to tinkle in our ears again--with the symphony of Steffanone,
Benedetti, and the rest. The town takes music quietly this winter, and the
old fashion of listening has almost grown into a habit of appreciation.
The town is building up into a Paris-sided company of streets; and the
seven stories of freestone and marble will soon darken down Broadway into
a European duskiness of hue. The street lights glimmer on such nights as
the almanac tells no story of the moon; and on other nights we draggle as
we may, between clouds and rain--consoling ourselves with the rich city
economy, and hopeful of some future and freer dispensation--of gas.

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For want of some piquancy, which our eye does not catch in the French
journals, we sum up our chit-chat with this pleasant whim-wham of English
flavor:

My man Davis is a bit of a character. If he's not up to a thing or two, I
should like to know who is. I am often puzzled to know how a man who has
seen so much of life as he has should condescend to have "no objection to
the country," and to take service with a retired linen-draper, which I am.
I keep a dog-cart, and, not being much of a whip, Davis generally drives.
He has some capital stories; at least I think so; but perhaps it is his
manner of telling them; or perhaps I'm very easily pleased. However,
here's one of them.

HOW MR. COPER SOLD A HORSE.

"Mr. Coper, as kept the Red Lion Yard, in ---- street, was the best to sell
a horse I ever know'd, sir; and I know'd some good 'uns, I have; but he
_was_ the best. He'd look at you as tho' butter wouldn't melt in his
mouth, and his small wall-eyes seemed to have no more life in 'em than a
dead whiting's. My master, Capt. ----, stood his hosses there, and, o'
course, I saw a good deal of Mr. Coper. One day a gent came to look at the
stable, and see if he could buy a hoss. Coper saw in a minute that he knew
nothing about horseflesh, and so was uncommon civil. The first thing he
showed him was a great gray coach-hoss, about seventeen hands and a inch,
with a shoulder like a Erkilus."

"I suppose you mean Hercules?"

"I suppose I do, sir. The gent was a little man so, o' course, the gray
was taken in agen, and a Suffolk Punch cob, that 'ud a done for a bishop,
was then run up the yard. But, lor! the little gent's legs 'ud never have
been of any use to him; they'd a' stuck out on each side like a
curricle-bar--so he wouldn't do. Co