One would have thought that the straw paper on which that sheet
    was then printed might have tempted her to repose.

    It didn’t.

Past FORNEY’S paper:—­he was proprietor of the Pennsylvanian in those days.  Those days!—­when he was Warwick, the king-maker, and carried Pennsylvania for Old Buck.  Bitter were the changes in aftertimes, and bitterly did Forney give fits where he had before bestowed benefits.  On went the cow.

    Right smack into the office of the evening paper, then engineered
    by ALEXANDER CUMMINGS, now held by GIBSON PEACOCK.

Rush! went the cow.  Right into the next door—­turn to the left, oh, infuriate—­charge into the newsboys!  By Santa Maria, little DUCKEY is down—­ha!  Saint Joseph! the beast gains the front office—­she faceth streetwards—­she jaculates herself outwards—­she is gone.

    By the door stood a Philadelphia punster.

    The cow switched him with her tail; he heeded it not.  His soul
    felt the morning gleam of a revelation,—­the flash of a Boehmic
    Aurora,—­

    Far, far above the world, oh dreamer!—­in the pure land of
    Pun-light, where the silent Calembergs rise in the sunset sea.

    And he spake,—­

    ‘I see you have A COW LET OUT there, and a BULL LET IN HERE!’

    This is going through a great deal to get at a pun, says some
    over-heated and perspiring disciple.

    Well—­and why not?

    Have you never heard of the clergyman who preached an entire
    sermon on the slave-trade, and gave a detailed account of its
    head-quarters, the kingdom of Abomi?

    And why?

    Merely that he might ring it into them bitterly, fiercely, with
    this conclusion: 

    ’My hearers, let us pray that this Abomi-Nation may be rooted out
    from the face of the earth.’

    That was so. Consummatum est.

No wonder we hear so much of the sufferings and sorrows of the Third Estate—­which is the editorial.

* * * * *

‘Wine is sometimes wine, but not very often in these days:’  what it very often is not when labelled ‘Heidsick’ and ‘Rheims.’  ’But then the cork proves it, you know,’—­for, by a strange superstition, it is assumed that when the cork is correct the wine is not less so; a theory which is exploded by a revelation in the following by no means Bacchanalian lyric:—­

  BOGUS CHAMPAGNE.

  Fill up your glass with turnip-juice,
    And let us swindled be;
  Except in England’s cloudy clime
    Such trash you may not see. 
  With marble-dust and vitriol,
    ’Twill sparkle bright and foam,—­
  Who will not pledge me in a cup
    Of champagne—­made at home?