GEORGE WASHINGTON WIMPLE.

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GEORGE WASHINGTON WIMPLE.

THE MAN WHO PREFERS THE BALLAD TO THE BALLOT.

ABOUT last night's noon, an individual might be seen, and was by the watchman seen, wending his way up St. Charles street. His course was neither directly direct nor regularly irregular. It might have been a preparatory practice of the new Polka dance, or a succession of endeavours to kill cockroaches creeping on the banquette. Now the Charlies, who are all strict constructionists, and who enforce the letter of the municipal ordinances with as much rigour and exactness as the Medes and Persians did their laws, never interfere with a man's manner of walking, so long as he is able to walk at all; for our city lawgivers, with a wisdom and liberality above all price and beyond all praise, have left it to every man to move along as best he can, and have laid down no legal, definite mode of locomotion. But although they have so ruled it with regard to men's walking, they are more strict with reference to men's talking, after a certain hour of night, whether that talking be in tune or out of tune-a sermon or a serenade -a political speech or a temperance exhortation. It was in the enforcement of this peace-preserving principle that the watchman at the corner of Poydras and St. Charles streets, in a tone of imperative official authority, bade our hero "shut up!" who had just then been singing a song equal in metre and melody to any of our modern political lyrics, the chorus of which ran thus

"Hurra for the stripes and stars,

Hurra for annexation,

Hurra for our Yankee tars,

And our universal nation.""

"I orders you agin to shut up," said the watchman. "There aint no two ways about it you must either shut up yourself or I'll shut you up like winkin'. Some folks think watchmen aint nobody, but I'll let you know, old feller, that they are somebody, so sing small."

"Charles," said the vocalist, looking half-vacantly, halfscrutinizingly into the face of the watchman, "Charles, thou

art a waking somnambulist, a moving mass of mindless matter. Thou hast got speculation in thine eye but thou hast got no music in thy soul. Thou art impenetrable to the tones that wake the thoughts to tenderness-thou art impervious to the strains that rouse and stir up the slumbering spirit of patriotism. Thou

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"O, that's all very fine," said the watchman, cutting off the peroration of the speaker, "it's all very fine, but it aint no part of the ord'nance. Now, disturbin' the peace is, which consequently brings you within' the act protectin' the citizens in the natural enjoyment of their sleep."

It was in vain that the singer told the watchman that he transcended his duty; that his was an unjust interference with, and violation of, the rights of a citizen; the watchman "toted" him off to the calaboose.

"What's your name?" said the officer of the night. "George Washington Wimple," replied the prisoner. "The watchman charges you," said the officer, "with disturbing the peace."

"The watchman is a songless, soulless individual,” said Wimple," with a mind as dark as Erebus. I was not disturbing the peace, sir, I was singing-singing for the million. I was essaying to revive and rekindle the smouldering fire of patriotism, now almost extinguished in the breasts of our citizens. The time and the occasion called for it. The moon had already passed its meridian, and time in its unceasing travel had reached the sixty-eighth anniversary of our national independence. Who, sir, would not sing at such a time? Who would not send forth canticles burthened with patriotic pride on such an occasion? Were not those guns fired in Lafayette Square charged with patriotic powder, and was not I charged with patriotic praise to an extent that I must go off or burst?” "My duty is to commit you for the night," said the officer. "It will rest with the Recorder to-morrow morning to say how far you have offended against the laws."

"I protest," said Wimple, "against this arbitrary infringement on the rights of a citizen-a patriotic citizen who loves his country as that black rascal Othello did his beautiful wife, 'not wisely but too well-who

"O, look here, Mr. Thingamy," said the watchman, "niggers aint got nothin' to do with makin' the ord'nances."

"I say again," said Wimple, you have been guilty of a violation of my natural rights-and of the right election, too;

A MUDDLED milleritE.

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because political science has become a branch of vocal music. Voting by ballot is decidedly vulgar and corrupt; men will henceforth be sung into office-election will be by ballad and not by ballot. What better way is there, I should like to know, of ascertaining the voice of the people than by their capacity for singing?"

The officer told him he was not prepared to argue the question with him and locked him up. We trust the Recorder will take his patriotism into consideration this morning, and dispense with the usual "thirty days."

A MUDDLED MILLERITE.

"BILL BRITTLE?" said the Recorder yesterday. "Y-e-s," answered a fellow in the dock, who seemed as bewildered as if he had been in a magnetic slumber.

"You were found drunk last night," said the Recorder, "and could not find your way home."

"I haint no home," said Bill. "The world's at an end, and I'm an antediluvian."

“Oh, you have no fixed place of residence then ?" said the Recorder.

"I'd like to know who has," said Bill. "I thought I could stand a blowing up pretty well-I have had some experience way, as the old woman's tongue can testify; but last night put a finisher on every thing-but I suppose it's all right."

in that

"No," said the Recorder, "it was not all right for you to be lying in the street at twelve o'clock last night."

"Well, your honour," said Bill, "you know I couldn't help it, no how I could fix it: you know, what is to be will be, as Parson Miller said when he foretold the end of the worldbut I suppose it's all right."

"Then

you are a Millerite, and thought, no doubt, that you would be destroyed last night," said the Recorder.

“Thought!" said Bill"I knew I would before it had happened at all. It was all well enough while the ascension lasted, but it was cussed unpleasant when we were all pitched into invisible darkness: a feller couldn't move without breakin' his shins and fallin' over dead men's bodies. I could have sworn it was down below, only it wasn't hot enough for that.

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I don't see, squire-I don't see what occasion the world has had to kick up a general fuss of this kind-but I suppose it's all right!"

"You may compose your nerves," said the Recorder; "for although you may be a gone case, the world is still right side up. That very agreeable ascension sensation you had, was nothing more than the operation of brandy toddies on the brain; and that darkness visible, which you fancied pervaded the world, did not extend beyond the limits of the watchhouse."

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"I suppose it's all right," said Bill Brittle; but he said it in such a tone that he did not seem to think it was.

"Yes, it is about right," said the Recorder; "but to make it righter, I'll send you down for thirty days."

Bill was taken out of the court by a watchman, without making another observation.

THE LOSS OF A CHARACTER.

JUST as the clock struck ten yesterday morning, a young woman, wearing a profusion of red ribbons in her bonnet, and a large McGregor worsted shawl, entered the office of Recorder Baldwin, followed by a leering looking young fellow in a blue coat and pants, and wearing his hat in a break-myheart, one-sided fashion. The young man in the blue suit was evidently using his most persuasive powers to prevent the young woman who sported the red ribbons from doing something which she seemed intent on doing, and the young woman with the red ribbons in her bonnet and the McGregor shawl on her shoulders, seemed determined to disregard the entreaties of him in blue, and to do the something which she intended to do, at all hazards.

"Don't Bridget, a cushla," said the man who wore his hat slaringdicular, "don't be after exposin a daycent boy in a koort; and in troth if the truth was towld, that's not what I dasarve from your mother's daughter, and that's yourself," and he looked into Bridget's blue eyes with a look made up of two parts of love and one part of pity.

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Ah, Barney, avic," said Biddy, apparently somewhat moved at the pathetic appeal of the young fellow in the blue suit, yet still determined to carry out her principles. "Ah, thin, Bar

THE LOSS OF A CHARACTER.

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ney, avic, it's little use you have talkin to me: sure I wonst believed you'd no more tell a lie than a priest, but it's myself that was mistaken in you, you betrayin decayver."

All this occurred outside the bar, and though began in an under tone, it ended in a tone of voice loud enough to attract the attention of the court.

"What the matter, there?" asked the Recorder.

"O, it's mather enough," said Bridget, "here's a thraytor (pointing to Barney) that purtinded to be braykin his hart about me, and if I wint to a dance or a party, he was sure to be there and putten his comehether on me, jist as if his intintions was honest. Bridget, asthore, he'd say, your the paytee blossom of my heart, and it's meself that 'ud be the happy boy for ever and a day, if you war only to say you love me." "What's your name?" asked the court.

"Bridget Boylan, your honour," said the fair complainant, "and it's daycently I was christened that."

"And what is the young man's name ?" asked the Recorder, pointing to Barney.

"O, Godee knows, what's his rale name," said Bridget, "but he calls himself Barney Doud."

"Well, Bridget," said the Recorder, "what complaint have you to make against Barney?"

"O," said Bridget, in a manner which told that the 'greeneyed monster' was working within her, "O, the thief of the world! the two faced villain! didn't I see him as grayt as you playse with Sally Farrell last evenin, and warn't they sittin on one of the binchies in Layfayette Square together, and he usin all sorts of palaver to her, the same as if he intinded to make her his lawful married wife."

“But there is nothing criminal in setting on a bench in Lafayette Square with Sally Farrell," said the Recorder, “ and making any declaration that is consistent with propriety."

"O, sarra a care I care about that," said Bridget," I wouldn't look the side of the street he'd be, nor I don't mane to have one word more to say to him, hot or could, but he has taken my kracter, and I want your honour to make him return it!" "O, that's a very serious charge-a very serious charge," said the Recorder, "and one which I have not the power to redress. If he has, by detraction or otherwise, injured your character, you had better sue him for slander. always anxious to do justice to the injured, particularly when one of the gentler sex is in the case." This compliment to

Our courts are