n'
to Ailey," says he, "and it's masses I'll say for her," says he, "if
she's bate to death," says he.

"Ailey, avourneen," says Mike, says he, "the bottle's broke," says he,
"and I've got me brogan," says he, "and ye may keep the rest," says he,
"if ye'll make up," says he.

"Michael, darlint," says she, "ye can place yer big mout' in the middle
of me faychures," says she; "but as for Father O'Tod," says she, "it's
achin' I am to comb his hypocritical hair," says she, "with a poker,"
says she.

"Ailey, me angel," says Mike, says he, "it'll be showin' our gratitude
to Saint Payter," says he, "that we an't both kilt intirely," says he,
"lavin' aich other orphans," says he, "if we just slather the owld
humbug together," says he.

So they both fell upon Father O'Tod with a heartiness not to be
described, and that excellent and neutral old gentleman was much mussed
in his linen.

Far be it from me, my boy, to say that combined Europe, and especially
the step-mother country, is at all like Father O'Tod, or that Slavery
in the remotest degree resembles a small black bottle; but interference
in the quarrels of married folks is apt to excite the liveliest enmity
of both parties, and two-against-one has been known to result quite
spiritedly therefrom.

Therefore, let the skiptail of Europe beware! for even I, an humble
historian and no warrior, am filled with that spirit of defiance to
everything across the Atlantic which might serve to inspire a
brigadier, the editor of an able morning journal, a fierce turkey-cock,
or any other type of matchless valor. One week ago, this American
breast of mine was wild for the immediate redemption of lovely Ireland,
by reason of the marvellous and triumphant capture of Paris by the
thrice-valiant Mackerel Brigade; and to-day such an accession of
national triumph stares all through the columns of our more stentorian
morning journals, that I demand the immediate disenthrallment from
foreign tyrants of Hungary, Poland, Venetia, Mexico, Canada, Jersey
City, and the Guano Islands.

Munchausen, my boy, has surrendered! That mirror of chivalry and
hollow-eyed wanderer in a forest of whiskers has yielded to his noble
desire for a piece--of something to eat, and gracefully permitted
himself and his command to be wooed from their guiding
star,--starvation.

Immediately after the unprecedented battle for Paris, and while yet the
agitated Miss P. Hen and divers enterprising political chaps wh