observe.

The Athenians were not long since electrified by the patriotic
eloquence of an itinerant Methodist evangelist, who wound up a
burst of rhapsodical patriotism with this, climax: 'If this
glorious Union is dissolved, what will become of the American
Eagle, that splendid bird with 'E Pluribus Unum' in his bill, the
shafts of Peace in his talons, and 'Yankee Doodle' tied to his
tail?'

One more _bon mot_, and I leave Athens to the plaudits of an
appreciative public.

The Presbyterian divine, running his thin fingers through his thin
hair, exclaimed, in a thin voice: 'Brethren! ye are the salts of
the earth.' 'The salts,' though as old as the Gospel, have not yet
lost their _freshness_.'

Exit Athens and fresh salt.

* * * * *

YE KNIGHT OF YE GOLDEN CYRCLE.

A veray parfit gentil knight,
Thatte of ye Golden Cyrcle hight,
One day yridden forth;
But ne to finde a fayre mayde,
He went on errants of his trade,
To fight or filch ye North.

He was a wight of grisly fronte,
And muckle berd ther was upon 't,
His lockes farre down did laye:
Ful wel he setten on his hors,
Thatte fony felaws called Mors,
For len it was and grai.

Ilk knight he hadde ne vizor on,
His busynes were then undone,
All time was for attack;
More than, he hadde ne mail, either,
But armed with a revolver,
He like-_Wise_ chawed toback.

He sayde his was a mightie hond,
Ne better in ye Southron lond
To yearn anly battail:
Mony a dewel hadde he fought,
And put his foe alway to rout,
Withouten ony fail.

Eke fro his sheld ther stroke the ee,
These letters golden, 'F.F.V.,'
Thatte mony a clerk did pain;
Which guessed it, '_Forte Fuor Vi_!'
The people giggled, 'l' your ey;
It's Fume and Fight in Vain!'

Eftsoons hire cloke ye awful Night,
Yspreaden roun ilk warrihour wight,
Ye glasse of chivalrie;
But nothing daunt, he kept his course,
As well as mote his sorry hors,
Farre to the North countree.

And thus in darkesse all yclad,
He hied him, gif he weren mad,
O'er feld and eke through thicket;
When 'Stop, by God!' some one began,
'You'er mine--'or any other man!''
Jesu! a Yankee picket!

'Gent knight, yclept of Golden Cyrcle!
Why in the devil don't one dirk all?
Where now's your chivalrie?'
'Goode sir,' quod he,