"My gentle lad, what is't you read, Romance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable ?" The young boy gave an upward glance, "It is "The Death of Abel!'"`

The usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain,—
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;

And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked with him of Cain;

And, long since then, of bloody men
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod,—
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;

And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God;

He told how murderers walked the earth
Beneath the curse of Cain,

With crimson clouds before their eyes,

And flames about their brain;

For blood has left upon their souls

Its everlasting stain.

"And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth,

Their pangs must be extreme,

Woe, woe, unutterable woe,→

Who spill life's sacred stream!

For why Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream!

"One that had never done me wrong,

A feeble man, and old;

I led him to a lonely field,——

The moon shone clear and cold;

'Now here,' said I, 'this man shall die,
And I will have his gold!'

"Two sudden blows with ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone,
One Lyricd gash with a hasty knife,

And then the deed was done; There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone.

"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill;

And yet I feared him all the more,
For lying there so still;

There was a manhood in his look,
That murder could not kill.

"And, lo! the universal air
Seemed lit with ghastly flame;
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame;
I took the dead man by his hand,
And called upon his name.

"O God! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain;
But when I touched the lifeless clay,
The blood gushed out amain;

For every clot a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain.

"My head was like an ardent coal;
My heart as solid ice;

My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the devil's price;

A dozen times I groaned; the dead
Had never groaned but twice.

"And now, from forth the frowning sky,
From the heaven's topmost height,

I heard a voice,-the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite:
'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead,
And hide it from my sight!'

"I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream,-
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme.
My gentle boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!

"Down went the corpse with hollow plunge,

And vanished in the pool;

Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,

And washed my forehead cool,

And sat among the urchins young,
That evening in the school.

"O heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim!

I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in evening hymn;
Like a devil of the pit I seemed,
'Mid holy cherubim.

"And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread;

But guilt was my grim chamberlain,
That lighted me to bed;

And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red.

"All night I lay in agony,

In anguish dark and deep,
My fevered eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep;
For Sin has rendered unto her
The keys of hell to keep.

"All night I lay in agony,

From weary chime to chime, With one besetting, horrid hint, That racked me all the time,A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime.

"One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave;

Stronger and stronger every pulse

Did that temptation crave,

Still urging me to go and see
The dead man in his grave.

"Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky,
And sought the black, accursed pool,
With a wild, misgiving eye;

And I saw the dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry.

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dewdrop from its wing;

But I never marked its morning flight,
I never heard it sing;

For I was stooping once again

Under the horrid thing.

"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran;

There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began:

In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
I hid the murdered man;

"And all that day I read in school,

But my thought was otherwhere;

As soon as the midday task was done,
In secret I was there;

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corpse was bare.

"Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,

For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep, —
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.

"So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
Till blood for blood atones;
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh,
The world shall see his bones.

"O God! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now, awake;

Again, again, with dizzy brain,

The human life I take;

And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.

"And still no peace for the restless clay,

Will wave or mould allow;

The horrid thing pursues my soul,

It stands before me now!"

The fearful boy looked up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kissed,

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.

Thomas Hood.

SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO.

Signor Antonio, many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me
About my moneys and my usances;
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe;
You call me,-misbeliever, cut-throat, dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well, then, it now appears, you need my help;
Go to, then; you come to me, and you say,
Shylock, we would have moneys; you say so;
You that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold; moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say,
Hath a dog money? is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats? or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key,
With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness,
Say this?

Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;
You spurned me such a day; another time
You called me-dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much moneys.

Shakspeare.

JOSH BILLINGS ON "GONGS."

Josh Billings relateth his first experience with the gong thusly: I kan never holi eradicate from my memory the sound ov the first gong I ever herd. I was settin on the frunt step of a tavurn in the sity of Bufferlow, pensively smokin. The sun was goin to bed, and the hevins fur and near was a blushin at the performance. The Ery Kanal with its golden waters was on its way to Albany, and I was perusin the line botes a floatin by, and thinking of Italy (wher I uste to live) and gondolers and gallus wimmin. Mi entire sole, was, as it were, in a swet-i wanted to klimb-i felt grate, i aktually gru. There are things

in this life not tu be trifled with: there are times when a man brakes luce from hisself, when he sees spiruts, or when he kin almost tuch the mune, and feels az if he could