Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily
Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?"

The clock strikes twelve--it is dark midnight-
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.

The parties are met;
The tables are set;

*

There is "punch," "cold without," "hot within," "heavy wet," Ale-glasses and jugs,

And rummers and mugs,

And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,
Cold fowl and cigars,
Pickled onions in jars,

Welsh rabbits and kidneys--rare work for the jaws,-
And very large lobsters, with very large claws;
And there is M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,

All come to see a man "die in his shoes!"
The clock strikes One!
Supper is done,

And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing "Jolly companions every one!"
My Lord Tomnoddy

Is drinking gin-toddy,

And laughing at every thing, and every body.
The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three!
"Who so merry, so merry as we?"

Save Captain M'Fuze,

Who is taking a snooze,

While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.
The clock strikes Four!

Round the debtor's door

Are gathered a couple of thousand or more;
As many await

At the press-yard gate,

Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
The mob divides, and between their ranks

A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks.
The clock strikes Five!

The Sheriffs arrive,

And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive; But Sir Carnaby Jenks

Blinks, and winks,

A candle burns down in the socket, and sinks.

Lieutenant Tregooze

Is dreaming of Jews,

NUMBER ONE.

And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse;
My Lord Tomnoddy

Has drunk all his toddy,

And just as dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.

Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,

Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
It seemed that the mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,

On all-save the wretch condemned to die.
Alack! that ever so fair a sun

As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such a scene of misery-
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning gallows-tree!

And hark!-a sound comes, big with fate;

The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes-Eight!—
List to that low funereal bell:

It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell--
And see,-from forth that opening door
They come !-He steps that threshold o'er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more.
--God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see

That pale, wan man's mute agony,
The glare of that wild, despairing eye,

Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the Spirit's unknown career;
Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again, not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!-Enough,-'tis done!
The bolt has fallen!-the spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known but to One!-
-Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight!-Ah me!
A deed to shudder at, not to see.
Again that clock ! 'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past ;-with its earliest chime
The chord is severed, its lifeless clay
By" dungeon villains" is borne away:
Nine!-'twas the last concluding stroke!
And then-my Lord Temnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,

And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose:
And they stared at each other, as much as to say
"Hollo! Hollo!

Here's a rum Go!

Why, Captain!-my Lord!-Here's the devil to pay!
The fellow's been cut down and taken away!-

What's to be done?

We've missed all the fun!

Why they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town
We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"
What was to be done?-'twas perfectly plain
That they could not well hang the man over again.
What was to be done!-The man was dead!
Nought could be done-nought could be said;
So-my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

-Ingoldsby Legends.

THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON.-RUFUS CHOATE. The birthday of the "Father of his Country!" May it ever be freshly remembered by American hearts! May it ever reawaken in them a filial veneration for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard for the country which he loved so well, to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian warfare; to which he devoted his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as president of the convention that framed our Constitution; which he guided and directed while in the chair of state, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was offered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might.

Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty, and towering and matchless glory of his life which enabled him to create his country, and at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. "The first in the hearts of his countrymen!" Yes, first! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American nation, as a nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that Young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life! Yes; others of our great men have been appreciated—many

admired by all;-but him we love; him we all love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements-no sectional prejudice nor bias--no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes; when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that devoted love of country which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated:

"Where may the wearied eye repose,
When gazing on the great;
Where neither guilty glory glows
Nor despicable state?

Yes-one-the first, the last, the best,
The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate,
Bequeathed the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one."

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-THOMAS HOOD.

One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly-
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly-
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny,
Into her mutiny,

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,-
One of Eve's family,-
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb,-
Her fair auburn tresses,—
Whilst wonderment guesses,
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly

Feelings had changed,

Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver;

But not the dark arch,

Or the black, flowing river;

Mad from life's history,

Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled-

Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!