Some years ago I engaged a celebrated Living American Skeleton for a tour through Australia. He was the thinnest man I ever saw. He was a splendid skeleton. He didn't weigh anything scarcely--and I said to myself--the people of Australia will flock to see this tremendous curiosity. It is a long voyage--as you know--from New York to Melbourne-- and to my utter surprise the skeleton had no sooner got out to sea than he commenced eating in the most horrible manner. He had never been on the ocean before--and he said it agreed with him.--I thought so!--I never saw a man eat so much in my life. Beef--mutton--pork--he swallowed them all like a shark--and between meals he was often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled eggs. The result was that when we reached Melbourne this infamous skeleton weighed 64 pounds more than I did! I thought I was ruined--but I wasn't. I took him on to California--another very long sea voyage--and when I got him to San Francisco I exhibited him as a Fat Man. (The reader need scarcely be informed that this narrative is about as real as "A. Ward's Snaiks," and about as much matter of fact as his journey through the States with a wax-work show.) This story hasn't anything to do with my Entertainment, I know--but one of the principal features of my Entertainment is that it contains so many things that don't have anything to do with it. My Orchestra is small--but I am sure it is very good--so far as it goes. I give my pianist ten pounds a night--and his washing. (That a good pianist could be hired for a small sum in England was a matter of amusement to Artemus. More especially when he found a gentleman obliging enough to play anything he desired, such as break-downs and airs which had the most absurd relation to the scene they were used to illustrate. In the United States his pianist was desirous of playing music of a superior order, much against the consent of the lecturer.) I like Music.--I can't sing. As a singist I am not a success. I am saddest when I sing. So are those who hear me. They are sadder even than I am. The other night some silver-voiced young men came under my window and sang--"Come where my love lies dreaming."--I didn't go. I didn't think it would be correct. I found music very soothing when I lay ill with fever in Utah--and I was very ill--I was fearfully wasted.--My face was hewn down to nothing--and my nose was so sharp I didn't dare to stick it into other people's business--for fear it would stay there--and I should never get it again. And on those dismal days a Mormon lady--she was married--tho' not so much so as her husband--he had fifteen other wives--she used to sing a ballad commencing "Sweet bird--do not fly away!"--and I told her I wouldn't.--She played the accordion divinely--accordionly I praised her.