Peter Pindar was without a peer in the art of epigrams: here are two of the best. The first "On a stone thrown at a very great man, but which missed him:" "Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head, I think very different, with thousands, indeed, The second was on the death of Lady M E's favorite pig, and is exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence: "Oh, dry that tear, so round and big, Nor waste in sighs your precious wind, a short one. There was a most beautiful young | lady in New Orleans some years ago, as there always has been, and still are many such. She was a Creole; that is to say, born in this country of parents from Europe. A gentleman, who was building a splendid steamboat, took it into his head to honor this beautiful young lady by connecting her name with his vessel; and he bestowed upon it, in golden letters, the captivating designation of La Belle Creole. The vessel was beautiful, and the name was beautiful, and the lady was beautiful; but all the beauty on earth could not save the name from the catastrophe to which all long titles are subjected. At first they called her the bell-not the French belle, which signifies fine or beautiful-but the plain English bell, defined in Scripture to be a tinkling cymbal. This was bad enough, but worse was coming. It so happens that the vernacular pronunciation of creole in the Kentucky waters is cre-owl; so they began up there to call this beautiful boat the Creowl. But things did not stop here. It was too extravagant to employ two syllables when one would answer THE Bishop of Western New York has signally as well and be so much more economical, so the failed in learning to sing. At a recent ecclesiasfirst half of the name was dropped and the last re-tical meeting, when the subject of church music tained; and thus La Belle Creole-the beautiful was up for discussion, he related his own experiCreole-sailed up and down the Mississippi all herence for the purpose of showing that it was not in life by the name, style, title, and description of THE OWL." Roars of laughter in the Senate followed this story, and on went Benton with two or three more, but we will repeat but one of them; the last, and with which he concluded his remarks. "I do not pretend to impose a name upon this bantling; that is a privilege of paternity, or of sponsorship, and I stand in neither relationship to this babe. But a name of brevity-of brevity and significance it must have, and if the fathers and sponsors do not bestow it the people will, for a long name is abhorred and eschewed in all countries. Remember the fate of John Barebone, the canting hypocrite in Cromwell's time. He had a very good name, John Barebone; but the knave composed a long verse, like Scripture, to sanctify himself with it, and entitled himself thus: 'Praise God, Barebone, for if Christ had not died for you, you would be damned, Barebone.' Now this was very sanctimonious, but it was too long-too much of a good thing-and so the people cut it all off but the last two words, and called the fellow damned Barebone,' and nothing else all his life after. So let this corporosity beware; it may get itself damned before it is done with us, and Tyler too.” Your lord and son are left behind." This is an extract from an "Essay on the Un derstanding :" 66 "Harry, I can not think,' says Dick, 'What makes my ankles grow so thick.' the power of every one to become a live singer. He said that when he was a student in Yale College, he heard a sermon preached there which declared it to be the duty of every man to learn how to sing. He accordingly went to a singing master, who, after some lessons, gave him up, telling him, Sir, you have no ear!" (Laughter.) Fearing, however, that it might be incompetency on the part of that teacher, he went to another, who tried him patiently for some time, but at length told him, one day, "My dear Sir, I do not wish to hurt your feelings; but really I do not think it is worth your while to go on: you have no voice." (Laughter.) Still remembering the fervent exhortations of the sermon, and determined to try once more, he went to a third, who concluded his exertions at length with the testy, but perfectly correct declaration, “Sir, you have neither voice nor ear, and never can learn music if you should live to the age of Methuselah!" (Long laughter.) So the Bishop gave it up as a bad job, and has never resumed the pleasing task of tuning his pipes from that day to this. We have heard some persons on the stage who were not as well advised in their youth as was the Bishop of Western New York. A CORRESPONDENT sends to the Drawer an epiDR. JOHNSON tried his hand at an epigram, and gram of his own; it is very fair, certainly from wrote: "If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, Lord Chesterfield perpetrated something much "Immortal Newton never spoke More truth than here you'll find: "The picture placed the busts between, But Folly at full length." fair to middling: CUPID AND HYMEN. But Cupid now, by lapse of time, Of former virtue hath left nought. Was not then sought for sordid lucre, THE ruling passion strong in death had never a more impressive illustration than in the case of an elegant and much admired lady in the city of Paris. She was gently passing away from life under a malady that gave no hope of relief, and though she was both young and beautiful, she quietly yielded to the embrace of her destroyer. Several of her friends having called upon her one morning, she was sitting in her drawing-room and gayly conversing with them, when her maid entered and softly delivered a message in her ear. The invalid smiled. "It is my dress-maker," said she, "who has called to fit me a new dress. Will you walk into my boudoir and see me try it on ?" What was the surprise and distress of her fair friends to see a shroud laid out upon the cushions. But it was, of course, a beautiful shroud of bois de rose, doubled, with white satin. She tried it, calmly admired its make, suggested here and there an alteration to improve its fit, and within a fortnight she was clad in it, taking her last ride to the house appointed for all the living. "THAT neatest of all neat things in the Drawer, the story of the Widow Lambkin, of whom Dr. Meadows took so much toll when they crossed the bridge on a sleigh-ride, reminds me," writes a Down-East friend, "of one of our Maine young fellows, who thus describes his battle, and final victory, in a fair fight for a kiss of his sweetheart: 666 Ah, now, Sarah dear! give me a kiss-just one-and be done with it.' "I won't! so, there now.' "Then I'll have to take it, whether or no.' "Take it if you dare!' "So at it we went, rough and tumble. An awful destruction of starch now commenced. The bow of my cravat was squat up in half of no time. At the next bout, smash went shirt-collar, and at the same time some of the head-fastenings gave way, and down came Sally's hair like a flood in a mill-dam broke loose, carrying away half a dozen combs. One plunge of Sally's elbow, and my blooming bosom-ruffles wilted to the consistency and form of an after-dinner napkin. But she had no time to boast. Soon her neck-tackling began to shiver, parted at the throat, and away went a string of white beads, scampering and running races every way you could think of about the floor. She fought fair, however, I must admit; and when she could fight no longer, for the want of breath, she yielded handsomely; her arms fell down by her side-those long, round, rosy armsher hair hung back over the chair, her eyes were half shut, as if she were not able to hold them open a minute longer, and there lay a little plump mouth all in the air! My goodness! Did you ever see a hawk pounce on a robin? or a bee on a clovertop? Even so I settled; and when she came to, and threw up those arms, and seized me around the neck, and declared she would choke me if I ever did so again, and had a great mind to do it now, I just ran the risk over again, and the more she choked me the more I liked it; and now she puts her arms around my neck, and puts her own lips in the way of mine every day, and calls me her John, and don't seem to make any fuss about it at all. That was a very sensible girl, and she makes a good wife too, as I am not ashamed to say any where.'" Quite different, but not less satisfactory, was the first osculatory experience of Dominie Brown. He had reached the mature age of five-and-forty without ever having taken part in this pleasant labial exercise. One of his deacons had a very charming daughter, and for a year or two the Dominie had found it very pleasant to call upon her three or four times a week. In fact all the neighbors said he was "courting" her; and very likely he was, though he had not the remotest suspicion of it himself. One Monday evening he was sitting, as usual, by her side, when a sudden idea popped into his head. "Miss Mary," said he, "I've known you a long time, and I never thought of such a thing before; but now I would like you to give me a kiss. Will you?" "Well, Mr. Brown," replied she, arching her lips in a tempting way, "if you think it would not be wrong, I have no objections." "Let us ask a blessing first," said the good man, closing his eyes and folding his hands. "For what we are about to receive, the Lord make us thankful." The chaste salute was then given and warmly returned, "Oh, Mary, that was good!" cried the Dominie, electrified by the new sensation. "Let us have another, and then return thanks." Mary did not refuse, and when the operation had been repeated, the Dominie ejaculated in a transport of joy : "For the creature comforts which we have now enjoyed, the Lord be praised, and may they be sanctified to our temporal and eternal good!" History says that the fervent petition of the honest Dominie was duly answered; for in less than a month Mary became Mrs. Brown. And now, while on this subject, we find a very fair retort which a young lady at Saratoga Springs sends to the Drawer. An impertinent youth had been amusing himself by exhibiting the following lines to some of the ladies at the 'States: "Men scorn to kiss among themselves, They kiss and kiss each other." Whereupon Miss Carrie May penciled this reply on the back of an envelope, and left it for the fool's instruction: "Men do not kiss among themselves, THE last joke of that joking Matthews was made on his death-bed, when his attendant, in giving him some medicine, took the wrong bottle, and gave him some ink. "Good Heavens!" cried the affrighted man, "I have given you a dose of ink!" "Never-never mind, my boy-never mind," said Matthews, faintly; "I can swallow a bit of blotting-paper!" But this was his last joke. Before the blottingpaper was brought he began to cough, and in a few minutes it was all over with him. "Ar the village of Kingston, New Jersey, just before you come to Princeton, from New York," writes a student in the college, "a tavern was once kept by a man whom I shall name Byce, for his real name ought to be suffered to sleep quietly in Weeks passed. Poor Flora still mourned the loss of "all her pretty ones," and the eyes of the juvenile E.'s filled with tears whenever they thought of their loss. The father one day thought that he would try and tempt the appetite of his children by some delicacy which might induce them to forget their loss. the grave to which the tongue of his wife drove | the offer of fifty cents reward for every unmuzzled him in despair. Mrs. Byce was a Tartar-more, dog found in the streets. and worse, she was two Tartars done up in one. She had been nursed in infancy by a wild-cat, and fed on vinegar when she took to the spoon, and growing up with such a disposition as such sweet fare might be expected to produce. Poor Byce! the plague of his life was his vinegar-fed and vinegarfaced wife. His only refuge from her tongue was his bar and his bottle; he became his own best customer, and managed to drown himself in his own liquor. His disconsolate widow soon had the pleasure of putting the sot under the sod, and of carrying on the business at the old stand. "The schoolmaster of the village was an amorous Irishman, who whaled the boys in the daytime, but made love to the widow and the widow's liquor in the evening. She repelled his advances toward herself, but made advances toward him with the liquor, for his money was as good as any body's. The colder she grew to MacShiney the deeper he drank, and in the course of the winter he often lost the control of his tongue, and his wit flowed out as the whisky ran in. One evening he was gloriously high, and she was sourer than ever, which is saying something very dreadful of Mrs. Byce, when he turned upon her with one of his most persuasive Irish smiles, and said, And ah! Mrs. Byce, I had such a dream about you and I—that's myself-last night, and I did.' "Well, what was it, eh?' she snapped out in a way of her own, as if she would bite him if she were hungry. "And I dreamed—I did—that I died entirely, and went to the bad place.' "Of course you did; where else would you go?' And I knocked at the door, and they said right out, "Who's there?" and I answered so bold like, "Its Mister MacShiney, from Kingston, in the Jarseys." "You can't come in." "And why not?" says I. "We've got one from there, and that's more than we can stand. She makes it too hot for all of us." "Who is it?" says I, and he said, "It's Mrs. Byce, the old tavern-keeper's widow," and I waked up straight.' "Mrs. Byce never spoke. Her feelings were too big for utterance. With one hand she took the red hair of the Irishman and dragged him to the floor, and opening the door with the other, she sent him forth with such an energy of motion as forbade his return to that paradise again." A DOG STORY is furnished to us by "E.," which, if true, throws light upon some dark points in relation to "Animal Instincts" and "Domestic Economy." We give the salient features of the story, for the benefit of whom it may concern: E. was the happy owner of a spaniel of the feminine gender, named Flora, who was the delight of himself, Mrs. E., and all the little E.'s. Great was their joy when one day Flora became the 1 py mother of half a dozen little images of only more beautiful, if such a thing wor But their joy was turned to lam not long after, the juvenile cari "Where are they?" cried f children, but Echo only rep "Where ?" The mother sobbed, the wept, and the father cursed the cruel dog-law, So he brought from the market a parcel of fresh "country sausages." "Oh, what beautiful sausages!" exclaimed Mrs. E.; where did you get them, my love?" "Oh, what nice sausages!" exclaimed the little E.'s." "It's genuine country sausages, they are, an' no mistake," chimed in Biddy, the cook, into whose charge they were given. "They smell like daisies. I can't bear city sausages. Nobody knows what they make 'em of. But them are sausages fit for the Queen an' all the little princes." Biddy soon departed to the kitchen with special directions as to the cooking of the sausages. Not long after, she made her appearance in the parlor in great perplexity. "I can't think, Ma'am, what's the matter with Flora. She's been whinin' an' cryin' as though her heart would break, ever since the poor puppies—” and here kind Bridget's utterance was in terrupted by sobs. "But now she's in the kitchen a-jumpin' an' friskin' about like she was mad with joy." Down to the kitchen rushed Mr. E., Mrs. E the little E.'s, and Bridget. "Why, where's Flora?" cried they all in a breath. "An' where's the rest of the sausages?" screamed Biddy. "There was ten of them, I'm sure, for I counted 'em on the dresser, jist before Flora came in an' disturbed me with her joy." All rushed out to Flora's kennel; and there they saw the poor spaniel in an ecstasy of gladness fond ling and nursing those six missing sausages. The question in Animal Instinct to which this The question in Domestic Econ If so, the practical less material which it was supposed had caused their death by "in a. Weeks passed. Poor Flora still mourned the loss of "all her pretty ones," and the eyes of the juvenile E.'s filled with tears whenever they thought of their loss. The father one day thought that he would try and tempt the appetite of his children by some delicacy which might induce them to forget their loss. the grave to which the tongue of his wife drove | the offer of fifty cents reward for every unmuzzled him in despair. Mrs. Byce was a Tartar-more, dog found in the streets. and worse, she was two Tartars done up in one. She had been nursed in infancy by a wild-cat, and fed on vinegar when she took to the spoon, and growing up with such a disposition as such sweet fare might be expected to produce. Poor Byce! the plague of his life was his vinegar-fed and vinegarfaced wife. His only refuge from her tongue was his bar and his bottle; he became his own best customer, and managed to drown himself in his own liquor. His disconsolate widow soon had the pleasure of putting the sot under the sod, and of carrying on the business at the old stand. "The schoolmaster of the village was an amorous Irishman, who whaled the boys in the daytime, but made love to the widow and the widow's liquor in the evening. She repelled his advances toward herself, but made advances toward him with the liquor, for his money was as good as any body's. The colder she grew to MacShiney the deeper he drank, and in the course of the winter he often lost the control of his tongue, and his wit flowed out as the whisky ran in. One evening he was gloriously high, and she was sourer than ever, which is saying something very dreadful of Mrs. Byce, when he turned upon her with one of his most persuasive Irish smiles, and said, "And ah! Mrs. Byce, I had such a dream about you and I-that's myself-last night, and I did.' "Well, what was it, eh ?' she snapped out in a way of her own, as if she would bite him if she were hungry. "And I dreamed-I did-that I died entirely, and went to the bad place.' "Of course you did; where else would you go?' "And I knocked at the door, and they said right out, "Who's there?" and I answered so bold like, "Its Mister MacShiney, from Kingston, in the Jarseys." "You can't come in." "And why not?" says I. "We've got one from there, and that's more than we can stand. She makes it too hot for all of us." "Who is it?" says I, and he said, "It's Mrs. Byce, the old tavern-keeper's widow," and I waked up straight.' "Mrs. Byce never spoke. Her feelings were too big for utterance. With one hand she took the red hair of the Irishman and dragged him to the floor, and opening the door with the other, she sent him forth with such an energy of motion as forbade his return to that paradise again." | So he brought from the market a parcel of fresh" country sausages." "Oh, what beautiful sausages!" exclaimed Mrs. E.; where did you get them, my love?" "Oh, what nice sausages!" exclaimed the little E.'s." "It's genuine country sausages, they are, an' no mistake," chimed in Biddy, the cook, into whose charge they were given. "They smell like daisies. I can't bear city sausages. Nobody knows what they make 'em of. But them are sausages fit for the Queen an' all the little princes." Biddy soon departed to the kitchen with special directions as to the cooking of the sausages. Not long after, she made her appearance in the parlor in great perplexity. "I can't think, Ma'am, what's the matter with Flora. She's been whinin' an' cryin' as though her heart would break, ever since the poor puppies-" and here kind Bridget's utterance was interrupted by sobs. "But now she's in the kitchen a-jumpin' an' friskin' about like she was mad with joy." Down to the kitchen rushed Mr. E., Mrs. E., the little E.'s, and Bridget. "Why, where's Flora ?" cried they all in a breath. "An' where's the rest of the sausages?" screamed Biddy. "There was ten of them, I'm' sure, for I counted 'em on the dresser, jist before Flora came in an' disturbed me with her joy." All rushed out to Flora's kennel; and there they saw the poor spaniel in an ecstasy of gladness fondling and nursing those six missing sausages. The question in Animal Instinct to which this incident gives rise is: How did Flora know that those sausages were composed of the bodies of her offspring? This suggests the further question: Is there a natural maternal instinct enabling all mothers to recognize their offspring under all circumstances? The question in Domestic Economy is: Do spaniels make better sausages than any other species of the canine family? If so, the practical lesson to be derived from the A DOG STORY is furnished to us by " E.," which, story is: It would be advisable for all manufacif true, throws light upon some dark points in re- turers of "country sausages" to follow the examlation to "Animal Instincts" and "Domestic Econ-ple of the maker of this lot, and not mix the spanomy." We give the salient features of the story, iel sausages with those made of more ordinary for the benefit of whom it may concern: materials. E. was the happy owner of a spaniel of the feminine gender, named Flora, who was the delight LORD BYRON, as is well known, was much galled of himself, Mrs. E., and all the little E.'s. Great by some severe strictures made by Southey on his was their joy when one day Flora became the hap-character and writings, and announced his intenpy mother of half a dozen little images of herself, only more beautiful, if such a thing were possible. But their joy was turned to lamentation when, not long after, the juvenile canines were missing. "Where are they?" cried father and mother and children, but Echo only replied by a mournful "Where?" The mother sobbed, the children wept, and the father cursed the cruel dog-law, which it was supposed had caused their death by tion of demanding "the satisfaction due to a gentleman." For some reason the challenge was never sent, but in anticipation of it, the Laureate prepared the following reply, which was found among his papers: "SIR,I have the honor of acknowledging the receipt of your letter, and do myself the pleasure of replying to it without delay. "In affairs of this kind, the partners ought to meet |