humiliation your reprehensible ignorance causes us. I will address this person in his mother tongue: 'Here, cospetto! corpo di Bacco! Sacramento! Solferino !-Soap, you son of a gun!' Dan, if you would let us talk for you, you would never expose your ignorant vulgarity." There was not such an belief that there never had Even this fluent discharge of Italian did not bring the soap at once, but there was a good reason for it. article about the establishment. It is my been. They had to send far up town, and to several different places, before they finally got it, so they said. We had to wait twenty or thirty minutes. The same thing had occurred the evening before at the hotel. I think I have divined the reason for this state of things at last. The English know how to travel comfortably, and they carry soap with them; other foreigners do not use the article. At every hotel we stop at we always have to send out for soap, at the last moment, when we are grooming ourselves for dinner, and they put it in the bill along with the candles and other nonsense. In Marseilles they make half the fancy toilet soap we consume in America, but the Marseillaise only have a vague theoretical idea of its use, which they have obtained from books of travel, just as they have acquired an uncertain notion of clean shirts, and the peculiarities of the gorilla, and other curious matters. This reminds me of poor Blucher's note to the landlord in Paris : "PARIS, le 7 Juillet. "Monsieur le Landlord,-Sir: Pourquoi don't you mettez some savon in your bed-chambers? Est-ce que vous pensez I will steal it? La nuit passée you charged me pour deux chandelles when I only had one; hier vous avez charged me avec glace when I had none at all; tout les jours you are coming some fresh game or other on me, mais vous ne pouvez pas play this savon dodge on me twice. Savon is a necessary de la vie to anybody but a Frenchman, et je l'aurai hors de cet hôtel or make trouble. You hear me. Allons. "BLUCHER." I remonstrated against the sending of this note, because it was so mixed up that the landlord would never be able to make head or tail of it; but Blucher said he guessed the old man would read the French of it and average the rest. Will Carleton. [The author of "Farm Ballads" is not much known in England. He is a good type of purely Western humour and pathos, and has done his work as Burns did, "with team afield," as well as in the study and at the desk.] BETSEY AND I ARE OUT. DRAW up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout; "What is the matter?" say you. I swan it's hard to tell! So I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked with me, There was a stock of temper, we both had for a start, The first thing I remember whereon we disagreed And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow; She had kicked the bucket for certain, the question was only -How? I held my own opinion, and Betsey another had; And when we were done a-talkin', we both of us was mad. And the next that I remember, it started in a joke ; And so that bowl kept pourin' dissensions in our cup; But it gave us a taste of somethin' a thousand times as hot. And so the thing kept workin', and all the selfsame way; And there has been days together-and many a weary week- And so I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked with me, Write on the paper, lawyer-the very first paragraph— Give her the house and homestead-a man can thrive and roam; There is a little hard money that's drawin' tol'rable pay : Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at; Yes, I see you smile, Sir, at my givin' her so much; Once, when I was young as you, and not so smart, perhaps, Once when I had a fever-I won't forget it soon- Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight- And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home to-night, And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I'll go. And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't occur : That when I am dead at last she'll bring me back to her; And lay me under the maples I planted years ago, And when she dies I wish that she would be laid by me, B HOW BETSEY AND I MADE UP. GIVE us your hand, Mr. Lawyer: how do you do to-day? Goin' home that evenin' I tell you I was blue, Thinkin' of all my troubles, and what I was goin' to do; And if my hosses hadn't been the steadiest team alive, They'd 've tipped me over, certain, for I couldn't see where to drive. No-for I was labourin' under a heavy load; No-for I was travellin' an entirely different road; For I was a-tracin' over the path of our lives ag'in, And seein' where we missed the way, and where we might have been. And many a corner we'd turned that just to a quarrel led, When I ought to 've held my temper; and driven straight ahead; And the more I thought it over the more these memories came, And the more I struck the opinion that I was the most to blame. And things I had long forgotten kept risin' in my mind, Of little matters betwixt us, where Betsey was good and kind : And these things flashed all through me, as you know things some times will When a feller's alone in the darkness, and everything is still. "But," says I, "we're too far along to take another track, When I come in sight o' the house 'twas some'at in the night, |