and each was as full of love for fatherland, as an inflated balloon is full of gas.

"To the d- I bob you and Scotland," said the Irishman, "sure it's no counthry at all at all-nor never was. Where was Scotland, I'd like to know, whin there was no one in Ireland but saints, and kings, and princes? and no houses, but all castles, that neither ould Nick nor ould Nol could make a braych in ?”

"Weel, weel, Mr. O'Toole," said the Scotchman, "it is nae the cook, or the rooster, as folks here ca' him-it is na the rooster, I say, that craws loodest that maks the best fight. Auld Scotland was a'ways where she is noo mon-that is just ayont the Tweed."

"O, ye're an uncivilized set of haythens, any how," said Mr. O'Toole. "Hav'nt ye always ran wild through the Highlands, like Ingins, without as much as a bit of breeches on yer legs?"

"I acknowledge we have, Mr. O'Toole, and so ha' the ancient Romans-they wore nae breeks when they conquered the world," said the Scotchman, whose name, we should before have told our readers, was Sandy MacPherson.

"Thin, where's your national music? where's your harp ?— the're both like Brien Flanagan's cow, when she got drown'd in the bog-hole-faith the're missin."

"They're nae sick a thing," said MacPherson, "we ha' goot oor Highland bagpipes, and it can stir up the bluid o' a Scotchman any day as weel as your harp."

"O, Holy Moses!" exclaimed O'Toole, "d'ye call the noise made by that bresna of sticks, music! why, be jabers, I'd put a turkey-cock under my arm, catch his bill between my fingers, and make him play as good music as your bagpipes any day :music! well, if that is'nt takin' a liberty with the king's English, there's no shamrocks in Ireland. The Scotch fiddle is the only instrument, that I know of, ye can lay any claim to!" "Vera weel, vera weel," said MacPherson, "let us nae quarrel aboot it."

66

"Well thin, why don't ye whist? said O'Toole, " don't be makin' a Judy Fitzimmons of yerself. I suppose you'll be afther tellin' me that yer poetry is as good as ours too!"

"Yes" and I'll maintain it too," said MacPherson, evincing some warmth of manner for the first time.

"You can't," said O'Toole, “no more than you can stop the Shannon with a pitchfork."

MacPherson thought he could, and was determined he would, so from the compositions of the

"Lyric singers of that high soul'd land,"

he made a selection from his favourite, Rabby Burns, and commenced singing at the top of his voice,

"O Thou, my muse! guid ould Scotch drink,
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink;

Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink

In glorious faem
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing thy name."

"Stop that," said O'Toole, "jist drop it like a hot prayta, if you wish to have your head whole; that's a national reflection-it conveys a double on-ton-dray, as the French say; it's an insinuation against Irish potheen, the shuperiority of which, above all other liquors, never was questioned before,” and he began singing louder than the Scotchman, if not sweeter,

"There's not in the wide world, a liquor yet known,
That's as good as the potheen of famed Innesshoun."

When a Dutch watchman came up, who looked like a mammoth locomotive head of cabbage, and said, "sthop that tam noise-what be for makin' such fush?"

"You be d- -d, old leather head," said O'Toole; "be carefu', Charley," said MacPherson," that you dinna go ayont the boonds o' your duty: if I ken the constitution rightly, it says naething aboot the impropriety of folks crooning a song in the public streets."

"I whants no law from no one but the Recordher," said the Dutchman; he struck the curb stone, put the pair of worthies under arrest, and marched them to the watch-house. MacPherson, when there, complained of the act as a wanton outrage on his personal liberty, and O'Toole said that his Milesian blood was ready to gush from his veins when he thought of it.

When they got out they forgot their mutual national antipathies, and conjointly heaped maledictions on the leather heads of all watchmen in general, and on that of the Dutch watchman in particular.

23

THE LAST CARD.

THE LAST CARD.

WILLIAM TIMMONS, a sallow looking, nervous little man, was the most clamorous appellant for justice who appeared before Recorder Baldwin yesterday. A good natured looking woman, fat, fair and forty, who wore as many frills and fringes as a lady of the haut ton in the Elizabethean age, had a hold of him by the arm, and seemed to be using all the persuasive eloquence of which her sex in cases of emergency are so capable. When she found her tongue flagging, she called a pair of once bright eyes to her aid, which were still far from being lustreless; and if neither tongue nor eyes seemed to make the desired impression, she gave his arm a gentle pressure, or pulled him half playfully, half persuasively by the breast button hole of the coat. It being outside the bar, in the court, the conversation was carried on in an undertone. We were ignorant of the subject, but could see from the pantomime in which Mr. Timmons indulged, that

"he heeded not the voice of the charmer
Though charmed she never so wisely."

"I don't care, I'm determined to," said Mr. Timmons. "Lor' bless you, Mr. Timmons," said the fat woman with the frills, "you know the hinnocent birds don't know nothing about whigs or locofocos, now don't Mr. Timmons."

"I will," said Mr. Timmons; "I'm determined; I don't blame the birds; but I want to have the fullest satisfaction which the law will allow."

"Won't you listen to reason, Mr. Timmons ?" said the fat

woman.

"I'll listen to nothing," said Mr. Timmons, speaking as loudly as if the fat woman's sense of hearing was very imperfect.

What is that noise about?" said the Recorder.

"I wants to tell your honour all about it," said Mr. Tim

mons.

"So do I too, your honour," said the fat woman with the frills.

"Which of you is the complainant?" said the Recorder. "I am, please the court," said Mr. Timmons.

"He haint got no complaint to make," said the fat woman with the frills.

"Silence," said one of the police officers.

"Let us hear your complaint," said the Recorder, addressing Mr. Timmons.

"Certainly sir," said Mr. T., and pushing the hair up off his forehead, applying a red pocket handkerchief to his proboscis, and giving a couple of short coughs, he commenced.

"You see, sir, this here woman and I is next door neighbours. I am a locofoco as strong as pisin, and she is a wiolent vhig."

"O, good gracious!" ejaculated the fat woman with the frills; "did you ever!"

"Silence," said the

peace officer.

"How do you know she's a whig?" asked the Recorder. "'Cause, don't they say the vimen are all vigs?" asked Mr. Timmons; "besides I knows from what she has taught her birds."

"O Lor' ha' mercy on me," ejaculated the fat woman with the frills, "I aint nothin' but a poor, lone widder."

"What has she taught her birds ?" asked the Recorder.

66 Why, 7, you see," said Timmons, "she's got what she calls a havery, (an aviary) where she keeps all kinds of foreign and domestic hanimals in the bird line, and she has taught them all to abuse me and my principles."

66

"How so?" asked the Recorder. "I don't understand you." Why, just this here way, your honour," said Timmons: "she has got a crooked-nosed, green parrot at her door, and ven ever he sees me he begins to laugh at me, and he sings"Did you hear the news from Maine, Maine, Maine ?" "And more times he sings

Van, Van, Van

Van is a used-up man!'

"Then she's got some other kinds of foreign birds that says-Kinderhook cabbage, Kinderhook cabbage, sour crout, sour crout; Matty, go home; Matty, go home."

"I merely want's to have her bound over to keep the peace," said Mr. Timmons," and not to be annoying me."

"Won't your honour hear me ??? asked the fat woman with the frills.

"Yes," said the Recorder; "step forward."

"Well, you see, your honour, I haint got a bird in the wide

world but a parrot, an English lark, and a Guinea hen; and they are all the company I has since my poor, dear old man died. This here man, Mr. Timmons, is a werry good man, but he sometimes gets tipsy, and when he does he says my birds do be singing Tippecanoe songs and talkin' politics: there aint one on 'em can speak a word, your honour, but the parrot, and she don't say nothin' but pretty Poll, pretty Poll.' I believes, your honour, it's all owin' to the influence of liquor, for when he's sober he don't say nothin'."

"Are you afraid this woman will do you any injury?" asked the Recorder of Mr. Timmons.

"I is not," said Mr. Timmons; " but I only requests that her birds won't be riggin' me 'bout my politics."

"O, well," said the Recorder," since the birds are not amenable to this court, I can't dwell longer on this case. It is discharged."

"Ŏ, Mr. Timmons, Mr. Timmons," said the fat woman with the frills, "aint you a pretty next door neighbour, to bring a poor, lone widder, that hain't got no one but herself and her birds, into court."

A DOUBLE SHAVE.

BILL BROWN vs. auguSTUS JONES.

THIS case excited considerable interest in the Recorder's court, Saturday. Brown is an English sailor. Augustus Jones belongs to the sable race, and fills the vocation of mariner's tonseur on the Levee.

"State your complaint," said the Recorder.

"To save this honourable court trouble," said a little sixand-eight-penny lawyer, "I have made a brief of my client, Mr. Brown's case, and shall read it, if the court will command silence."

Here he pulled from the pocket of his thread-bare coat about a quire of foolscap, closely written over, and commenced

"Whereas, this day——"

Recorder. "Stop-stop, sir! You don't mean to read all that!"

My

Attorney. Certainly, may it please your honour. duty to my client, justice to my own professional reputation,

my