mind that SPIFFKINS'S paper was a daily, not a nightly one. MR. SPIFFKINS had never written a line which, dying, he would wish to blot. In fact his "copy" was always clean, and he used to say, since it was so easy to write a line over again, where was the use in blotting it! The specific department that Mr. SPIFFKINS attended to was "interviewing." Mr. SPIFFKINS chose this department on account of having been born a gentleman, and of having always moved in the very best society. Interviewing brought him into contact with all sorts of distinguished people, with whom he immediately made himself at home. On one occasion he made himself so completely at home that the gentleman whom he was visiting considerately pointed out the mistake, and then SPIFFKINS suddenly remembered the distinction. Mr. SPIFFKINS was a man of great delicacy of feeling and keen sense of honor. One day a man cut his throat from ear to ear because his boarding-house-keeper would put ham into the hash. The brother of the man called upon SPIFFKINS and requested him as a favor to keep the thing out of his newspaper, as all the other journals had promised to do so. SPIFFKINS gave the required promise, and the next day SPIFFKINS'S paper was the only one that had mention of the suicide. But then SPIFFKINS had no intention of hurting the suicide's family's feelings. Not by any means. His only aim was to beat the other newspapers and to serve his employers. SPIFFKINS wrote pure English, his style—like that of other reporters—being noticeable for its elegance and perspicuity. Thus, whenever SPIFFKINS had occasion to use the word "memories," he invariably said "memories of the past," and by this means made it plain that he meant no reference whatever to the memories of the future. The force, originality, and beauty of his epithets were remarkable. In his local reports suicides were always "determined" suicides, and their acts were always "rash" acts. Among purists in the use of words the employment of these adjectives has always been considered a delightful and legitimate mode of discriminating between people who kill themselves precipitately and those who use a considerable amount of caution, and (so to speak) apply strychnine with one hand and the stomach-pump with the other. SPIFFKINS used to report fires, murders, and police doings generally in a quiet and genteel manner, and by the Superintendent of Police he was as much beloved for the goodness of his heart as he was by the city editor for the goodness of his grammar. Once upon a time SPIFFKINS had the opportunity of trying his hand at dramatic criticism, and adopted a startlingly new system, which consisted simply in telling the truth. The consequence was that his newspaper obtained a great reputation for high moral tone, and lost all its theatrical advertisements. Even when SPIFFKINS wrote an original American comedy of "contemporaneous human interest" (and which had had a previous run in Paris of five thousand nights), and that comedy was brilliantly rejected by a manager, SPIFFKINS never went back on his system of telling the truth. Weaker critics would have let up on that manager lest it should be thought that they abused him because he refused their plays. But not so with SPIFFKINS. His moral courage was too heroic to resort to so mean a subterfuge as that, and to this day that manager believes that the reason SPIFFKINS abused him is because he refused his play! Sometimes SPIFFKINS threw a little light on subjects that were generally misunderstood. For instance, he said that NILSSON was a "charming mezzo-soprano," and declared that "RIP VAN WINKLE" was a more delightful translation from the French than had been seen for many a day. Occasionally SPIFFKINS eked out his salary by writing letters to the provincial press. In this respect he was invaluable, because his letters contained, about things in New York, information which never appeared in the New York papers; so that when a Philadelphia family takes the newspaper which SPIFFKINS corresponds with, that family is fully posted upon everything which might just as well have happened here as not. SPIFFKINS is too real a gentleman at heart to be much of one in appearance. If his boots and manners are equally unpolished, I know that his heart is in the right place—just where his pocket-book is; and if his linen is dirty and his face unshorn, I feel certain that his soul is clad in immaculate spiritual lawn, and that his better nature is shaved close.

THE MODERN "OLD KING COLE."

He called for his pipe and he called for his bowl,
And he called for his Fiddlers three,
Von BISMARK, Von MOLKIE and Von ROON,
For a merry old monarch was he.

HIRAM GREEN TO H. WARD BEECHER.

The "Lait Gustice's" Advice to the Brooklyn Divine.

SKEENSBORO, Nye onto Varmont.

MY KLERGICAL FRIEND—Feelin it my duty to encourage a man when he strikes the rite gait, I seize the goose-quil to set down and scratch off a letter to you. I've heard you preach, and, to do the square thing, I am constrained to say you've got talents into you, on which to bild a first-class Dominy. My advice is, to let your talents sintilate; don't undertake to hide 'em under a bushel of peanuts. Let 'em blaze, friend B.—let 'em blaze.

I dident notiss any bill-boards hangin about your mouth, savin as how "Rooms was to let in your sky-lofts;" but contrary wise, it's my opinion there haint a tenement house in New York which is packed fuller of people than your figger-head is of slap-up idees. You haint afeard to stand out baldly and face the sea of upturned red maskaline noses, or hily-frizzled, gorgeously-got-up femilines, and skatter Fiseology rite and left, not carin a pickaune who's hit or who haint.

A man who scores up as you do, is bound to win in the long run, if he only keeps his eyes about him, and don't undertake to go it blind.

Yoove got a futer ahead of you bigger'n a meetin-house. Keep ploddin along in the evening tender of your way, and I predict you'l ocupy a front rank among the clergy.

I, the lait Gustise, which has served his country for 4 yeer as Gustise of the Peece, tells you so; and havin asshiated with a good many big guns in my day, my profetic vision is as clear as Rine wine.

You haint much like a preacher I once useter sleep under.

We called him OLD CLOROFORM. His sermons were dredful soothin to take.

Old Mother WINSLOW couldent play 2nd fiddle to his preachin, and her sirop is better'n a club to put children to sleep. Why, friend BEECHER, that ere minnister was warranted to talk a squallin young one to sleep in 30 seconds.

When our Doctors had a leg to saw off, they always sent for Dominy CLOROFORM to put the patient to sleep.

He dident preach "Rest for the weary" without practisin what he preached, by makin his weary congregation rest like kittens.

But the old man has been scooped in, and our drug store has gone up on cloroform.

His last words were:—

"Sweet sleepers, I go. I'le drug no more." And beneath the mirtle, the Canada thistle, and the gooseberry-bush he rests, with the follerin epitaff on his tombstun:—

Minnisters, in gettin hold of the public heart, resort to different ways.

Some of 'em make love to the pretty little lambs of their flox of the femail persuasion.

Others indulge freely in gin and milk, and get boozy, while agin some others histe in mug after mug of lager beer, and then lay in with some Bohemian to rite 'em up.

This gives 'em a popularity which $500 worth of paid-for advertisements wouldent bring 'em. And their church stock goes up to 200 per cent. above par. Big crowds rush to hear the guzzlin divine extort. And, sir! before you know it, that preacher is richer'n mud, and just as likely as not, owns stock in a race-course or a lager-bier brewery. Thus, as SHAKSPEER says:—

But, Master B., don't imitate any of them ere stiles.

You soot me as you are.

You hain't one of them chaps, who believes that if a man wants to be good, he must draw down his face, and look as if he had been fetched up on chow-chow and cider vinegar.

Long faces don't make good fokes, which reminds me that fine feathers don't allers make fine birds, especcially if it's a broiled chicken full of fine pin feathers.

I notiss that in your sermons you handle polerticians and bizziness men without gloves.

Between you and I, some of them store keepers and eatin house chaps on Broadway, N.Y., go on the principle—give as little as they can, for as much as they can squeeze out of their customers.

Up to DELMONICO'S you can buy an apple dumplin for $3.00, and 25 cents extra for a tooth-pick, while at some other places it costs a man 1/2 a dollar to poke his head into a store door.

I went into an ice cream saloon on B'way last time I was in N.Y.

They asked me 50 cents for a plate of ice cream.

When I was leavin, the proprieter accused me of stealin his dish.

I indignantly scorned his vile insineration.

Next mornin, I was pickin out a holler tooth, when sumthing hard struck my tooth-pick.

I pulled out my jack-nife, and dug it out. To my cerprise, the missin dish came forth, which had been wedged into the cavity beneath a 75 cent piece of pie.

I notiss you draw big houses.

Outsiders grumble some, because they can't go into your church and take the best seats, and crowd out regular pew-holders.

Let em grumble. I allers found out that when a man is gettin up in the world, that, like carrion crows hoverin over a sick animal, grumblers fly about him, lickin their chops and watchin a good opportunity to scratch him ragged.

When you git off joaks and set your congregation to laffin, don't it make you feel scrumpshus?

As a Klergical humorist, there is stamps in you.

But Ive writ more'n I expected when I sot down.

It would delite me and Mrs. GREEN to have you and your good woman pay us a visit.

If you'l come, drop us a line, and we'l open the front parler and invite in a few first families to give you a lively time.

I'l have a coat of white-wash put onto the bed-room walls. White-wash makes a sleepin-room smell sweet. Besides it makes bugs dust in a hurry. My old woman is a sweet white-washer. I'de bet odds, that MARIAR can get over more territory, with a white-wash brush, than the smartest committee of congresses ever appinted to cover up some dark transaction.

Hopin these few lines will find you in apple-pie order, and able to indulge in numerous frugal meals of hash etc., Ile now say Adux,

Ewers, Litterarily,

HIRAM GREEN, ESQ.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

The Extreme or Fashion.

It is announced by journals devoted to fashion, that trains are to be worn even longer during the coming winter than they have yet been. Coincidental with this, is the announcement made by sundry papers that "a piece of calico a mile long has been manufactured in New England." The Miss who gets this for a train will be as good as a Mile, and such is the length, dear boys and girls, to which fashion may be carried.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

"AT THE LAST Bal Masqué ON THE AVENUE. A DISTINGUISHED SOUTHERN GENTLEMAN CREATED MUCH AMUSEMENT COSTUMED AS 'RECONSTRUCTION.'"

MR. BROWN HAS BEEN RECOMMENDED BY A FRIEND TO HAVE A LITTLE GLYCERINE DROPPED INTO HIS EAR FOR DEAFNESS. BY MISTAKE HE PURCHASES NITRO-GLYCERINE. RESULT.

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO XII.

The above verse commemorates an epoch in the Poet's lifetime. He went to the Circus. A noteworthy event, when it is considered how few Circuses there were in those days, and how seldom those few came near enough to disturb the calm of an out-of-the-way country village. Such a thing had never occurred before in his lifetime, nor within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. All were therefore properly impressed with the importance of the occurrence, and none more so than the excitable, impressible, enthusiastic Poet. For days before the one appointed to make the journey to the Market Town, he was in a great state of excitement and hilarious pleasure, and with difficulty controlled his inclinations to laugh, dance, and sing, and otherwise gayly disport himself. The exuberance of his spirits caused no little alarm to his family, who feared he was going mad with delight, and endeavored in every possible way to quiet down the dangerous symptoms.

till at last, fearing the torrent could never be stemmed, she thought to direct it in a less dangerous channel.

So, putting on her most insinuating expression she asked, "Why don't you write a piece about the Circus? It might be real nice. Tell all about the beautiful young lady on horseback, and the music, and the ride over to Banbury, and everything you can think about. Come now, that's a good boy; go and do that for your mother."

The deceived youth stared in amazement at the request. Such a thing had never been heard before under that humble roof-tree. His own mother actually telling him to write some poetry. Incredible! Instead of laughing, and snubbing him as she usually did, positively telling him to do the very thing she had so often forbidden,—the very thing he had always been obliged to do under so many discouragements. The thought took away his breath. That his talent was at length recognized by his family was a matter of rejoicing, and springing up with a cheerful cry, "I'll do it," he bounded up the back-kitchen stairs, and was soon lost to sight amid the cobwebs of time.

The provident old lady, with a knowing look and sagacious shake of the head, said, "He's safe for awhile, thank Heaven; now let us have peace."

Let us follow the poet up-stairs and peep into that attic chamber. The sanctum sanctorum of the writer. The visiting-place of the Muses. The stable of Pegasus. There, in one corner, is a little cot bed, with a single pillow, showing at once a privileged member of the family; near its head an ancient wash-stand and a tin wash-basin, and by its side a pail of water, with a tin dipper reposing quietly on its surface. Nothing unnecessary, everything useful. By the window stands a square pine table, spotted and streaked with ink, to match the floor, which resembles in a homely way MARK TWAIN'S map of Paris on an enlarged scale.