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like it hain't happened sins the Gun Power Plot of Guy Forks. Owdashus man, who air yu ?"

"Sir," sez I, drawin myself up & puttin on a defiant air, "I'm Amerycan sittersen. My name is Ward. I'm husband & the father of twins, which I'm happy to state they look like me. By perfeshun I'm a exhibiter of wax works & sich."

"Good gracious!" yelled the Kurnal, "the idee of a exhibiter of wax figgers goin into the presents of Royalty! The British Lion may well roar with raje at the thawt !"

Sez I, "Speakin of the British Lion, Kurnal, I'd like to make a bargin with you fur that beast fur a few weeks to add to my Show." I didn't mean nothin by this. I was only gettin orf a goak, but you orter hev seen the Old Kurnal jump up & howl. He actooally fomed at the mowth.

It's a

"This can't be real," he showtid. "No, no. horrid dream. Sir, you air not a human bein-you have no existents-yure a Myth!"

“Wall," sez I, "old hoss, yule find me a ruther onkomfortable Myth ef you punch my inards in that way agin." I began to get a little riled, fur when he called me a Myth he puncht me putty hard. The Kurnal now commenst showtin fur the Seventy Onesters.

I at fust thawt I'd stay & becum a Marter to a British Outraje, as sich a course mite git my name up & be a good advertisement fur my Show, but it occurred to me that ef enny of the Seventy Onesters should happen to insert a barronet into my stummick it mite be onplesunt, & I was on the pint of runnin orf when the Prince hisself kum up & axed me what the matter was. Sez I, "Albert Edard, is that you?" & he smilt & sed it was. Sez I, "Albert Edard, hears my keerd. I cum to pay my respecks to the futur King of Ingland. The Kurnal of the Seventy Onesters hear is ruther smawl pertaters, but of course you ain't to blame fur that. He puts on as many airs as tho he was the Bully Boy with the glass eye."

"Never mind," sez Albert Edard, "I'm glad to see you, Mister Ward, at all events," & he tuk my hand so plesunt like & larfed so sweet that I fell in love with him to onct. He handid me a segar & we sot down on the Pizarro & commenst smokin rite cheerful. "Wall,” sez I, "Albert Edard, how's the old folks?"

"Her Majesty is well," he sed.

We sot & tawked there sum time abowt matters & things, & bimeby I axed him how he liked bein Prince as fur as he'd got.

"To speak plain, Mister Ward," he sed, "I don't much like it. I'm sick of all this bowin & scrapin & crawlin & hurrain over a boy like me. I would rather go through the country quietly & enjoy myself in my own way, with the other boys, & not be made a Show of to be garped at by everybody. When the peple cheer me I feel pleesed, fur I know they meen it, but if these onehorse offishuls coold know how I see threw all their moves & understan exackly what they air after, and knowd how I larft at 'em in private, thayd stop kissin my hands & fawnin over me as they now do. But you know Mr. Ward I can't help bein a Prince, & I must do all I kin to fit myself fur the persishun I must sumtime ockepy."

"That's troo," sez I; “sickness and the doctors will carry the Queen orf one of these dase, sure's yer born." The time hevin arove fur me to take my departer I rose up and sed: "Albert Edard, I must go, but previs to doin so I will obsarve that you soot me. Yure a good feller Albert Edard, & tho I'm agin Princes as a gineral thing, I must say I like the cut of your Gib. When you get to be King try and be as good a man as yure muther has bin! Be just and be Jenerus, espeshully to showmen, who hav allers been aboozed sins the dase of Noah, who was the fust man to go into the Menagery bizness, & ef the daily papers of his time air to be beleeved Noah's colleckshun of livin wild beests beet ennything ever seen sins, tho I make bold to dowt ef his snaiks was ahead of mine. Albert Edard, adoo!" I tuk his hand which he shook warmly,

& givin him a perpetooal free pars to my show, & also parses to take hum for the Queen, I put on my hat and walkt away.

"Mrs. Ward" I solilerquized, as I walkt along, "Mrs. Ward, you could see your husband now, just as he prowly emerjis from the presunts of the futur King of Ingland, you'd be s ry you called him a Beest jest becaws he cum home tired 1 nite and wantid to go to bed without taking orf his boots. You'd be sorry for tryin to deprive yure husband of the priceliss Boon of liberty, Betsy Jane !"

Jest then I met a long perseshun of men with gownds onto 'em. The leader was on horseback, & ridin up; me sed, "Air you Orange ?"

Sez I, "Which?"

"Air you a Orangeman ?" he repeated, sternly.

"I used to peddle lemins,” sed I, "but I never delt in oranges. They are apt to spile on your hands. What particler Loonatic Asylum hev you & yure friends escaped frum, ef I may be so bold?" Just then a suddent thawt struck me & I sed, "Oh yure the fellers who air worryin the Prince so & givin the Juke of Noocastle cold sweats at nite, by yure infernal catawalins, air you? Wall, take the advice of a Amerykin sitterzen, take orf them gownds & don't try to get up a religious fite, which is 40 times wuss nor a prize fite, over Albert Edard, who wants to receive you all on a ekal footin, not keering a rush what meetin house you sleep in on Sundays. Go home and mind yure bizniss & not make noosenses of yourselves." With which observashuns I left 'em.

THE HORSE AND THE WOLF.

FONTAINE.

[What John Gay did for English Literature, John de la Fontaine did for that of our lively allies, with a difference which is all in favour of the latter writer; inasmuch as where Gay contented himself with neatly turning a jest or deftly pointing a moral, the Frenchman displayed a depth of sarcasm and an esprit which was foreign to the nature of the English fabulist. As

a poet, as far as two writers who wrote and thought in different languages can be compared, the palm must be awarded to Gay. (See his "Poet and the Rose," vol. 6 P. R.) It is only in his fables that Fontaine may be said to have excelled him. From accounts that have been handed down to us, they were very similar in disposition. Both are represented as combining the wit of manhood with the simplicity of childhood; in Fontaine's case his simplicity is said to have bounded on stupidity. Fontaine was born in 1621, and died in 1695, at which time Gay was but seven years of age; and it is a fair inference to suppose that the author of the English Fables was a student of the French ones; both were dramatists, and both were "pets" with the wits with whom they associated; Gay being intimate with "all the talent" of his time-Fontaine with Molière, Boileau, Racine, and all the brilliant stars then clustered in the French capital. Besides two comedies Fontaine wrote "Les Amours de Pysche," "Tales Anacréontiques," &c. He was patronised by the French nobility, and for thirty-five years lived in Paris, successively with the Duchesses of Buillon and Orleans, Madame de Sablière, and Madame d'Hervart.]

When Nature, released from the cold icy trammels Which winter had formed, all her lustre renews, When the gold of the cowslip each meadow enamels, And the amethyst blends with soft emerald hues; At this sprightly season of love and of joy,

A horse from his stable was sent by his master,
In freedom these holiday hours to employ,

And graze at his ease in a rich verdant pasture.
A wolf who was prowling in search of adventures,
The glossy, plump animal joyfully spies :
With caution the paddock's enclosure he enters
In hopes of possessing so tempting a prize.

"Ah! wert thou, stout beast," cries the thief, "but a mutton,

In a moment that carcase I'd seize as my own: As it is, some disguise I must artfully put on, Before I can tear thy fat flesh from the bone." So, gravely saluting, he questioned the steed

"Are you here, my fair sir, for your health or for pleasure?

From the symptoms I fear you're a great invalid,

For in health men allow their poor nags but small leisure.

As a pupil of Galen accept my assistance;

By feeling your pulse I shall find what your state is; I have travelled thus far, from a very great distance, To give the afflicted my best advice gratis. Very choice are the wise in selecting their food,

For plants that are noxious the functions disturb all, As Solomon knew well the bad from the good,

I can point out each root in old Culpepper's herbal."

The horse Isgrim's character knew by repute,
And plainly perceived what the traitor designed:
So he
says "Learned Doctor, my pains are acute,
An abscess is formed in my off-foot-behind."
"A delicate part," quoth the Leech, "and indeed
In the choice of a surgeon 'tis well to be wary;
Allow me to touch it, and then I'll proceed

Like a perfect adept in the art veter'nary.
But first, of your pain let's examine the cause"-
The horse launched his heels, and no kick could be

kinder,

He crushed to a mummy the hypocrite's jaws,

And dashed from their sockets each holder and grinder.

"All this I deserve," said the wolf, full of sadness: "In the trade of a butcher I'd been quite at home, ah! To change my profession was absolute madness— Who dares kill a patient without a diploma!"

UNDER CANVAS-WOUNDED.

OWEN MEREDITH.

[We are betraying no confidence in repeating, since the fact has been proclaimed in several journals, that "Owen Meredith is the Hon. Henry Bulwer Lytton, the son of the eminent novelist, Lord Lytton. Worthy of his high literary parentage, Mr. Bulwer writes genuine poetry. His lines are full of music and tenderness; and his subjects, though generally drawn from nature, are placed in dramatic situations by a skilful hand. His published poems are "The Wanderer," Clytemnestra," and " Lucile,' from which latter we extract the following exquisite fragment for a Reading.]

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