And the youth in a moment was strangling
In the broad eye of shuddering day.
"Give the gallows a passenger outside!"
A tall Hessian spluttered aloud,
As he drove a huge nail in the timber
Mid the curses and cries of the crowd.
Then, seizing the poor bereaved mother,

He passed his broad belt round her throat,
Whilst her groaning was lost in the drum-beat,
And her shrieks in the shrill bugle note.
And mother and son were left choking,
And struggling and writhing in death,
Whilst angels looked down on the murder,
And devils were wrangling beneath.

GROWING OLD.

Softly, oh softly, the years have swept by thee,*
Touching thee lightly with tenderest care:

Sorrow and death they have often brought nigh thee,
Yet they have left thee but beauty to wear.
Growing old gracefully,

Gracefully fair.

Far from the storms that are lashing the ocean,
Nearer each day to the pleasant home light;
Far from the waves that are big with commotion,
Under full sail, and the harbor in sight:
Growing old cheerfully,

Cheerful and bright.

Past all the winds that were adverse and chilling,
Past all the islands that lured thee to rest,
Past all the currents that lured thee, unwilling,
Far from thy course to the land of the blest:
Growing old peacefully,

Peaceful and blest.

Never a feeling of envy or sorrow

When the bright faces of children are seen; Never a year from the young wouldst thou borrow,— Thou dost remember what lieth between:

Growing old willingly,

Thankful, serene.

Rich in experience that angels might covet,

Rich in a faith that has grown with thy years,

Rich in a love that grew from and above it,
Soothing thy sorrows and hushing thy fears:
Growing old wealthily,

Loving and dear.

Hearts at the sound of thy coming are lightened,
Ready and willing thy hand to relieve;
Many a face at thy kind word has brightened
"It is more blessed to give than receive;"
Growing old happily,
Ceasing to grieve.

Eyes that grow dim to the earth and its glory
Have a sweet recompense youth cannot know;
Ears that grow dull to the world and its story
Drink in the songs that from Paradise flow:
Growing old graciously,

Purer than snow.

HOW A BLACKSMITH WAS CONVERTED.

The scene is laid in the mountainous regions of Georgia. Mr. Forgeron, a blacksmith, had a great antipathy against all Methodist ministers in particular. His shop was in a narrow mountain pass, and he declared his determination to whip every Methodist preacher that passed his shop. The Rev. B. Stubbleworth, however, readily consented to go there, and the following describes his ride through the mountains:

Forgeron had heard of his new victim, and rejoiced that his size and appearance furnished a better subject for his vengeance than the attenuated frame of the late parson. Oh, what a nice beating he would have! He had heard, too, that some ministers were rather spirited, and hoped this one might be provoked to fight. Knowing that the clergyman must pass on Saturday, in the afternoon, he gave his striker a holiday, and regaled himself on the beauties of Tom Paine, awaiting the approach of the preacher. It was not over an hour before he heard the words

"Oh, how happy are they who their Saviour obey,
And have laid up their treasure above,"

sung in a full, clear voice; and soon the vocalist, turning the angle of the rock, rode up with a contented smile on his face.

"How are you, old Slabsides? Get off your horse, and join in my devotion," said the smith.

"I have miles to ride," answered the preacher, and 【 haven't time, my friend. I will call when I return."

"Your name is Stubbleworth, and you are the trifling hypocrite the Methodists have sent here to preach, eh?” "My name is Stubbleworth," he meekly replied.

"Didn't you know my name was Ned Forgeron, the blacksmith, that whips every Methodist preacher that comes along," was asked with an audacious look; "and how dare you come here?"

The preacher replied that he had heard of Forgeron's name, but presumed that he did not molest well-behaved travelers.

"You presume so! Yes, you are the most presumptuous people, you Methodists, that ever trod sole leather, anyhow. Well, what'll you do, you beef-headed disciple you?"

Mr. Stubbleworth professed his willingness to do any thing reasonable to avoid such a penance.

"Well, there's three things you have to do, or I'll maul you into jelly. The first is, you are to quit preaching; the second is, you must wear this last will and testament of Thomas Paine next to your heart, read it every day, and believe every word you read; and the third is that you are to curse the Methodists in every crowd you get into;" and the blacksmith "shucked" himself, rolled up his sleeves, and took a quid of tobacco.

The preacher looked on during these novel preparations, without a line of his face moving, and at the end he replied that the terms were unreasonable, and he would not submit to them.

"Well, you've got a whaling to submit to then. I'll tear you into doll rags, corner ways! Get down, you long-faced hypocrite."

The preacher remonstrated, and Forgeron, walking up to the horse, threatened to tear him off if he did not dismount; whereupon the worthy man made a virtue of necessity and alighted.

"I have one request to make, my friend,--that is, you won't beat me with this overcoat on; it was a present from the ladies of my last circuit, and I do not wish to have it torn."

"Off with it, and that suddenly, you basin-faced imp, you."

The Methodist preacher slowly drew off his overcoat as the blacksmith continued his tirade of abuse of him and his sect, and, throwing the garment behind him, he dealt Mr. Forgeron a tremendous blow between the eyes, which laid that person on the ground, with the testament of Tom Paine beside him. Mr. Stubbleworth, with the tact of a connoisseur in such matters, did not wait for his adversary to rise, but mounted him with the quickness of a cat, and bestowed his blows with a courteous hand on the stomach and face of the blacksmith, continuing his song where he had left off on his arrival

"Tongue can never express the sweet comfort and peace, Of a soul in its earliest love,"

until Forgeron, from having experienced "first love," or some other sensation equally new to him, responded lustily

"Enough! enough! enough! take him off!"

But, unfortunately, there was no one by to perform that kind office, except the preacher's old roan, and he munched a bunch of grass and looked on as if his master was happy at a camp-meeting.

"Now," said Stubbleworth, "there are three things you must promise me, before I let you up."

"What are they?" asked Forgeron, eagerly.

"The first is, that you will never molest a Methodist preacher again.”

Here Ned's pride rose, and he hesitated; whereupon the reverend gentleman, with his usual benign smile on his face, renewed his blows and sung—

"I then rode on the sky, freely justified, I,

And the moon it was under my feet."

This oriental language overcame the blacksmith. Such bold figures, or something else, caused him to sing outWell, I'll do it; I'll do it!"

"You are getting on very well," said Mr. Stubbleworth, "I think I can make a decent man of you yet, and perhaps a Christian."

Ned groaned.

"The second thing I require of you is, to go to Pumpkin Creek meeting-house and hear me preach to-morrow.”

Ned attempted to stammer out some excuse, when the divine resumed his devotional hymn, and kept time with the music, striking him over the face with the fleshy part of his hand.

"I'll do my best," said he, in an humble voice.

"Well, that's a man," said Stubbleworth. "Now get up and go down to the spring and wash your face, and tear up Tom Paine's testament, and turn your thoughts on high."

Ned rose, with feelings he never experienced before, and went to obey the lavatory injunctions of the preacher, when the latter person mounted his horse, took Ned by the hand, and said

"Now keep your promise, and I'll keep your counsel Good evening, Mr. Forgeron; I'll look for you to-morrow."

And off he rode with the same imperturbable countenance, singing so loud as to scare the eagles from their eyrie in the overhanging rocks.

"Well," thought Ned, "this is a nice business. What would people say if they knew Edward Forgeron was whipped before his own door, and that, too, by a Methodist preacher!"