left bank of the Sabine as if it had been infested by a cohort of demons. The tumult was deafening-a tornado of babbling tongues talking, shouting, quarreling, betting, and cursing for amuse ment. Suddenly a cry arose: "Colonel Watt. Foemanhurrah for Colonel Watt. Foeman!" and the crowd parted right and left to let the lion lyncher pass. The loadstar advanced with a satanic countenance, ferocious-murderous. He was a tall, athletic, powerful man; his train, a dozen armed desperadoes. He ordered the dinner served, and it was spread before him. When prepared to commence the sumptuous repast, a voice pealed from the pulpit loud as the blast of a trumpet in battle, "Stay, gentlemen and ladies, till the giver of the barbecue asks God's blessing!" Every ear started, every eye was directed to the speaker, and a whisperless silence ensued, for all alike were struck by his remarkable appearance. He was a giant in stature, though scarcely twenty years of age; his hair, dark as the raven's wing, flowed down his immense shoulders in masses of natural ringlets more beautiful than any ever wreathed around the jeweled brow of a queen by the labored achievements of human art; his eyes, black as midnight, beamed like stars over a face as pale as Parian marble—calm, passionless, spiritual. The heterogeneous mass gazed in mute astonishment. The missionary prayed, but it sounded like no other prayer ever addressed to the throne of the Almighty. It contained no encomiums on the splendors of the divine attributes-no petitions in the tones of command—no orisons for distant places, times, or objects; it related exclusively to the present people and the present hour: it was the cry of the naked soul, and that soul a beggar for the bread and water of eternal life. "Now, my friends," he said, "partake of God's gifts at the table, and then come and sit down, and listen to his Gospel." One heart, however humbled the rest, was maddened by the preacher's wonderful powers. Colonel Watt. Foeman exclaimed, in a sneering voice, "Mr. Paul Denton, your reverence has lied. You promised us not only a good barbecue, but better liquor; where is your liquor ?" "THERE!" answered the missionary, in tones of thunder, and pointing his motionless finger at the double spring gushing up in two strong columns, with a sound like a shout of joy, from the bosom of the earth. "There!" he repeated, with a look terrible as lightning, while his enemy actually trembled at his feet; "there is the liquor which God, the Eternal, brews for all his children! Not in the simmering still, over smoking fires, choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded with the stench of sickening odors and rank corruption, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life, pure cold water. But in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders and the child loves to play, there God himself brews it; and down, low down in the deepest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing—and high upon the mountain-tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods and the thunder-storms crash-and away, far away out on the wide, wide sea, where the hurricane howls music, and big waves roar the chorus, 'sweeping the march of God'-there he brews it, that beverage of life, health-giving water! "And every where it is a thing of beauty. Gleaming in the dew-drop, singing in the summer rain, shining in the icegem till the trees seem turned to living jewels, spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, or a white gauze around the midnight moon; sporting in the cataract, sleeping in the glacier, dancing in the hail-shower, folding bright snow-curtains softly above the wintry world, and weaving the manycolored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all checkered over with celestial flowers by the mystic hand of rarefaction—still always it is beautiful, that blessed cold water! No poison bubbles on its brink-its foam brings not madness and murder-no blood stains its liquid glass-pale widows and starving orphans weep not burning tears in its clear depths-no drunkard's shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in words of despair! Speak out, my friends; would you exchange it for the demon's drink-alcohol ?" A shout like the roar of the tempest answered "No! NO!" AN IRISH LETTER. Tullymucclescrag, Parish of Ballyraggett, near) MY DEAR NEPHEW,—I haven't sent ye a letther since the last time I wrote to ye, bekase we have moved from our former place of livin', and I didn't know where a letther would find ye; but I now with pleasure take up me pin to inform ye of the death of yer own livin' uncle, Ned Fitzpatrick, who died very suddenly last week afther a lingerin' illness of six months. The poor fellow was in violent convulsions the whole time of his sickness, lyin' perfectly quiet, speechless, all the while talkin' incoherently, and cryin' for wather. I had no opportunity of informin' ye of his death sooner, except I wrote to ye by the last post, which same went off two days before he died; and then ye would have postage to pay. I'm at a loss to tell what his death was occasioned by, but I fear it was by his last sickness, for he was niver well ten days togither durin' the whole of his confinement, and I believe his death was brought about by his aitin' too much of rabbit stuffed with pais and gravy, or pais and gravy stuffed with rabbit; but, be that as it may, when he brathed his last, the docther gave up all hope of his recovery. I needn't tell ye any thing about his age, for ye well know that in March next he would have been just seventy-five years old lackin' ten months, and, had he lived till that time, would have been just six months dead. His property now devolves to his next of kin, which all died some time ago, so that I expect it will be divided between us; and ye know his property, which was very large, was sold to pay his debts, and the remainder he lost at a horserace; but it was the opinion of ivery body at the time that he would have won the race if the baste he run aginst hadn't been too fast for him. I niver saw a man in all my life, and the docthers all said so, that observed directions or took medicine betther than he did. IIe said he would as leve dhrink bitter as sweet if it had only the same taste, and ipecakana as whisky-punch if it would only put him in the same humor for fightin But, poor sowl! he will niver ate or dhrink any more, and ye haven't a livin' relation in the world except meself and yer two cousins who were kilt in the last war. I can not dwell on the mournful subject any longer, and shall sale me letther with black salin'-wax, and put in it yer uncle's coatof-arms. So I beg ye not to brake the sale when ye open the letther, and don't open it until two or three days afther ye resave this, and by that time ye will be well prepared for the sorrowful tidings. Yer old sweetheart sinds her love unknownst to ye. When Jary McGhee arrives in America, ax him for this letther, and if he don't brung it from amongst the rest, tell him it's the one that spakes about yer uncle's death, and saled in black. I remain yer affectionate ould grandmother, BRIDGET O'HOOLEGOIN. P.S.-Don't write till ye resave this. N.B.-When yez come to this place, stop, and don't rade any more until my next. Direct to Larry O'Hoolegoin, late of the Town of Tully mucclescrag, Parish of Ballyraggett, near Ballyslughgathey, County of Kilkenny, Ireland. SCENE FROM RICHARD III.* SHAKSPEARE. KING RICHARD, starting out of his dream. (h.) (ff.) Rich. Give me another horse-bind up my wounds- Is there a murderer here? No-yes; I am. * Richard III. was born in 1452. By successive murders he reached the throne. In this extract he appears just after waking from a fearful dream, wherein the ghosts of his victims appear to him. I love myself. Wherefore? For any good Fool, of thyself speak well-fool, do not flatter. Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, (h.) (ff.) GUILTY! GUILTY! (7.) I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; And, if I die, no soul will pity me: Nay, wherefore should they? since that I myself Methought the souls of all that I had murdered SCENE FROM THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. MRS. HEMANS. [ALVAR GONZALEZ is the Governor of Valencia; ELMINA, his wife. Their two sons, ALPHONSO and CARLOS, are held by ABDALLAH, the chief of the besieging army, as hostages of war, the price of whose ransom is treason-the yielding of the city of Valencia. GONZALEZ enters, having on his trappings of war. ELMINA addresses him as he enters.] My noble lord, Elmina. Free thy mailed bosom from the corslet's weight, Gonzalez. There may be rest For the tired peasant, when the vesper bell Doth send him to his cabin, there to sit Watching his children's sports; but unto me, Who speaks of rest? |