Look above! 'tis burning brighter Than the very stars in heaven; Thou wilt know she hovers near. Orphan, thou most sorely stricken Emily Judson. THE MISER FITLY PUNISHED. IN the year 1762, a miser, of the name of Foscue, in France, having amassed enormous wealth by habits of extortion and the most sordid parsimony, was requested by the government to advance a sum of money as a loan. The miser demurred, pretending that he was poor. In order to hide his gold effectually, he dug a deep cave in his cellar, the descent to which was by a ladder, and which was entered by means of a trap-door, to which was attached a springlock. He entered this cave, one day, to gloat over his gold, when the trap-door fell upon him, and the spring-lock, the key to which he had left on the outside, snapped, and held him a prisoner in the cave, where he perished miserably. Some months afterwards a search was made, and his body was found in the midst of money-bags, with a candlestick lying beside it on the floor. In the following lines the miser is supposed to have just entered his cave, and to be soliloquizing. So, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty sparklers,- No keen-eyed agent of the government Can see you here. They wanted me, forsooth, To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance, For the state's needs. Ha, ha! my shining pets, I pleaded poverty, and none could prove Ha! could they see These bags of ducats, and that precious pile All safely lodged under my very roof! What a comfort Here's a fat bag-let me untie the mouth of it. What eloquence! What beauty! What expression! One half so charming? Ah! what sound was that?— (The trap-door falls.) The trap-door fallen;-and the spring-lock caught! 'Tis in this pocket,-No. In this? No. Then I left it at the bottom of the ladder. Ha! 'tis not there. Where then ?-Ah! mercy, Heaven! 'Tis in the lock outside! I sink--I faint beneath the bare conception! (Awakes.) Darkness? Where am I?—I remember now, This is a bag of ducats-'tis no dream No dream! The trap-door fell, and here am I I've toiled, and pinched, and screwed, shutting my heart Detested traitors! since I gave you all, Ay, gave my very soul,-can ye do naught For me in this extremity?-Ho! Without there! A thousand ducats for a loaf of bread! Ten thousand ducats for a glass of water! A pile of ingots for a helping hand! Was that a laugh?-Ay, 'twas a fiend that laughed Offended Heaven! have mercy!-I will give - In this most dreadful strait! I'll build a church, - Heaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes? But must I die here-in my own trap caught? That I have done-make thousands happy with As it is done in heaven-grant me but time! Nor man nor God will heed my shrieks! All's lost! Osborne. CESAR PASSING THE RUBICON. A GENTLEMAN, speaking of Cæsar's benevolent dispo sition, and of the reluctance with which he entered into the civil war, observes, "How long did he pause upon the brink of the Rubicon ?" How came he to the brink of that river? How dared he cross it? Shall a private man respect the boundaries of private property, and shall a man pay no respect to the boundaries of his country's rights? How dared he cross that river?-Oh! but he paused upon the brink. He should have perished on the brink, ere he had crossed it! Why did he pause?—Why does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of committing an unlawful deed? Why does the very murderer, his victim sleeping before him, and his glaring eye taking the measure of the blow, strike wide of the mortal part? Because of conscience! 'Twas that made Cæsar pause upon the brink of the Rubicon!-Compassion! What compassion? The compassion of an assassin, that feels a momentary shudder, as his weapon begins to cut! -Cæsar paused upon the brink of the Rubicon! What was the Rubicon? The boundary of Cæsar's province. No; it was cultivaIts sons were men of From what did it separate his province? From his country. Was that country a desert? ted and fertile, rich and populous! genius, spirit, and generosity! Its daughters were lovely, susceptible, and chaste! Friendship was its inhabitant! Love was its inhabitant! Domestic affection was its inhabitant! Liberty was its inhabitant! All bounded by the stream of the Rubicon! What was Cæsar, that stood upon the brink of that stream? A traitor, bringing war and pestilence into the heart of that country! No wonder that he paused,-no wonder if, his imagination wrought upon by his conscience, he had beheld blood instead of water, and heard groans instead of murmurs! No wonder if some gorgon horror had turned him into stone upon the spot! But, no! he cried, "The die is cast!" plunged he crossed! and Rome was free no more! J. Sheridan Knowles. Пе "THE HEATHEN CHINEE'S" REPLY.* Which my name is Ah Sin; I don't want to call names, But I must, to begin, Say of this T. James: That I am convinced he is rather Yes, Ah Sin is my name, Which I need not deny ; What it means is no shame, You will find, if you try, That its meaning is something Celestial, And how is Celestial for High? And about that small game I did not understand, So I made it my aim, With a smile that was bland, To keep my small eyes at their keenest See "The Heathen Chinee," in No. 3, page 169. And the way that he dealt, "Mr. Al Sin, from China, But no slouch is Ah Sin, And from the word" Go!" I did play for to win, And Nye-rather so; And I played the new game as I learned him, Which showed level head, don't you know? On my nails there was wax, I was 'prenticed on shoes, And the wax that was found on my fingers And the packs up my sleeve, My oath I will take, Were not there to deceive, But got there by mistake; I bought them for Ah Sin, the younger, In my pockets they were When I sat down that day; But what with the stir And excitement of play, They worked up my sleeve from my pocket, And strange it was, too, I must say. Was it right in Bill Nye When the trump knave I led, To blacken my eye, And on me put a head' Had I known James held the right bower I'd have played something else in its stead But I don't play no more, For my lot now is cast On a euchreless shore, So I "stick" to my "last," And my smile, at North Adams, is pensive At my heathenish days that are past. |