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"But when three weeks had crept away,

As you just now have heard,
The captain came upon deck one day,

And quoth he 'My lads, I've something to say--
Bill Jones is as good as his word.

"He never leaves me day nor night,
He haunts me-haunts me still;
By the midnight lamp I see the sprite,
And when at morn the sky grows light,
The first sunbeam shows me Bill

"At meals, his pale lips speak the grace,
His cold hand gives me wine:
At every hour, in every place,
To whatever side I turn my face,
Bill's eyes are fixed on mine.

"Now, lads, my resolution's made,
One means will set me free,
And Bill's pursuit for ever evade-
He comes he comes! then away!' he said,
And plunged into the sea.

"None moved a joint the wretch to save,
All stood with staring eyes;

Each clasp'd his hand, a groan each gave,
When, lo! on a sudden, above the wave,
Once more did the captain rise.

"Fixed and fearful was his eye,

And pale as a corse his brow,

And we saw him clasp his hand on high,
And we heard him scream with a terrible cry,
'Bill's with me, with me now!'

"Then down he sunk through the foaming flood, To hell, that worst of havens !

Now, heaven preserve you, master good,
From perilous rage and innocent blood,
And from meeting with three ravens !"

LONDON CHURCHES.

LORD HOUGHTON, D.C.L.

I STOOD, One Sunday morning,
Before a large church-door,
The congregation gather'd,
And carriages a score-
From one outstepp'd a lady
I oft had seen before.

Her hand was on a Prayer-book,
And held a vinaigrette ;
The sign of man's redemption
Clear on the book was set,—
But above the cross there glisten'd
A golden coronet.

For her the obsequious beadle

The inner door flung wide,

Lightly, as up a ball-room,

Her footsteps seemed to glide— There might be good thoughts in her For all her evil pride.

But after her a woman
Peep'd wistfully within,
On whose wan face was graven
Life's hardest discipline-

The trace of the sad trinity

Of weakness, pain, and sin.

The few free-seats were crowded
Where she could rest and pray;
With her worn garb contrasted
Each side in fair array—
"God's house holds no poor sinners,"
She sigh'd and crept away.

Old heathendom's vast temples
Held men of every fate;

The steps of far Benares
Commingle small and great;
The dome of St. Sophia

Confounds all human state;

The aisles of blessed Peter
Are open all the year;
Throughout wide Christian Europe
The Christian's right is clear
To use God's house in freedom,
Each man the other's peer.

Save only in that England,
Where this disgrace I saw-
England, where no one crouches
In tyranny's base awe-
England, where all are equal
Beneath the eye of law.

There, too, each vast cathedral
Contracts its ample room—
No weary beggar resting

Within the holy gloom—
No earnest student musing
Beside the famous tomb!

Who shall relieve the scandal
That desecrates our age-

An evil great as ever

Iconoclastic rage?

Who to this Christian people
Restore their heritage?

THE GIRL WHO TROD UPON BREAD.

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

You have doubtless heard of the girl who trod upon bread not to soil her pretty shoes, and what evil this brought upon her. The tale is both written and printed.

She was a poor child, but proud and vain. She had a bad disposition, people said. When she was little more

than an infant it was a pleasure to her to catch flies, to pull off their wings, and maim them entirely. She used, when somewhat older, to take lady-birds and beetles, stick them all upon a pin, then put a large leaf or a piece of paper close to their feet, so that the poor things held fast to it, and turned and twisted in their endeavours to get off the pin.

"Now the lady-birds shall read," said little Inger. "See how they turn the paper!"

As she grew older she became worse instead of better; but she was very beautiful, and that was her misfortune. She would have been punished, otherwise; and in the long run she was.

"You will bring evil on your own head,” said her mother. "As a little child you used often to tear my aprons; I fear that when you are older you will break my heart."

And she did so sure enough.

At length she went into the country to wait on people of distinction. They were as kind to her as if she had been one of their own family; and she was so well dressed that she looked very pretty, and became extremely arrogant.

When she had been a year in service her employers said to her,

"You should go and visit your relations, little Inger."

She went, resolved to let them see how fine she had become. When, however, she reached the village, and saw the lads and lasses gossiping together near the pond, and her mother sitting close by on a stone, resting her head against a bundle of firewood which she had picked up in the forest, Inger turned back. She felt ashamed that she who was dressed so smartly should have for her mother such a ragged creature, one who gathered sticks for her fire. It gave her no concern

that she was expected-she was so vexed.

A half year more had passed.

"You must go home some day and see your old

parents, little Inger," said the mistress of the house. Here is a large loaf of white bread-you can carry this to them they will be rejoiced to see you."

And Inger put on her best clothes and her nice new shoes, and she lifted her dress high, and walked so carefully, that she might not soil her garments and her feet. There was no harm at all in that. But when she came to where the path went over some damp marshy ground, and there were water and mud in the way, she threw the bread into the mud, in order to step upon it and get over with dry shoes; but just as she had placed one foot on the bread, and had lifted the other up, the bread sank in with her deeper and deeper, till she went entirely down, and nothing was to be seen but a black bubbling pool.

That is the story.

What became of the girl?

She went below to the Old Woman of the Bogs, who brews down there. The Old Woman of the Bogs is an aunt of the fairies. They are very well known. Many poems have been written about them, and they have been printed; but nobody knows anything more of the Old Woman of the Bogs than that, when the meadows and the ground begin to reek in summer, it is the old woman below who is brewing. Into her brewery it was that Inger sank, and no one could hold out very long there. A cesspool is a charming apartment compared with the old Bogwoman's brewery. Every vessel is redolent of horrible smells, which would make any human being faint, and they are packed closely together and over each other; but even if there were a small space among them which one might creep through, it would be impossible, on account of all the slimy toads and snakes that are always crawling and forcing themselves through. Into this place little Inger sank. All this nauseous mess was so ice-cold that she shivered in every limb. Yes, she became stiffer and stiffer. The bread stuck fast to her, and it drew her as an amber bead draws a slender thread.

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