Some years ago, in Paris, there was a very good comedian who prided himself on being perfectly 'classic.' To be classic in France is to be elegantly conventional. No actress can be really _kissed_ according to classic rules; the lips must be faintly smacked about three feet from her shoulder. Wills are classically written by a flourish of the pen, and classical banqueters never pretend to eat. Now there was a humorous scene which greatly depended on much breakage of furniture; and to this scene our actor, in the opinion of the manager, did not do justice. Rolling over one tea-cup did _not_, according to the latter, constitute a grand smash. The actor became irritated. '_Pa'r'r-bleu!_' he exclaimed, 'you SHALL have a grand smash then, if you must, and no mistake.' The scene begun. There was a tea-table, and the irate performer gave one kick, and sent the whole concern crashing into the pit. There was a roar of applause. ('Ah! this is something like,' said the manager, rubbing his hands.) The chairs were next attacked and broken into the completest kindling-wood, as by a madman. The manager began to look grave. There were two tables left, a piano, and a closet. The actor stepped behind the scenes and reappeared with an axe. Bang! went the timber--crack--splinter-- 'Stop!' roared the manager. 'Go on!' 'bravo!' 'go on!' roared the audience. The stage was cleared, but the scenery still remained. And into the scenery went the actor 'like mad.' Planks and canvas came tumbling down; the manager called his assistants; the house was delirious with joy. The manager rushed on the stage; the actor kicked him over into the orchestra, and seizing the prompter's box, hurled it crashing after. We do not know how matters were arranged, but we believe that the manager never tried afterwards to convert a classic actor to the romantic school. * * * * * The shade of Bishop BERKLEY would rejoice, could it read at this late date such a tribute to the merit of the once famed tar water, which he invented. But a solemn feeling steals over our heart when we remember that the hand which penned these lines now lies cold in death, and that the shades of the idealist and the poet may ere this have joined in the spirit land. TAR WATER. BY GEORGE W. DEWEY. From the granite of the North, Leapt this pure libation forth, Cold as the rocks that restrained it; From the glowing Southern pine, Oozed this dark napthalian wine, Warm as the hearts that contained it; In a beaker they combine In a nectar as divine As the vintage of the Rhine, While I pledge those friends of mine Who are nearest, who are dearest in affection. I have filled it to the brim; Not a tear could ride its rim; Not a fleck of sorrow dim The flashing-smiles that swim In the crystal which restores their recollection.