I.

wides in the horse-cars.

I

"I think you ought to resign, get out, you know." And then, though I'm sure I spoke in the most wespectful manner, he put his fist under my nose and wemarked, "You'll eat that, hang you, in a minute!" he did, indeed. And a fellah opposite said, "Put a head on him, Jim!" suppose from his tone that it was some colloquial expwession of the lower orders, referring to a personal attack. It was vewy disagweeable, indeed. I don't see why any fellah ever But I didn't want a wow, you know. A fellah is apt to get a black eye, and a black eye spoils one's appeawance, don't you think? So I said, "Beg pardon, I'm sure." The fellah said, "O, hang you!" he did, indeed. He was a vewy ill-bred person. And all this time the car kept stopping, and more persons of the lower orders kept getting on. A vewy dweadful woman with a vewy dweadful baby stood right before me, intercepting my view of the street; and the baby had an orange in one hand and some candy in the other. And I was wondering why persons of the lower classes were allowed to have such dirty babies, and why Bergh or some one didn't interfere, you know, when, before I knew what she was doing, that dweadful woman sat that dweadful baby wight down on my lap! She did, indeed. And it took hold of my shirt bosom with one of its sticky hands, and took my eye-glass away with the other, and, upon my honour, I'm quite lost without my eyeglass. "You'll have to kape him till I find me money,' said the woman. "Weally!" said I, "I'm not a nurserymaid, ma'am." Then the people about me laughed, they did, indeed. I could not endure it. I jumped up and dwopped the baby in the straw. "Stop the car, conductor," said I, "stop the car." What do suppose he said? Hurry up now, be lively, be lively, don't keep me waiting all day! And I was about to wemonstrate with him upon the impwopwiety of speaking so to a gentleman, when he pushed me off the car.

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That was the only time I ever wode in a horsecar. I wonder why fellahs ever do wide in horse-cars? I should think they would pwefer cabs, you know.

FRENCH.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA-POWDER.

A FRENCHMAN once

so runs a certain ditty –

Had cross'd the Straits to famous London city,

To get a living by the arts of France,

And teach his neighbour, rough John Bull, to dance.

But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill;
His fortunes sank from low to lower still;
Until, at last, pathetic to relate, —
Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate.
Standing, one day, beside a cook-shop door,
And, gazing in, with aggravation sore,

He mused within himself what he should do
To fill his empty maw, and pocket too.
By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan,
And thus to execute it straight began:
A piece of common brick he quickly found,
And with a harder stone to powder ground,
Then wrapp'd the dust in many a dainty piece
Of paper, labell'd "Poison for de Fleas,"
And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try,
To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy.
From street to street he cried, with lusty yell,
"Here's grand and sovereign flea poudare to sell!"
And fickle Fortune seem'd to smile at last,
For soon a woman hailed him as he pass'd,
Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot,
And made him five crowns richer on the spot.
Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,
Went into business on a larger scale;

And soon, throughout all London, scatter'd he
The "only genuine poudare for de flea."
Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation
Of mingled boasting and dissimulation,
He thought he heard himself in anger call'd;

And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawl'd, -
In not a mild or very tender mood,

From the same window where before she stood.

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Hey, there," said she, "You Monsher Powder-man ! Escape my clutches now, sir, if

you can;

I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know

That decent people won't be cheated so."

Then spoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh,
With humble attitude and tearful eye;

"Ah, Madame! s'il vous plait, attendez vous,
I vill dis leetle ting explain to you:

My poudare gran! magnifique! why abuse him?
Aha! I show you how to use him :

First, you must wait until you catch de flea;

Den, tickle he on de petite rib, you see;

And, when he laugh,

aha! he ope his troat;

Den poke de poudare down! — BEGAR! HE CHOKE.

8389

A FRENCHMAN ON MACBETH.

AN enthusiastic French student of Shakespeare thus comments on the tragedy of Macbeth:

6

"Ah! your Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! He is gr-aä-nd mysterieuse-so-blime! You 'ave reads ze Macabess? ze scene of ze Mossieu' Macabess vis ze Vitch, eh? Superb sooblimitée! W'en he say to ze Vitch, Ar-r-roynt ze, Vitch!' she go away: but what she say when she go away ? She say she will do s'omesing dat aves got no naäme! Ah, ha!' she say, 'I go, like ze r-r-aä-t vizout ze tail, but I'll do! I'll do! I'll DO!' Wa't she do? Ah, ha! voila le graand mystérieuse Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! She not say what she do!"

6

This was "grand," to be sure: but the prowess of Macbeth, in his "bout" with Macduff, awakens all the mercurial Frenchman's martial ardour:

"Mossieu' Macabess, he see him come, clos' by; he say

(proud empressement), Come o-o-n, Mossieu' Macduffs, and d-d be he who first say Enoffs!' Zen zey fi-i-ght moche. Ah, ha!- voila! Mossieu' Macabess, vis his br-r-ight r-r-apier pink' him, vat you call, in his body. He 'ave gots mal d'estomac : he say, vis grand simplicité, 'Enoffs!' What for he say 'Enoffs? 'Cause he got enoffs --plaäinty; and he expire, r-r-ight away, 'mediately, pretty quick! Ah, mes amis, Mossieu' Shak-es-pier is rising man in La Belle France !"

MONSIEUR TONSON.

THERE lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore,
At least some fifty years ago or more,

A pleasant wight in town, yclept Tom King,
A fellow that was clever at a joke,

Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke;

--

In short, for strokes of humour quite the thing.

To many a jovial club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivall'd shone :

Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood,
Would crowd, his stories and bon-mots to hear;
And none a disappointment e'er could fear,
His humour flow'd in such a copious flood.

To him a frolic was a high delight;
A frolic he would hunt for, day and night,

Careless how prudence on the sport might frown:
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.

One night, our hero, rambling with a friend,
Near famed St. Giles's chanced his course to bend,
Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight.
'Twas silence all around, and clear the coast,

The watch, as usual, dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light.

Around this place there lived the numerous clans
Of honest, plodding, foreign artisans,

Known at that time by name of refugees.
The rod of persecution from their home
Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam,

And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees.

Well! our two friends were sauntering through the street,
In hopes some food for humour soon to meet,
When, in a window near, a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seem'd the prologue to some merry play,

So towards the gloomy dome our hero drew.

Straight at the door he gave a thundering knock, (The time we may suppose near two o'clock.)

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"I'll ask," says King, "if Thompson lodges here." Thompson," cries t'other, "who the devil's he?" "I know not," King replies, "but want to see What kind of animal will now appear."

After some time a little Frenchman came;
One hand display'd a rushlight's trembling flame,
The other held a thing they call'd culotte;
An old striped woollen nightcap graced his head,
A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread;
Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note.

Though thus untimely roused he courteous smiled,
And soon address'd our wag in accents mild,
Bending his head politely to his knee,-

Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late?
I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vait;

Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me?"