“Some av the New Catholics, I’ll warrant ye!” exclaimed Higgins, indignantly.  “Some of thim blatherskites av the Doellinger school, come over here to stir up sedition in the Church, as though they hadn’t made worry enough in the owld counthries.  An’ what business has Dutchmen here, annyway, whin an Irishman has begun the good worrk?  They’ve no right to take the labor of convartin’ these haythins out of me hands that a-way.  Me conscience won’t allow me to permit such distarbances an’ innovations.  See if ye can’t get um to lave the islands peaceable, Heller.  If they won’t, I shall have to let Umbaho settle wid um afther his fashion.”

An embassy to the missionaries having obtained from them no other response than that they would welcome martyrdom rather than relinquish their labors, Umbaho was dispatched against them at the head of a sufficient army, with instructions to treat them as enemies of Feejee and of the unity of the Church.

But instead of slaughtering the missionaries, Umbaho was converted by them.  He renounced cannibalism, polygamy, and the sacred poison; he denied Father Higgins.  Accompanied by one of the Germans, he returned to Feejee at the head of his army, bent on establishing the true Christian faith.

“We must press a lot av min, an’ beat um,” responded the good Father, when Heller informed him of the approach and purposes of the chief.  “Tell the faithful to give no quarter; tell um to desthroy ivery wan of these schismatics; an’ as for the Dutchman, burrn him at the stake, as they used to do in the good owld times.”

A great battle ensued; the adherents of Higginsism were defeated and dispersed; the door of the temple opened to Umbaho and the German.  Father Higgins, by this time a helpless mass of fat, swaying perilously on his unsteady platform, looked down upon them with terror through the smoke of his altar.

“Sacrilegious wretch!” cried the German, God has put an end to thy mad and selfish and wicked dominion.”

“I wish I had niver been a biship!” screamed Father Higgins at the top of his voice, as he rolled off the platform.

All the way from the Cannibal Islands he fell and tumbled and dropped, until, with a dull thump, he alighted upon the floor of his own study.

“There! y’ ’ave rolled out av yer chair agen, Father Higgins,” said his housekeeper, who at that moment entered the room to order him to bed, as was her merciful custom.

“So I have,” returned the Father, picking himself up.  “An’ sarved me right, too.  I thought I was the biggest raskil on the face av the earth.  I wondher if it’s true.  The Lord presarve me from the timptation av great power, or I’ll abuse it, an’ abuse me felly-men and the Church!”—­Harper’s Magazine, May, 1872.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

(BORN, 1827.)

* * * * *

FRED TROVER’S LITTLE IRON-CLAD.