and with so much money in it, it looks like a Fairy bank with the
fairies gambolling upon the green. It's all very pretty, no doubt, but
excuse me if I pass.

GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN.

This gentleman is yet destined to send a thrill of joy to our hearts,
and flood our souls with a calm and tranquil joy. This will come off
when his funeral takes place. He wasn't born like other people. He was
made to order for the position of common scold in a country
sewing-circle.

But he wasn't satisfied. He wanted to be an Eminent Lunatic and found
private mad-houses. And so he began to lecture. He used to rehearse in a
graveyard, and it was a common thing for a newly-buried corpse to
organize a private resurrection and make for the woods, howling
dismally.

A village out West was singularly unfortunate last summer. In the first
place the cholera raged, then they had an earthquake, and then G.F.
TRAIN lectured three nights. Owing to this accumulation of horrors the
village is no longer to be found on the maps. TRAIN'S second night did
the business for 'em. The once happy villagers are now aimless
wanderers, and one poor old man was found in the churchyard, studying a
war map of Paris and vicinity in a late New York paper.

It is said that TRAIN has his eye on the White House, and is indeed a
shrewd, far-seeing man. When he visited Europe and kissed all the little
Irish girls, could he have had in his mind the time when they, as
naturalized American Female Suffragers, would cast their votes for G.F.