stand a crittur full of stuff, and not much outside. He'll buy this crittur, to make double his money of him at the market to-morrow, or at Tattersall's on Saturday. Now this crittur ought to fetch a high price, if he 's bought only as a curiosity, as the saying is.

PEDLAR. Yes, this is the hoss that was going along a 'pike, and was chased by the lightning seven miles, and wasn't fixed.

KENTUCK. No nonsense; but I'll say this, he'll go at any pace under a steam-engine at full speed, and will overtake a first-rate steamer, if it stops to take in water. He's the cheapest crittur, too, as ever I seen; for he 'll go by a toll-bar on a 'pike before the man can look out to see if anything is coming.

STRANGER. No doubt the horse has many virtues, but one horse is enough for me.

KENTUCK. Yes; but I'll take your horse in exchange.

STRANGER. I do not wish to part with it.

KENTUCK. You're not an Englisher, are you?

STRANGER. Partly English and partly of New York. My father was an Englishman.

KENTUCK. Well, I'm glad you're New York; for I shouldn't like to sell this crittur to an Englisher; they don't know the vally of anything like this. It's just a leetle above their reach, it is. I hate the English. If I thought I had a drop of English blood in me, I'd take a knife and rip the place open, and let it out. But we fixed 'em last

war, and so we will next, and next after, till none of 'em remain to say what became of the others. Stranger, don't leave till we've fixed the bargain.

STRANGER. I shall not buy the horse.

KENTUCK. Well, then, I'll swap him for yours and a ten-dollar

note.

STRANGER. No.

KENTUCK. Five dollars.

STRANGER. No.

KENTUCK. Give me a dollar, then, and your horse, and you shall have him.

STRANGER. No.

KENTUCK. I expect I'll swap him without the dollar.

STRANGER. Not with me.

KENTUCK. How much do you want with your horse?

STRANGER. I'll neither sell nor swap ; so don't trouble yourself any farther.

KENRUCK. I'd be sorry to prevaricate as you have done, stranger. If I were to have you before the squire, he 'd make you give up your horse no ways slow, that's a fact, after bargaining as you have done. I'm a lectle maddish, I guess; but I don't want your horse, and you shouldn't have mine if you were to offer me fifty dollars to swap. I'm not to be treated in this manner, and take it mild twice. I wouldn't advise you to try it.

STRANGER. No offence. Don't let us quarrel.

KENTUCK. Oh, it's easy to say no offence; but another time don't be so ready to play off your New York tricks. Make a bargain, and then clear out of it, ain't easy anyhow. It wouldn't do at all in Kentuck, no way you could fix it.

PEDLAR. Have you been to the Bowery lately, neighbour?
STRANGER. Not very lately.

VOL. II.

10

PEDLAR. What a first rate place that is for music.

KENTUCK. Don't talk of York music. I have a horn as come from France that 'll turn all the milk sour when you blow it hard.

PEDLAR. And I have a trumpet that will throw a monkey into fits. KENTUCK. Why, I can whistle better than some of them common trumpets. I whistled once kind of sharp, and it gave a polecat the

agy.

PEDLAR. When I was last at the Bowery, the musisioners played so strong that it tuk two men to hold the leader of 'em in his seat; and in one part he played so fast, six of the others couldn't overtake him, although they all did their tightest.

KENTUCK. It takes me to sit some tunes as I can play, and I can hardly. I played on an old frying-pan once so powerful that it driv away the mice.

PEDLAR. That was 'cause the frying-pan was cracked, and driv everything as mad as itself.

KENTUCK. Well, I'll tell you a fact. There's a fife in Kentuck that once whistled so piercing, that it bore a hole slick through the shingles.

PEDLAR. Yes, that's true; and there's a drum at the Bowery that has to be played by a leetle baby; for if a grown man was to try it, it would go like thunder, and pre-haps blow the roof off the house.

FARMER. I want to tell you two of a dream I had the other night. I dreamt as all the liars was dead, and it's come true.

KENTUCK. Yes, they 're all dead.

PEDLAR. Except two, and they are fixed in this part of the State. KENTUCK. You've seen something, that's a fact, though you are a leetle man. Where were you raised?

PEDLAR. Why, I was raised, I expect, in Connecticut. I'm four feet nothing and a half, with one over when my boots are on. My father lived in Birmingham, fourteen miles from Rome, and not far from Syracuse. My father built the first house there, and named it after a power of pans called Birmingham hardware, as we had on hand from Boston. Twelve new towns have been fixed since then all round When they all join considerable, my father is going to call it Mount Olympus, and I calcylate it 'll be the finest city in this or any

us.

other country.

KENTUCK. Tell your father not to make a 'ramus of himself. I read in a York paper the other day that Uncle Sam had sixteen towns already, all called Mount Impus, and thirty-six called Columby.

PEDLAR. But father's Mount will be the most insulting. It'll have a perfect contempt for the others, and I guess will show it considerable no ways slow. Here's another wagon coming along the 'pike. Uncle Sam's soldiers in her; some Irish deserter, I guess.

A wagon here came to the door with four regular soldiers (neither "military" nor militia) and a man in a plain dress in it. They alighted and came into the house. This was the first time I had seen or heard of a deserter from the American army, and my curiosity was alive to know what his punishment would be. But the Kentuckian saved me the trouble of asking any questions.

KENTUCK. Where were you raised? This small man says you are an Irishman.

DESERTER. I was raised in Ohio. I'm a real American, I am. KENTUCK. Now how came you to be a soldier and desert? Did you like it first, but not after?

DESERTER. I never was a soldier, noway I wasn't, except in fun.

KENTUCK. That's right. No true American born, free and equal, can put up with being a soldier, except a captain or major. It'll do very well for the English and Irish, I expect, but not for us. We shouldn't be soldiers, but military and militia. Let the British be soldiers.

SOLDIER. Don't be thratning the Irish and Gineral Jackson, who's one on'em, (long life to him!) with disrespect, if you please, Misther Spalpeen, or we'll have a little quarrel.

KENTUCK. Well, soldier, you'll find me all iron, I calcylate. I'm a Kentucky screamer, I am, and maybe a snapping turtle now and then.

SOLDIER. Wid all my sowl you may be a hedgehog, or any other of them wild animal creatures.

KENTUCK. I am, soldier.

SOLDIER. You may. Blood and thunder! don't talk to me bigger than a bullock. It's no use. You're only a native, and doesn't the counthry belong to Gineral Jackson and the Irish ?*

2ND SOLDIER. It does. Let him answer that; but he can't.

KENTUCK. Say that in Kentuck, and then look at yourself in a glass. So you wasn't a soldier?

DESERTER. NO. I was down in Phillydelphy, and lost all my money, thirty dollars hard Jackson; so I hard there was a troop going out to Ohio, and I joined 'em for company home. But not liking 'em sufficient, I left 'em on the road, but they fixed me again.

KENTUCK. Shame on 'em, foreign varmint! Write to Andrew Jackson.

DESERTER. Its no use; it isn't his department. Besides, I know him too well; he's a perfiderous letter-writer, he is. I once writ to him, and sent him a fishing net, spick and span new, of my own making, with a hint that he might put me into a custom-house or a post-office, if he wanted to behave handsome: but I never got an

answer.

KENTUCK. Why didn't you send for the net back agin?

DESERTER. So I would, for it was cruel elegint; but I got a letter from some fellow at Washington, saying that General Jackson begged him to say that he was much obliged to me for the net, which convinced him the many factors of this here free country was brought to the highest pitch of perfiction, and I never hard agin of the

net no way.

KENTUCK. What'll they do to you now, anyhow? Prison you?
DESERTER. No: I have bin prisoned, and cleared out.

KENTUCK. That's handsome.

DESERTER. But they tuk me agin.

KENTUCK. What 'll they do now?

DESERTER. Why, send me into the Far West, I calcylate.

KENTUCK. You'll scape there easy.

DESERTER. NO. One side of me will be the Indines, and the

This curious assertion is always to be heard during the progress of street squabbles between the Irish and native Americans.

I shall have extra work as an out

other these varmints of soldiers.

post, and am almost sure to be shot and scalped by the Dog-ribs, I calcylate.

KENTUCK. Move heaven and earth, and get through between.

DESERTER. I'll do my best no ways slow.

KENTUCK. Is a cent or two any use to you?

DESERTER. I guess it would be.

KENTUCK. Here's four and a fip; and the pedlar there will give something, though he is so small; and the Yorker too, who's cuter at clearing out of a bargain than ever I seen.

PEDLAR. Here's a levy, and the captain shall let us have a sling each. I'd give you more, but the mayor of the last town fined me twenty dollars for selling in Delaware without a license.* I have licences for seventeen states, but not for leetle Delaware.

* A pedlar requires a license for every state in which he travels; and as the state of Delaware, between New York and Pennsylvania, can be travelled over in a few hours, the license is frequently attempted to be evaded, and the authorities consequently keep a sharp look out.

PAPER MONEY LYRICS.

LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES.

LITTLE Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,
Above a green vale where a paper-mill play'd;
And he hover'd in ether, delightedly noting

The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.

The air was all fill'd with the scent of the roses,

Round the miller's viranda that cluster'd and twined;
And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to its mind.
And forth came the miller, a quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face,

And behind him a Scotchman was singing "Prosperity,"
And picking his pocket with infinite grace.

And "Walth and prosparity-Walth and prosparity,"

His bonny Scotch burthen arose on the air,

To a song all in praise of that primitive charity,

Which begins with sweet home and which terminates there.

But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,

And in rush'd a rabble with steel and with stone,
And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,
The mill to a million of attoms was blown.

Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,

When the quaker was vanish'd no eye had seen where;
And the Scotchman, thrown flat on his back like a turtle,
Was sprawling and bawling with heels in the air.

Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,
Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,

As light as the fly that is christen'd from butter,

Till he gather'd his hands full, and flew to the sky.

"Oh, mother," he cried, as he shew'd them to Venus,

"What are these little talismans cypher'd-One-One?
If you think them worth having, we'll share them between us,
Though their smell is like none of the newest, poor John."
"My darling," says Venus, "away from you throw them,
They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals, tis true;

But we want them not here, though I think you might know them,
Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you."