"I guess I can get it all on, sir," says MCLAUGHLIN. "Your servant, Mr. BUMSTEAD." "Ah, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, how are you?" says Mr. BUMSTEAD, his hand with the tumbler vaguely wandering toward where the bowl formerly stood. "By the way, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, how came you to be called 'Old Mortarity'? It has a drunken sound, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, like one of Sir WALTER SCOTT'S characters disguised in liquor." "Never you mind about that," says MCLAUGHLIN. "I carry the keys of the Bumsteadville[1] churchyard vaults, and can tell to an atom, by a tap of my trowel, how fast a skeleton is dropping to dust in the pauper burial-ground. That's more than they can do who call me names." With which ghastly speech JOHN MCLAUGHLIN retires unceremoniously from the room. Judge SWEENEY now attempts a game of backgammon with the man of taste, but becomes discouraged after Mr. BUMSTEAD has landed the dice in his vest-opening three times running and fallen heavily asleep in the middle of a move. An ensuing potato salad is made equally discouraging by Mr. BUMSTEAD'S persistent attempts to cut up his handkerchief in it. Finally, Mr. BUMSTEAD[2] wildly finds his way to his feet, is plunged into profound gloom at discovering the condition of his hat, attempts to leave the room by each of the windows and closets in succession, and at last goes tempestuously through the door by accident. [_To be Continued._] Wanted for the Lecture-Room. Beloit, in Wisconsin, boasts a wife who has not spoken to her husband for fifteen years. Fifteen long years! Happy man!--happy woman! No insanity, no divorce, no murder, but Silence. Why isn't this wondrous woman brought to the platform, Miss ANTHONY? [Footnote 1: Certain fancied points of resemblance having led some persons to suppose that Bumsteadville means Rochester, the Adapter is impelled to declare that such is _not_ the case.] [Footnote 2: In compliance with the modern demand for fine realistic accuracy in art, the Adapter, previous to making his delineation of Mr. BUMSTEAD public, submitted it to the judgment of a physician having a large practice amongst younger journalists and Members of the Legislature. This authority, after due critical inspection, pronounced it psychologically correct as a study of monomania a potu.] [Illustration: _Piscator (to his progeny.)_ "NOW, GEORGE WASHINGTON, YOU TAKE A GOOD GRIP OF THIS YERE EEL, AND DON'T MUSS YOUR CLOTHES, OR YER MUDDER 'LL NEBER LET YOU GO FISHIN' AG'IN, SARTIN."] THE JOYS OF SUMMER. I've Had my annual dream Of boats and fishing, Congress-water, cream, Strawberry-shortcake, lager-bier, iced punch, And lobster-salad lunch. It came about midday, Toward the latter part of "flowering May"-- When nothing's fit to eat, or drink, or wear, And nothing suits but air. Let Summer come! said I; Let _something_ happen quick, or I shall die! I want to change my diet, clothes,--my skin,-- _Myself_, if not a sin!