Our friend the Playgoer having thus introduced us to one of the curiosities of music--a practiser of sweet sounds, who was anything but the harmonist he seemed--his story suggested the image of an equally contradictory humorist, whom we had recently encountered; and we therefore without ceremony presented ONE OF THE CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE. 'Twas evening, and loud raged the autumn blast, As in an Author's darken'd room I stood. It was a sight to stir the pitying blood; His soul seemed struggling with some trouble vast; His thin hand held a pen--his eye, downcast, Traced its slow movement o'er the blotted sheet; His air was wild--his heart, I heard it beat! Lone, pale, he sat, a spectre of the past, Like Werner when the waters round him throng, Or like the Banish'd Lord. His heavy task Weighs on his brain--ah! when may it be done! "What write you, troubled spirit?" then I ask; In thrilling tones he said--"A Comic Song, 'Tis for the _Jolly Sandboy_, No. 1." Here we stopped to take up another passenger, "his first appearance in our stage," though evidently an experienced literary traveller. We all welcomed the new arrival; and Mr. Quickly (for this was his name) pretty soon began to convince us of his qualifications for a pleasant companionship along the road of life. We pass by what he said of ourselves, with the bare remark, that like Falstaff's story, "it was worth the listening;" but still worthier of it was this, which he recounted to us under the title of AN INCIDENT OF TRAVEL. "Will you put that window down, Sir?" "Certainly not, Sir, I have a bad cold!" Such was the request addressed to his vis-à-vis in the Royal Mail by a small gentleman in a suit of black and a profuse perspiration; and such was the answer returned thereto by the person addressed, a highly nervous individual rejoicing apparently in about fifteen stone, certainly in a blue coat with gilt buttons, a sealskin cap, a red face, and nose to correspond.-- "Will you put down the window, Sir?" again demanded, after a few minutes, our friend of the sable garments, in a tone half angry, half speculative.-- "Really, Sir," was the answer, "I am sorry, Sir--but must decline to do so." "Do you intend to open the window?" a third time exclaimed the pertinacious votary of freedom--in accents wherein scorn and wrath were blended, with a quivering lip and pallid cheek. The lusty man shrunk back in his place--An assault with violence seemed impending. But though a large--he was a brave man, and he said "No!" * * * Again there was a pause--a decidedly unpleasant and embarrassing silence. The little querist turned pale, and gave a deep sigh--At last, in a voice of thunder, he roared out. "Will you, Sir, or will you not put down that window?" and at the same moment his hand with nervous rapidity sought his coat pocket.