N. I have no alternative but to do so.

Mr. G. Door, Matthews.

N. I am sorry I have troubled you unnecessarily, sir.
Mr. G. I am sorry you have. Door, Matthews.
N. Good morning.

Mr. G. Door, Matthews.

III.-COLONEL DIVER AND MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT.

(DICKENS.)

MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT has just arrived in New York by an emigrant ship, when he becomes acquainted with COLONEL DIVER, the proprietor of a newspaper.

Colonel Diver. WHAT is your name?

Martin Chuzzlewit. Martin Chuzzlewit.

C. D. My name is Colonel Diver, sir. I am the editor of the "New York Rowdy Journal," sir. The "New York Rowdy Journal" is, as I expect you know, the organ of our aristocracy in our city.

M. C. Oh, there is an aristocracy here, then? Of what is it composed?

C. D. Of intelligence, sir-of intelligence and virtue; and of their necessary consequence in this republic-dollars, sir. You have heard of Jefferson Brick, my war correspondent, sir? England has heard of Jefferson Brick,—Europe has heard of Jefferson Brick. Let me see. When did you leave England, sir?

M. C. Five weeks ago.

C. D. Five weeks ago! Now, let me ask you, sir, which of Mr. Brick's articles had become at that time the most obnoxious to the British Parliament and the Court of St. James's.

M. C. Upon my word, I—I—

C. D. I have reason to know, sir, that the aristocratic circles of your country quail before the name of Jefferson Brick. I should like to be informed, sir, which of his sentiments has struck the deadliest blow at the hundred heads of the hydra of corruption now grovelling in the dust be

neath the lance of reason, and spouting up to the universal arch above us its sanguinary gore.

M. C. Really, I can't give any satisfactory information about it; for the truth is, that I—

C. D. Stop!-that you never heard of Jefferson Brick, sir ; that you never read Jefferson Brick, sir; that you never saw the "Rowdy Journal," sir.; that you never knew, sir, of its mighty influence on the Cabinets of-eh-Europe-yes? M. C. That's what I was about to observe, certainly.

C. D. Oh, you Europeans There's to-day's "Rowdy," sir; you'll find Jefferson Brick at his usual post, in the van of human civilization and moral purity.

M. C. Why, it's horribly personal.

C. D. We're independent here, sir; we do as we like.

M. C. If I may judge from this specimen, there must be a few thousands here rather the reverse of independent, who do as they don't like.

C. D. Well, they yield to the mighty mind of the popular instructor, sir. They rile up sometimes; but in general we have a hold upon our citizens, both in public and private life, which is as much one of the ennobling institutions of our happy country as

M. C. Nigger slavery itself.

C. D. En-tirely so.

M. C. Pray, may I venture to ask, with reference to a case I observe in this paper of yours, if the popular instructor often deals in-I am at a loss how to express it without giving offence-in forgery? In forged letters, for instance, solemnly purporting to have been written at recent periods by living men?

C. D. Well, sir, it—it does now and then.

M. C. And the popular instructed,-what do they do? C. D. Buy 'em, buy 'em, by hundreds of thousands. We air a smart people here, and can appreciate smartness. M. C. Is smartness American for forgery?

But you

C. D. Well, I expect it's American for a good many things which you call in Europe by other names. can't help yourselves in Europe; we can.

M. C. And do sometimes. You help yourselves with very little ceremony too.

C. D. At all events, whatever name we choose to employ, I suppose the art of forgery was not invented here, sir? M. C. I suppose not.

C. D. Nor any other kind of smartness, I reckon.

M. C. Invented! no, I suppose not.

C. D. Well, then, we got it all from the old country, and the old country's to blame for it, and not the new one. There's an end of that. An' how's the unnat'-ral old parent by this time? Progressin' back'ards, I expect, as usual. And how's Queen Victoria?

M. C. In good health, I believe.

C. D. Queen Victoria will not shake in her royal shoes at all, when she hears to-morrow named. No.

M. C. Not that I am aware of. Why should she?

C. D. She won't be taken with a cold chill when she realizes what is being done in these diggings. No.

M. C. No; I think I may be pretty sure of that.

C. D. Well, sir, I tell you this-There aint a ĕn-gīne with its biler bust in this glorious, free United States, so fixed and nipped and frizzled to a most e-tarnal smash as that young critter, in her luxurious lo-cation in the Tower of London, will be, when she reads the next double extra "Rowdy Journal."

M. C. Well, I must say that I never heard of Queen Victoria reading the what-d'ye-call-it-journal, and I should scarcely think it probable.

C. D. It is sent to her, sir. It is sent to her--per mail. M. C. But if it is addressed to the Tower of London, it would hardly come to hand, I fear; for she don't live there.

C. D. I have always remarked that it is a very extraordinary circumstance, which I impute to the natur' of British institootions, and their tendency to suppress that popular inquiry and information which air so widely diffused even in the trackless forests of the vast continent of the Western Ocean; that the knowledge of Britishers on such points is not to be compared to that possessed by our in-telligent and locomotive citizens. This is interesting, and confirms my observation. When you say, sir, that your queen does not reside in the Tower of London, you fall into an error not

uncommon to your countrymen, even when their abilities and moral elements air such as to command respect. But sir, you air wrong; she does live there—that is, when she is at the Court of St. James's, of course. For if her location was in Windsor Pavilion, it could not be in London at the same time. Your Tower of London, sir, being located in the immediate neighbourhood of your parks, your drives, your triumphant arches, your opera, and your royal Almacks, nat'-rally suggests itself as the place for holding a luxurious and thoughtless court, and consequently the court is held there.

M. C. Have you been in England?

C. D. In print I have, sir; not otherwise. We air a reading people here, sir. You will meet with much information among us here that will surprise you, sir. M. C. I have not the least doubt of it.

IV. THE MOST HORRIBLE BATTLE.
(W. IRVING.)

"Now had the Dutchmen snatched a huge repast," and, finding themselves wonderfully encouraged and animated thereby, prepared to take the field. Expectation, says the writer of the Stuyvesant manuscript - Expectation now stood on stilts. The world forgot to turn round, or rather stood still, that it might witness the affray; like a fat roundbellied alderman, watching the combat of two chivalric flies upon his jerkin. The eyes of all mankind, as usual in such cases, were turned upon Fort Christina. The sun, like a little man in a crowd at a puppet-show, scampered about the heavens, popping his head here and there, and endeavouring to get a peep between the unmannerly clouds that obtruded themselves in his way. The historians filled their ink-horns-the poets went without their dinners, either that. they might buy paper and goose quills, or because they could not get anything to eat. Antiquity scowled sulkily out of its grave, to see itself outdone—while even Posterity Etood mute, gazing in gaping ecstasy of retrospection on the

eventful field. The immortal deities who whilom had seen service at the" affair" of Troy-now mounted their featherbed clouds, and sailed over the plain, or mingled among the combatants in different disguises, all itching to have a finger in the pie. Jupiter sent off his thunderbolt to a noted coppersmith, to have it furbished up for the direful occasion. The noted bully, Mars, stuck two horse-pistols into his belt, shouldered a rusty firelock, and gallantly swaggered along as a drunken corporal; while Apollo trudged in the rear, as a bandy-legged fifer, playing most villanously out of tune.

On the other side, the ox-eyed Juno, who had gained a pair of black eyes over night, in one of her curtain lectures with old Jupiter, displayed her haughty beauties on a baggage-waggon. Minerva, as a brawny gin-suttler, tucked up her skirts, brandished her fists, and swore most heroically, in exceeding bad Dutch (having but lately studied the language), by way of keeping up the spirits of the soldiers; while Vulcan halted as a club-footed blacksmith, lately promoted to be a captain of militia. All was silent horror, or bustling preparation: War reared his horrid front, gnashed loud his iron fangs, and shook his direful crest of bristling bayonets. And now the mighty chieftains marshalled out their hosts. Here stood stout Risingh, firm as a thousand rocks-incrusted with stockades, and intrenched to the chin in mud batteries. His artillery consisted of two swivels and a carronade, loaded to the muzzle, the touch-holes primed, and a whiskered bombardier stationed at each, with lighted match in hand, waiting the word. His valiant infantry lined the breast-work in grim array, each having his mustaches fiercely greased, and his hair pomatumed back, and queued so stiffly, that he grinned above the ramparts like a grisly death's head.

Then came on the intrepid Peter-his brows knit, his teeth set his fists clenched-almost breathing forth volumes of smoke, so fierce was the fire that raged within his bosom. His faithful squire, Van Corlear, trudged valiantly at his heels, with his trumpet gorgeously bedecked with red and yellow ribands, the remembrances of his fair mistresses at the Manhattoes. Then came waddling on the sturdy chivalry