"only with love for you. Oh, Fanny, I adore you! Say you will be my wife."

66

"I gave you an answer the other day," she replied; one which I should think you would have remembered," she added, laughing a little, notwithstanding her terror.

"I remember it perfectly," I answered, "but I intend to have a different reply to that. You see those five sand-bags. I shall ask you five times to become my wife. Every time you refuse I shall throw over a sand-bag-so, lady fair, as the cabinan would say, reconsider your decision, and consent to become Mrs. Jenkins."

"I won't," she said; "I never will; and let me tell you that you are acting in a very ungentlemanly way to press me thus." "You acted in a very ladylike way the other day, did you not," I rejoined, "when you knocked me out of the boat?" She laughed again, for she was a plucky girl, and no mistake -a very plucky girl. "However," I went on, "it's no good ⚫ arguing about it-will you promise to give me your hand?" "Never!" she answered; "I'll go to Ursa Major first, though I've got a big enough bear here, in all conscience. Stay! you'd prefer Aquarius, wouldn't you?"

She looked so pretty that I was almost inclined to let her off, (I was only trying to frighten her, of course—I knew how high we could go safely, well enough, and how valuable the life of Jenkins was to his country,) but resolution is one of the strong points of my character, and when I've begun a thing I like to carry it through; so I threw over another sand-bag, and whistled the Dead March in Saul.

"Come, Mr. Jenkins," she said suddenly, "come, Tom, let us descend now, and I'll promise to say nothing whatever about all this."

I continued the execution of the Dead March.

"But if you do not begin the descent at once I'll tell papa the moment I set foot on the ground."

I laughed, seized another bag, and looking steadily at her said: "will you promise to give me your hand?"

"I've answered you already," was the reply.

Over went the sand, and the solemn notes of the Dead March resounded through the car.

"I thought you were a gentleman," said Fanny rising up

in a terrible rage from the bottom of the car, where she had been sitting, and looking perfectly beautiful in her wrath. "I thought you were a gentleman, but I find I was mistaken. Why, a chimney-sweeper would not treat a lady in such a way. Do you know that you are risking your own life as well as mine by your madness?"

I explained that I adored her so much that to die in her company would be perfect bliss, so that I begged she would not consider my feelings at all. She dashed her beautiful hair from her face, and standing perfectly erect, looking like the Goddess of Anger or Boadicea—if you can imagine that personage in a balloon--she said, "I command you to begin the descent this instant!"

The Dead March, whistled in a manner essentially gay and lively, was the only response. After a few minutes' silence I took up another bag, and said:

“We are getting rather high; if you do not decide soon we shall have Mercury coming to tell us that we are trespassing-will you promise me your hand?"

She sat in sulky silence in the bottom of the car. I threw over the sand. Then she tried another plan. Throwing herself upon her knees, and bursting into tears, she said;

"Oh, forgive me for what I did the other day. It was very wrong, and I am very sorry. Take me home, and I will be a sister to you."

66 Not a wife?" said I.

"I can't! I can't!" she answered.

Over went the fourth bag, and I began to think she would beat me after all, for I did not like the idea of going much higher. I would not give in just yet, however. I whistled for a few moments, to give her time for reflection, and then said: "Fanny, they say that marriages are made in heaven -if you do not take care, ours will be solemnized there."

I took up the fifth bag. "Come," I said, "my wife in life, or my companion in death. Which is it to be?" and I patted the sand-bag in a cheerful manner. She held her face in her hands, but did not answer. I nursed the bag in my arms, as if it had been a baby.

Come, Fanny, give me your promise." I could hear her sobs. I'm the softest-hearted creature breathing, and would

not pain any living thing, and I confess she had beaten me. I forgave her the ducking; I forgave her for rejecting me. I was on the point of flinging the bag back into the car, and saying, "Dearest Fanny, forgive me for frightening you. Marry whomsoever you wish. Give your lovely hand to the lowest groom in your stables-endow with your priceless beauty the chief of the Panki-wanki Indians. Whatever happens, Jenkins is your slave-your dog--your footstool. His duty, henceforth, is to go whithersoever you shall order, to do whatever you shall command." I was just on the point of saying this, I repeat, when Fanny suddenly looked up, and said, with a queerish expression upon her face:

"You need not throw that last bag over. I promise to give you my hand."

With all your heart?" I asked, quickly.

"With all my heart," said she, with the same strange look. I tossed the bag into the bottom of the car, and opened the valve. The balloon descended. Gentlemen, will you believe it ?—when we had reached the ground, and the baloon had been given over to its recovered master, when I had helped Fanny tenderly to the earth, and turned towards her to receive anew the promise of her affection and her hand-will you believe it?-she gave me a box on the ear that upset me against the car, and running to her father, who at that moment came up, she related to him and the assembled company what she called my disgraceful conduct in the balloon, and ended by informing me that all of her hand that I was likely to get had been already bestowed upon my ear, which she assured me had been given with all her heart, "You villain!" said Sir George, advancing toward me with a horse-whip in his hand. "You villain! I've a good mind to break this over your back."

“Sir George,” said I, “ villain and Jenkins must never be coupled in the same sentence; and as for the breaking of this whip, I'll relieve you of the trouble," and snatching it from his hand, I broke it in two, and threw the pieces on the ground. "And now I shall have the honor of wishing you a good morning. Miss Flasher, I forgive you ;" and I retired. Now I ask you whether any specimen of female treachery equal to that has ever come within your experience, and whether any excuse can be made for such conduct?

RING DOWN THE DROP-I CANNOT PLAY.

J. W. WATSON.

O painted gauds and mimic scenes,
And pompous trick that nothing means!
O glaring light and shouting crowd,
And love-words in derision vowed!
O crowned king with starving eyes,
And dying swain who never dies!
Oh, hollow show and empty heart,
Great ministers of tragic art!

"There's that within which passeth show:"
The days they come, the days they go.
We live two lives, on either page-
The one, upon the painted stage,
With all the world to hear and gaze

And comment on each changing phase;
The other, that sad life within,
Where love may purify a sin.

Ring up the drop, the play is on;
Our hour of entrance comes anon!
Choke down the yearnings of the soul;
Weak, doting fool! art thou the whole?
The stage is waiting, take thy part;
Forget to-night thou hast a heart;
Let sunshine break the gathering cloud,
And smile thou on the waiting crowd.

Hear how their plaudits fill the scene!
Is not thy greedy ear full keen?
Is not a thousand shouts a balm
For all thy throbbing heart's alarm?
"To be or not to be "-the screed

Is listened to with breathless heed.
O painter with a painted mask!

Is thy brain wandering from thy task?

Can it be true that scores of years
Do not suffice to murder tears?

Can it be true that all of art

Has failed to teach the human heart?

Can gauds, and tricks, and shout, and glare,
The deafening drum, the trumpet's blare,
With all their wild, delirious din,

Not stifle this sad life within?

Pah, man! the eager people wait;
Go on with all thy studied prate;

Shalt thou not feed their longing eyes
Because-because a woman dies?
What cares the crowd for dying wives,
For broken hearts, or blasted lives!
They paid their money, and-they say-
Living or dead, on with the play!

What! staggering, man? why, where's thy art?
That stare was good; that tragic start
Would make thy fortune, were it not
That it rebukes the author's plot.
"My wife is dying!" He ne'er wrote
The words that struggle in thy throat.
"Take back your money," did'st thou say?
"Ring down the drop-I cannot play."

Ring down the drop; the act is o'er;
Her bark has touched the golden shore,
While reading from life's inner page,
Stands there the actor of the stage;
But not upon the cold, white corse
Falls there a word of sad remorse
From all that crowd who heard him say,
"Ring down the drop-I cannot play."

THE GOLDEN STREET.-WILLIAM O. Stoddard.

The toil is very long and I am tired:

Oh, Father, I am weary of the way!

Give me that rest I have so long desired;

Bring me that Sabbath's cool refreshing day,
And let the fever of my world-worn feet

Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Tired, very tired! And I at times have seen,
When the far pearly gates were open thrown
For those who walked no more with me, the green
Sweet foliage of the trees that there alone

At last wave over those whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

When the gates open, and before they close-
Sad hours but holy-I have watched the tide
Whose living crystal there forever flows
Before the throne, and sadly have I sighed

To think how long until my world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.
They shall not wander from that blessed way;—
Nor heat, nor cold, nor weariness, nor sin,