look," and feeling his way to the window, he threw aside the curtains, and a bar of pale starlight threw itself immediately on his wife's face. "Clear as crystal you perceive, dear"—and down went the curtain again.

Clara was very thoughtful and affectionate, and suggested that if the curtain was kept up, he could see his way better about the room. "No, no, dear," replied Tom, very slowly as before; "I've heard that starlight produces lunacy after"-midnight he was about to say, but caught himself dexterously, considering his situation" and that's dreadful, you know."

Tom made several stumbles after this, and presently his wife caught a whiff of the cloves.

"Good gracious, Tom, how long you are, and how dreadfully you smell of cloves."

"Eh?" said Tom, starting—“ C-l-o-v-e-s?"

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Yes, cloves any one would think you'd been embalmed like a mummy."

This made him twitch and go wool-gathering. "Phew! you're regularly scented with them. you been to-night?"

Where on earth have

Tom was thrown entirely off his guard; his brain rambled, and without the remotest idea of what he was saying, replied-" W-w-why-hic Clara dear, the fact is I just been on a little trip to the East Indies, and while I was there I fell over a spice-box."

This told a tale. Clara immediately sat up in bed and shed tears. The cat was out of the bag, and we should not be surprised but that a Caudle lecture as long as a charity sermon was the consequence of poor Tom's unfortunate slip of the tongue. He has never touched cloves from that day to this, and it is probable ere long he will avoid the "bottle" entirely, his wife insisting that every one that drinks must sooner or later keep company with a subterraneous person, distinguished from the rest of mankind by a remarkable species of tail and a "cloven" foot this latter adornment would keep Tom out of his road, if nothing else succeeded.

Most decidedly.

2

AN OHIO WEDDING.

Without the slightest desire to be intentionally alliterative--a euphonism of langauge at which the savans affect to turn up their ugly noses (for who ever did see a critic with a handsome "handle" to his physiognomy)—we are about to remark that extraordinarily odd things often occur in Ohio. Of course we do not mean in that portion of the state nearest to the magnificent river that flows murmuringly as a boundary; nor in the large cities, such as Cincinnati, the "Pride of the West," or "Porkopolis," as the eastern editors call it, in sheer envy of the billions of burly swine that are annually knocked in the head in the neighbourhood. But it is in the little towns far back near the borders, in what are termed the Lake Counties, where ridiculously primitive"goings-on" are enacted, and of which we purpose to tell the

reader.