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houses he was invited, and who gave him little dinners at Delmonico's and elsewhere. By and by his letters in the Telegraph began to reach us. They were rosy at first, and we smiled. Soon they were not so rosy; still we smiled. At last they were abusive; still we smiled, for, between ourselves, the correspondent "smiled" altogether too much while writing them. He went back when his work was done, and published two large volumes about us, and we forgave him-because we hated England.

meet her and him coming up the Bay, why, the Persimmon is generally the first to proclaim its hatred of England. The unresisting Briton is captured before he has reached our shores, and is compelled to promise to dine with the Persimmon Club on the ensuing Saturday evening. Should he be captured by the Utopians, which is hardly likely, he would be compelled to make a similar promise. How can he escape? It is one of the customs of the country, he is told, and he submits. He is escorted to his hotel and guarded,-on the honor of the Etcher, he is guarded strictly. Interviewers are kept from him; chagrin at losing him keeps away the Utopians; the Persimmon is radiant and rampant. Saturday evening comes, and with it the distinguished Briton. He is dined tolerably; he is wined largely; he is smoked dreadfully, for the Persimmonses are tobacconalians; and then he is -spoken at. Elaborate impromptus are declaimed, and he is obliged to listen to them, and to answer

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But to come to something more recent, for this occurred ten or twelve years ago. There are in New York as many clubs as are good for the morals of its young men (a strict moralist would, probably, say more, but let that pass); and among these clubs are two which are especially devoted to hating England. Everybody has heard of the Persimmon Club, and a good many have heard of the Utopian. We read about them in the papers-indeed, we can't help reading about them. It was believed in the olden time that a Club was a private institution, established for the sole use of its members, whose sayings and doings were sacred. There was a rose of silence over every door. All that is changed now, except in the case of one old fogy Club called The Sentry, probably because it is so difficult to pass the Committee of Admissions. It is the business of the Persimmon and the Utopian to hate England, and manfully do their members carry it on. There is a rivalry between the two Clubs on this point, and the struggle is to decide which shall be the first in declaring it. When an English steamer crosses the bar at Sandy Hook with a distinguished Briton on board, the great fact is telegraphed to each Club, and a delegation of its members, who sleep in the Club House for that purpose, goes to meet him. The Utopians go in carriages, the gentlemen of the Persimmon in a steam-tug; and as the carriages can get no nearer the incoming steamer than the dock at which she will land her precious passenger, while the tug can

them. He stammers,-all Britons do,-but manages to survive the attacks that are made upon his unhappy country; and when all is over, he goes back to his hotel delighted. At least, he professes to be then, but the headache which he has, or ought to have, the next morning, may lead him to reconsider that profession. This, as the Etcher conjectures, is what happens to the wretched Briton; and that his conjecture is not very inaccurate, he knows when he sees the Sunday Trumpet or the Monday's Rostrum, where the speeches that were given and taken are reported in full, with a florid description of the Club House, and a list of the distinguished guests who were present. All of which is delightful reading. It matters not who the Briton is:

"To this complexion he must come at last." Last year he was an elocutionist, a novelist, a historian; this year he is the same elocutionist, another historian, and a poet. How we Americans hate England!

The object of this etching, for it has one, is not so much to confute the assertion of Mr. Goldwin Smith, which is absurd, as to indicate a defect in the American character, and that is, the habit of toadying Englishmen. They may be distinguished or they may not; we toady them all the same. We do it at our Clubs,—that is, they do it at the Persimmon and the Utopian,-and we do it at our tables, when they condescend to accept our multitudinous invitations.

The Etcher wishes to be understood. He bebelieves in great men, English or otherwise, and no one is more ready to do homage to their greatness. He believes in the recognition which Froude and Kingsley, and Tyndall and Proctor have received here, but he does not believe in the recognition which certain other Englishmen, who need not be named, have received. It exceeded their deserts, which were small, when they were not imaginary, and he frankly confesses that he is ashamed of his countrymen.

"They loved not wisely, but too well." Will they ever learn to love wisely?

SINCE he has touched upon a defect in the American character, the Etcher proposes to point out a peculiarity in it, which he has no doubt is common to human nature the world over, and that is, the desire to get something for nothing. It is engendered in the hearts of the rich and the poor, but, as a rule, more in the hearts of the rich than the poor, who generally expect to pay for what they get. Some writer, the Etcher forgets who, tells a story of a little urchin that he used to see night after night at a circus, fast asleep. He woke him at last, and asked why he came, when he could not keep awake. "Because I have a pass," he replied, between his winks, "and must come." He was getting something for nothing, and was bound to have it, even if he slept it out.

The Etcher recalls a friend, who heard once that the keeper of a certain great restaurant would give a free lunch on a given day to all who sat down at his counter, provided they paid for their bibulation. He was in high glee at the prospect of the free lunch; not that it mattered to him, for he was as affluent as the hero of a young lady's novel, and determined to be present, but having a treacherous memory, he forgot all about it when the day came, and went and had his lunch elsewhere. When the Etcher reminded him of the free lunch, he went and had that. He could not resist the something for nothing. He remarked to the Etcher that two things struck him on that occasion,-one was, that the free lunchers were not clerks, errand boys, and the like, but merchants and bankers,-what they call "solid men" in Boston; the other was, that few drank anything that had to be paid for. The fact was probably noticed by the proprietor of

the restaurant, who went to bed that night a sadder and wiser man. He gave no more free lunches.

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The Etcher was reminded of this anecdote a few days ago as he was strolling about the city in his careless way. He was walking with his head down, as an abstracted man is apt to do, when he was suddenly brought up by the banging of a carriage door. He stopped, and saw that the street was lined with carriages. They were three deep, and of the most stylish sort: one had but to see the horses and the liveried drivers to see that they belonged to the crême de la crême. What is going on, the Etcher asked himself, a wedding, or a funeral? He waited, there was no bride: he looked, there was no hearse. He confided his curiosity to a friendly policeman, who smiled at his ignorance, and proceeded to question him. 'What day is to-day?" The Etcher mused, and answered, "Monday." "Don't that explain it ?" "Explain what?" "Do you know what building that is?" pointing to the great house before which the carriages were drawn up? "No." "Metropolitan Museum of Art." "I see: it is Art which attracts all the fine people whom I see going in and coming out of the Museum." He stared at the Etcher, that skeptical policeman, as if he were a candidate for the lunatic asylum. "Art be hanged! It is because they can get in for nothing." "But they charge twenty-five cents for admission." "It is free Mondays." "So that poor people can see the collection. How thoughtful of the Trustees!" "Here come some of your poor people," he remarked, as a party of richly dressed ladies descended the broad steps, and, brushing away a little girl who was trying to sell flowers, entered their carriages, and were driven rapidly away. The Etcher pondered on what he said as he ascended the steps of the Museum. He was jostled at the door by another party of ladies, who stared at him superciliously, and barred his entrance until they had finished their small talk. As at the door, so throughout the building, it was filled with those who had no right to be there on that day, which was set aside for those who could not afford to pay, if it was set aside for anything. It was the day of the poor. There are thousands of poor men and women in New York by whom the opportunity of seeing the Cesnola Collection, and the works of art which supplement it, would not be neglected, if they knew that it was offered to them free, and if they had the courage to avail themselves of it. The Etcher knows what he is writing about, when he declares that it demands more courage than most of them possess to force their way into the Museum on a free day, as he did, to be stared at, as he was, and to feel the contrast between the silks and satins and his rough garments. There was a time, perhaps, when this contrast would have pained him, but it is past, for he has now learned the philosophy of clothes and their wearers. The poor have not learned it yet: they are still abashed by the rich, particularly when the rich are insolent. The

natural inequality between the two is so great that no lady or gentleman would knowingly increase it. So the Etcher thought, as he struggled from room to room, seeing nothing that he would like to have seen, so many fine people were before him. He was not amused until he reached the Cypriote statues, who seemed to enjoy the crowd hugely. Not a man, among them, if they were men, not a deity, if they were deities, but was on the point of breaking into laughter. They were the merriest race that the sun ever shone upon. Clearly they were adepts in the art of living easily, and in the greater art of getting something for nothing. That was why they smiled so approvingly on the jostling groups below, who had come there in their carriages to see them, just because they could do it for nothing. The Etcher was appeased, when he entered into their mood, and he plodded homeward grimly, with a lurking consciousness in his soul, that he had been doing the same thing!

THE art of walking the streets, if it was ever known, is a lost art in America. The poet, Gay, wrote a poem about it a hundred and fifty years ago, and it is still worth reading, as a picture of the London of that time. It will not aid us, however, in the endeavor to walk our own streets, for many of the difficulties and dangers to pedestrians then have passed away, and other have taken their place. What annoys the Etcher more than these, which can generally be avoided by a quick eye and a cool head, is the entire disregard for others which is the characteristic of the average American pedestrian. He cares for nobody, and is rather proud of the fact. If he carries a cane, as young gentlemen of a certain age will, he twirls it by the handle as he walks until he describes a revolving circle, which is inconvenient to those who are before him, and those who are behind him. The best remedy for this annoyance is to stop this thoughtless young person blandly, remove the cane from his hand gently, break it He smilingly, and toss the pieces into the street. You will be grateful to you-when he grows up. walk on with the sense of having done your duty to yourself, and the community, but for your life you cannot pass the person in front of you. hurry up with the intention of passing him on the right, but he shoots off to the right, just as you do, and you are impeded as before. Then you shoot off to the left, and he does the same. What to do, is the question. You have an important engagement with your lawyer. You promised to see a friend off for Europe. Your mother-in-law is waiting for you at the boat. How shall you pass him? The Etcher hesitates to give advice; but, at a venture, he suggests that if you cannot get round the Obstacle, you collide, and do the best you can. A little further on,-supposing that you do get on,-you are stopped on a narrow side-walk by three or four

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hulking men, who entirely block the way while they stop to babble their nothings. What shall you do here? You know what you would like to do, if you have as much of the old Adam in you as the Etcher; but it is safer to step round by the way of the gutter, which is not so very muddy after all. You congratulate yourself on having kept your temper; but you finally lose it as you are pushed rudely out of the way by a burly bully of a man whose grammar is dubious, but whose diamonds are genuine. He makes your blood boil. While you are in this amiable frame of mind, two young scamps of shoe-blacks take it into their idle heads to play "tag," and as they dodge around you, one of them manages to drop his box, and you are tripped up. You can't call a policeman, for boys will lark"What has he done?" the crowd would say, and it is not pleasant to parley with a sudden crowd, especially if you have any money about you. You had better not stop on the cross walk where you are; for cartmen have a curious way of turning suddenly round the corner when you least expect it; besides, it takes some time to reach the hospital in an ambulance. If it be an omnibus, it wont matter much, you are done for. And you are liable to all these annoyances, and these dangers, because the art of walking the streets is unknown in America.

The Etcher was growing querulous over this matter one day with a Celt of humble extraction; in other words, his shoe-maker. "What is the best way to walk the streets, Patrick?" he askedwhereto Patrick, "Ride, sir." Patrick was right. The Etcher intends to set up his carriage; for unless matters mend soon, he will be obliged to follow the advice that Alvaney gave Rogers-and set up his hearse !

THE Etcher has no great opinion of much that passes for poetry now, for, to tell the truth, he does not understand it at all. Here is something which one of his apprentices wrote, and begged him to slip in among his etchings, and to gratify the lad, who has parts, he consents. There is a familiar air about it, an aroma, so to say, of Concord. He has questioned the writer as to what the poem means, but his answer, like Sheridan's interpreter, is the hardest to be understood of the two.

HEART AND Brain.

Don't believe in heart?
I believe in brain:
Tell we where thou art :

There thou wilt remain !

Tell me where I stand : Look again for me,Search the sea, the landI am gone from thee!

I am gone beyond

Where thou wert and art:

Be not over-fond,

Therefore, of thy heart!

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Explanations are in order, in any of the modern languages, but English is preferred.

ROYALTY is such a serious matter at the best of times, that royal personages are not expected to jest much, and when they do indulge in that innocent recreation, their jests always pass for all they are worth. Queen Victoria was lately credited with a neat remark, apropos of the Republican opinions of Sir Charles Dilke, which, of course, were not over pleasant to her, whose only business is Royalty. She said that she used to take him on her knee when he was a child, and stroke his hair. perhaps," added her Majesty, "I stroked it the wrong way." Napoleon the Third never had the reputation of a wit, but he said one sharp thing after he had made himself master of the destinies of France. It was at the expense of his princely cousin, Plon Plon, who said to him one day, "You have "Yes," he renothing of your uncle about you." plied," his family."

"But

If all the good things that kings and queens are supposed to have said were collected, they could be contained in a small volume, the larger part of which would need much authentication. A leaf or two would be filled by his graceless Majesty, Charles the Second, whose character is so happily hit off in the immortal epigram of Rochester:

"Here lies our sovereign lord, the King,
Whose word no man relies on;
Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one.

Many leaves of this imaginary Royal Jest Book would doubtless be filled with the sayings of the old Kings of Ireland-if one could only be brought to believe in their rather apochryphal existence. Mr. Froude might tell us what he thinks about it,if he were in America now; but it is just as well, perhaps, that he is not; for there is no telling what a storm it might brew. Almost every true Irishman, we suppose, is a descendant of these old Irish Kings, and to question the whilom existence of his great ancestors, would be no joking matter. The Etcher prefers to admit it, therefore, and to imagine what merry monarchs these successors, or predecessors, or contemporaries of Brian Boru were, while he jots down two or three anecdotes of their descendants, which Planché, the dramatist, has preserved, and which are good enough to be imported.

An acquaintance of his, he says, who frequently visited Ireland, and generally stopped and dined at the same hotel in Dublin, on his arrival one day perceived a paper wafered on the looking-glass in

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the coffee-room, with the following written notice, 'Strangers are particularly requested not to give any money to the waiters, as attendance is charged for in the bill." The man who had waited on him at dinner, seeing him reading the notice, said, “Oh Misther ; shure that doesn't consarn you, anyway. Your honor was niver made a stranger of in this house."

Planche tells another anecdote about a nobleman whom he met at dinner, and who told him that he had been shooting at a friend's place in the West of Ireland, and that the game-keeper had indulged in the most exaggerated accounts of the quantity of every description of game upon his master's estate. Nothing that ever ran or, flew, that his lordship inquired about, but was asserted by the man could be found by hundreds and thousands. Having, for amusement's sake, exhausted the catalogue of " fur and feathers," probable, or improbable, and received the most positive assurance of the existence of every beast or bird in abundance, he asked, "Are there any parodoxes?" This was rather a poser; but, after a moment's hesitation, the keeper answered undauntedly, "Bedad, then, your lordship may find two or three of them sometimes on the sand, when the tide's out."

A third story concerns a fellow traveler, whom Planché met in Germany, and who was, himself, an Irishman. He was on the box of an Irish mailcoach, on a very cold day, and, observing the driver enveloping his neck in the voluminous folds of an ample comforter, he remarked, "You seem to be taking very good care of yourself, my friend,"

"Och, to be shure I am, sir," answered the driver, "what's all the world to a man when his wife's a widdy!"

THE Women's Temperance Movement at the East will, probably, be somewhat unlike that of the West, the circumstances of the two sections being different. They propose first to call upon the clergymen of New York, and if they are not driven off by a mob of Sunday-school boys and theological students, they then propose to try the various newspaper offices. If they can get the clergymen and the editors, they will feel like beginning on the grog-shops. The Etcher hopes these preliminary movements will not be accompanied by any violence beyond the pounding of a few pulpits.

THERE is now not only a Christian at Work in New York, but a Presbyterian at Work. It would be a comfort to the public to know the exact difference in these two agencies and their modes of operation. It is presumed, that the latter, as the later born, does not intend to enter the peculiar field of the other.

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THE SOUTH CAROLINA PROBLEM; THE EPOCH OF TRANSITION. PORT ROYAL, in South Carolina, was once first cousin to Plymouth Rock, in Massachusetts. Both places were consecrated to liberty of conscience in the early days of American history. The rugged New England headland was the refuge and the fortress of the English Puritan; the fertile plain at the mouth of the broad and noble Carolinian river was the resort of the French Huguenot, who preferred exile and danger to the sacrifice of his faith. Jean Ribault and his hardy men-at-arms, sailing northward from the blooming banks of Florida, in 1562, anchored their ships during a great storm at the mouth of a "fair and large harbor," and named it, and the river emptying into it, Port Royal. The good Frenchmen who had been sent by brave old Admiral ColVOL. VIII.-9

igny to found an asylum for the oppressed in the New World, wandered delightedly along the shores of the stream, under mossgrown oaks and lofty pines, beneath the cedars and the palmettoes, and shaped visions of future glory. They pictured to themselves the time when the waters of the vast harbor should be covered with noble fleets; when spacious gardens should cover the luxuriant shores; and, after a few days of repose, they raised a stately pillar of stone, with the arms of France graven on it, and, in honor of Charles IX., built a fort called Arx. Carolina on an island in the river. A little garrison was placed in charge, and Ribault returned to France, to recount with enthusiasm the wonders of that part of the then province of Florida, destined in future to be named,

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