A TOURIST IN TROUBLE.

GEORGE JONES, a kind of nondescript or amphibious anímal, half landsman and half sailor, was yesterday an applicant for justice before the Recorder. He is a short, chubby man, with dumpy legs, and looks something like an image of Toby Philpot on an earthern pitcher. He wore a blue cloth jacket that extended down to his hips, and white corduroy pants that did not extend farther than to form an alliance with his Wellington boots. He sported a red silk neckerchief, which contrasted strangely with his smoky-looking face, and his eyes were as dull and as listless as a London fog. He was of the genus cockney, and never had been out of sight of St. Paul's, nor out of sound of Bow-bells till a spirit of enterprise not commor to the denizens of the "great metropolis" induced him to cross the Atlantic.

"George Jones ?" said the Recorder.

"I's here, your vuship," said the interesting object of the foregoing remarks.

"Frederick Von Wyk?" said the Recorder.

"Dat ish me," replied an individual with a cabbage countenance, who looked as greasy as an old candle mould. "State your complaint, Jones," said the Recorder.

"Vell, your vuship sees," said Jones, "as how I'm from Lunnun: I's a hingineer by purfession."

"A what?" asked the Recorder.

"A hingineer," repeated Jones: "vy bless your hinnocent heyes, doesn't you know vot a hingineer be? Vell, I'm blowed if you haint a green 'un!-Vy, I makes steam-hingines and the likes."

“Oh, you do-do you ?" said the Recorder.

"Yes, I does," said Jones, "and I's right smart at the business; but that beent all."

"Is it not?" said the Recorder.

"No, it haint," said Jones; "I's a hauthor, too—I's writ a woyage to Margate; and though the newspapers called it a wile production, my missus said as how it was a right clever thing, and so ven I vos out of employment she says to me'George,' says she, 'if you vant to make a fortin, you just go to America,' says she, 'and if you don't get no steam-hingines

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to build, you can write a book.' 'Mary,' says 1,--my old ooman's name is Mary, please your vuship- Mary,' says I, 'if I vos to go to America to build steam-hingines, I'd get blow'd up, that I vould ;' and vit that, your vuship, she commenced blowin' me up, and as I saw no difference between being blow'd up by my vife's tongue and an American steamhingine, I put out right off."

"I have heard quite enough of the history of your life now," said the Recorder: "What is your complaint against Frederick Von Wyk ?"

"Vell, I vants my money from him. I's a free-born Hinglishman, and vont stand no gammon."

"Under what circumstances has he taken your money?" asked the Recorder.

“Vy, you see, ven I landed from sea I felt like eating a sassenger, or summit nice, and I goes to this 'ere man's shop, and I says I vants a pund o' sassengers, but they must be a wery shuperior article. You can't come cats' meat over me, 'case I's Hinglish myself." Vit that be gets offended, and says, 'Ve haint cockneys, old feller; ve doesn't go that rig.' Vell, I buys 'em, and ven I takes 'em home they all laughs and says, 'That 'ere's a reg'lar suck!' and I asked them vat they means, and they says, "Vy bless your hinnocent heyes! haven't you heard of the dog law?' Vi' that, your vuship, my suspicions became aroused-I hexamines the harticle, and I'm blow'd if I didn't find one of the sassengers vos a dog's tail, hair and all! Now, your vuship, that's vot they'd call hobtaining money hunder false pretenses at the Old Bailey-I'm blow'd if they wouldn't!"

Here the thermometer of Frederick Von Wyk's fury raised to fully ninety degrees in the shade. He threatened to sue Mr. Jones, the cockney tourist and civil engineer, for slander, asserted that he never suffered a dog, either alive or dead, to enter his premises, and protested in the name of sausage-makers of New Orleans, individually and collectively, against the cockney's imputation on the trade.

The Recorder said he had heard enough of the merits of the case, to know that it was one over which he had no control. If the parties felt ambitious to figure in court, they should respectively sue by civil process, and so he dismissed the case. The cockney expressed his determination to expose the whole transaction in his book of travels, and drawing out his diary he wrote as follows:

"MEM.-New Orleans is a wery wile, wicious place: they kills men there with Bowie-knives and dogs with pisoned sassengers. They berries the former holesale in the swamp, and retails the latter, tails and all, as sassenger meat. It's a 'orrible state of society!"

THE HEAD vs. THE FEET.

THOMAS TOPPLETON belongs to that class of society who beautify the human head and operate largely in bear's grease -he is a hair dresser. Henry Hendover claims brotherhood with the sons of Crispin-his business is to adorn the foot; but being a genius in his way, he confines himself exclusively to the manufacture of ladies' boots. Thomas Toppleton enjoys the felicity of being a married man. Mr. Hendover has to suffer all the miseries incidental to single blessedness. Both of them live within the romantic limits of Love street; they are near, but not, it would seem, good neighbours. We acquired our first knowledge of the parties at the police office yesterday. There they sat, Toppleton to the right of the Recorder, with a nose as sharp as his own razor, and his hair slick as grease. Hendover to the left of his honour-his face as bright as a lap-stone, and his black eyes shining like balls of patent leather -and he himself looking altogether a strapping fellow. Mrs. Toppleton took her seat right in front of the Recorder, and at an angle of about 45 degrees from her liege lord and the ladies' boot-maker. Toppleton looked hot curling tongs at Hendover -Hendover looked pincers at Toppleton-Mrs. T. looked like herself and unlike either of them. It was evident the two former were plaintiff and defendant in some important case, the particulars of which the investigation was to develope.

The Recorder commanded silence, and five constables simultaneously echoed the call, after which the Recorder raised in his hand a paper folded in an oblong form, and called "Thomas Toppleton ?" "Henry Hendover?" "Mrs. Helen Houri Toppleton ?"

Each of them answered to their names, and stood up round

the bench.

Recorder." Now, Mr. Toppleton, state your complaint." Toppleton."Yes, I'll tell about it, your honour. You see I aint long from Lunnun; the shop I vorked in there had

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letters patent for shaving the Queen and the royal family; I have frequently myself, your honour, given the royal curl to Prince Albert's royal moustache.

Recorder." What has the curling of Prince Albert's moustache to do with your charge of assault and battery against Mr. Hendover ?"

Toppleton.-"I'm coming to that point, your honour. You see when I comes here I takes a house in Love street, right opposite this here snob's."

Policeman." Order."

Recorder."Use no disrespectful language in court, sir." Toppleton."Vell, he aint no reg'lar ladies' man, no how. If my vife vas a wirtuous 'ooman, she vouldn't speak to him -that she vouldn't."

Mrs. Toppleton." Thomas, Thomas, my love, is not this pretty language to be used to your lawfully married wife, in a public court?"

Recorder." But how did the accused assault you?"

Toppleton." Vell, you see ven I opens a shop in Love street, this here man, Hendover, begins to look queerish at my vife, and she begins to look queerish at him, and she calls him a wery nice man, and says, she vill leave her measure vith him for a pair of prunella boots. She's alvays a goin out, and ven I says to her, Helen my dear, vere have you been?' 'Thomas, my dear, I've been listening to Mr. Hendover's canary, that sings so nice. Vell, your honour, I didn't suspect nothing till last night, ven I vent out to dress a lady's head for the ball, and ven I comes back, I looks in through the vinder, and there I sees this shoemaker vith his hand round my vife's neck, and he singing,' I give thee awl, I can no more,' and saying every thing to her about heart and love,' and all that." Mrs. Toppleton. He wasn't doing no such a thing. He came over to show me the kind of leather he was going to put into my boots.

Hendover.--"His charge is the weak invention of a malignant

mind.

Recorder." But what of the assault and battery? Did he strike you ?"

Toppleton." No, but he entered my premises without my consent, and vould'nt leave ven I ordered him out."

Recorder." Well, then, you must enter suit against him for a trespass. This case is dismissed."

Mrs. Toppleton left the office a perfect picture of "Niobe, all tears."

LIVING MADE EASY.

WILLIAM BROWN and Dan Steppy were arrested in a new building.

"This kind of a life will never do," said Brown.

"Never," said Steppy; "it required some talent to carry it on as long as we have."

6

"I have some talent in a literary way," said Brown, “and I was thinking of writing a work called the Strangers' Guide, or Boarding House Reference.' You know there is not one of them I have not tried, and not one of them that has not trusted me when they could not help it."

"Yes," said Steppy, "you beat me in making out breakfasts and dinners, but you can't shine in making a raise of drinks as well as I can."

“I knock under,” said Brown.

"Do you know how I do it?" said Steppy.

"Utterly ignorant of the modus operandi, my dear fellow," said Brown, "but always thought you had a peculiar talent that way."

"I have, sir; so I have, sir," said Steppy." Superior education a knowledge of physiognomy and of human natur does it."

"I'm mum," said Brown, slapping his open mouth with the palm of his hand, a la Captain Copp.

"Well then, you see, unless I'm really shook, I always goes it in the bit houses-doggeries aint genteel. When I sees fellows going up to the bar, I says, how do you do? how are you now? I knows at one by my knowledge of physiognomy whether the crowd be whigs or locofocos-I don't believe in the bump business. If they're whigs, 1 at once begins to speak of glorious victories'-the triumph of correct principles the annihilation of locofocoism, and all that sort of thing, and they at once says, what'll you take, sir? If I find they are locofocos, I damn coon skins, log cabins, and hard cider; and thus, in either case, walk into a horn and something else if it be snack time."