“Hero’s pleasure without regretting,
  And good without abuse,
  The holiday and the bridal
  Of beauty and of use.

  “Here’s a priest and there is a Quaker,—­
  Do the cat and the dog agree? 
  Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood? 
  Have they cut down the gallows-tree?

  “Would the old folk know their children? 
  Would they own the graceless town,
  With never a ranter to worry
  And never a witch to drown?”

  Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar,
  Laughed like a school-boy gay;
  Tossing his arms above him,
  The lapstone rolled away.

  It rolled down the rugged hill-side,
  It spun like a wheel bewitched,
  It plunged through the leaning willows,
  And into the river pitched.

  There, in the deep, dark water,
  The magic stone lies still,
  Under the leaning willows
  In the shadow of the hill.

  But oft the idle fisher
  Sits on the shadowy bank,
  And his dreams make marvellous pictures
  Where the wizard’s moonstone sank.

  And still, in the summer twilights,
  When the river seems to run
  Out from the inner glory,
  Warm with the melted sun,

  The weary mill-girl lingers
  Beside the charmed stream,
  And the sky and the golden water
  Shape and color her dream.

  Fair wave the sunset gardens,
  The rosy signals fly;
  Her homestead beckons from the cloud,
  And love goes sailing by!

THE FIRST ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH.

“In the name of the Prophet:—­Figs!”

“Eh, bien, Sare! wiz you Field and ze uzzers!  Zey is ver’ good men, sans doute, an’ zey know how make ze money; mais—­gros materialistes, I tell you, Sare!  Vat zen?  I sall sink I know, I!  Oui, Monsieur, I, Cesar Prevost, who has ze honneur to stand before you,—­I am ze original inventeur of ze Telegraphique Communication wiz Europe!”

It was about the period when, with the fast world of cities, De Sauty was beginning to become type of an “ism”; already the attention of excitement-hunters had travelled far from Trinity Bay, and Cyrus Field had yielded his harvest.  Nevertheless, to me, who had just come to town from a quiet country seclusion into which news made its entry teredo-fashion only, the performances of the Agamemnon and Niagara were matters of fresh and vivid interest.  So I purchased Mr. Briggs’s book, and went to Guy’s, to cut the leaves over a steak and a bottle of Edinburgh ale.  It was while I was thus engaged that the little Frenchman had accosted me, calling my attention to his wares with such perfect courtesy, such airy grace, that I was forced to look at his baskets.  And looking, I was induced to lay down my book and examine them more closely; for they were really pretty,—­made of extremely white and delicate wood, showing an exquisite taste in their design, and being neatly and carefully finished.  Then it was, that, having apparently noticed the title of my book, M. Cesar Prevost had used the language above quoted, and with such empressement of manner, that my attention was diverted from his wares to himself.  I looked at him with some curiosity.