proof of their poor pastor's beneficence burst upon them; and as an affectionate murmur began to arise above the silence which that emotion produced, the burly Father Philip blushed like a girl at this publication of his charity, and even at the foot of that altar where he stood, felt something like shame in being discovered in the commission of that virtue so highly commended by the Providence to whose worship that altar was raised. He uttered a hasty "Whisht, whisht!" and waved with his outstretched hands his flock into silence.

In an instant one of those sudden changes so common to an Irish assembly, and scarcely credible to a stranger, took place. The multitude was hushed, the grotesque of the subscription list had passed away and was forgotten, and that same man and that same multitude stood in altered relations, they were again a reverent flock, and he once more a solemn pastor; the natural play of his nation's mirthful sarcasm was absorbed in a moment in the sacredness of his office; and with a solemnity befitting the highest occasion, he placed his hands together before his breast, and, raising his eyes to heaven, he poured forth his sweet voice, with a tone of the deepest devotion, in that reverential call for prayer, “Orate, fratres!"

The sound of a multitude gently kneeling down followed, like the soft breaking of a quiet sea on a sandy beach; and when Father Philip turned to the altar to pray, his pent-up feelings found vent in tears, and while he prayed he wept.

I believe such scenes as this are not of unfrequent occurrence in Ireland,― that country so long suffering, so much maligned, and so little understood.

- Samuel Lover.

A FRENCHMAN ON MACBETH

An enthusiastic French student of Shakespeare thus comments on the tragedy of Macbeth:

- ze scene

"Ah! your Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! He is gr-r-aä-nd — mysterieuse — soo-blime! You 'ave reads ze Macabess? of ze Mossieu' Macabess vis ze Vitch-eh? Superb sooblimitée! W'en he say to ze Vitch, 'Ar-r-roynt ze, Vitch!' she go away: but what she say when she go away? She say she will do s'omesing dat aves got no naäme! Ah, ha!' she say, 'I go, like ze r-r-aä-t

vizout ze tail but I'll do! I'll do! I'll Do!' W'at she do? Ah, ha! voila le graand mystérieuse Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! She not say what she do!"

This was "grand," to be sure; but the prowess of Macbeth, in his "bout" with Macduff, awakens all the mercurial Frenchman's martial ardor:

"Mossieu' Macabess, he see him come, clos' by; he say (proud empressement), Come o-o-n, Mossieu' Macduffs, and d-d be he who first say Enoffs!' Zen zey fi-i-ght-moche. Ah, ha! -voila! Mossieu' Macabess, vis his br-r-ight r-r-apier 'pink' him, vat you call, in his body. He 'ave gots mal d'estomac: he say, vis grand simplicité, Enoffs!' What for he say 'Enoffs?' 'Cause he got enoffs-plaänty; and he expire, r-r-ight away, 'mediately, pretty quick! Ah, mes amis, Mossieu' Shak-es-pier is rising man in La Belle France!"

-Anonymous.

THE WHITE SQUALL

On deck, beneath the awning,
I dozing lay and yawning;
It was the gray of dawning,
Ere yet the sun arose;

And above the funnel's roaring,
And the fitful wind's deploring,
I heard the cabin snoring

With universal nose.

I could hear the passengers snorting,—
I envied their disporting,-

Vainly I was courting

The pleasure of a doze.

So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight,
And the glimmer of the skylight

That shot across the deck;

And the binnacle, pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,

And the sparks in fiery eddy

That whirled from the chimney neck.

In our jovial floating prison.

There was sleep from fore to mizzen,
And never a star had risen

The hazy sky to speck.

Strange company we harbored,
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered,-
Jews black and brown and gray.
With terror it would seize ye,
And make your souls uneasy
To see those Rabbis greasy,

Who did naught but scratch and pray.
Their dirty children puking,-
Their dirty saucepans cooking,—
Their dirty fingers hooking

Their swarming fleas away.

To starboard Turks and Greeks were,-
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were,
Enormous wide their breeks were,-
Their pipes did puff away;

Each on his mat allotted
In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted

In pretty, pleasant play.

He can't but smile who traces
The smiles of those brown faces,
And the pretty, prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.

And so the hours kept tolling;
And through the ocean rolling
Went the brave Iberia bowling,
Before the break of day,-
When a squall, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the waters scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,

And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.

Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers, whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;

And the steward jumps up, and hastens

For the necessary basins.

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, And they knelt and moaned and shivered,

As the plunging waters met them,

And splashed and overset them; And they called in their emergence Upon countless saints and virgins; And their marrowbones are bended, And they think the world is ended. And the Turkish women for'ard Were frightened and behorrored; And, shrieking and bewildering,

The mothers clutched their children;
The men sang "Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah!"

As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them;
And they called upon the Prophet,
Who thought but little of it.

Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up,
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins ;)
And each man moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish gabardine,

In woe and lamentation,

And howling consternation.

And the splashing water drenches

Their dirty brats and wenches;

And they crawl from bales and benches,

In a hundred thousand stenches.

This was the white squall famous,

Which latterly o'ercame us,

And which all will well remember,

On the 28th September;

When a Prussian captain of Lancers

(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) Came on the deck astonished,

By that wild squall admonished.

And wondering cried, "Potz tausend,
Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend?"
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his

Cigar in all the bustle,

And scorned the tempest's tussle.
And oft we've thought hereafter

How he beat the storm to laughter;