LYNCHVILLE, March 3.

Two brothers, named respectively JOHN and THOMAS, quarrelled here yesterday about the ownership of a clasp-knife.  They drew their revolvers at the same instant, and fired at a distance of two paces.  Strangely enough the two deadly bullets met in the air, and, their force being exactly equal, they stopped dead and dropped to the ground, whence they were afterwards picked up and presented to the trustees of the Lynchville Museum of Fine Art.  Nothing daunted, the fraternal contestants set to work with their bowie-knives, and were only separated after JOHN had inflicted on THOMAS ten mortal wounds and received from him one less.  It is generally admitted that nothing could have been fairer than the conduct of the police, who formed a cordon round the duellists, and thus prevented the fussy interference which has so often brought similar affairs to a premature termination.  The two coffins are to be of polished walnut-wood, and will be provided by the Friendly Society to which the two deceased belonged, as a last mark of affection and regard.

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[Illustration:  “LA RIXE.”]

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“LA RIXE.”

(IRISH DONNYBROOK VERSION.)

AIR—­“PACKINGTON’S POUND.”

Oirish Gentleman loquitur:—­

  Spilt mugs, chairs fallen, and scattered tables,—­
    That’s Oirish shindy, me bhoys, all over! 
  “Union of Hearts” and such plisant fables,
    Won’t greatly hamper the free-foight lover. 
      What do you mean,
      Ye paltry spalpeen? 
    True Oirish hearts from Old England to wean? 
  Faix, not a bit of it!  We’ll jist have none of it! 
  They’re foighting frindly, and jist for the fun of it!

  There’s bould PARNELL, he looks fierce and fell,
    Wid his savage face, and his snickersnee steely. 
  Faix, wouldn’t he loike that same to stroike
    All into the gizzard of Misther HEALY? 
      He looks so sullen
      At the pair a pullin’
    At his sinewy arm, and his onset mullin’! 
  That thraitor, TIM, he’d be having his will on,
  But for tearful O’BRIEN, and dismal DILLON.

  As for tarin’ TIM, he’d be hot at him,
    Wid his ready sword from its scabbard flashin’! 
  But that meddlin’ JUSTIN will be a thrustin’
    Himself betune ’em, the duel dashin’! 
      Och, I assure ye,
      Nor judge nor jury
    Could abate their ardour, or assuage their fury. 
  Faix, Mount Vaysuvius, wid its flame and smother,
  Must take a back sate—­whin they get at each other!

  Och! a rale ruction hath a swate seduction,
    For us Oirish, BULL, though it mayn’t be your way. 
  PARNELL’s a rum fish, and he seems to “scumfish”
    That Grand Ould Gintleman paping in at the doorway. 
      Ye may call it