And such repentance would have been
A good, outweighing far the sin.
I chose this humbleness divine,
Born out of fault, should not be thine,
Preferring prayers elate with pride
To sin with penitence allied.

THE LEPER.

N. P. WILLIS.

"Room for the leper! Room!" And as he came
The cry passed on-❝ Room for the leper! Room!"
And aside they stood,

Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood—all
Who met him on his way-and let him pass,
And onward through the open gate he came,
A leper, with the ashes on his brow,
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip
A covering, stepping painfully and slow,
And with a difficult utterance, like one
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down,
Crying, "Unclean! unclean!"

Day was breaking,

When at the altar of the temple stood

The holy priest of God. The incense lamp
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof,
Like an articulate wail; and there, alone,
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt.
The echoes of the melancholy strain
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up,

Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head

Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off

His costly raiment for the leper's garb,

And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still,
Waiting to hear his doom:

"Depart! depart, O child

Of Israel, from the temple of thy God!

For he has smote thee with his chastening rod, And to the desert wild,

From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague his people may be free.

Depart! and come not near

The busy mart, the crowded city, more;
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er;
And stay thou not to hear

Voices that call thee in the way; and fly
From all who in the wilderness pass by.

Wet not thy burning lip

In streams that to a human dwelling glide;
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide;
Nor kneel thee down to dip

The water where the pilgrim bends to drink,
By desert well, or river's grassy brink.

And pass not thou between

The weary traveler and the cooling breeze;
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees
Where human tracks are seen;

Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain;
Nor pluck the standing corn or yellow grain.

And now depart! and when

Thy heart is heavy and thine eyes are dim,
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him
Who, from the tribes of men,

Selected thee to feel his chastening rod;
Depart, O leper! and forget not God."

And he went forth alone. Not one of all
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name
Was woven in the fibres of the heart

Breaking within him now, to come and speak
Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way—
Sick and heart-broken, and alone-to die!
For God had cursed the leper.

It was noon,

And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his fevered lips,
Praying he might be so blest-to die!

Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee,
He drew the covering closer on his lip,
Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name,
"Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone
Of a rich instrument-most strangely sweet-
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And for a moment beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill.
"Helon, arise!" And he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before him.

Love and awe
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye,
As he beheld the Stranger. He was not
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow
The symbol of a lofty lineage wore;
No followers at his back, nor in his hand
Buckler, or sword, or spear; yet in his mien
Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled,
A kingly condescension graced his lips,
The lion would have crouched to in his lair.
is garb was simple and his sandals worn;
His statue modeled with a perfect grace;
His countenance the impress of a God
Touched with the open innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; his hair, unshorn,
Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard
The fullness of perfected manhood bore.
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,

As if his heart was moved; and stooping down,

He took a little water in his hand

And laid it on his brow and said, "Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's stole.
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped him.

A DRUNKEN SOLILOQUY IN A COAL CELLAR.

ALF. BURNETT.

Let's see, where am I? This is coal I'm lying on. How'd I get here? Yes, I mind now; was coming up street; met a wheel-barrow wot was drunk, coming t'other way. That wheel-barrow fell over me, or I fell over the wheel-barrow, and one of us fell into the cellar, don't mind now which; guess it must have been me. I'm a nice young man; yes,

Well, I can't help it; 'taint

I am; tight, tore, drunk, shot! my fault. Wonder whose fault it is? Is it Jones' fault? No! Is it my wife's fault? Well, it ain't! Is it the wheelbarrow's fault? No-o-o! IT'S WHISKY'S FAULT! WHISKY! who's Whisky? Has he got a large family? Got many relations? All poor, I reckon. I won't own him any more; cut his acquaintance. I have had a notion of doing that for the last ten years; always hated to, though, for fear of hurting his feelin's. I'll do it now, for I believe liquor is injurin' me; it's spoilin' my temper. Sometimes I gets mad and abuses Bets and the brats. I used to call 'em Lizzie and the children; that's a good while ago, though. Then, when I cum home, she used to put her arms around my neck and kiss me, and call me "dear William !" When I cum home now she takes her pipe out of her mouth, puts the hair out of her eyes, and looks at me and says, "Bill,

you drunken brute, shut the door after you! We're cold enough, havin' no fire, 'thout lettin' the snow blow in that way." Yes, she's Bets and I'm Bill now; I ain't a good bill neither; I'm counterfeit; won't pass-(a tavern without goin' in and getting a drink.) Don't know wot bank I'm on; last Sunday was on the river bank, at the Corn Exchange, drunk! I stay out pretty late-sometimes out all night, when Bets bars the door with a bed-post; fact is, I'm out pretty much all over-out of friends, out of pocket, out at elbows and knees, and out-rageously dirty. So Bets says, but she's no judge, for she's never clean herself. I wonder she don't wear good clothes! Maybe she ain't got any! Whose fault is that? "Taint mine! It may be whisky's. Sometimes I'm in; I'm in-toxicated now, and in somebody's coal cellar. I've got one good principle; I never runs in debt, 'cause nobody won't trust me. One of my coat-tails is gone; got tore off, I expect, when I fell down here. I'll have to get a new suit soon. A feller told me t'other day I'd make a good sign for a paper-mill. If he hadn't been so big I'd licked him. I've had this shirt on nine days. I'd take it off, but I'm afraid I'd tear it. Guess I tore the windowshutter on my pants t'other night, when I sot on the wax in Ben Sniff's shoe-shop. I'll have to get it mended up or I'll catch cold. I ain't very stout neither, though I'm full in the face; as the boys say, "I'm fat as a match and healthy as the small-pox." My hat is standin' guard for a windowpane that went out the other day at the invitation of a brick-bat. It's getting cold down here; wonder how I'll get out? I an't able to climb. If I had a drink, think I could do it. Let's see, I ain't got thrce cents; wish I was in a tavern, I could sponge it then. When anybody treats, and says, "Come, fellers!" I always thinks my name is fellers, and I've too good manners to refuse. I must leave this place, or I'll be arrested for burglary, and I ain't come to that yet! Anyhow, it was the wheel-barrow did the harm, not me!