JEFFRY MAULBOY is visiting his brother JUDAS, at Terre Haute.  He has signed articles of agreement for the great Prize Fight with SANDY MCCORMICK, known for his prowess in the Ring as the “nasty masher.”  The fight will take place some time during the winter, and JEFFRY will go into training early in September.  And the papers are full of biographical sketches of the two combatants, together with comments on their weight, general appearance, and a list of fights heretofore participated in, with vague speculations as to the number of eyes, fragments of ears, &c., each one is supposed to possess, preserved in alcohol as trophies.  And when JEFFRY appears in public the masses regard him with respectful admiration, and gamins applaud.  And when he gets home he finds a brigade of those literary drummers, known as reporters, sitting on his doorsteps, from beneath whose classic foreheads there glares a wild and hungry eye, to be pacified only by a satisfactory interview.  The last exploit of the “Champion Nine” sinks into insignificance beside this great, this momentous event, and the man who walked a hundred miles in twenty-four hours is nowhere.  He realizes the cruel fact that Fame is fickle, and he makes one desperate effort to grasp it, by offering determinedly to walk around the world in ninety days, stopping for his gruel only at Hong Kong.

(To be concluded.)

* * * * *

NUISANCE ABATED.

G.F.T.—­the apostle of Highfalutin, the most egregious nuisance of modern times—­has come to grief.  We have the pleasure of announcing that (for the present at least) we are relieved from our very natural anxiety lest TRAIN should re-appear on the American tapis. It seems that he is even more intolerable in France than he is in this country.  He had only got as far as Lyons, in the course of his airy progress through the new Republic, when the authorities concluded that about the most sensible thing they could do with their guest would be to lock him up.  It gives us pleasure to write that they did so.

They don’t know how great is the favor they have conferred on the world by this humane act.  We shall ever remember the magistrates of Lyons with feelings of regard, for the judicious energy displayed by them in this matter.

* * * * *

Ehau!  France.

Unhappy France!  Well may her children weep over the misfortunes that have befallen her.  But alas!  TITTERS cannot cure them.

* * * * *

THE OYSTER-SUPPER CRITIC.

    He has a heavy head of hair;
      His heavy hands are cleanly kidded;
    He twists a heavy dark moustache,
      And even his eyes are heavy-lidded. 
    He babbles in a heavy style,
      And heavily grows analytic,
    This literary heavy-weight,
      This heavy oyster-supper critic.