Thus they lived in ellygant ratirement until Missfortune bust upon this happy fammaly.  Etached to his Princes and abommanating the ojus Lewyphlip, the Marcus was conspiring for the benefick of the helder branch of the Borebones—­and what was the consquince?—­One night a fleat presented itself round the Castle of the Island of Fogo—­and skewering only a couple of chests of jewils, the Marcus and the two young ladies in disgyise, fled from that island of bliss.  And whither fled they?—­To England!—­England the ome of the brave, the refuge of the world, where the pore slave never setts his foot but he is free!

Such was the ramantic tail which was told to 2 friends of ours by the Marcus de Viddlers himself, whose daughters, walking with their page from Ungerford Market (where they had been to purchis a paper of srimps for the umble supper of their noble father), Yardham and his equaintnce, Munseer Jools, had remarked and admired.

But how had those two young Erows become equainted with the noble Marcus?—­That is a mistry we must elucydate in a futur vollam.

THE STARS AND STRIPES.

THE AUTHOR OR “THE LAST OF THE MULLIGANS,” “PILOT,” ETC

I.

The King of France was walking on the terrace of Versailles; the fairest, not only of Queens, but of women, hung fondly on the Royal arm; while the children of France were indulging in their infantile hilarity in the alleys of the magnificent garden of Le Notre (from which Niblo’s garden has been copied in our own Empire city of New York), and playing at leap-frog with their uncle, the Count of Provence; gaudy courtiers, emlazoned with orders, glittered in the groves, and murmured frivolous talk in the ears of high-bred beauty.

“Marie, my beloved,” said the ruler of France, taking out his watch, “’tis time that the Minister of America should be here.”

“Your Majesty should know the time,” replied Marie Antoinette, archly, and in an Austrian accent; “is not my Royal Louis the first watchmaker in his empire?”

The King cast a pleased glance at his repeater, and kissed with courtly grace the fair hand of her who had made him the compliment.  “My Lord Bishop of Autun,” said he to Monsieur de Talleyrand Perigord, who followed the royal pair, in his quality of arch-chamberlain of the empire, “I pray you look through the gardens, and tell his Excellency Doctor Franklin that the King waits.”  The Bishop ran off, with more than youthful agility, to seek the United States’ Minister.  “These Republicans,” he added, confidentially, and with something of a supercilious look, “are but rude courtiers, methinks.”