Now bear my broken body out
As was the judgment,-let them shout
To see me bound upon the wheel!
Ha, Gaston! never shalt thou feel
The wild, sweet passion of that sin,
Nor how the brave can woo and win!

-Appleton's Journal.

TRAFFIC IN ARDENT SPIRITS.-LYMAN BEECHER.

The amount of suffering and mortality inseparable from the commerce in ardent spirits renders it an unlawful article of trade.

The wickedness is proverbial of those who in ancient days caused their children to pass through the fire unto Moloch. But how many thousands of children are there in our land who endure daily privations and sufferings which render life a burden, and would have made the momentary pang of infant sacrifice a blessing! Theirs is a lingering, living death. There never was a Moloch to whom were immolated yearly as many children as are immolated, or kept in a state of constant suffering, in this land of nominal Christianity. We have no drums and gongs to drown their cries, neither do we make convocations, and bring them all out for one mighty burning. The fires which consume them are slow fires, and they blaze balefully in every part of our land, throughout which the cries of injured children and orphans go up to Heaven. Could all these woes, the product of intemperance, be brought out into one place, and the monster who inflicts the sufferings be seen personified, the nation would be furious with indignation. Humanity, conscience, religion, all would conspire to stop a work of such malignity.

We are appalled and shocked at the accounts from the East, of widows burned upon the funeral-piles of their departed husbands. But what if those devotees of superstition, the Bramins, had discovered a mode of prolonging the lives of their victims for years amid the flames, and by these protracted burnings were accustomed to torture life away? We might almost rouse up a crusade to cross the deep, to stop

by force such inhumanity. But alas! we should leave behind us, on our own shores, more wives in the fire than we should find of widows thus sacrificed in all the East; a fire, too, which, besides its action upon the body, tortures the soul by lost affections, and ruined hopes, and prospective wretchedness.

Every year thousands of families are robbed of fathers, brothers, husbands, friends. Every year widows and orphans are multiplied, and gray hairs are brought with sorrow to the grave. No disease makes such inroads upon families, blasts so many hopes, destroys so many lives, and causes so many mourners to go about the streets, because man goeth to his long home.

Can we lawfully amass property by a course of trade which fills the land with beggars, and widows, and orphans, and crimes, which peoples the graveyard with premature mortality, and the world of woe with the victims of despair?

Could all the forms of evil produced in the land by intemperance, come upon us in one horrid array, it would appall the nation, and put an end to the traffic in ardent spirits. If, in every dwelling built by blood, the stone from the wall should utter all the cries which the bloody traffic extorts, and the beam out of the timber should echo them back,-who would build such a house?--and who would dwell in it? What if in every part of the dwelling, from the cellar upward, through all the halls and chambers, bab-blings, and contentions, and voices, and groans, and shrieks, and wailings, were heard, day and night? What if the cold blood oozed out, and stood in drops upon the walls; and by preternatural art all the ghastly skulls and bones of the victims destroyed by intemperance should stand upon the walls, in horrid sculpture within and without the building,-who would rear such a building? What if at eventide, and at midnight, the airy forms of men destroyed by intemperance were dimly seen haunting the distilleries and stores where they received their bane,-following the track of the ship engaged in commerce,-walking upon the waves,―flitting athwart the deck,-sitting upon the rigging,--and sending up from the hold within, and from the waves without, groans, and loud laments, and wailings? Who would attend such

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 lamentation and woe which intemperance creates, and the firm 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.

A STORY OF CHINESE LOVE.

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."

HALF-WAY DOIN'S.-IRWIN RUSSELL.

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,
An' 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;
An' when 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.

COURTSHIP.

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! my 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, and still reluctant? Sweetheart, say,
When shall we monarchs be? and which the day?

MATRIMONY.

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 children, but I'll make them quiet!