Morning journal and courier., 1881-11-09

From the French of Patsy OReillyl It was morning. The shone cheerfully in through the windows of the FSg0rO office Ten clerks neatly dressed and natty-were writing at the carved oaken tables. The Figoa0 was the oldest, wealthiest and most influential journal in the metropolis. It was the organ of the political party in power, and had suc- cessfully issued from vast number of libel suits.
 Pierre BuisseaRt enters. He is the editor and proprietor. He Is very rich in intellect and pocket. He has fought a duel with an envious rival and has killed him.
 He looks happy.
 ''Good morning monsieur,'' say the clerks, rising and lowing deferentially.
 Pierre Buisseant makes no reply. He lays his gold headed cane on mahogany dressing case, throws himself upon raw silk settee, and lazily glances over the columns of the Figd70.
 How proud and scornful he is Little does he suspect the dreadful storm that is about to burst over his devoted head. But wait. man enters the FtgGr0 office.
 It is Jean Jacques Lecouvier, the haber dasher.
 He appears excited. He approaches the counter.
 Stop my paper ID he mutters in husky tones that tremble with emotion.
 The thirteen clerks drop their gold pens and look up with sublime horror depicted on their faces. The whole place seems haunted with the gloom and dampness of deserted graveyard.
 Pierre Buisseant rises trembling from his couch He comes forward with beads of cold sweat standing out upon his marble fore head.
 'sMon dieu !'' he cries in agony, ''you can not mean what you say, monsieur? pray you reconsider"
 Stop my paper," repeated Jean Jacques Lecouvier, the haberdasher.
 And why?" asked Pierre Buisseant, quak- ing in every limb.
 1.You have slandered Pitou Gaston" said Jean Jacques ''you say he is barber, when you know very well he is chiropodist. He is my friend. Stop my paper"
 And Jean Jacques Lecouvier wrathfully strode out through the massive doorway.
 
 Valerie sat at the rosewood piano. She was essaying the most popular airs of the latest opera. Eugenie lolled listlessly on a cushioned sofa, deep in the mysteries of Les Miserables. Little Francois and Henri were playing marbles on the tapestry carpet.
 It was the home of Buisseant, the editor. A lofty, gilded, sumptuous palace where lux ury had abiding place, and want had never intruded it's gaunt, hideous presence.
 Madame Buisseant enters.
 She wears black velvet and diamonds.
 That she was an editors wife you would have guessed by the tiara of pearls and sap phires on her lovely brow.
 ''Where is your papa ?" she asks.
 'tHe has not returned, !" replied Valerie.
 But just then familiar step on the front stoop.
 In another moment Pierre Buisseant tot ters in. He is pale, haggard and breathless. He sinks upon an ottoman.
 "Mon cher! mon cher ID cries Madam Buis- seant, hastening to his side and seizing his cold trembling hands, while their children gather tearfully around.
 'tArt sick-or full ?"
 s"The worst has come he gasps. II have tried to be a good husband and an lndulgent father. And now, after I have amassed all this wealth, see it snatched from me, and in it's place dreary poverty. Listen: I am ruined man. From these scenes of luxury we are suddenly transported to absolute pen ury."
 :'What is this you say? What do you mean ?" they shriek between their sobs.
 sMean?" answered the pallid, trembling man. ''Mean? I mean that Jean Jacques Lecouvier, the haberdasher, has stopped his paper"
 He Did Not Advertise.
 From Bumford's Circular]
 A nervous-looking man went into store the other day and sat down for hsf an hour or so, when a clerk asked if there was any thing she could do for him. .H He said no he didn't want anything. She went away, and he sat there half an hour longer, when the proprietor went to him and asked if he want ed to be shown anything. 'fNo,' said the nervous man, "I just wanted to sit around. My physician has recommended perfect quiet for me, and says, above all things, must avoid being in crowds. Noticing that you did not advertise in the newspapers, thought that this would be as quiet place as could find, so just dropped in for afew hours of complete isolation" The merchant picked up a bolt of paper cambric to brain him, but the man went out, He said all he wanted was quiet life,