her gentle hand; I will see the dear flowers turn their faces up to receive the kiss of the rising sun, or the benediction of the summer shower.  There, too, I will meet the members of the mystic P.B., so that I shall talk of books other than day-books and blotters:  we will discourse reverently of authors and their creations.  I will not meet the Funny Fellow, for such a wretch can be produced only in the corrupt social hot-bed of Gotham.

“So to Yonkers I went.  I chose a room looking out upon the Hudson and the noble Palisades.  I took with me a flute, a copy of the Bucolics of Virgil, and numerous linen garments.  A great calm came over me.  I was no longer haunted, goaded, oppressed.  With peace nestling in my bosom, I went down to my first supper in the new boarding-house.  A goodly meal smoked on the table, and the savor of baked shad, sweetest of smells, went up.  While I sat choking myself with the bones of this delicious fish, I heard a voice on the opposite side of the table that sent the blood to my heart.  If I had been feminine, there would have been a scene.

“He was there:  his eyes gloated over the board, a malicious quirk sat astride his fat lips.  The Funny Fellow spoke to Miss Grasscloth: 

“‘Why are the fishermen who catch these shad like wigmakers?’

“‘I don’t know,’

“‘Because they make their living from bare poles.’

“I ate no more supper.  A nausea supervened.  I left the table, rushed into the cool evening air, and let the fresh breeze visit my faded cheek.  I strolled up the main street of Yonkers, and as I crushed my toes against the stones which then adorned that highway, I resolved to call on my sweet friend Julia ——.  Her gentle smile, said I, will console me.  She is not a Funny Fellow.  We will talk together calmly, earnestly, in the moonlight, close by the great river.  I will sit as near to her as her fashionable garments will permit, and forget my foe.

“We walked together—­Julia and I. We talked of things good and true.  We spoke of the beauty of the nocturnal scene.  Alas! a fearful, a demoniac change came over the girl’s face.  She said: 

“’Yes, my friend, we ought to enjoy this scene—­for we are fine-night beings.’

“I bid a hasty farewell to the large eyes and gentle smile.  She was not much offended at my abrupt and angry departure, for my salary is small, my hair is turning grey, and I do not dance.  But I was not entirely discouraged.  I resolved to give Yonkers a fair trial, and a true verdict to render according to the evidence.  So I frequented the tea-parties and sociables so common in that wretched town, and strove to shake off the melancholy that clung to me like the Old Man of the Sea.  To my horror, the Funny Fellow became multiplied like the reflections in a shivered mirror.  Men and women, and even young innocent children, became Funny, and danced about me in a horrible maze, and squeaked and gibbered, and tossed their jokes in my face.