"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,
Should tremble at his power;

In dreams through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring;

Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king:
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,

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,
On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air

The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far, as they.

An hour passed on: the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"

He woke to die midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike-till the last armed foe expires!
Strike-for your altars and your fires!
Strike-for the green graves of your sires,
God, and your native land!"

They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered-but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm
With banquet song and dance and wine,-
And thou art terrible :--the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh ;
For thou art freedom's now, and fame's,-
One of the few, the immortal names
That were not born to die.

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
Of rebels rode into Maryland,

Over the prosperous peaceful farms,
Sending terror and strange alarms,

The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms.

Fresh from the South, where the hungry pine,
They ate like Pharaoh's starving kine;

They swept the land like devouring surge,
And left their path, to its furthest verge,
Bare as the track of the locust-scourge.

"The rebels are coming," far and near
Rang the tidings of dread and fear;

Some paled, and cowered, and sought to hide;
Some stood erect in their fearless pride;
And women shuddered, and children cried.

But others-vipers in human form,
Stinging the bosom that kept them warm—
Welcomed with triumph the thievish band,
Hurried to offer the friendly hand,
As the rebels rode into Maryland,-

Made them merry with food and wine,
Clad them in garments rich and fine,-
For rags and hunger to make amends,-

Flattered them, praised them with selfish ends: "Leave us scathless, for we are friends!"

Could traitors trust a traitor? No!
Little they favored friend or foe,

But gathered the cattle the farms across,
Flinging back, with a scornful toss,
"If ye are friends, ye can bear the loss!"
Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey,
They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day,
A sturdy old veteran, gray and old,
With heart of a patriot, firm and bold,
Strong and steadfast-unbribed, unsold.
And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare,
His white locks tossed by the morning air,
Fearless of danger, or death, or scars,
Went out to raise, by the farm-yard bars,
The dear old flag of the Stripes and Stars.

Proudly, steadily, up it flew,

Gorgeous with crimson, and white, and blue:

His withered hand as he shook it freer,
May have trembled, but not with fear,
While, shouting, the rebels drew more near.

"Halt!" They had seen the hated sign
Floating free from old Ishmael's line-
"Lower that rag!" was their wrathful cry.
"Never!" rung Ishmael Day's reply;

'Fire, if it please you-I can but die!"

One, with a loud, defiant laugh,

Left his comrades, and neared the staff.
"Down!" came the fearless patriot's cry-
"Dare to lower that flag, and die!
One must bleed for it-you or I!"

But caring not for the stern command,
He drew the halliards with daring hand;
Ping! went the rifle-ball-down he came
Under the flag he had tried to shame-
Old Ishmael Day took careful aim!

Seventy winters and three had shed
Their snowy glories on Ishmael's head;

But though cheeks may wither, and locks grow gray,
His fame shall be fresh, and young alway-
Honor be to old Ishmael Day!

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?"