rides a black Galloway, and faith, if he ever marry again, I think he will show his respect to his sainted Maria by marrying a black woman. Poor Mr. Graves, who is always lamenting his ill-fortune, and his sainted Maria—who led him the life of a dog. Poor man! not contented with plaguing him while she lived, she must needs haunt him now she's dead. And why does he regret her. Why! because he has everything to make him happy. I take so much compassion on this poor man who is determined to make himself wretched that I am equally determined to make him happy. Well! if my scheme does not succeed he shall laugh, he shall sing, he shall-Hush! here he comes.

Enter GRAVES (not seeing Lady F.).

Graves. Lady Franklin not here! well I'll wait! She was worthy to have known the lost Maria. So considerate to ask me hithernot to console me—that would be impossible, but to indulge in the luxury of woe. It will be a mournful scene, but we'll mingle our groans together. My heart beats, that must be for grief. Poor sainted Maria! Where's my pocket-handkerchief—not a white one, just my luck. I call on a lady to talk of the dear departed—and I have nothing about me but a great gaudy flaunting-red, blue, and yellow abomination from India, that it's even indecent for a disconsolate widower to exhibit; perhaps I've a white one in my hat! Where is my hat? Left it down-stairs. Just my luck! if I had been born a hatter, little boys would have come into the world without heads. Oh! here she is. Ah! Lady Franklin, this is a most melancholy meeting. The poor deceased! What a man he was!

Lady F. A sad occasion, Mr. Graves!

Graves. But everything in life is sad. Be comforted, Lady Franklin. True, you have lost an uncle, but I-I have lost a wife, the first of her sex, and second cousin to the defunct.

Lady F. Take some refreshment—a glass of wine.

Graves. Thank you. Ah! my poor sainted Maria! Sherry was her wine, everything reminds me of Maria. Ah! Lady F., you knew her. Nothing in life can charm me now.

Lady F. Ah! Mr. Graves, what a world this is!

Graves. It's an atrocious world, ma'am.

Lady F. Here's the newspaper.

Graves. Ah! read the newspaper! they'll tell you what the world is made of-daily calendars of roguery and woe. Here advertisements from quacks, money-lenders, cheap warehouses, and spotted boys with two heads. So much for dupes and impostors. Turn to the

other column, police reports, bankruptcies, swindling, forgeries, and a biographical sketch of a snub-nosed man who immolated three little children in a two-pair-back of a three-storied house in Pentonville. Turn to the leading article and your hair will stand on end at the horrible wickedness or melancholy idiotism of that half of the population who think differently from yourself. In my day I've seen already eighteen crisises, six annihilations of agriculture and commerce, four overthrows of the Church, and three last final, awful, and irremediable destructions of the entire constitution. And that's a newspaper.

Lady F. Ha, ha, your usual vein! always so amusing and goodhumoured.

Graves. Good-humoured, ma'am !

Lady F. You should always wear that agreeable smile, you look so much younger, so much handsomer when you smile. Charming day-don't you think so?

Graves. It's an east wind, ma'am, but nothing comes amiss to you. Lady F. By the by, I don't think you've seen the last Punch. It is excellent. I think it might make you laugh.

Graves. Ma'am, I have not laughed since the death of my sainted Maria.

Lady F. Ah! that spiteful Sir Frederick says you never laugh, because—but you'll be angry.

Graves. Angry, pooh! I despise Sir Frederick too much to let anything he says have the smallest influence over me, he says I don't laugh, because—

Lady F. You've lost your front teeth.

Graves. Lost my front teeth! Upon my word! Ha, ha, ha! That's too good! Capital. Oh! Lady Franklin, you've a charming disposition. Poor sainted Maria! she, too, was naturally gay.

Lady F. Yes! she was gay! so much life and a great deal of spirit.

Graves. Spirit! yes! nothing could master it! she would have her

own way.

Lady F. And, then, when her spirit was up, she looked so handsome. Her eyes grew so brilliant.

Graves. Didn't they. Ha, ha, ha! And do you remember her pretty trick of stamping her foot, the tiniest little foot. I think I see her now. Ah! this conversation is very soothing.

Lady F. How well she acted in your private charades.

Graves. You remember her Mrs. Oakley in the "Jealous Wife.” Lady F. Ha, ha! Yes! In the very first scene when she came

out with "your unkindness and barbarity will be the death of me."

Graves. No, no, that's not it, more energy. "Your unkindness and barbarity will be the death of me." I ought to know how she said it. She practised it on me twice a day, poor dear lamb!

Lady F. And then, she sang so well, was such a composer. What was that little French air she was so fond of?

Graves. Sprightly, wasn't it. Ha! ha! ha! I never felt so happy before. Alas! what am I doing?

Lady F. Doing! Only setting a good example in trying to remember with cheerfulness blessings past and present!-Bulwer.

(198.) SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

Up from the South at break of day, bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, the affrighted air with a shudder bore, like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, the terrible grumble and rumble and roar, telling the battle was on once more-and Sheridan twenty miles away! And wilder still those billows of war thundered along the horizon's bar; and louder yet into Winchester rolled the roar of that red sea uncontrolled, making the blood of the listener cold—as he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, with Sheridan twenty miles away! But there is a road from Winchester town, a good, broad highway leading down; and there, through the flash of the morning light, a steed as black as the steeds of night, was seen to pass as with eagle flight;-as if he knew the terrible need, he stretched away with the utmost speed; hills rose and fell-but his heart was gay— with Sheridan fifteen miles away! Still sprung from these swift hoofs, thundering South, the dust, like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster; foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster: the heart of the steed and the heart of the master were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, impatient to be where the battle-field calls; every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, with Sheridan only ten miles away! Under his spurring feet, the road like an arrowy Alpine river flowed; and the landscape sped away behind like an ocean flying before the wind; and the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, swept on with his wild eyes full of fire: but, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire-he is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, with Sheridan only five miles away! The first that the General saw, were the groups of stragglers, and then, the retreating troops!-What was done-what to do-a glance told him both; and striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,

he dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas, and the wave of retreat checked its course there, because the sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; by the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, he seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan, all the way from Winchester down to save the day! Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! and when their statues are placed on high under the dome of the Union sky,-the American soldier's Temple of fame,—there, with the glorious general's name, be it said in letters both gold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day by carrying Sheridan into the fight, from Winchester-twenty miles away!"-Thomas Buchanan Read.

(199.) THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

Somewhat back from the village street stands the old-fashioned country-seat; across its antique portico tall poplar-trees their shadows throw, and from its station in the hall an ancient timepiece says to all," For ever-never! never-for ever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, and points and beckons with its hands from its case of massive oak; like a monk, who, under his cloak, crosses himself, and sighs, alas! with sorrowful voice to all who pass,"For ever -never! never-for ever!" By day its voice is low and light; but in the silent dead of night, distinct as a passing footstep's fall, it echoes along the vacant hall, along the ceiling, along the floor, and seems to say, at each chamber door,-"For ever-never! never-for ever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, through days of death and days of birth, through every swift vicissitude of changeful time, unchanged it has stood; and as if, like God, it all things saw, it calmly repeats those words of awe,-"For ever-never! never-for ever!" In that mansion used to be free-hearted Hospitality; his great fires up the chimney roared; the stranger feasted at his board; but, like the skeleton at the feast, that warning timepiece never ceased," For ever-never! never-for ever!" There groups of merry children played, there youths and maidens dreaming strayed: O precious hours. O golden prime, and affluence of love and time! Even as a miser counts his gold, those hours the ancient timepiece told,-"For ever-never! never-for ever!" From that chamber clothed in white, the bride came forth on her wedding night; there, in that silent room below, the dead lay in his shroud of snow; and in the hush that followed the prayer, was heard the old clock on the stair," For ever-never! never-for ever!" All are scattered now

and fled, some are married, some are dead; and when I ask, with throbs of pain, “Ah! when shall they all meet again?" as in the days long since gone by, the ancient timepiece makes reply,—“ For ever-never! never-for ever!" Never here, for ever there, where all parting, pain, and care, and death, and time, shall disappear,—for ever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity sayeth this incessantly," For ever--never! never-for ever!"— Longfellow.

(200.) THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. (CONDENSED.) Robert Browning, poet and dramatic writer, born at Camberwell, near London, in 1812. [The story from which the poem is taken runs thus: "A piper named Bunting, from the various colours of his dress, undertook, for a certain sum of money, to free the town of Brunswick from the plague of rats. When he had done this by drowning them in the river Weser the town-council refused to pay him the sum agreed on. and the piper revenged himself by inducing all the children to follow him into a cave in the mountain, which closed on them for ever. The inhabitants of Hamelin point to the closing of the street (to all music) through which the piper and the children passed, in corroboration of the truth of the legend, which is recorded to have taken place on June 26, 1284.]

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, by famous Hanover city; the river Weser, deep and wide, washes its wall on the southern side; a pleasanter spot you never spied; but, when begins my ditty, almost five hundred years ago, to see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin was a pity. Rats!

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats, and licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, split open the kegs of salted sprats, made nests inside men's Sunday hats, and even spoiled the women's chats, by drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body to the Town Hall came flocking: ""Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; and as for our Corporation-shocking to think we buy gowns lined with ermine for dolts that can't or won't determine what's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, to find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking, to find the remedy we're lacking, or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council, at length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-I'm sure my poor head aches