ward each other, unseen, unfelt, till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect!) ordered away his boat with the first officer to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul on a like occasion, "Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved." They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters gaining upon the hold, and rising upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind, had he stood to execute sufficiently the commander's will, we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of fireman, engineers, waiters, and crew, rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men, to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of collision to the catastrophe of SINKING! Oh, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burialservice. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been. THE IRISH PICKET.-ORPHEUS C. KERR.* I'm shtandin' in the mud, Biddy, An' silence, spaichless as the grave, Me gun is at a "showldher arms," An' whin I'm afther shpakin' out, This Southern climate's quare, Biddy, And summer in the spring. Ye mind the hot place down below? I'd dhraw comparisons-but then The only moon I see, Biddy, Is one shmall star, asthore, The watchfires glame along the hill, An' whin the sintry passes thim It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy, A musket ball be's comin' shtraight It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy, A shparkin' here wid me, And thin, avourneen, hear ye say, Acushla, Pat, machree!" "Och, Biddy, darlint," thin says I, Says you, "Get out of that," Says I, "Me arrum mates your waist," R. H. NEWELL. NUMBER FOUR. An' how's the pigs, and ducks, Biddy? That looked so innosint and shwate I'm sure you're aisy with the pig, An' fade him wid the best, because Whin I come home agin, Biddy, We'll have a parlor, bed-room, hall, With kitchen, pig-pen, pratey-patch, But, murther! there's a baste, Biddy, An' well I know the crathur's there, Now, Misther Rebel, say yer prayers, Here goes! -be jabers, Biddy, dear, "AH-GOO!"-CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. Vot vas id mine baby vas trying to say, Vot makes dot shmall baby shmile vhen he's ashleep; I ask me, somedimes, vhen I looks in dot crib: "Vill der shirdt-frondt, von day, dake der blace off dot bib? Und all der day long I haf nodings to do Budt shust laugh und crow, und keep saying: "Ah-goo!" -Youth's Companion. BATTLE OF FONTENOY.-THOMAS DAVIS. Upon the death of Charles VI., Emperor of Austria, in 1740, his daughter Maria Theresa discovered that the sovereigns of Europe, instead of being true to their oaths and to her, made immediate claims upon her territories, and prepared to enforce them by open hostilities. In a short time the question became a European quarrel, to be settled only by the doubtful issue of war. Louis XV. of France and Frederick the Great opposed her, whilst England, Holland, Hungary, Bavaria, and Hanover, aided her in the protection of those rights which had been guaranteed to her. In prosecution of this war, an array of 79,000 men, commanded by Marshal Saxe, and encouraged by the presence of both king and dauphin, laid siege to Tournay, early in May, 1745. The Duke of Cumberland advanced at the head of 55,000 men, chiefly English and Dutch, to relieve the town. After a fearful and bloody battle, terribly disastrons to both sides, Louis was about to leave the field. In this juncture Saxe ordered up his last reserve -the Irish Brigade. It consisted that day of the regiments of Clare, Lally, Dillon, Berwich, Roth, and Buckley with Fitz James's horse. O'Brien, Lord Clare, was in command. Aided by the French regiments of Normandy and Vaisseany, they were ordered to charge upon the flank of the English with fixed bayonets, without firing. Upon the approach of this splendid body of men, the English were halted on the slope of a hill, and up that slope the brigade rushed rapidly and in fine order. "They were led to immediate action, and the stimulating cry of Cuimhnigidh ar Luimneac agus ar fheile na Sacsanach,' (Remember The fortune of Limerick and British faith,) was re-echoed from man to man. the field was no longer doubtful, and victory the most decisive crowned the arms of France." The capture of Ghent, Bruges, Ostend, and Oudenarde followed the victory of Fontenoy. Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed, And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread; head; Steady they step adown the slope; steady they climb the hill; Steady they load; steady they fire, moving right onward still; Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast; And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired; Fast from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried; To death they rush, but rude their shock-not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trod, King Louis turns his rein: "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain;" And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then,-fresh, vehement, and true. "Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!" The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay, The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day,- |