hearing the distressful sounds, broke down the door without a word of parley, much to the admiration of the whole household who had clustered about him. But they beheld no patient, long suffering woman weltering in gore, no fiend in human form gloating over his deed of blood. They simply saw a petite female figure in a red flannel nightdress, frantically endeavoring to crawl under the bed, and a very much surprised and thoroughly indignant husband attired in a light and airy costume, consisting of one slipper, one boot, a “plug” hat, and a night-shirt. He and his wife had been rehearsing for some private theatricals, and had flattered themselves they had been very quiet and unobtrusive about it.

Not a little money was put in the pockets of the Western Union Telegraph Company the other day in consequence of a difference of opinion existing between a Broad Street broker and Webster, relative to the orthography of the word he had set his combination safe on. Locking it at night and telling his clerks the word was “Prussia,” he went off early next morning on a fishing excursion. The combination was as stubborn as a mule with a pedigree, and those clerks worked and perspired and indulged in expressions that were learned elsewhere than at their mother’s knee, until they were as black in the face as a forgotten toast. Numerous telegrams exchanged later in the forenoon revealed the fact that the man of margins, puts, and calls spelled the name of the German State just as he pronounced it—P- r-u-c-h-e. The mere mention of Bismarck is sufficient now to get him wild, and he orders a bottle of wine instinctively whenever his friends commence a remark with, “It is safe to presume,” “It will be safe,” etc., etc. That fishing excursion has cost him a thousand dollars so far, and he contemplates starting a “sample room” on his premises for the liquidation of his fellows’ claims.

If you have ever been in New York, of course you went to Central Park, and saw all the sights, including Shakspeare’s statue. I stood admiring it one day, when a couple of feminine bucolics from Western New York came and stood near me. They didn’t appear to care for my presence, however, for they finally moved directly in front of me, and whether my view was good or bad didn’t concern them in any visible degree.

“Wall, now,” said one, “who’n thunder is that feller, Sal?” alluding to the statue.

“I dunno,” said the other, but his eyes is shet, whoever he air,” she returned, as she gazed at the blank space usually left in statues in place of eyes; and they moved from the effigy of Avon’s bard.

The Germans can murder United States English pretty well, but the following, written by a Russian, and handed in at No. 21 Wall Street for transmission, the other day, is a little beyond the average Teutonic mix up:

To Alecx Fink,
82 Morcket Street,
Pittsburgh Pa.

Pls ans. if you experience for me something for a place in Pittsburgh? and if is which in views. I hoping you will see if possible.

In 1855 I accompanied a friend to New Haven, where he made a speech in favor of Freemont and Dayton. After the assemblage dispersed we went over to a friend’s house to sleep. When we had disrobed, and were on the point of jumping into bed, we heard strains of music, and soon discovered that a serenade was in progress. After

with bass-drum accompaniment, had waked the echoes, and other campaign airs had been given, a cornet solo, which was really fine, was rendered, the player choosing an air from “Il Trovatore.” As he proceeded, I heard feminine voices in the adjoining apartment, and listening, I detected the dulcet tones of a young lady—the most beautiful blonde I had ever seen—in conversation with her mother. She was