Imatges de pÓgina

stores? Who would labor in such distilleries? Who would navigate such ships?

Oh! were the sky over our heads one great whisperinggallery, bringing down about us all the lainentation and woe which intemperance creates, and the tirm earth one sonorous medium of sound, bringing up around us from beneath, the wailings of the lost, whom the commerce in ardent spirits had sent thither,-these tremendous realities, assailing our sense, would invigorate our conscience, and give decision to our purpose of reformation. But these evils are as real as if the stone did cry out of the wall, and the beam answered it, , -as real as if, day and night, wailings were heard in every part of the dwelling, and blood and skeletons were seen upon every wall, -as real as if the ghostly forms of departed victims flitted about the ship as she passed o'er the billows, and showed themselves nightly about stores and distilleries, and with unearthly voices screamed in our ears their loud lament. They are as real as if the sky over our heads collected and brought down about us all the notes of sorrow in the land, and the firm earth should open a passage for the wailing of despair to come up from beneath.


The festive Ah Goo

And Too Hay, the fair
They met, and the two

Concluded to pair.
They “ spooned ” in the way

That most lovers do,
And Ah Goo kissed Too Hay,

And Too Hay kissed Ah Goo.
Said the festive Ah Goo,

As his heart swelled with pride,
“Me heap likee you-

You heap be my blide?"
And she looking down,

All so modest and pretty,
'Twixt a smile and a frown,

Gently murmured,“ You bette."


Belubbed fellow-trabelers, in holdin' forth to-day,
I doesn't quote no special verse for what I has to say;
De sermon will be berry short, an' dis here am de tex':
Dat half-way doin's ain't no 'count in dis worl' nor de nex'.
Dis worl' dat we's a-libbin’in is like a cotton row,
Where ebery cullud gentleman has got his line to hoe;
An'ebery time a lazy nigger stops to take a nap,
De grass keeps on a-growin' for to smudder up de crap.
When Moses led de Jews acrost de waters of de sea,
Dey had to keep a-goin' jus' as fas' as fas' could be;
Do you suppose dey could eber hab succeeded in dere wish,
And reached de promised land at last, if they had stopped

to fish ? My frien’s, dere was a garden once, where Adam libbed

wid Eve, Wid no one roun' to bodder dem, no nabors for to thieve; An'ebery day was Christmas, an' dey had dere rations free, An' eberyting belonged to dem except an apple-tree. You all know 'bout de story,-how de snake come snookin'

'round, A stump-tail, rusty moccasin, a-crawlin'on de ground, How Eve an? Adam ate de fruit, an' went an'hid dere face, Till de angel oberseer came an' drove dem off de place. Now, s'pose dis man an' 'ooman, too, hadn't 'tempted for to

shirk, But had gone about dere gardenin', an’’tended to dere work, Dey wouldn't have been loafin' where dey had no business to, Ani de debble nebber'd got a chance to tell 'em what to do. No half-way doin's, bredren, 'twill nebber do, I say! Go at your task, an' finish it, an' den’s de time to play; For even if de crap is good, de rain will spoil de bolls, Unless you keeps a-pickin' in de garden ob your souls. Keep a-ploughin', an'a-hoein', an'a-scrapin' ob de rows; In' whien de ginnin's ober you can pay up what you owes; But if you quits a-workin' ebery time de sun is hot De sheriff's gwine to leby upon eberyting you's got. Whateber you's a-dribin'at, be sure an' dribe it t'ro', An'don't let nothin' stop you, but do what you's gwine to do: For when you see a nigger foolin', den, sure as you are born, You's gwine to see him comin'out de small end ob de horn.

I thanks you for de 'tention you hab gib dis afternoon;
Sister Williams will oblige us by a-raisin’ob a tune.
I see dat Brudder Johnson's gwine to pass around de hat;
Don't let's hab no half-way doin's when it comes to dat.

Fairest of earth! if thou wilt hear my vow;

Lo! at thy feet, I swear to love thee ever;
And, by this kiss upon thy radiant brow,

Promise affection which no time shall sever; And love which e'er shall burn as bright as now,

To be extinguished-never, dearest-never! Wilt thou that naughty, fluttering heart resign? Catherine! iny own sweet Kate! wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt have pearls to deck thy raven hair,

Thou shalt have all this world of ours can bring! And we will live in solitude, nor care

For aught save each other. We will fling Away all sorrow,--Eden shall be there!

And thou shalt be my queen, and I thy king! Still coy, ard still reluctant ? Sweetheart, say, When shall we monarchs be? and which the day?


A SEQUEL TO “COURTSHIP." Now, Mrs. Pringle, once for all, I

say I will not such extravagance allow! Bills upon bills, and larger every day,

Enough to drive a man to drink, I vow!
Bonnets, gloves, frippery, and trash,-nay, nay,

Tears, Mrs. Pringle, will not gull me now.
I say I won't allow ten pound a week :
I can't afford it; Madam, do not speak!
In wedding you, I thought I had a treasure;

I find myself most miserably mistaken!
You rise at ten, then spend the day in pleasure:

In fact, my confidence is slightly shaken.
Ha! what's that uproar? This, ma'am, is my leisure;

Sufficient noise the slumbering dead to waken!
I seek retirement, and I find-a riot ;
Confound those chilelren, but I'll make them quiet!

BUYING A COW. Deacon Smith's wagon stopped one morning before Widow Jones' door, and he gave the usual country sign that he wanted somebody in the house, by dropping the reins and sitting double with his elbows on his knees. Out tripped the widow, lively as a cricket, with a tremendous black ribbon in her snow-white cap. “Good morning” was said on both sides, and the widow waited for what was further to be said.

“Well, Ma'am Jones, perhaps you don't want to sell one of your cows, now, for nothing, any way, do you ?"

Well, there, Mister Smith, you couldn't have spoken my mind better. A poor lone woman like me does not know what to do with so many creturs, and should be glad to trade if we can fix it.”

So they adjourned to the meadow. Deacon Smith looked at Roan, then at the widow,--at Brindle, then at the widow,--at the Downing cow, then at the widow again,and so through the whole forty. The same call was made every day for a week, but the deacon could not decide which cow he wanted. At length, on Saturday, when the Widow Jones was in a hurry to get through her baking for Sunday, --and had “ever so much to do in the house,” as all farmers' wives and widows have on Saturday,--she was a little impatient. Deacon Smith was as irresolute as ever.

“That 'ere Downing cow is a pretty fair cretur," said he, “but”-he stopped to glance at the widow's face, and then walked around her,-not the widow, but the cow.

The Downing cow I knew before the late Mr. Jones bought her.” Here he sighed at the allusion to the late Mr. Jones; she sighed, and both looked at each other. It was a highly interesting moment.

“Old Roan is a faithful old milch, and so is Brindle,-but I have known better.” A long stare succeeded his speech, the pause was getting awkward,-and at last Mrs. Jones broke out:

“ Law! Mr. Smith, if I'm the cow you want, do say so!"

The intentions of the deacon and the widow were published the next day.


I. EDGAR JONES. * Mine host" lay there at dead of night, And watched the glow of the dim fire-light On the white expanse of the glossy wall, In forms fantastic, rise and fall. His nurse had nightly vigils kept, Till worn and weary now,

she slept; As the patient, weak and wishful, lay Counting the hours till the dawn of day. He watched the dancing shadows change, When, suddenly, with motion strange, They turned to people that he knew, Who passed in sad procession through, And seemed to point at him, and glare, With features pale, and glassy stare, And chant in mournful moan,

“ We come To seek the man who sold us rum !" Nor could he shriek, for he was dumb, While every muscle, nerve, and bone Seemed petrified to solid stone. But still the sad and ghastly crew With ghostly tread went marching through. He saw the drunkard's murdered wife Who fell before her husband's knife; And just behind, with lolling tongue, The guilty husband who was hung; Their vicious boys whom none could tame; Their daughters steeped in sin and shame. Then scores of laborers passed him by,Who learned of him to drink and die,With starving children, weeping wives, Who suffered by their ruined lives. Among them there were not a few Of wealthy people, well-to-do, Who lost all happiness and health, By wasting time, and strength, and wealth To drain their gold into his till. Amid the strangely-mated crew Were many whom he never knew,Who sank beneath the ills that come

As secondary ills of rum. WWWWW

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