FRENCH DIALECT RECITATION.

Not long since, a sober, middle-aged gentleman was quietly dozing in one of our railroad-trains, when his pleasant, drowsy meditations were suddenly interrupted by the sharp voice of the individual by his side. This was no less a personage than a dandified, hot-blooded, inquisitive Frenchman, who raised his hairy visage close to that of the gentleman he addressed.

"Pardonnez, sare; but vat you do viz ze pictair—hein?"

As he spoke, monsieur pointed to some beautiful steel-plate engravings in frames, which the quiet gentleman held in his lap, and which suited the fancy of the little French connoisseur precisely.

The quiet gentleman looked at the inquisitive foreigner with a scowl which he meant to be very forbidding, and made no reply. The Frenchman, nothing daunted, once more approached his hairy visage into that of his companion, and repeated the question:—

"Vat you do viz ze pictair—hein?"

"I am taking them to Salem," replied the quiet gentleman gruffly.

"Ha! you take 'em to sell 'em!" chimed in the shrill voice of the Frenchman. "I be glad of zat, by gar! I like ze pictair. I buy 'em of you, sare. Mow much you ask?"

"They are not for sale," replied the sleepy gentleman, more thoroughly awake, by the by, and not a little irritated.

"Hein?" grunted monsieur in astonishment. "Vat you say, sare?"

"I say I don't want to sell the pictures!" cried the other, at the top of his voice.

"By gar! c'est drole!" exclaimed the Frenchman, his eye beginning to flash with passion. "It is one strange circumstance, parbleu! I ask you vat you do viz ze pictair, and you say you take 'em to sell 'em, and zen you vill not sell 'em! Vat you mean, sare—hein?"

"I mean what I say," replied the other sharply. "I don't want to sell the engravings, and I didn't say I did."

"Morbleu!" sputtered monsieur, in a tone loud enough to attract the attention of those of his fellow-travellers who were not already listening; "morbleu! you mean to say I 'ave not any ear? Non, monsieur, by gar I hear ver' well vat you tell me. You say you sell ze pictair. Is it because I one Frenchman, zat you will not sell me ze pictair?"

The irritated gentleman, hoping to rid himself of the annoyance, turned his back upon his assailant, and made no reply.

But monsieur was not to be put off thus. He laid his hand on the shoulder of the other, and, showing his small white teeth, exclaimed,—

"Sacristie! monsieur, zis is too muche. You've give me one insult, and I shall 'ave satisfaction." Still no reply. "By gar, monsieur," continued the Frenchman, "you are not one gentleman. I shall call you one poltroon—vat you call 'em?—coward!"

"What do you mean?" retorted the other, afraid the affair was beginning to get serious. "I haven't insulted you, sir."

"Pardonnez, monsieur; but it is one grand insult! In America, perhaps not; but in France, one blow your brains out."

"For what, pray?"

"For vat? Parbleu! you call me one menteur—how you speak 'em—liar? you call me one liar? you call me one liar?"

"Oh, no, sir! You misunderstood"—

"No, by gar! I've got ears. You say you vill sell ze pictair; and ven I tell you vat you say, you say ze contrarie—zat is not so!"

"But I didn't tell you I would sell the pictures," remonstrated the man with the engravings, beginning to feel alarmed at the passion manifested by the other. "You misunderstood"—

"I tell you no! It is not posseebl'! Ven I ask you vat you do viz ze pictair, vat you say?"

"I said I was taking them to Salem."

"Yes, parbleu!" exclaimed monsieur, more angry than ever: "you say you take 'em to sell 'em"—

"No, no!" interrupted the other, "not to sell them, but Salem—the city of Salem."

"Ze city of Sell 'em!" exclaimed the Frenchman, amid the roars of laughter that greeted his ears. "Sacristie! Zat is one grand mistake. Pardon, monsieur! Que je suis bÊte! Ze city of Sell 'em? Ha, ha! I vill remember zat, by gar!" And he stroked his mustache with his fingers, while the man with the engravings once more gave way to his drowsy inclinations.