Chapter XIV (3)

Signor BRASCHI, in quality of heir, now claims the spoils, including some of the most brilliant works of the Paris gallery. He avows his willingness, however, to waive his rights, in consideration of a few millions of francs, to be paid within the year. We have a fear that the only reparation the Republic will bestow, will be the offer of an airy apartment in the _Maison des Fous_.

* * * * *

Keeping to Paris gossip, for want of any thing special in that way belonging to our own capital, we find this little half-incident chronicled in the French papers.

Ladies, it is known (or if not known may hence forth be known) traffic in the funds at the Paris Exchange, in a way that would utterly amaze our princesses of the salon. You do not indeed see them upon the marble floor of the stately _Bourse_ itself, but at the hour of "the board," you are very sure to see a great many luxurious-looking little carriages drawn up in the neighborhood, and a great many ladies, at that special hour, are particularly zealous in their admiration of the old paintings which the dealers behind the Exchange, offer "at a bargain." Very quick-running footmen are also stirring, and report sales and offers to their mistresses with most commendable activity.

Among these outsiders, some Paris romancist has remarked lately a very elegantly-dressed lady, who, three times a week, drew up her phaeton opposite the doors of the Vaudeville Theatre (which all _habitues_ will remember, is just opposite the Bourse). Chance passers imagined her to be some actress of the boards, and gazed at her accordingly. But it was observed that an "agent de change" made repeated visits to her little phaeton, and at the closing of the board our lady disappeared down the Rue Vivienne.

Upon a certain day--no matter when--the bystanders were startled by piercing shrieks issuing from the phaeton of "my lady," and all ran, to prevent as they supposed, some terrible crime. Sympathy proved vain; and to the inquiries of the police the "man of business" only made phlegmatic reply, that the funds had fallen some ten per cent., and "my lady" was ruined.

Three days after, and the phaeton was a _voiture de remise_ in the Rue Lepelletier. The coachman had negotiated the sale, but all tidings of "my lady" were lost.

* * * * *

Guinot, to whom we have been indebted again and again, has twisted out of his brain (we can not doubt it) this little happening of Paris life, which, if not true, is yet as characteristic of France as a revolution.

Two funerals, he says, on a certain day wended their course toward the cemetery of _Pere la Chaise_. One bier bore the body of a man; the other, the body of a woman. The day was a sour November day--with the half-mist and half-frostiness that sometimes ushers in the Paris winter. The mourners were few--as mourners at Paris are generally few. Arrived within the gates, one _cortege_ took the path leading to the right; the other turned to the left. The ceremonies being over, a single mourner only remained at each tomb.

At the grave of the lady lingered a man, apparently overcome with grief; at the grave of the man--a lady, who seemed equally overcome. Their adieus were lengthened at the graves until all the attendants had disappeared. By chance, the grief of the two parties seemed to show the same amount of persistent sorrow, and of lingering regard: thus it happened that in retracing their slow and saddened steps toward the main entrance, they met in the grand alley face to face. They exchanged a look of sorrow, and an exclamation of surprise.

"You, madame?"

"_Vous, monsieur?_"

"But this is very strange," continued the gentleman, "is it not? We have met so rarely, since we broke our marriage contract ten years ago!"

"The chance which has led me here is a very sad one, monsieur," and madame says it in very dolorous tones.

"It is as much for me; I have followed to the grave a person very dear to me."

"Ah," returns madame, "she is dead! I, too, have lost my dearest friend," and she sobs.

"I beg you would accept, madame, my sincerest sympathy."

"And you too, sir; believe me, my heart bleeds for you."

Upon thus much of mournful interchange of grief, supervenes a silence--only broken by the low steps of the parties, and by occasional sobs of lament.

Guinot opens their conversation again thus:

_Gentleman._--"Alas, existence seems to me very worthless--all is dark!"

_Lady._--"Ah, what must it be for me, then?"

_Gentleman._--"How can I ever replace her fondness?"

_Lady._--"To whom can I confide my griefs?"

_Gentleman._--"What home will now receive me?"

_Lady._--"Upon whose arm can I lean?"

In such humor our racy _feuilletonist_ traces their walk and conversation along the parterres of that Paris garden of death; at the gate he dismisses one of the two carriages which attend them; he crowns their mutual offices of consolation with a happy reunion--never to be broken--till one shall be again a mourner, and the other a tenant of the tomb.

Thus, says he, grief moralizes; and wise resolutions ride at an easy gallop, into broken hearts!

And thus, we say, French ingenuity makes every hearse the carrier of a romance; and seasons the deepest woe with the piquancy of an intrigue!

Yet another story is swimming in our ink-stand; and with a gracious lift of the pen we shall stretch it upon our sheet.

At Viterbo, which, as every one ought to know, lies within the Italian confines, lived once a poor peasant, with a poor, but pretty daughter, whose name was MARIANNE. She had not the silks of our ladies, or the refinements, so called, of fashion. She wore a rough peasant robe, and watched her father's kids as they wandered upon the olive-shaded slopes of Viterbo.

At Viterbo lived a youth whose name was CARLO. Carlo was prone to ramble; and albeit of higher family than the peasant's daughter, he saw and loved, and wooed and won the pretty Marianne. They were betrothed in the hearing only of the drowsy tinkle of the bells that hung upon the necks of the kids, over which Marianne was shepherdess. To marry they were afraid. He feared the anger of his father; and she feared to desert the cottage of her mother.

Carlo, swearing devotion, went away to Rome and became an advocate. The revolution stirred the stolid Romans, and Carlo enlisted under Garibaldi. After a series of fights and of escapes, Carlo found himself in five years from his parting with the pretty peasantess of Viterbo, a refugee, in the _Cafe de France_, which stands behind the Palais Royal at Paris. Lamenting over his broken fortunes, and mourning for his poor Italy, he sauntered, upon a certain day, into the Garden of Plants, upon the further side of the Seine. It is a place where the neighboring world go to breathe the air of woods, and to relieve the stifling atmosphere of the city, with the openness and freedom of Nature. (In parenthesis, let us ask, when shall New York civilization reach such a kind provision for life?)

Carlo wandered, dejected, sad, musing of bitterness, when his eye fell upon a face that seemed familiar. It was the face of a lady--in Parisian costume, with a Parisian air--but very like to the pretty peasantess of Viterbo. He followed her--met her--accosted her; there was no mistaking her frighted look of recognition. She was distant and cool--for the fates had bound her fortunes to those of a Parisian _bourgeois_, and she was the wife of the very respectable Monsieur Bovin. Carlo was neither cool nor distant: for grief had cast him down, and now first, hope blessed him with a shadow of the joys that were gone. Madame Bovin's distance wore off under the impassioned addresses of the poor refugee, and again and again Carlo found his way to the _Jardin des Plantes_.

Finally (alas for Paris virtue!) the household of the respectable Monsieur Bovin, was, upon a certain morning, deserted; only a little note of poor French told the disconsolate husband, that the pretty Marianne could no longer subdue her new kindled love for her Italian home, and had gone back to the hills of Viterbo.

The sorrowing husband, though he could not purchase content, could yet purchase the services of the police. Through them, he tracked the runaway lovers to the borders of France. Thereafter the search was vain.

But, alas, for poor Carlo, he was recognized by the myrmidons of the powers that be, thrown into a dungeon, and report tells a story of his death.

As for the pretty peasant, Marianne, she wandered forlorn to her father's home; but the father's home was gone; and now, for menial hire--in her peasant dress (in place of the Paris robes) and with a saddened heart--she watches the kids, upon the olive-shaded slopes of Viterbo!

EDITOR'S DRAWER.

We are at the beginning of another year; a season in which all pause, and "take note of time"--time, the vehicle that carries every thing into nothing. "We talk," says a quaint English author, "of _spending_ our time, as if it were so much interest of a perpetual annuity; whereas, we are all living upon our capital; and he who wastes a single day, throws away that which can never be recalled or recovered:

'Our moments fly apace,
Nor will our minutes stay;
Just like a flood our hasty days
Are sweeping us away!'"

It is well to think of these things, standing upon the verge of a new year. But let us not trouble the reader with a prolonged homily.

* * * * *

Every body will remember the missionary at one of the Cannibal Islands, who asked one of the natives if he had ever known a certain predecessor of his upon the island, who had labored in the moral vineyard there? "Yes, we know him well--we _ate_ a part of him." Now, the "piece of a cold missionary on the sideboard for a morning lunch," of which the witty Sydney Smith made mention, is scarcely a less objectionable dish, on the score of the material, than the chief feature of a repast, held, according to a French journal, not a thousand miles from the Ascot race-course, in England:

"At the recent races at Ascot the famous horse Tiberius broke his leg, by bounding against one of the posts of the barrier, while preparing for the race. His owner, the Lord Millbank, lost ten thousand pounds in betting upon his noble steed, besides his value, and others also lost very heavily: the law, of course, being that all bets should be paid whether the failure to win came from the less speed or from accident.

"Three days afterward, Lord Millbank gave a very sumptuous dinner. The most distinguished of the English peerage were present, and the conviviality ran exceedingly high. Toward the close, the noble host rose in his place, and proposed an oblation to the health of the departed Tiberius.

"The toast was clamorously received, but the speaker remained standing with his glass in his hand.

"'We drink to Tiberius,' said Milord Millbank, when the shouts had subsided; 'to Tiberius the most beautiful, the most admirable, the most spirited courser whose hoofs ever trod upon our glorious British turf!'

"Shouts again resounded to the roof in vehement peals.

"'You know,' continued his lordship, 'the achievements of this horse. His deeds belong to history. Fame has taken charge of his glory. But it belongs to me, and to you, my lords and gentlemen, to do honor to his mortal remains! I wished that this lofty courser should have a burial worthy of his great, his immortal deservings. He has _had_ it, my lords and gentlemen, he has HAD it! My cook has fitly prepared him, and you have feasted upon him to-day! Yes, my lords and gentlemen, this repast which you have relished so keenly--these dishes which awakened the so frequent inquiry, 'What animal could be so delicious?'--that animal, my lords and gentlemen, was Tiberius! It is that noble courser whose mortal remains now repose in your stomachs! May your digestions be light!'

"At these words the enthusiasm concentrated for a moment--possibly with some vague thought of an immediate resurrection--but with a sudden outburst of 'Hurrahs!' the sentiment took the turn of sublimity, and another glowing bumper was sent to join the departed courser in his metempsychosis."

The English papers sometimes get off telling jokes against their neighbors across the Channel, but seldom any thing better than this. Besides, how thoroughly _French_ it is, both in the conception and execution! Its origin could never be mistaken.

* * * * *

We put on record, in these holiday-times of _imbibition_, these warning stanzas, to guard the reader alike against _cause_ and _effect_:

"My head with ceaseless pain is torn,
Fast flow the tear-drops from my eye
I curse the day I e'er was born,
And wish to lay me down and die;
Bursts from my heart the frequent sigh,
It checks the utterance of my tongue;
But why complain of silence?--why,
When all I speak is rash and wrong?

"The untasted cup before me lies--
What care I for its sparkle now?
Before me other objects rise,
I know not why--I know not how.
My weary limbs beneath me bow.
All useless is my unstrung hand:
Why does this weight o'ershade my brow?
Why doth my every vein expand?

"What rends my head with racking pain?
Why through my heart do sorrows pass?
Why flow my tears like scalding rain?
Why look my eyes like molten brass?
And why from yonder brimming glass
Of wine untasted have I shrunk?
'Cause I can't lift it--for, alas!
I'm so pre-pos-ter-ous-ly drunk!"

* * * * *

The vagaries of the insane are sometimes amusing to witness; and not unfrequently there is a "method in their madness" that would not be amiss in those who are on the _outside_ of lunatic asylums. Many years ago in Philadelphia, a patient in the insane asylum of that city fancied himself to be the REDEEMER of the world; and his talk and actions were always in keeping with the character, save that he exacted a rigid deference to his person and his divinely-derived power. But one day another patient arrived, whose idiosyncrasy it was, that he was the SUPREME BEING. A little while after his entrance into the institution, he met in one of the halls, as he was passing, the imagined representative of the SON; who, not liking his bearing, reminded him who he was: "Yes, you are the SON, but know from this time henceforth, that you have seen the FATHER, and must obey him!" "And strange enough," said the keeper of the institution to the friend who gives us the particulars, "from that day forward, all power was given unto the latter; and at length the fancied SON'S 'air-drawn' vision melted away, and he left the establishment a perfectly sane man."

Some twelve or fifteen years ago there was in the lunatic asylum at Worcester, Massachusetts, a kind of crazy DAVID CROCKETT, who fancied that he could do any thing that _could_ be done, and a little more. One day a good many visitors were walking slowly through the halls, examining them, and occasionally saying a word or two to the patients. After a very courteous reception of a gentleman, who mentioned that he had come from South Carolina, the crazy man interrupted him abruptly with:

"Have you felt any of my earthquakes down there lately?"

One of the visitors replied: "No, we've had nothing of the kind, where _I_ live."

"I thought so! I knew it!" returned the patient, frowning. "I have an enemy. Ice! ICE! Why, I ordered one of my very best earthquakes for your part of the country! It was to have ripped up the earth, and sent the Mississippi into the Gulf of Mexico. Look here!" he continued, pointing to a crack in the plastering, "_that's_ one of my earthquakes! What do you think of _that_? I've got more orders for earthquakes than I can attend to in a year. I've got four coming off, up north this afternoon--two in Vermont!"

* * * * *

That was a good story that was told of an occurrence which took place in a stage-coach one morning many years ago in the western part of this State. A young, conceited fellow, who had been monopolizing almost all the conversation of the company, consisting of some sixteen passengers, had been narrating the wonderful exploits he had performed, the prodigies of valor of which he had been the hero, and the wonderful escapes of which he had been the subject. At least he related _one_ adventure in which he was the principal actor, which was so perfectly astounding, that a low whistle of incredulity was a simultaneous demonstration on the part of the passengers. An old gentleman, with a solemn visage, and an ivory-headed cane, sitting in the back corner of the stage, here observed:

"That last adventure of yours, my young friend, is a very extraordinary one--_very_ extraordinary. One could hardly believe it without having _seen_ it. I didn't see it; but I can relate a circumstance which happened in my family, and in which I was for a time deeply interested, which is almost as remarkable, and I believe quite as true. Will you hear it?"

"Certainly," said our braggadocio; "I should be very _glad_ to hear it."

"Give it to us! give it to us!" echoed the whole company, getting an inkling, from the solemn phiz of the old gentleman, that something rich was in the wind.

"Well, sir," continued the narrator, "the circumstance to which I alluded is this: My father had three children. He had an only brother, who had also three children. My grandfather had left to my father and my uncle a large estate, in the executorship of which a quarrel broke out, which grew more and more bitter, until at length the aid of the law was invoked, and many years of violent litigation ensued, during all which time the costs of the proceedings were gradually eating up the estate. My father and uncle saw this, and though bitter enemies, they had too much sense to bite each his own nose off. They were chivalrous and brave men, almost as much, probably, as yourself, sir (addressing the daring young gentleman aforesaid), and they determined to 'fight it out among themselves,' as the saying is, and thus keep the money in the family. Well, sir, my father made this proposition to my uncle; to wit: that the three sons of each, in the order of their age, should settle the disputed question on the field of honor; the majority of the survivors to decide the affirmative. It was readily acceded to. My eldest brother went out, on the appointed day, and at the first fire he fell dead upon the turf. My next eldest brother took his station at once, and at the second fire, shot my next eldest cousin through the lungs, and he never drew a whole breath afterward."

Here the old gentleman's emotion was so great that he paused a moment, as if to collect himself. Presently he proceeded:

"It now became _my_ turn to take the stand; and upon _me_ rested the hopes of my family. I can truly say, that it was not so much fear that made my hand tremble and my pistol to waver: it was the deep sense of _responsibility_ that rested upon me. We took our places--a simultaneous discharge was a moment after heard--and, and----"

Here the narrator put his handkerchief to his face, and seemed to shake with irrepressible agitation.

"Well, sir," exclaimed our young Munchausen who had listened to the narrative with almost breathless attention, "well, sir--well?--what was the result? How did it end?"

"_I was shot dead the first fire!_" replied the old gentleman; "the property passed into the hands of my uncle and his family; and my surviving brother has been poor as a rat ever since!"

An uproarious laugh, that fairly shook the coach, told "Braggadocio" that he had been slightly "taken in and done for" after a manner entirely his own.

This anecdote will not be lost upon bored listeners to those who shoot with the long bow, or in other words, stretch a fact until they have made it as long as they want it. We have somewhere heard of a man at a dinner-party who was determined not to be outdone in this but too common species of archery. Some one present had been engaged in attracting the attention of the company to an account of a pike that he had caught the day before that weighed nineteen pounds! "Pooh!" exclaimed a gentleman sitting near him, "that is nothing to the one _I_ caught last week, which weighed twenty-six pounds." "Confound it!" whispered the first fisherman to his neighbor, "I wish I could catch my pike again; I'd add ten pounds to him directly!"

* * * * *

There is something more than mere good measures in the following lines. There is a satire upon Love and Mammon, when the deep affections of the heart reach a greater depth in the pocket:

"Dear friend, I'm glad to meet you here,
But scarce know what to say,
For such an angel I have seen
At your mamma's to-day!
Of fairer form than Venus, when
She trod the Grecian shore;
And then such splendid hair and eyes
I never saw before.

"Her air and manners were divine,
Above all petty arts;
Oh, surely she was formed to reign
The peerless Queen of Hearts.
Dear Bob, we have been college friends,
And friendship's still the same;
Now only tell me who she is--
Oblige me with her name.

"'Fine hair and eyes!'--'the Queen of Hearts!'
Who can she be?--oh, yes!
I know her now--why, Frederick, that's
My sister's governess!'
Your sister's governess!!--Indeed
I _thought_ it might be so;
She looks genteel--but still there is
About her something low!"

* * * * *

It is not a little amusing, or it _would_ be if it were not rather a serious matter oftentimes, to hear a surgeon who loves his profession talk with another of the "splendid fungus" which he had recently removed, or the "beautiful case of amputation of both arms at the shoulder," which he had just witnessed. A fair travesty of this is afforded in the letter purporting to come from an apothecary in the country to a friend in London, wherein, among other things, he wrote: "My patients are rather select than numerous, but I think the red lamp and brass plate may attract a few. I had a glorious case of dislocation of the shoulder last week, and nearly pulled the fellow in half with the assistance of two or three bricklayers who were building next door. The other doctor tried first, and couldn't reduce it, because he had no bricklayers at hand. This has got my name up, rather. They are terrible Goths down here though. You can scarcely conceive the extent of their ignorance. Not one in twenty can read or write; and so all my dispensing-labels which I tie on the bottles are quite thrown away. A small female toddled into the surgery the other day, and horrified me by drawling out:

"'If you please, sir, mother's took the lotion, and rubbed her leg with the mixture!'

"This might have been serious, for the lotion contained a trifle of poison; but Jack and I started off directly; and as it happened very luckily to be washing-day, we drenched the stupefied woman with soap-suds and pearl-ash, until every thing was thrown off from the stomach, including, I suspect, a quantity of the lining membrane. This taught me the lesson, that a medical man should always have his instruments in order; for if Jack had not borrowed my stomach-pump to squirt at the cats with, a good deal of bother might have been avoided. But he is a clever fellow at heart, and would do any thing for me. He quite lived on the ice during the frost, tripping every body up he came near; and whether he injured them seriously or not, I know the will was good, and was therefore much obliged to him!"

* * * * *

It would be a curious thing, if they could be traced out, to ascertain the origin of half the quaint old sayings and maxims that have come down to the present time from unknown generations. Who, for example, was "DICK," who had the odd-looking "hat-band," and who has so long been the synonym or representative of oddly-acting people? Who knows any thing authentic of the leanness of "Job's turkey," who has so many followers in the ranks of humanity? Scores of other sayings there are, concerning which the same, or similar questions might be asked. Who ever knew, until comparatively late years, what was the origin of the cautionary saying, "Mind your P's and Q's?" A modern antiquarian, however, has put the world right in relation to _that_ saying: In ale-houses, in the olden time, when chalk "scores" were marked upon the wall, or behind the door of the tap-room, it was customary to put the initials "P" and "Q" at the head of every man's account, to show the number of "pints" and "quarts" for which he was in arrears; and we may presume many a friendly rustic to have tapped his neighbor on the shoulder, when he was indulging too freely in his potations, and to have exclaimed, as he pointed to the chalk-score, "Mind your P's and Q's, man! mind your P's and Q's!" The same writer, from whom we glean this information, mentions an amusing anecdote in connection with it, which had its origin in London, at the time a "Learned Pig" was attracting the attention of half the town. A theatrical wag, who attended the porcine performances, maliciously set before the four-legged actor some _peas_--a temptation which the animal could not resist, and which immediately occasioned him to lose the "cue" given him by the showman. The pig-exhibitor remonstrated with the author of the mischief, on the unfairness of what he had done; to which he replied: "I only wanted to ascertain whether the pig knew his 'peas' from his 'cues!'"

* * * * *

Sympathy, we find described on a slip in our "Drawer" to be "A _sensibility_ of which its _objects_ are oftentimes _in_sensible." It may be considered wrong to discourage a feeling of which there is no great superabundance is this selfish and hard-hearted world; but even of the little that _exists_, a portion is frequently thrown away; a fact sufficiently illustrated by two amusing instances, cited by the writer in question:

"A city damsel, whose ideas had been _Arcadianized_ by the perusal of pastorals, having once made an excursion to a distance of twenty miles from London, wandered into the fields, in the hope of discovering a _bona-fide_ live 'shepherd.' To her great delight, she at length encountered one, under a green hedge, with his dog by his side, his 'crook' in his hand, and his sheep round about him, just as if he were sitting to be modeled in China for a chimney-ornament. To be sure, he did not exhibit the blue jacket, jessamine vest, pink inexpressibles, and peach-colored stockings of those faithful portraitures. This was mortifying: still more so was it, that he was neither particularly young nor cleanly; but most of all, that he wanted the indispensable accompaniment of a pastoral reed, in order that he might beguile his solitude with the charms of music. Touched with pity at this privation, and lapsing unconsciously into poetical language, the damsel exclaimed:

"'Ah, gentle shepherd! tell me, where's your pipe?'

"'I left it at home, miss,' replied the clown, scratching his head, 'cause I haint got no 'baccy!'"

The "sentiment" was satisfied at once in this case, as it was in the other, which is thus presented:

"A benevolent committee-man of the Society for superseding the necessity of climbing chimney-sweep boys, seeing a sooty urchin weeping bitterly at the corner of a street, asked him the cause of his distress; to which the boy replied:

"'Master has been using me shamefully: he has been letting Jim Hudson go up the chimney at Number Nine, when it was _my_ turn. He said it was too high and too dangerous for me; but I'll go up a chimney with Jim Hudson any day in the year; that's what I will; and he knows it, and master knows it too!'"

Sympathy _was_ rather thrown away in _this_ case, that's quite certain.

* * * * *

Winter is upon us; the biting winds rattle our window-shutters and howl down our chimneys. "Poor naked wretches" tremble in the fierce cold; and homeless, houseless women and children huddle in the alleys and hiding-places of the city. GOD help the poor! Now is the time to remember them. Let the rich recall "poor old Lear," when deprived of his kingdom, and reduced to want, the cold rains beat pitilessly upon his white head, he was forced to exclaim, remembering what he _might_ have done when he had the power, "We have ta'en too little care of this!" Let no disappointment, such as is most forcibly expressed in these lines, add an additional drop to the cup of bitterness which is commended to the lips of the poor of our city:

REJOICE! hope dawns upon the poor;
The rich man's heard our prayer;
He'll open wide the garner door,
And bid us come and share.
He feels the bread-seed was not given
Alone to swell his pride;
But that GOD sent it down from heaven,
For all the world beside.
Wail! wail! the rich man's word has proved
A syren sound alone!
He looked upon the wealth he loved;
And then his heart was stone!

Oh, would the dull, insensate clod
Give forth its yearly store,
If our great FATHER and our GOD
Had thought not of the poor?

* * * * *

A story has been for many years current, that an eccentric gentleman, of some scientific aspirations, residing on Long Island, not a thousand miles from New York, once induced a thick-set and very green Hibernian to ascend a very remarkably high and spreading tree, near his residence, accompanied by a curious nondescript flying-machine, by the aid of which he was to soar off, and float very softly down upon the bosom of mother Earth! All being ready, the aeronaut started from a platform which had been built in the topmost branches. He "_slode_" over the branches, and then "toppled down headlong" to the ground, covered with the wrecks of his scientific master's flying-machine, and making another wreck of himself. He "heard something drop," and it was a foolish Irishman! When taken up, it was found that he had broken both his arms, a leg, dislocated a shoulder, and otherwise seriously injured himself. Being long ill, at his employer's cost and charges, the "flying-machine," so signally destroyed, was considered a "_permanent_ investment." This incident, which is really true, reminds us of the story of "_The Flying Cobbler_," an old Irish story, of which we find a record preserved in "The Drawer:"

"When Felix showed himself on the top battlement of the tower from which he was to jump, opening and shutting a great pair of black wings that were fastened to his shoulders, every face in the great crowd was turned up to gaze at him. I thought myself that the tower never looked such a murdering height from the ground as when I looked at the poor devil standing on the tip-top stone, as unconcerned as an old cormorant on a rock, flapping his wings for a flight. At length, by his motions we saw that he was preparing to be off in earnest. The men held their breath hard, and the women began to tremble and cry; and then, all of a sudden, he made a jump off the battlement, and sailed away 'most illigant.' A wild shout of delight arose from the people, but before it had ceased the glory of poor Felix was 'done up.' After two or three flutters, his wings fell flat to his sides, his heels went up, and down he came tumbling like a wild-goose with a shot through his gizzard, plump to the ground! Every body thought that it was all over with him; but when we ran to pick him up, we found him lying on his back, not dead, but groaning most pitifully. We took him up as tenderly as we could, and carried him home, and laid him on his bed. When the doctor came he found that both his legs were smashed. Not a word nor a groan escaped him. After he came to his senses, he lay with his eyes open near an hour; and then, when the doctor was setting one of the broken bones, he tried to raise himself up in the bed, and with the fire dancing in his eyes, he said:

"'Doctor, dear, how long will it be before I'm cured again?'

"'Really,' says the doctor, 'I can't possibly take upon me to say, precisely. 'Tis a bad case, and I don't apprehend that you can be perfectly recovered under three months.'

"'Three months! Oh the devil! what am I to do? Three months!--when I had just found it out!'

"'Found _what_ out, jewel?' said his mother, who was sitting by his bedside.

"'The cause of my failing to-day, mother. The wings were right, but I forgot _one_ thing.'

"'And what was that, Felix?'"

"'The _tail_, mother! If I'd not forgot me _tail_, I could have flew to Ameriky and back again!'"

* * * * *

Now that what is called, or miscalled the "Code of Honor," is falling into desuetude in regions of the country where it was once considered binding, the following laughable burlesque upon the manner in which modern duels are sometimes brought about, and conducted, will doubtless, as the newspapers say, be "read with interest:"

"William Singsmall, Esquire, thought proper to say something very severe about somebody abroad, when the expression was taken up by Mr. Flea, a friend of the insulted party, who happened to be within reach of William Singsmall, Esquire. Mr. Flea waited on Mr. Singsmall, who refused to retract. Ulterior measures were hinted at, and the following series of hostile notes and messages ensued:

I.

"Sir: Understanding you have imputed cowardice to my friend William
Singsmall, Esquire, I call on you either to retract, or refer me to
a friend. As the matter presses, I beg, on the part of William
Singsmall, Esquire, that you will answer this when I return from
Paris, where I am going for three weeks.

"Yours obediently, PETER SKULLTHICK."

"_To James Flea, Esquire._"

II.

"SIR: I received your note, and went immediately into the country;
but on my return to town you shall hear from me with the least
possible delay.

"Yours obediently, JAMES FLEA."

III.

"SIR: I have got your note, and will see about it.

"Yours obediently, PETER SKULLTHICK."

IV.

"SIR: I have waited every day at the club, from ten in the morning
until twelve at night, for the last month, hoping to hear from you.

"Yours obediently, JAMES FLEA."

V.

"SIR: My object in writing to you was not on my own account, but on
behalf of William Singsmall, Esquire, to whom you have most
offensively imputed cowardice, and alleged that you threatened to
cane him, while he was hidden in the larder of the club-house."

"You will see that as a man of honor he must take some notice of
this. I am going out of town for a few weeks, and as soon as
convenient after my return shall be glad to hear from you."

"Yours obediently, PETER SKULLTHICK."

VI.

"SIR: I _did_ go to the club-house with a cane under my coat, for
the purpose of pitching into Singsmall. I had the solemn assurance
of the porter that Singsmall had entered the club and had not left
it; but on searching the house he was not to be found. I can only
presume that your friend was under the sink or in the larder, and I
therefore can not consider him entitled to any thing better than
the severe drubbing I mean to inflict upon him whenever I shall be
so fortunate as meet him."

"Yours obediently, JAMES FLEA."

VII.

"SIR: I expected you would have referred me to a friend, and shall
wait at the club until I hear from you again--unless I am called
away by other engagements."

"Yours obediently, PETER SKULLTHICK."

After this correspondence, Flea sent a friend to Skullthick, who declared he had no quarrel with any one, but only wished his friend Singsmall to have the opportunity of being shot through the body by Flea, whose friend insisted that he (Flea) should fight no one but him (Skullthick). Skullthick, on the contrary, had no quarrel with Flea; but although a married man, was ready to fight Flea's friend, who threw himself into the hands of somebody else, who would have nothing to do with _any_ of them. And there the matter ended!

LITERARY NOTICES.

_Wesley and Methodism_, by ISAAC TAYLOR (published by Harper and Brothers), is one of the most characteristic productions of the author, and on account of its deep reflective spirit, its comprehensive breadth of view, its subtle analysis of psychological manifestations, its acute and independent criticisms of great popular movements, its unmistakable earnestness of tone, and its catholic freedom from sectarian limitations, may be regarded as possessing a greater significance than most of the theological publications of the day. Mr. Taylor's favorite theme of discussion is the philosophical import of the historical developments of religion. Deeply imbued with the spirit of contemplation, he is not a dogmatist, nor a partisan. His own religious convictions are too prominent to allow any hesitation as to their character; but he has divested his mind, to a singular degree, of the influence of personal tendencies, in pronouncing judgment on the object of his investigations. He evidently intends to be impartial--and this is no slight praise--to obtain an uncolored view of the facts which he is considering, to do justice to every trait of excellence, wherever discovered, and to abstain from all indulgence of needless censure, even when compelled to express an unfavorable opinion.

In the present work Mr. Taylor discusses the origin, the progress, the actual condition, and the future application of Wesleyan Methodism, as an instrument, under Providence, for the spiritual elevation of mankind. Regarding Methodism as a divinely-appointed development of the Gospel, acknowledging the hand of God in its rise and progress, holding the character and labors of its early founders in affectionate veneration, and deeming it fraught with momentous ulterior consequences, although temporary in its import, he presents a series of consecutive sketches of its history, depicting the wonderful events which attended its energetic progress, analyzing the causes which impeded its universal triumph, and tracing the conditions of its wide success to the elementary principles in the religious nature of man.

The first, and by far the most interesting portion of the volume, is occupied with a description of the founders of Methodism, including the two Wesleys, John and Charles, Whitefield, Fletcher, Coke, and Lady Huntingdon. Without entering into the minute details of biography, which have been anticipated by Watson, Southey, and other writers, Mr. Taylor gives a discriminating critical estimate of the devoted apostles, to whose zeal and intrepidity England was indebted for the revival of the religious life, at a time when she had far lapsed from the warmth and vitality of spiritual Christianity. John Wesley, in the opinion of the author, has never been surpassed by any general, statesman, or churchman, in administrative skill--in the faculty of adapting himself to the circumstances of the moment, without compromise of his authority or personal dignity. For more than half a century he passed through the most difficult conjunctures with admirable success. His simplicity and integrity of purpose were in perfect harmony with the simplicity of his institution, enabling him to manage with ability what had been devised by skill.

Nor was his personal character less worthy of affection and homage. If he had moved in a private sphere, that of a parish priest for example, his flock would not have been able to find a single fault in their minister. The love and admiration of his intimate friends would only have been a more emphatic expression of the feeling of the little world whose happiness it was to live within sight and hearing of him. His personal virtue was not merely unblemished; it was luminously bright. His countenance shone with goodness, truth, purity, benevolence; a sanctity belonged to him, which was felt by every one in his presence, as if it were a power with which the atmosphere was fraught. It was Wesley's virtue and piety that gave form and tone to his teaching, and his teaching has embodied itself in the Christian-like behavior of tens of thousands of his people on both sides the Atlantic.

Of Whitefield, Mr. Taylor remarks, that the secret of his power over the vast multitudes that he moulded like wax, was a vivid perception of the reality of spiritual things, and the concentrated force with which he brought them to bear on the conscience and imagination of his hearers. His singular gifts as a speaker rested on the conceptive faculty as related to those objects that are purely spiritual, both abstract and concrete; and with him this faculty had a compass, a depth, and an intensity of sensitiveness, never, perhaps, equaled. While he spoke the visible world seemed to melt away into thin mist, and the real, the eternal world to come out from among shadows, and stand forth in awful demonstration. This faculty was by no means that of the poet or the painter, which is sensuous in its material. If it had been of this sort, he would have left us monuments of his genius, like a Divina Commedia, or a Paradise Lost, or a series of Michael Angelo cartoons. The history of Whitefield's ministry is simply this: The Gospel he proclaimed drew around him dense masses of men as soon as he commenced his course; it was the power of religious truth, not the preacher's harmonious voice, not his graceful action, not his fire as an orator, that gained him power over congregations to the last.

In the remainder of the volume, Mr. Taylor considers the primary elements of Methodism, its relations to society, and its position in the future. These topics are discussed with sagacity, and with perfect candor, although not in a manner to command universal assent. Whatever opinion may be formed as to his conclusions, no one can doubt the suggestiveness of his comments, nor the earnestness of his inquiries. The style of this work, which we do not admire, betrays the same intellectual habits as the former treatises of the author. He writes like a man more addicted to reflection than to utterance. He simply records his own musings as they succeed each other in the solitude of the closet, without aiming, at the force, point, and effective brevity of expression, which is necessary to obtain a mastery over the minds of others. He seems to regard language as an aid to his own meditations, rather than a medium of intercourse with his fellow-men. His writings are far more like a monologue than an address. He aims to clear up his own convictions, to reduce them to order, and to give them an outward embodiment, by their visible expression, rather than to enforce them on the attention of his readers. Hence, he is often diffuse, even to languor; and nothing but the vigor of his thought could prevent a wearisome monotony. No one, however, can call in question the originality and genuine earnestness of his speculations; and accordingly, it is impossible to follow their track, without a profound interest, in spite of the defects of his style.

Charles Scribner has published a new edition of _Young's Night Thoughts_, edited by JAMES ROBERT BOYD, with critical and explanatory notes, a memoir of the author, and an estimate of his writings. The editor has performed his task with evident industry and love of his author. His notes are generally brief, and well-adapted to their purpose. In some instances, they dwell on minute and comparatively unimportant points, which might safely be left to the sagacity of the reader. The edition, however, is designed as a text-book in schools, for the study of grammatical analysis and rhetorical criticism, and, in this respect, justifies an attention to trifling verbal difficulties, which would be out of place in a work prepared merely for the library of the adult. As a poet, Young can never become a general favorite. His day, we believe, is past. The prevailing taste demands a more genial, human, healthy expression of feeling--certainly, not of less religious fervor--but one breathing the spirit of serene trust, rather than of morbid gloom. Still, the lovers of his sombre meditations will find this edition convenient and ample.

_Florence_, by ELIZA BUCKMINSTER LEE, is a story of singular sweetness and grace, recounting the history of a Parish Orphan, and filled with charming pictures of domestic life in the interior of New England. "A sketch of the Village in the last Century," is added to the volume, presenting a succession of rural descriptions in a series of familiar letters. Mrs. Lee is distinguished as a writer, for her exquisite taste, her power of graphic portraiture, her love of home-scenes and incidents, and her deep vein of cordial, kindly feeling. These qualities run through the present little work with a mild, silvery brightness, which gives it an irresistible charm. (Published by Ticknor, Reed, and Fields.)

Under the title of _Words in Earnest_, a collection of valuable essays from the pens of several eminent clergymen, has been issued by E. H. Fletcher. The work includes two able discourses on "The Moral Influence of Cities," and an essay on "The Theatre," by Rev. W. W. EVERTS; an admirable appeal to the young men of cities on the importance of "Mental Improvement," by Rev. J. W. ALEXANDER; a sound and instructive article on "The Duties of Employers to the Employed," by Rev. WILLIAM HAGUE; an argumentative essay, maintaining the retributive character of "Punishment," by Prof. ANDERSON; and an eloquent plea for "Children," and for "The Sabbath," by Rev. GEO. B. CHEEVER. The work abounds in salutary counsels, expressed with pungency and force.

_The Captains of the Old World_, by HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT (published by Charles Scribner), is an original and erudite description of several of the chief battles recorded in ancient history, with an estimate of the character and position of the most celebrated commanders. Mr. Herbert is a decided adherent of the modern critical school of history, the principles of which have been applied to Roman antiquities with such admirable effect by the German Niebuhr and the English Arnold. He is no slavish copyist, however, of those authorities, nor of any others, however eminent. His work is the fruit of independent personal research and reflection. A classical scholar of rare attainments, familiar with the language and style of the ancient masters, fortified with learning which embraces a much wider sphere than the subject of the present inquiries, and endowed with an instinctive sagacity of no common order, Mr. Herbert is singularly qualified for the task he has attempted, and has performed it in a manner highly creditable to the soundness of his judgment and the depth of his researches. His comparison of the ancient strategy with the modern science of warfare is so clearly illustrated, and so forcibly reasoned, as to possess a profound interest not only for professional military men, but for all readers who delight in the removal of learned dust from the records of antiquity. He describes the battles which come under his consideration, not rhetorically, but with the paramount desire of accurate statement, though without the sacrifice of picturesque effect. In many cases, where the facts are covered with obscurity, and none but the most cautious inquirer can hope for the attainment of truth, Mr. Herbert displays a nice critical judgment in the sifting of evidence, never seduced into the love of paradox, and if compelled to have recourse to theories, always sustaining them by arguments that are no less powerful than ingenious.

His conclusions in regard to the character of several ancient heroes, differ from the prevailing opinions. His discussions on this point are among the most interesting portions of his volume. He thus summarily disposes of the hero of Marathon: "Much obloquy has been heaped on Athens on his account; much ink has been spilt, and much fine writing wasted thereanent, concerning the ingratitude of that state in particular, and of democracies in general.... But all the outcry in this cause is futile, unjust, and absurd. Miltiades was a successful and victorious soldier: he was rewarded according to the laws of his state to the utmost--he was the first man in Athens. He was a bad citizen, almost a traitor, and all the severity and disgrace of his punishment was remitted in memory of his great deeds past.... As a man, it must be said, he was flawed. Wholly unfitted to be a citizen of a free state, he might command others. But he could not command himself."

Nor does the Great Alexander fare better at the hands of our merciless iconoclast: "If we consider calmly the atrocities committed by his orders and under his authority at Thebes, at Tyre, at Gaza, and the barbarous torments inflicted in cold-blooded policy, alike on the good and gallant Britis and on the brutal and blood-thirsty Bressos--if we remember the unrelenting, if not undeserved slaughter of the high-spirited and brave Parmenion, the ruthless slaughter of the hardy Klutos, who had saved his own life in the desperate melee of Issos--if we recount the woes inflicted on the brave population of a loyal country, fighting in defense of their own liberties, the fearful waste of blood in his reckless and fruitless battles, we shall have no reason to doubt the correctness of the verdict which condemns him as the rashest of conquerors, and the cruelest of all who have laid claim to the much-misapplied title of hero."

We recommend this volume as an admirable specimen of the method of investigating history with the lights of modern criticism. If we can not accept all the author's conclusions, we never cease to admire his frankness, candor, and manliness as a writer. His style is in perfect keeping with his subject, though occasionally careless, and now and then sliding into unauthorized expressions, which can not be excused on the ground of defective culture or taste.

Harper and Brothers have issued an edition of _A Lady's Voyage round the World_, by the renowned female traveler, IDA PFEIFFER. The translation from the German by Mrs. PERCY SINNETT is executed with spirit and with apparent fidelity. Ida Pfeiffer was born with an innate passion for travel. From earliest childhood, her great longing was to see the world. The sight of a traveling carriage brought tears to her eyes. When a mere girl of ten or twelve, she devoured every book of travels on which she could lay her hands. Subsequently, she made numerous tours with her parents, and at a later period with her husband. Nothing could detain her at home, but the care of her children. When their education was completed, her youthful dreams and visions began to haunt her imagination. Distant lands and strange customs seemed to open upon her a new heaven and a new earth. Her age made it not inconvenient to travel alone. Defying danger and privation, she resumed her travels, and has since left scarce a spot of peculiar interest on the globe unvisited. In the volume now published, she describes a voyage to Brazil, with excursions into the interior, a voyage to Canton by way of Tahiti, a residence in China, Hindostan, Persia, Turkey, and other countries of most importance to the intelligent traveler. She possesses a happy talent of portraying incidents and facts in an agreeable manner. Her work is replete with valuable information, while its perpetual good humor, sagacious observation, and sound common sense, sustain an unflagging interest in its perusal.

Charles Scribner has published a beautiful edition of IK. MARVEL'S _Reveries of a Bachelor_, with several admirable illustrations by Darley. Welcome to our quaint, genial, "bachelor," in his holiday costume, destined to shed a new gladness over the new year by his delicious whimsicalities, and his quaint, sparkling, mosaic of fun, frolic, and melting pathos! Welcome with his most fantastic dreams, so cheery and bright, in the midst of the bustling, heartless utilities of the day! We can recommend Ik. Marvel's lifesome, soul-ful pages to all whose spirits are chafed with the wear and tear of this working-day world.