6 'Shanvanvouth,' or the 'Battle of Tara.'' 'Ah, that's ould ninety-eight brakin' out,' sis Tom. 'An' didn't you want to throw Shamus ahocka (King James) in our teeth?" • You lie,' sis Tom. You lie,' sis Farrell. Take that,' sis Tom. 'An' that,' sis Farrell; an' thin, your honour, there was a gineral ruckawn-a sort of a permiscous skrimmage-and divil a haporth more do I know about it. Me own pipes was made kippeens of in the row, and I b'lieve I'd have been kilt intirely, only for me gardian angel, Miss O'Hern-may the cloud o' misfortune never darken her bright looks." The Recorder, finding it impossible to discriminate between the plaintiffs and defendants, bound all the parties over to keep the peace. A VETERAN OF THE IMPERIAL ARMY. THE most prominent picture in the Recorder's gallery of portraits yesterday morning was Macenat Fournier. Poor Macenat! adversity has left its traces deep and visible on thy features, and however bright your sun of life may have risen, it will set ere long, obscured by the clouds of misfortune. In order to see Macenat in the mind's eye, a brief outline of his outer man is indispensably necessary. He must have seen some fifty summers; aye, and a like number of winters. The summers have embrowned his features, and given to his face a mandarin kind of colour; the winters have frosted his hair, and left Time's tracks on his forehead. He was dressed in a muchworn military frock, in a hat of feltless antiquity, and in trousers which were once white, but now needed no committee to decide that they wanted washing. Two or three faded tri-coloured ribands were suspended to the breast of his coat; the remnant of what was once a moustache clung to his upper lip; he held in his hand a cane stick, to which was attached a leather tassel, and at his feet lay a half-starved long-haired French terrier dog. "Where did you find this man?" said the Recorder, addressing the captain of the guard, and referring to Fournier. "He was sleeping in the cathedral," said the officer, "and his dog well nigh bit me when I went to arrest him." "What brought you into the church?" said the Recorder, speaking to Fournier, "why were you sleeping there ?" A VETERAN OF THE IMPERIAL ARMY. 17 "Ah!" said Fournier, "I went to pay my respect-my devoir to the memory of le grand Empereur! great sheneral! mighty man!" and his lustreless eye was for a moment lit up by his enthusiastic recollection of the hero of a hundred fights. What did you know of the General ?" said the Recorder. "What I know of him?" said the little veteran, shrugging his shoulders, "ah, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! I know'd all of him; I much wid him; I mess wid him; I fight wid him; I retreat wid him from Moscow; I die wid him.-He be one very little, big, great General !" "Bow! ow! ow!" barked the little dog that lay at Fournier's feet, looking up wistfully in his master's face, as if he intuitively had learned that he was in difficulties. "Ah, poor doggy!" said the Frenchman, and a tear drop started into the puckered corner of his eye, "you is de only one friens old Fournier has left. De French Republic gone--Bonaparte gone-wife gone-son gone-daughter gone-all be gone but you. You stick to old Macenat whether he have money, whether he have bread, whether he have house, or whether he have nothin'. Doggy! master have no Hospital of Invalides to shelter him, and when he die you have no one to give you de crust of bread, and you die too. Ah, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" "Have you belonged to the imperial army?" said the Recorder. “Oui, oui," said the little Frenchman, "me 'bliged to sell my medals, but there be my certificate of service," pointing to a sabre wound on his jaw, to another on his head, and to a gun shot wound on his leg, "dere, dere, dere!”—Here the little dog barked again, and the Frenchman patted him affectionately on the back. "How long have you been in this country?" said the Recorder. "Twenty and one two years,” said the Frenchman. 66 Why did you come to this country ?" said the Recorder. “Ah, that be too much sorrowful to tell," said the Frenchman. "My sheneral, the brave Napoleon, he be sent to St. Helena, my wife she die, my son and my daughter-fine boy! fine girl!-dey come to dis country of liberty; de imperial army be disbanded, and poor Macenat have no friend in France but his dog, and he come after his children and take his dog wid him, but he nevare find dem, nevare, nevare-dey die, and leave him and his dog alone in strange country. Dieu! Mon Dieu !" Ah, Mon "Then you went to the church, I suppose," said the Recorder, "to witness the funeral ceremony of your late Emperor." "Oui, oui," said the war-worn soldier, " me had no friend to give me the entrée ; but me determined to be there or to die, so I sleep there all night, and my good dog he watch for me." "Well, take this," said the Recorder, and he slipped a Mexican casting into the hand of Fournier, "go and get thee some wine for there will be no funeral service to-day." A crowd of conflicting passions rushed into the countenance of the old Frenchman, but whether joy at receiving the gift, pleasure at being released from durance, or sorrow that he could not gratify his feelings by assisting in the funeral celebration of le grand Empereur, predominated, the most discerning physiognomist could not discover. He left the office, making divers bows and gesticulations of gratitude, and his dog mutely seconded his motions by sundry subdued friskings and wags of his tail. ARTIFICAL FLOWERS AND THE FLOWERS OF POESY. A most romantic looking young lady, calling herself Lavina Allen, complained before Recorder Baldwin yesterday that she was in personal fear of sustaining bodily injury from Mrs. Harley, whom she prayed the court to bind over to the peace. Lavina's face resembled a hawthorn bush covered with white spray of a frosty morning, there was such a profusion of white powder stuck upon it; her hair was drawn back a la Chinois, and her bonnet was so retiring that it covered but one half of her head. Her neck was long, and as she was squeezed into one of the modern, narrow sleeved, close fitting dresses, she looked like a finger board at a cross roads pointing opposite ways. Mrs. Harley was also present, and looked like a woman who slept twelve hours out of the twenty-four, and had both her washing and her fretting done out. "What has this lady done?" said the Recorder, addressing the amiable Lavina and pointing to Mrs. Harley. "She's a nasty, vulgar creeter," said Lavina, looking disdainfully at Mrs. Harley," and has no soul for poetry. ARTIFICIAL FLOWERS, &c. "Beautiful language! Love's peculiar own. By such sweet signs, the language of the heart."" 19 "She may not be blessed with a very exuberant imagination," said the Recorder-" she may not have the 'nack o' rhyme,' as Burns calls it, but although she have not, it is no evidence that she is of a quarrelsome disposition and should be bound over to keep the peace. To me the woman appears quiet and peaceable." Lavina.— "Ah! that deceit should assume such gentle shapes.' Just you see her, sir, of a day when there aint good business done in the shop; then she makes folks fly about." "Pray, of what does this young woman accuse you," said the Recorder to Mrs. Harley. Mrs. Harley." Please your honour, I manufacture artificial flowers, and had this girl and three or four others to work for me." “Girl!” said Lavina; "there's more vulgarity." "Silence!" said the peace officer. "Well as I was saying sir," said Mrs. Harley, "I manufacture artificial flowers, and work for several respectable families; but Lavina here is eternally talking poetry about love and nonsense, keeping the rest of the girls from their work. I sometimes remonstrate with her," continued Mrs. Harley. "I fear she is touched in the head, and have great compassion for her." Lavina. "What is compassion when 'tis void of love? To one that asks the warm return of love, "Do you owe her any thing?" said the Recorder to Mrs. Harley. "Yes, sir," said Mrs. Harley, "I owe her five dollars, and I offered it to her but she refused to take it." "I despise your dollars," said Lavina, suiting the action to the word with a swing of her arm. "The wealth I request is that of the heart, The smiles of affection are riches to me.' "Poor, dear girl," said Mrs. Harley, "it is coming on her She would be an excellent girl if she could be made to forget her poetry." now. Lavina. "I would not be placed on an intellectual level with you for all the artificial flowers that you ever sold and manufactured. 'She alone all competition towers Who adds, to other gifts, high mental powers." - Mrs. Harley. To the Recorder, aside, and in an under tone]-"Fact is, sir, I b'lieve, from scraps of writing which I saw in her room, that she is in love." Recorder. "You should mind your work, young woman, and forget those idle phantasies. This woman is not going to injure you." Lavina. "Lavina," said the Recorder, "you may go: I shall be bail myself that Mrs. Harley won't assault you. If she should, come here and I will give you ample satisfaction." Lavina. "I have a greatful soul-would give you thanks, [She weeps.] Take my thanks, that yet hath nothing else- Lavina bowed gracefully and withdrew, and Mrs. Harley closed her hands before her breast and looked up to the ceiling, as much as to say,-La, me! how I pity that poor crazed girl. NATIONAL RIVALRY. As the election excitement increases, so does the sale of whiskey punches, and so do the prisoners at the police office. Why the effect follows the cause, we are not metaphysicians enough to divine, and therefore content ourselves by stating the facts. On Saturday night two men were arrested by a cabbage-faced Dutch watchman: the one was a tall Scotchman, with legs as long as a surveyor's instrument, and a nose speckled like Scotch plaid: the other was a dumpy, potatofaced Irishman-each of them had a "wee drap in his 'ee," |