AN ARTIST IN TROUBLE.

11

At this wanton interruption of the general order of the court, the Recorder cried "Silence!" and every officer in court echoed the order.

"What is the matter?" asked the Recorder.

"Vhy, here pe von tam imposthure vhat say he painted my shon, and it aint my shon, not at all, Got tam." Here the Dutchman looked sourcrout at the tall, thin gentleman in the seedy black suit with the faded silk hat.

The Dutchman got a hint to "shut up," from one of the officers, and was told if he did not treat the court with more deference, he would have to rusticate in the calaboose for twenty-four hours.

"Will you," said the Recorder, addressing the tall, thin man -"will you explain the matter at issue between this man, who seems inclined to be so noisy, and yourself. What is it that has brought both of you here?"

"I shall endeavour," said the tall, thin man in the seedy suit of black," to comply with the request of the court; and although in the absence of my legal adviser I feel the weight of the responsibility which rests on me, yet trusting to the truth of my cause, to the enlightened and liberal feeling that pervades this court and this great community in every thing which relates to the fine arts, and firmly believing that in this intellectual age when genius is fostered, when true taste is appreciated, when brilliant talents are succoured and encouraged -in a word, may it please the court, when mind predominates over mere matter-I fearlessly enter on the task which the court has imposed on me, regardless of the results, when I have no one to combat but the vegetable individual—the animated pumpkin who now stands by my side."

"Got tam!" said the Dutchman.

"Silence!" said the officer. And the man in the seedy suit proceeded.

"As I was saying to the court," continued the man who looked like a target " my picture of the transaction, like all which I have ever drawn, shall be life-like. I shall use only the brush of truth, and my colouring shall be natural and in strict accordance with facts.-The part which I have acted in the affair, will, I am sanguine to say, furnish me with light. This individual's conduct,"-pointing to the Dutchman— "supplies more than a sufficient share of shade."

"Have you any complaint to make?" asked the Recorder, appearing somewhat tired of listening to the speech of the tall,

thin man, which smelt strongly of vermillion, black lead and yellow ochre.

"Ah," said the tall, thin man, "there's the rub. Allow me for one moment to brush up my memory, and I shall an 'unvarnished tale deliver' of the transaction."

"You tam humpug," said the Dutchman, in a tone which did not reach the bench.

"My name, may it please the court," said the tall, thin man, "is Jones-Sylvester Jones, at the service of the court. I am a professor of the fine arts, or as it is vulgarly called, a painter. I am a F. R. S., and R. A., and an A. S. S. This individual here, whose name, as well as I can pronounce it, is Johan Vonhickenslaughter. What an abominable, unpoetical name !" "No matter about the euphony of the name," said the Recorder. "What has he done?"

"Why," said the artist, "he employed me to take a portrait of his eldest son, a mere human animalcula I assure you, with no more expression in his face than there is in a peeled turnip. Well, of course I gave a life-likeness of the boy. My great forte is in catching the expression of the eye and the muscles of the mouth, but d- -n me- -(beg the court's pardon)-he, I say, had no expression to catch.-Well, I took the picture home, and would the court believe it, instead of paying me for it, this individual offered me personal violence because his son's portrait did not resemble a picture of the younger Bonaparte, which he had hanging up in his room, and whom, he says, his son resembles, ha! ha! ha!-Beg the court's pardon again, but really-cannot avoid laughing at the individual's idea-a perfect monomania, I assure you."

"Got tam, doesh you shay dat pe like my shon? It ish like not no one, Got tam." Here the Dutchman exhibited what the artist called a perfect likeness of Mrs. Vonhickenslaughter's first born, but which was in truth as like an antiquated Dutch doll, Admiral Vonbroom, or a pair of twin apples grafted together, as it was like the human face divine of either the young Dutchman or any one else.

"Whesh mhy shon's nose, or mhy shon's eyh's, or mhy shon's red cheeks? Got tam," said the Dutchman, as he pointed to where those different features should be on the painting.

The Recorder said he was not prepared to say what were the talents of the artist, or how far his own account of his professional abilities was correct, but he certainly did not look on the picture exhibited as a chef d'œuvre in the way of por

"IRISH EVENINGS.”

13

trait painting, nor could he undertake to tell how nearly it resembled the original, as the amiable youth whose likeness it purported to be was not present. As there was no actual assault proven he refused to grant a warrant, and dismissed the parties, advising Mr. Vonhickenslaughter to permit little Vonhickenslaughter to set once more to Sylvester Jones, the

artist.

The Dutchman left the office, swearing that no "tam humpug should nhever phaint hish shon." "Mhy shon," he said, "ish like young Bhonaparte, put that phicter whashn't like nhopody, Got tam."

"IRISH EVENINGS."

MODERN language and novel interpretation have changed in a great degree the meaning of words. For instance, "Irish Evenings" may mean evenings in England, evenings in France, evenings in Timbuctoo, or, in fact, evenings in any part of the globe. Will the gentle reader-all readers are gentle by courtesy, just as members of congress are all "honourable”— will the gentle reader, then, allow us to illustrate. The last we heard of Samuel Lover, the gifted poet, painter and musician, he was giving a series of entertainments in Liverpool, England, which he called "Irish Evenings;" and Brougham, the comedian, who was here last winter, was, per last newspaper report, giving "Irish Evenings" in one of the New England cities. We say thus much to show that when we speak of "Irish Evenings" in New Orleans, we are guilty of neither bull nor blunder-we but follow in the wake of others, to take our cue from whom is, we contend, both legal and legitimate.

Whether Mick Maguire, the hero of our "Irish Evenings," meant to copy after Lover or Brougham we know not; but certes it is that he, like them, has had his "Irish Evenings." The scene of the last of them was laid in Girod street, and the time was Friday, ten o'clock, P. M. Of this fact we became informed by seeing at the police office yesterday the aforesaid Mick Maguire, Terence Tooley, and we know not how many others, all parties either plaintiffs or defendants. Mick Maguire, it appeared, was the great feature in the evening's fun, and on him fell the burden of the charge, rather a

B

serious one in its nature, embracing the crimes of disturbing the peace, assault and battery, interfering with the watchman in the discharge of his duty, &c.

After a careful notation of the charge, or series of charges, by the Recorder, he asked" What have you got to say in your defence, Mr. Maguire ?",

66 "O, murther! murther! Recorder, jewel," said Mick, "is me life goin' to be sworn away by a vagabone haythin' like Ned Nowlan, who never crassed his forehead, and has no more b'lief in the forgiveness o' sins and the communion o saints than I have in the prophecies of Parson Miller.”

Recorder." It is evident from the testimony of the watchman, that there was a violent disturbance of the peace. How did it come-or who was the cause of it?"

Mick. "O, faith, I'll tell you that your honour, in less time than I'd be tuning my pipes, though the story don't furnish altogether so sweet music."

Mick, it is necessary here to premise, is one of those wandering minstrels, vulgarly called a piper, who supports himself by his execution on the bagpipes. The race is almost extinct, and Mr. Maguire, it must be confessed, is a degenerate specimen of the Carolans of a former period.

"In the first place, your honour," continued Mick, "here's the billydoo, as they call it, that I got to attind at 377 Girod street last evenin'."

Here he handed a soiled and awkwardly folded note to the Recorder, which read thus

"Miss Margaret O'Hern presints her compliments to Mr. Maguire, Begs he will make one of a small tay party at her house this evenin". P. S. Coffee will be on the table at 8 o'clock. Let Mr. M. not forget to bring the sticks with him.

"Yis, sir," said Mick, she manes the pipes, and faith I wint with them yoked on to me arm as tight as if the ribbon attached to the chaunther was put there by Cohen, the bleedher." Recorder." But what was the cause of the quarrel and disturbance of the peace that occurred ?”

Mick. "Divil a haporth at all, your honour. You see, whin I wint to Margaret's, there was as dacent a crowd of boys' and girls assimbled there as iver I saw at the pathren of siven churches. Ye're wilcome, Mr. Maguire,' sis one. 'How is every rope's length of you, Mick?sis another. The divil burn the roof o' the house ye're not welcome to,' sis a third. Musha, more power to your elbow for bringin' the pipes,'

"IRISH EVENINGS."

15

sis a fourth; and that was the way they most kilt me with compliments. 'Yer sarvints, gintales,' sis myself, and sorra a word more I sed, but took me sate in the corner. 'Lit's have a blow o' yer bags,' sis Murty Malone. 6 Ah, whisht, Murty, avic,' sis me murneen bawn, Miss O'Hern, 'don't ask Mick to play till he wets his whistle.""

Recorder." But come to the assault and disturbance of the peace."

Mick.-"Why, your honour don't think, I hope, that the tongue of a poor Irish piper-a wandherin minstrel, as Tom Moore sis-is a locomotive or a magnetic tiligraph, that can go through a story in a minit. I'm an me oath, an' want to tell the whole truth."

Recorder.-"Go on, then."

Mick."Well, thin, as I was sayin', I tould Miss O'Hern that I felt much obleeged to her, but that sorra a dhrop I took sthronger than tay or could wather since I took the pledge, barrin' lemonade, and with that she makes me a tumbler as swate as her own bewitchin' smile."

Recorder." Well, about the assault?"

Mick."Faith, that's what I'm comin' to; but did you ever hear a good tune played unless the symphony went before it ?"

Recorder.-"Go on."

6

Mick."Well, be gor, I'd scarcely time to screw on the sticks, whin up they wor on the floor, paired as purty as pigeons. They called for an Irish jig, and I sthruck up Moll Roe on the Mountain.' Well, me dear-I beg yer honour's pardon-well, your honour, I mane to say-to it they wint, and sure enough they had it hands acrass'-' turn yer partner'-' right an' lift; be joxty, they wint the whole figure, as the sayin' is, till I was tired, an' they wor twice as tired as I was."

Recorder." I can stand this no longer; I insist on your coming to the case before the court.”

Mick. Sure I am comin'. Well, whin the dance was over, you see, Tom Fosther comes up to me-troth it's himself has the bad Cromwellian blood in him-and sis he to me, play us a tune, Mick,' sis he,' while the boys is gittin' their partners.' 'With the gratest pleasure in life,' sis I, what's your favourite? Croppy lie down,' sis he. I'd lose me life before I'd disgrace me pipes with the like of it,' sis I. • More power to your elbow, Mick,' sis Farrell Farley; 'play us the

6