"I am exceedingly sorry, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room," said the lady. Immediately, Ma'am; this instant, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so doing. "I trust, Ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again, "I trust, Ma'am, that my unblemished character, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this"-but before Mr. Pick wick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him. -Pickwick Papers. MARCO BOZZARIS.-FITZ-GREENE HALLECK Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain." At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, In dreams through camp and court he bore In dreams, his song of triumph heard; Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king: At midnight, in the forest shades, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood, And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, As quick, as far, as they. An hour passed on: the Turk awoke; "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke to die midst flame, and smoke, And death-shots falling thick and fast "Strike-till the last armed foe expires! They fought, like brave men, long and well; His few surviving comrades saw Then saw in death his eyelids close, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! That close the pestilence are broke, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, Bozzaris! with the storied brave We tell thy doom without a sigh ; the wildest notes it blew. I placed it in the window, where the blast was blowing free, and fancied that its pale mouth sang the queerest strains to me. "They tell me-puny conquerors!-the Plague has slain his ten, and War his hundred thousands of the very best of men; but I"-'twas thus the bottle spoke-"but I have conquered more than all your famous conquerors, so feared and famed of yore. Then come, ye youths and maidens, come drink from out my cup, the beverage that dulls the brain and burns the spirit up; that puts to shame the conquerors that slay their scores below; for this has deluged millions with the lava tide of woe. Though, in the path of battle, darkest waves of blood may roll; yet while I killed the body, I have damned the very soul. The cholera,the sword, such ruin never wrought, as I, in mirth or malice, on the innocent have brought. And still I breathe upon them, and they shrink before my breath; and year by year my thousands tread THE TERRIBLE ROAD TO DEATH. THE BALLAD OF ISHMAEL DAY. One summer morning a daring band Over the prosperous peaceful farms, The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms. Fresh from the South, where the hungry pine, They swept the land like devouring surge, "The rebels are coming," far and near Some paled, and cowered, and sought to hide; But others-vipers in human form, Made them merry with food and wine, Flattered them, praised them with selfish ends: "Leave us scathless, for we are friends!" Could traitors trust a traitor? No! But gathered the cattle the farms across, Proudly, steadily, up it flew, Gorgeous with crimson, and white, and blue: His withered hand as he shook it freer, "Halt!" They had seen the hated sign 'Fire, if it please you-I can but die!" One, with a loud, defiant laugh, Left his comrades, and neared the staff. But caring not for the stern command, Seventy winters and three had shed But though cheeks may wither, and locks grow gray, YORKSHIRE ANGLING. It happened once that a young Yorkshire clown, but newly come to far-famed London town, was gaping round at many a wondrous sight, grinning at all he saw, with vast delightattended by his terrier Tyke, who was as sharp as sharp may be: and thus the master and the dog, d'ye see, were very much alike. After wandering far and wide, and seeing every street and square, the parks, the plays, the Queen, and the Lord Mayor,with all in which your “Cockneys" place their pride ;— and being quizzed by many a city spark for coat of country cut and red-haired pate, he came at length to noisy Billingsgate. He saw the busy scene with mute surprise, opening his ears and wondering eyes at the loud clamor, and the monstrous fish, hereafter doomed to grace full many a dish. Close by him was a turbot on a stall, which, with stretched mouth, as if to pant for breath, seemed in the agonies of death. Said Lubin, “What name, zur, d'ye that fish call?" |