us. and to him the butler spoke a few words in | perhaps the old fellow himself might hear some unknown tongue, which Tom of course set down as part of the Jacobite treason pervading every part of the castle. "Gad" said he, while beginning to lay into the round of beef, "I am half inclined to think that the jabber you talked just now to the powder-monkey we met in that corridor was not treason, but beef and mustard; an't I right?" "Quite so." "Fall to, then yourself. By Gad! you appear to have those lads under your thumb for this is great eating. I suppose you often rob my lord ?-speak plain, for I myself rob ould Chaytor the schoolmaster; but there's a long difference between robbing a schoolmaster and robbing a lord. I venture to say many a pound of his you have made away with." "A great many indeed. I am ashamed to say it, that for one pound he has lost by anybody else, he has lost a hundred by me. "Ashamed, indeed! This is beautiful beef. But let us wash it down. By the powers! is it champagne you are giving me? Well, I never drank but one glass of it in my life, and that was from a bottle that I stole out of a dozen which the master had when he was giving a great dinner to the father of the boys just before the Christmas holidays the year before last. My service to you. By Gor! if you do not break the Ormonds, I can't tell who should." "Nor I. Finish your champagne. else will you have to drink?" "Have you the run of the cellar ?" What "Why, then, claret is genteel; but the little I drank of it was mortal cold. Could you find us a glass of brandy ?" "Of course;" and on the sounding of a bell there appeared the same valet who had been addressed in the corridor; and in the same language some intimation was communicated, which in a few moments produced a bottle of Nantz, rare and particular, placed before Tom with all the emollient appliances necessary for turning it into punch. "By all that's bad," said the Clonmellian butler, "but ye keep these fellows to their knitting. This is indeed capital stuff. Make for yourself. When you come to Clonmell, ask for me-Tom-at old Chaytor's, the Quaker schoolmaster, a few doors from the Globe. This lord of your's, I am told, is a bloody Jacobite: here's the Hanover succession! but we must not drink that here, for "Nothing is more probable." "Well, then mum's the word." I'm told he puts white roses in his dog's ears, and drinks a certain person over the water on the tenth of June; but no matter, this is his house, and you and I are drinking his drink,-so, why should we wish him bad luck? If he was hanged, of course I'd go to see him, to be sure; would not you?" "I should certainly be there." By this time Tom was subdued by the champagne and the brandy, to say nothing of the hot weather; and the spirit of hospitality rose strong upon the spirit of cognac. His new friend gently hinted that a retreat to his gîte at the Feathers would be prudent; but to such a step Tom would by no means consent unless the butler of the castle accompanied him to take a parting bowl. With some reluctance the wish was complied with, and both the butlers sallied forth on their way through the principal streets of Kilkenny, just as the evening was beginning to assume somewhat of a dusky hue. Tom had, in the course of the three or four hours passed with his new friend, informed him of all the private history of the house of Ormond, with that same regard to veracity which in general characterizes the accounts of the births, lives, and educations of persons of the higher classes, to be found in fashionable novels and other works drawn from the communications of such authorities as our friend Tom; and his friend offered as much commentary as is usually done on similar occasions. Proceeding in a twirling motion along, he could not but observe that the principal persons whom they met bowed most respectfully to the gentleman from the castle; and, on being assured that this token of deference was paid because they were tradesmen of the castle, who were indebted to the butler for his good word in their business, Tom's appreciation of his friend's abilities in the art of "improving" his situation was considerably enhanced. He calculated that if they made money by the butler, the butler made money by them; and he determined that on his return to Clonmell he too would find tradesfolks ready to take hats off to him in the ratio of pedagogue to peer. The Kilkenny man steadied the Clonmell man to the Feathers, where the latter most potentially ordered a bowl of the best punch. The slipshod waiter stared; but a look from "He's a queer fellow, that," thought Tom, and I hope he'll be soon back. It's a pleasant acquaintance I've made the first day I was in Kilkenny. Sit down, Mr. Mulvany," said he, as that functionary entered, bearing a bowl of punch, "and taste your brewing.' To which invitation Mr. Mulvany acceded, nothing loth, but still casting an anxious eye towards the door. "That's a mighty honest man," said Tom. "I do not know what you mane," replied the cautious Mulvany (for "honest man " in those days was another word for Jacobite). "I mane what I say," said Tom; "he's just showed me over the castle, and gave me full and plenty of the best of eating and drinking. He tells me he's the butler." "And so he is, you idiot of a man cried Mulvany. "He's the Chief Butler of Ireland." "What!" said Tom. י! the recollection of what he had been saying for the last three hours. Waiting for no further explanation, he threw up the window (they were sitting on a ground-floor), and leaving Mr. Mulvany to finish the bowl as he pleased, proceeded at a hand-canter to Clonmell, not freed from the apparition of Lord Ormond before he had left Kilcash to his north; and nothing could ever again induce him to wander in the direction of Kilkenny, there to run the risk of meeting with his fellow-butler, until his lordship was so safely bestowed in the family vault as to render the chance of collision highly improbable. Such is my Il Bondocani. TOO MUCH CREDIT. T. C. D. Mr. Keene, a shrewd and thrifty farmer of Allenborough owned a large flock of sheep, and one autumn, when it came housing time, he was greatly annoyed upon missing a number of his finest muttons, among them three or four wethers, which he had raised and fattened for his own table. He was sure it was not the work of dogs, and the most he could do was to await further developments. On the following spring, when his sheep were turned out to pasture, he instituted a careful watch, and ere long he detected Tom Stickney, a neighboring farmer, in the act of pilfering a sheep; but he made no noise about it. Stickney was a man well to do and Keene did not care to expose him. Autumn came again, and on counting up his flock, Mr. Keene found eight sheep missing. He made out a bill in due form to Thomas Stickney for the eight sheep, and presented it. Stickney choked and stamLike a prumered, but did not back down. dent man he paid the bill and pocketed the receipt. Another spring time came, and Mr. Keene's sheep were again turned out. Another autumn came, and the farmer again took an account of his stock, and this time "Why, him that was in with you just now fifteen sheep were missing. As before he is the Earl of Ormond." My story is over made out the bill to Tom Stickney for the whole number missing; but this time Tom "objected. "And James Fitzjames was Scotland's King." "It is too much of a good thing," said he, All the potations pottle-deep, the road-"Fifteen sheep! why, bless your soal, Í side drinking, the champagne, the cognac, haven't had a fifth part of 'em." the punch at the Feathers, vanished at Mr. Keene was inexorable. once from Tom's brain to make room for "There is the bill," said he, "and I have EASILY FLATTERED. There was once a Scotch drover, who, though he could neither read nor write, had nevertheless made a large fortune by sheep farming, and was open to any degree of flattery, as to his abilities in this department of labor. A purchaser, knowing his weakness, and anxious to work himself into his good graces, ventured one evening to remark: "I am of the opinion, sir, that you are a greater man than even the Duke of Wellington!" "Hoot, toot!" replied the sheep farmer, modestly, hanging his head with a pleased smile, and taking a large pinch of snuff, "that's too much, too much by far,—by far." But his guest, after expatiating for a while upon the great powers of his host in collecting and concentrating upon a southern market a flock of sheep, suggested the question: "Could the Duke of Wellington have done that?" The sheep farmer thought a little, snuffled, and replied," The Duke of Wellington was, no doubt, a clever man; very, very clever, I believe. They tell me he was a good soger; but then d'ye see, he had reasonable men to deal with,-captains, and majors, and generals, that could understand him, every one of them, both officers and men; but I am not sure, after all, if he could manage, say twenty thousand sheep, beside black cattle, that could not understand one word he said, Gaelic or English, and bring every hoof o' them to Fa'kirk Tryst? I doot it, I doot it, but I have done that!" The inference was evident. AN English judge, Baron Alderson, on being asked to give his opinion as to the proper length of a sermon, replied: "Twentv minutes, with a leaning to the side of mercy." THE COURTIN'. FROM THE BIGLOW PAPERS." GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still, Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown, A fireplace filled the room's one side, With half a cord o' wood in There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clean grit an' human natur'; None could n't quicker pitch a ton, Nor drow a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spellsHed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, All is, he could n't love 'em. But long 'o her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, She thought no voice hed such a swing Says he, "I'd better call agin"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Then her red come back like the tide An' all I know is they was cried JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, b. 1819. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GOOD JOKE. THE diamond is precious from its scarcity, and, for the same reason, a new thought is beyond all price. Unluckily for us moderns, the ages who came before us have seized upon all the best thoughts, and it is but rarely indeed that we can stumble upon a new one. In the pride of superior knowledge, we sometimes imagine that we have succeeded in coining a new thought in the mint of our own brain; but, ten to one, if we make any researches into the matter, we shall find our bran new thought in some musty volume whose author lived a thousand years ago. This is exceedingly provoking, and has often led me to imagine that the ancients (so miscalled) have been guilty of the most atrocious plagiarisms from us, who are the real ancients of the world. It seems as if by some unhallowed species of secondsight they have been enabled to see down the dim vistas of futurity, and have thus forestalled us in the possession of the choicest thoughts and the most original ideas. This is especially the case with regard to jokes; all the best of them are as old as the hills. On rare occasions some commanding genius astonishes the world by a new joke; but this is an event, the event of the year in which the grand thing is uttered. Hardly has it seen the light ere it passes with the utmost celerity from mouth to mouth; it makes the tour of all the tables in the kingdom, and is reproduced in newspapers and magazines, until no corner of the land has been unhonoured and ungladdened by its presence. Reader! it was once my fortune to be the creator, the Пons, of a witticism of surpassing excellence, of a joke which, as soon as it proceeded from my brain, made a dozen professed wits ready to burst with envy at my superior genius. Many a time since, has that bright scintillation of intellectual light brought smiles into the faces, and gladness into the hearts of millions, and many a joyous cachinnation has it caused, to the sensible diminution of apothecaries' bills and undertakers' fees. If I had been my great surprise, the bottle gave a sudden turn, and commenced dancing round the table. Gradually two arms sprouted forth from its sides; and, giving them a joyous twirl, the bottle skipped about more nimbly than before, and to my eyes seemed endeavoring to dance a Highland fling. I thought this very extraordinary behaviour on the part of the bottle. I rubbed my eyes, but I was wide awake. I pinched myself, and came to the same conclusion. As I continued to gaze, the mysterious bottle grew larger and larger, and suddenly sprang up as tall as myself. a diner-out, I might have provided myself | I felt half inclined to take a draught of the with dinners for two years upon the strength generous juice it contained, and was stretchof it; but I was contented with the honor, ing forth my hand for that purpose, when, to and left the profits to the smaller wits, who, by a process well known to themselves, contrive to extract venison out of jests, and champagne out of puns. For years I have reposed on my laurels as the inventor of a new thought; and, but for the hope that there were still more worlds to conquer, I would have folded my arms in dignified resignation, and acknowledged to myself that I had not lived in vain. About a month ago, however, my complacent pride in my production received a severe check; and circumstances ensued which have led me to doubt whether in these degenerated days it is possible for a man to imagine any new thought. I was in the society of half a dozen men of real wit, but of no pretension,-men of too joyous a nature to be envious of my achievements, when one of them actually uttered my joke,-the joke upon which I pride myself,-coolly looking me in the face, and asserting that he was the author of it, I felt at first indignant at so dishonest an act; but, convinced of my own right, I smiled contemptuously, and said nothing. My friend noticed the smile, and saw that it was not one of mirth but of scorn, and has ever since treated me with the most marked coolness. When I returned home I retired to my chamber and throwing myself into my comfortable arm-chair, I indulged in a melancholy reverie upon the vanity of human exertion, and the disposition so common among mankind to rob the great of their dearly-acquired glory. "Even Homer," said I to myself," did not escape the universal fate." Some deny his very existence, and assert that his sublime epic was the combined work of several ballad mongers, others, again, generously acknowledge his existence, but still assert that he was no poet, but the mere singer of the verses that abler men composed! And, if Homer has not escaped detraction and injustice, shall I?" These and similar thoughts, gradually growing more and more confused and indistinct, occupied my attention for a full hour. A bottle of champagne corked up and untasted stood upon the table before me. It was just the dim faint dawn of early morning; and in grey obscurity I could plainly distinguish the black bottle as it stood between me and the window. Notwithstanding the hour, Immediately afterwards the cork, which had become supernaturally large and round, changed colour, and turned to a ruddy hue; and I could by degrees distinguish a pair of sparkling eyes, and a whole set of rubicund features smiling upon me with the most benign expression. The forehead of this apparition was high and bald, and marked with wrinkles, not of decrepitude, but of a hale old age,-while a few thin grey hairs hung straggling over his temples. As soon as my astonishment was able to vent itself in words, I addressed the apparition in a query, which has since become extremely popular, and called out to it, "Who are you ?" Ere it had time to reply to this classical question, my eyes fell upon a roll of parchment which it held in its hand, and on which were inscribed the magic words of my joke. "Do you not know me?" said this Eidolon of my wit, pointing to the scroll. "I am the joke upon which you pride yourself, and, although I say it myself, one of the best jokes that ever was uttered. "Don't you know me?" I can't say that I should have recognized you, "said I, as I felt my heart yearning with paternal kindness towards him; "but -come to my arms, my son, my progeny "Aha! ha! ha!" said the Joke, looking at me with very unfilial impertinence, and holding his sides with laughter. "The contempt with which you treat me is exceedingly unbecoming," said I with much warmth, and with the air of an offended parent; "and, what is more, sir, it is unfeeling and unnatural-'tis past a joke, sir!" "'Tis no joke!" said the Joke, still laughing with all his might, and peering at me from the corners of his eyes, the only parts |