Pushing aside the barrier of alpaca and whalebone from under his chin, MONTGOMERY dashes wildly from the house, tears madly back to Gospeler's Gulch, and astounds the Gospeler by his appearance. "Oh, Mr. SIMPSON," he cries, as he is conducted to the door of his own room, "I believe that I, too, inherit some tigerish qualities from that tiger my father is said to have fought so often. I've had a political discussion with Mr. DROOD in Mr. BUMSTEAD'S apartments, and, if I'd stayed there a moment longer, I reckon I should have murdered somebody in a moment of Emotional Insanity." The Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON makes him unclose his clenched fist, in which there appears to be one or two cloves, and then says: "I am shocked to hear this, Mr. PENDRAGON. As you have no political influence, and have never shot a _Tribune_ man, neither New York law nor society would allow you to commit murder with impunity. I regret, too, to see that you have been drinking, and would advise you to try a chapter from one of Professor DE MILLE'S novels, as a mild emetic, before retiring. After that, two or three sentences from one of Mr. RICHARD GRANT WHITE'S essays--will ensure sleep to you for the remainder of the night." Returning the unspeakably thankful pressure of the grateful young man's hand, the Gospeler goes thoughtfully down stairs, where he is just in time to answer the excited ring of Mr. BUMSTEAD. "Dear me, Mr. BUMSTEAD!" is his first exclamation, "what's that you've got on your head?" "Perspiration, sir," cries BUMSTEAD, who, in his agitation, is still ringing the bell. "We've nearly had a murder to-night, and I've come around to offer you my umbrella for your own protection." "Umbrella!" echoes Mr. SIMPSON, "why, really, I don't see how--" "Open it on him suddenly when he makes a pass at you," interrupts Mr. BUMSTEAD, thrusting the alpaca weapon upon him. "I'll send for it in the morning." The Gospeler stands confounded in his own doorway, with the defence thus strangely secured in his hand; and, looking up the moon-lighted road, sees Mr. BUMSTEAD, in the sun-bonnet, leaping high, at short intervals, over the numerous adders and cobras on his homeward way, like a thoroughbred hurdle-racer. (_To be Continued_.) * * * * * THE PLAYS AND SHOWS. [Illustration: 'M'] Many plays of various sorts have been explained and commented upon in this column. Now for the first time a show claims attention. The BEETHOVEN Centennial Festival has just ceased its multitudinous noise, and the several shows connected with it--such as GROVER'S blue coat, GILMORE'S light gymnastics on the conductor's stand, the electric artillery and the plenteous PAREPA, have vanished away. Time and space and patience would fail to tell the story of the ten successive showers of noise that inundated the Rink during last week. Let us then content ourselves with a reminiscence of the opening night.