Just at this moment the Greenwich Street Cordwainers’ Target Association, preceded by one half the whole body of Metropolitan Police, approached the spot.  The Target Society were out on a street parade, and the policemen marched before them to clear Broadway of all vehicles and foot-passengers, and to stop short, for the time, the business of a great city, in order that these twenty spindle-legged and melancholy little cobblers might have a proper opportunity of showing their utter ignorance of all rules of marching, and the management of firearms.

Perceiving this vast body of police, with Superintendent JOURDAN at its head, advancing with measured tread upon them, the Count sheathed his sword and Mr. P. shut up his deadly weapon.

Slowly and in opposite directions they withdrew from the ground.

It was too late for Mr. P.’s train, and he returned to his home.  There, in the solitude of his private apartments, he came to the conclusion that it would be useless to oppose the decrees of Society.  The idea that the Count, that worthy leader of the metropolitan ton, had put into his head, was not to be treated contemptuously.  He must give up all the fruity richness of September, the royal glories of October, and the delicious hazes of the Indian Summer, pack away his fish-hooks and his pocket-flask, and stay in the city like the rest of the fools.

This conclusion, however, did not prevent Mr. P. from dreaming.  He had a delightful dream that night, in which he found himself sailing on Lake George; ascending Mount Washington; and participating in the revelry of a clam-bake on the seagirt shore of Kings and Queens and Suffolk Counties.  As nearly as circumstances will permit, he has endeavored to give an idea of his dream by means of the following sketch.

Taken as a whole, Mr. P. is not desirous that this dream should come true, but taken in parts he would have no objections to see it fulfilled as soon as Society will permit.

Which will be, he supposes, about next July.

In the meantime, he advises such of his patrons as have depended entirely upon his letters for their summer recreation, and who will now be deprived of this delightful enjoyment, to make every effort to go to some of our summer resorts and spend a few weeks after the fashionable season is over,—­that is, if they think they can brave the opinion of society.  It may not be so pleasant to go to these places as to read Mr. P.’s accounts of them, but it is the best that can be done.

The following little tail-piece will give a forcible idea of how completely Mr. P. has given up, for the season, his field sports and country pleasures.  Copies may be obtained by placing a piece of tracing-paper over the picture and following the lines with a lead-pencil.

* * * * *

THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO VI.

    TAFFY was a Welshman,
    TAFFY was a thief,
  TAFFY came to my house and stole a piece of beef. 
    I went to TAFFY’S house,
    TAFFY wasn’t at home,
  TAFFY came to my house and stole a mutton bone.