[Footnote 1:  It is earnestly to be hoped that the officers in command of the British force will not yield to the savage suggestions and incitements of the English press, with regard to the fate of Delhi.  The tone of feeling which has been shown in many quarters in England has been utterly disgraceful.  Indiscriminate cruelty and brutality are no fitting vengeance for the Hindoo and Mussulman barbarities.  The sack of Delhi and the massacre of its people would bring the English conquerors down to the level of the conquered.  Great sins cry out for great punishments,—­but let the punishment fall on the guilty, and not involve the innocent.  The strength of English rule in India must be in her justice, in her severity,—­but not in the force and irresistible violence of her passions.  To destroy the city would be to destroy one of the great ornaments of her empire,—­to murder the people would be to commence the new period of her rule with a revolting crime.

“For five days,” says the historian, “Tamerlane remained a tranquil spectator of the sack and conflagration of Delhi and the massacre of its inhabitants, while he was celebrating a feast in honor of his victory.  When the troops were wearied with slaughter, and nothing was left to plunder, he gave orders for the prosecution of his march, and on the day of his departure he offered up to the Divine Majesty the sincere and humble tribute of grateful praise.”

“It is said that Nadir Shah, during the massacre that he had commanded, sat in gloomy silence in the little mosque of Rokn-u-doulah, which stands at the present day in the Great Bazaar.  Here the Emperor and his nobles at length took courage to present themselves.  They stood before him with downcast eyes, until Nadir commanded them to speak, when the Emperor burst into tears and entreated Nadir to spare his subjects.”]

SKIPPER IRESON’S RIDE.

Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,—­
On Apuleius’s Golden Ass,
Or one-eyed Calendar’s horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human hack,
Islam’s prophet on Al-Borak,—­
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson’s out from Marblehead! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Body of turkey, head of owl,
Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Captain Ireson stood in the cart. 
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: 
“Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a corrt
By the women o’ Morble’ead!”