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and turning his head towards the river, away he dashed | the best chance I could give him of saving his life. In 'over brake, brook, and scaur,' faster than ever the a minute I saw him carried down the stream, flounder. Wild Huntsman rushed through the night.

|ing helplessly in the very centre. Just afterwards the “All, or much, depended on the horse's speed. If tiger passed me, going also with the current, and lookhe could gain the water before the furious brute behind ing very little at his ease in the ungenial element, me had shaken his jaws free of the cartouche-box, there “But now I had enough to do to think of myself, and was a chance; but, perhaps, all our necks might be whether-albeit the distance was not great-I should broken first. I did nut much care. I wondered whether succeed in gaining shore. For the Rhei Kops is at all the more uniform pace of the horse would favor the times a strong current, and when, as then, swollen to tiger's desire to ascend to closer companionship, but its brim by recent rains among the mountains, is suffi. my tiying steed still kept kicking about his heels in a ciently dangerous, and no one in his senses-unless marvellous style; and, besides, it struck ine that his tiger-driven-would dare to attempt it at an unfordable mishap with the cartouche-box engaged the most of the spot. But I was a good swimmer; yet, with my utmost tiger's attention, or he would have accomplished that exertions, I calculated I drifted a fathom for every foot feat before this.

I won towards the land. I was rather embarrrassed, 'tis “Then what a tug the fellow gave me, and what a true, by my gun, which I could not think of relinquishing. blow, as he shook his head with a ferocious growl! I Perhaps some remembrance of the tiger had a share in thought it would have knocked me forward, but no! my reluctance; besides it was the last gift from a dear the strong clasp of those lacerating nails kept me steady. friend, who sleeps beneath the shadow of the Syrian At last the Rhei Kops was in full view, some twenty trees, and I could not part with it, clog though it was yards in front. I knew that it was very deep there, and on my exertions. that the current was very strong, but so much the “So I struggled on. Many a time I thought it was better-anything was preferable to the kind of death uselessly—that the current would overpower me at last, before, or rather behind, me. Another second and we and that obscure stream close over my latest sigh. But reached the brink of the canal-like stream, and full my presence here is sufficient proof that it did not; time too, for at the same instant I heard something though it was only after a long and desperate struggle, which convinced me that the tiger had at length got his that, weary and exhausted, I at length scrambled up the dental weapons ready for action.

rugged bank,-how far below the point where we first “But the horse required no urging to take the water; touched the Rhei Kops, is more than I can say. in he plunged at once. In a moment he was beyond his “I was so utterly done up, that all I wished for was depth, then he struck out to swim, and then for the suc- to crawl to some place where I might lie down and restcess of my experiment. As I have said, the current or die, and the wet state of my garments would have was both strong and rapid, and though I kept my horse's rendered the latter very likely. But I had scarcely head up stream as much as possible, to gain all the had time to breathe out my first pantings of fatigue and advantage of the water, it swept us down at an amazing suffering, when I saw something that sent at once a cate. And then my adjunct set up a snorting, and a glow-more (odd as it may seem) of indignation than spluttering, and a gurgling, as if the water incommoded any other feeling-through my frame. But it was like him. I looked over my shoulder, and there I saw him a positive insult to see that tiger standing there constriving hard to keep his nose above water, not to much fronting me only at a few yards' distance. Miserable purpose, for every instant a fresh splutter and gurgle and half drowned he looked, but his eyes were still attested failure.

glowing and burning, as if with the thought that “Yet amid his choking, the pertinacious brute was still a comfortable meal would recruit him after his misadtrying to scramble further up. I gave the rein such a ventures. furious jerk, that it brought the horse's head up in the “I glanced round quickly. Steep and stern the hill air, with a blow on my own forehead-prepared though rose behind me, forbidding all thought of climbing, I was—that half stunned me; but it also brought my even with leisure. But I was now on more equal terms steed into nearly an upright position, and completely with the savage brute than I had been before, and I submerged master tiger.

seemed to care little that there was no avenue for “I heard gurgling and puffing worse than ever, and I escape if my first blow should fail. jerked the rein again to keep matters so. The horse “The tiger crept stealthily forward a few paces, with was, I felt, giving up swimming, he was turning with the his fiery eyeballs steadily fixed on me. Then, with a current, but I should not then have minded being drowned. low, deep-mouthed growl, he sprang upon me. I stood There was a struggle behind me, the fierce nails were ready with the gun, now useful only as a bludgeon. It clenched with agonizing movement in my flesh, and I had made a good circuit in the air, and now went bang dare say my poor dumb comrade might have said against the tiger's head, as he made his spring, and

ditto.' Then they were torn out painfully from my dashed him on his side. lacerated side, and then-O welcome sight!-I saw “What a horrible howl of pain ran along the river the tiger swimming for himself, with his head above bank! But though a good deal stunned, and his skull, water. *

I am sure, considerably fractured, the tiger was not “I immediately threw myself from the saddle to try killed, but immediately began to rouse himself to renew my own fortune and let my poor exhausted horse havo the combat. The gun, however, was fractured to more parpose, splintered right down to the lock. But with the tiger's strange howl, came to see what was the matter. the barrel I succeeded in giving him two or three more After doing their best for me there, one of them blows which brought him down again, and then, my sped back to the fort with the news; and before nightknife, and finding the jugular vein, ended the battle ; fall I was back in my own quarters, sate but not thouglı, ere the victory was gained, I had many more very sound. But the recovery of the cattle of lacerating scratches from my dying fue than I would which I was ordered in search, and the punishment willingly have counted on.

of the outrage, were subjects forgotten in two or three "And then, when it was all over, the fatigue and pain, subsequent Kaffir offences, before I had recovered the which a moment before had seemed vanished, rushed combined effects of fatigue, chill, and clawing. back upon me, and utterly overpowered, I sank down “But the tiger skin is a magnificent one; I sent it on the rough earth and stones. How long I miglit have home, where, I understand, it occupies a place of honor, lain there I do not know; but I dare say, our senior as it deserves. In removing the skin, it was discovered ensign would have had cause to bless the tiger, had it not that another bullet had hit him before mine. This had been for the timely arrival of two Hottentot soldiers, who been the shot I heard, and the cause that enraged him were out on leave to shoot buffaloes, and who, hearing to the pitch of attacking me."

A MOUNTAIN STREAM.

“They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy."

I saw an Alpine rivulet careering

From rock to rock along its downward track,
When, mindful of the dangers it was nearing,

I whispered, “Back,
Back, streamlet, to thy mother, yon grey mountain;

Though glaciers fill the hollows of her breast,
Her freezing kiss alone can give a fountain

Safety and rest.”
The river murmured, “False and empty warning;

For though my youth was cradled in the snow,
I sprung from dew-drops in the starry morning,

And there I go."
Again I said, “But why this march incessant,

Which will not stay to dally with the flowers ?
"Twere well to learn how pure, and yet bow pleasant,

Are bridal hours.
Lo, where the trailing tresses of a willow

Are tremulous with love she dreads to own;
Lie down in peace upon her yielding pillow

'Twill prove a throne.” To which the brook : “A primrose for a minute

Dimpled my cheek with her caressing band;
I leaped the bank, no primrose there was in it,

But weeds and sand.
And thus I learnt that 'tis a lying vision

Which paints the beauties of the treacherous shore,
A loving heart embittered by derision

Thus loves no more."
My answer was: “'Tis wise to shrink from wooing

When frailness bends, earthrooted yet above.
That primrose lured thee to her own undoing,

Buried in love.

But purest loveliness art thou rejecting,

Whose rays descend, and yet are throned on high.
Methinks 'twere joy indeed to sleep reflecting

The stars and sky."
The river sighed, “One night the moon delayed me,

Till on my breast her beams were multiplied.
Uprose my very depths, yet she betrayed me

A maddening bride ;
For soon there came an eddying, turbid feeling,

And from my destined path a torrent broke,
Till through the thorny hedgerows wildly reeling,

At length I woke
To know that safety is the twin of duty ;-

And that the wayworn pilgrims of a night
May only rest where self-existent beauty

Sheds solar light.”
“And yet,” I said, “ 'twere wise to cease from flowis

Which leads thee onward to a deadly leap,
A dark abyss, for thou art blindly going

Down to the deep."
“No!” moaned the river, “though I hear that oceas

And see afar its angry billows foam,
It only breeds in me a fond emotion-

A thirst for home.
My home, not on the hills nor sea, but yonder,

Where joy untiring hushes weary care ;
There, up the sunbuilt arches, I shall wander,

Lighter than air,
Until I join those crystal waves which sever

Earth from the Rock of Ages and the throne.
There murmuring waters rest in peace for ever,

And there alone."

THINGS WE TALK ABOUT.

- We have no Art Gallery worthy such a namc—but it is, which we never pass without stopping to take one more a want we individually care little for. We confess to a dis-look. It pleases us exceedingly. like for pictures in masses or groups—with all the confusion In Smith's engraving room, Ann street, near Broadway, of color and form, and all the bewildering glitter of showy hangs a Crucifixion, by Crull, so said, who flourished near frames and dazzling gas lights. We prefer isolated pictures about two hundred years ago. We are in the habit of stop. with harmonious surroundings. We like to step into ping occasionally to look at this picture as it is one that Williams & Stevens', or Goupil's little shut-off closets, where we have always admired. The artist we know nothing of, usually some fine production is hung, with proper care as to but in our poor judgment, such as it is, we consider this light, and careful avoidance of everything distracting or production eminently fine in many particulars, and if we conflicting in effect. Here one can sit quietly and calmly, could afford to be a virtuoso should certainly add it to our and with real pleasure examine and take in the beauties of collection. Mr. Smith has in his rooms, in addition to the the picture before him. Some of the pleasantest hours we above, several curious and interesting works of art, such as have ever passed before the canvas, have been spent in these rare engravings, &c. places. Landseer's, Vernet's, Delaroche's, and Fraed's, finest At Williams & Stevens' the latest exhibitions are “The efforts have honored them. Recently at Goupil's we had | Order of Release," an engraving from a work by the cele“ Marie Antoinette before the Revolutionary Tribunal ” brated pre-Raphaelite painter, Millais, and two productions -one of the noblest and ablest historical paintings the from the pencil of the poet-artist, Buchanan Reed, “The country has ever seen. At the same time Cole's celebrated Lost Pleiad," and "The Knight bearing off Undine." These series of the “ Voyage of Life" were open to inspection at pictures of Mr. Reed's while open to criticism in several Williams & Stevens' and at either place could be seen an particulars, present many claims to our admiration. Undine engraving of Fraed's last production-Longfellow's Evange- is marked by warm, rich-toned color, but the composition line. It is much to be regretted that the original of this pic of the picture does not altogether please us. The Lost ture was not sent over. It is a beautiful conception, one that Pleiad is in a dreamy, poetic style, in its details full of could only have sprung from the brain of a poet, and does exquisite grace and feeling, but the dense blue of its backus, as well as Longfellow, immeasurable service, in heighten- ground strangely mars its effect as a whole. A propos of Mr. ing and deepening our apprciation and love of the poem. Reed, we are glad to perceive that the London Athenæum Whoever reads Evangeline with this sweet ideal of the has given a laudatory review of “The House by the Sea," heroine in his mind's eye, will find a profounder pleasure in and concludes its remarks by saying: "We may congratuits perusal than he otherwise could have done. Could Art late America on the advent of another poet destined to do more than this ? Has it a higher aim ?

share the laurels of Longfellow and Bryant." * We like to go about, and we do go about, picking out Before leaving this art subject let us say a word or two in pictures that please us. They turn up at times in odd behalf of the very beautiful design by Mr. Dallas which places, and obscure places. But very frequently some rare we take pride in presenting to our readers in this number gem for a brief period makes its appearance in a Broadway of the magazine—"Flowers and Thorns.” Mr. Dallas is an window, unhceded by the crowd that rushes by. We have artist who is rapidly attaining a position second only to the noted down several that have arrested our attention. great Darley. He has fine creative talent, and a genius

For some months, though we believe now removed, there strongly tending in the poetic and allegorical direction, which hung in one shop window, “ The last Supper of the Giron- this picture of “Flowers and Thorns " sufficiently indicates. dists." This was a remarkably fine picture, with a peculiar We have seen in his studio several designs of a similar and effective management of light, and a grouping of figures character, and we are confi

character, and we are confident that he needs but to give full of dramatic power, expression, and contrast. You saw publicity to this vein (Pencil-poems we might call them), to those men who went singing and rejoicing to the guillotine-at once obtain for him a general and wide recognition as a the jest was on their lips, which the awful shadow of the | master in this branch of art effort. coming moment could not dissipate. Their reckless, even - From the contemplation of Art subjects let us turn our sublime, philosophy gleamed from their eyes. One or two glass of observation upon life—for the study of life, after were sinking for a moment under a flitting sadness—their all, is the greatest of studies, and we have no sympathy for fingers relaxing the grasp of the wine cup—some dream that dilettanteism which reserves all its ecstasies for the of youth, of broken and shattered hopes clouding for an “ counterfeit presentment" of things, and has neither eye instant their unnatural mirth, but you looked to see the vain nor ear for the things themselves. To true taste and true sentiment disappear, and the song break from their lips cultivation every scene is a gallery, which the eye divides, again. The painter we do not know.

combines, and sets in pictures. And these pictures, these In Goupil's window hung, or hangs, a crayon sketch by fragments of beauty, that lie about us everywhere, whether Darley. No American's collection can be considered satis only in a shifting cloud, in the fall of a ray of light, in the factory without one of Darley's sketches. What a pity it is play of shadow, in the chance picturesqueness of a street that his genius is thrown away (in every sense but a pecun- scene, or the coming together of fine or effective contrasts, iary one) upon bank note designs, when productions like the are abundantly evident to the artist-eye of an appreciative one above, if more frequent, would give him fame, wide, observer. There is many a pretty scene which town walks universal, deep. The sketch we speak of is a rural one full afford-many a little, pleasant, gem-like setting-if we have of Darley's peculiarly charming touches.

only the philosophy and the wisdom to find them out. If In another window, near Bond street, is a little water when we walk abroad we will consent to forget ourselvescolor landscape, not much bigger than our magazine page, our grand schemes, our plans of aggrandizement, our self. pleasures to let the central sun of self around which we taste and bad judgment control them. The children appear so complacently gather and dispose the rest of mankind, for to have been carefully educated in the worst style of the a brief period to hide his light, and leave us only the eyes worst theatres. They strut and spout in a puny, unintellito see what others do, it would be wise and well. We like gible, and unendurable imitation of the noisy bow-wow that nature which gathers in rich stores by its “penny of school of acting, disdaining nature and common sense; and observation,” to which life is a grand old drama, where their plays are selected from the most degraded specimens every episode, however insignificant to the whole, has its of low melo-drama, audaciously dubbed “moral.” What own strong interest--that nature which looks out upon life are we to think of innocent little girls acting The Six with genial charity and modest self-abnegation. We see Degrees of Crime ?” Master Marsh bas some cleverness, such a one in our mind's eye now. His capacious white vest but he has been taught the winking, face-making, and con. folds voluminously over his big heart, and his nankeen tortions of East side comedians, until he is fairly spoiled. pantaloons, “a world too wide," hang loosely about his | Charming Laura Keene, it is said, will have a new theatre. limbs. Key and seal dangle at his fob; a hat, broad brimmed, Buckley's new structure, it is gossipped, is likely to be shades his greyish locks. A blue coat with slecves down to bought for her. Laura wants a small theatre. Vaudevilles, his finger nails; a white neckcloth ; a stick, crooked and and the trifles she performs, are better adapted to a small awry, but a time-honored companion. He walks slowly and building than so vast a place as the Varieties. If she suclooks to the right and left. He stops to pat an urchin's ceed in obtaining Buckley's, surrounded by a good comcurly head, to look at some portrait finely set in the frame pany, with new, spirited, brilliant comediettas, she would work of a window, to admire the pretty faces of roguish soon be at the head of as popular and agreeable a place of school girls, to laugh at the antics and tricks of frolicksome theatrical resort as any in our city. We hope to see it. lads, to gaze (O unfashionable !) in the showy and tempting Laura Keene ought to be encouraged. She is a brilliant shop windows. He pauses in the square to watch the woman, and is the mistress of exactly that school of acting shadows on the grass, or to chuckle cherub little ones in which we trust to see supersede the old, stilted, stalking nurses' arms. There is no beauty he will not notc-no face style the school of nature. into which he will not look with kindliness and interest. Mr. Fleming has opened Burton's Theatre for a summer The beggar's thin hand closes upon his gifts; the weary season, but with heavy plays, and we fear inadequate attendhearted as they sweep by catch his quick glance of sym- ance. Mr. Fleming is a gentleman of fine talent, whom we pathy, and bear it with them.

should like to see permanently located in New York. This is the kind of a man we like—the happiest and the poblest—better than genius or talent advancing only Self

-It is absurd to confine the infirmitics of Justice to better than wealth pampering only Self-better than Power mere blindness-she is lamie, deaf, and insensible. She is a which is bitter, or Fame, which even while it feeds, stimulates

laggard, who comes halting and limping slowly up-behind the appetite, and leaves the pursuer always hungered and

the age, common sense, and her sister principles of Truth up-stretching for more!

and Mercy. She is in rags. Her scales have false weights,

she knows the ring of gold, and will smell it out with unerr. -The theatres are flourishing. Even the summer sol. ing instinct. She sold herself to Quibble, Trick & Co., long stice, which usually seals their doors, has been unable this ago. There is one little act of justice which a certain class season to keep the dramatic light under its bushel, and have long demanded—which any child (but the offspring of brick walls il me in the hot sun with showy announcements a lawyer) could see the equity of, which is so clear and of treats passing and promised. Wallack's, for a brief sea- simple that merely to state the question carries, conviction, son, has been opened by Bourcicault and charming Miss and yet wise legislators, wise judges, and wise jurists fuddle Robertson, with a new dog-day sponsorial appellative, “ The the matter bravely, and shroud it with their awful arms to Summer Garden." Honest country folk might scratch their the utter exclusion of a ray of common sense. Some few heads and puzzle their simple brains in an attempt to recon- years ago a wiseacre decided that the acting of a play was cile the fitness of this title, but we citizens used to “Castle not the infringement of the copyright, because it was Garden," and "Niblo's Garden, without a vestige of greenery merely a public reading and not a publication of the work. about either, will accept the name in behalf of the few pots Everybody, excepting Messrs. Quibble, Trick, & Co., knows of flowers and shrubs with which Mr. Bourcicault has adorned that to all intents and purposes, and in fact, the acting of a the pl ce. Miss Robertson is a charming and delightful play is the publication of itthat it is usually the only publiactress; and if we have not yet seen her during this catiou for which a play is designed—that the law in spirit engagement, it is because we recollect Wallack's as an and meaning (though not technically) ought to and does exceedingly warm place, and we haven't faith enough in cover this, as well as all other modes of publication. But names to believe ourselves less susceptible of the melting Quibble can't see it. Quibble disdains the meaning of things mood. under even the cooling influence of “Summer Gar--the object of things. Quibble studies words. Quibble den" in big letters.

thinks that laws are framed especially for him to find loopJohn Brougham, the brilliant and delightful, has abso- holes in them, and for nothing else. But as Quibble is a lutely gone over to the Bowery-where he will be potent personage in our courts, as he sits on the bench, upsure of making money, if nothing else. He has renovated held by all the satellites of law, it is necessary for the dra. the structure, put a first-rate stock company on its boards, matist to go to law-makers and not law-expounders for a and means to give the theatre a better reputation than it solution to his difficulty. He asks the addition of a single has recently borne. He will succeed.

line to the law already existing, which shall simply and We went recently to see the Marsh juvenile troupe. We authoritatively declare that the acting of a play is the pubadvise our readers not to do likewise. In the first place, lication thereof in the spirit and meaning of the act. But juvenile theatricals is wrong in the abstract; in the second time passes by and even this is not done. Senators, who place, the performances of this company are bad: Bad I are supposed to possess a fair degree of intelligence, are importuned to assist this simple but important act of justice full of motion and being, rich with color and beauty, gor.

-but still it lags, halts, and possibly in the pressure of geous with the spoils rifled from every clime, gay with equipmore important matters, such as a duel or so, it will be lost ages, fashion, banners—with jewels Cleopatra could not sight of altogether.

wear-with silks, gems, and precious wares the world has Does the reader understand this question ? Suppose he emptied into its vast mart! This is what Broadway is. Why writes a comedy which Mr. Wallack undertakes to produce. make it less than this? Why destroy its carnival-like He wishes to publish it in pamphlet form because successful aspect? While it remains the gay centre of animation and plays always sell--and he wishes moreover to be enabled to fashion, it will necessarily be a crowded and thronged dispose of the right to act it to various managers through. thoroughfare, and no plan can make it otherwise, cinless it out the country-for provincial managers are always eager first succeeds in destroying the attractiveness and value of for a play which has received the stamp of a New York the street. No New Yorker wants to hear of the Decline audience. But he suddenly finds himself checkmated. If and Fall of Broadway. So let us be rid of these suggestions he publishes, managers have the legal right to act (i. e. pub- for parallel avenues, for second story railways, for underlicly read) his production, wilhe nilhe, and he can do nothing ground railways, and other absurd emanations of, doubtless but submit with what grace he can. Or if he does not pub-well meaning, gentlemen with sanguine imaginations and lish, the managers, if sufficiently tempted by the success of weak judgments. the play, will attempt to gain possession of copies illegally, Clown. What hast here? Rallads? by a reporter and short hand, by treacherous prompters, by! Mopsa. Pray now buy some; I love a ballad in print o' the theatre copyist, in all of which ways the thing has been life, for then we are sure they are true. frequently done-for, no matter how obtained, stolen or not, . the poor author cannot prevent his property being used in Autolycus. Here's a ballad of a fish that appeared upou any way these magnates of the stage choose, because it's all the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thouse a mere public reading, and no infringement of his copyright. and fathoms above water, and sung this ballad against the Can injustice be more clear than this? And yet up to this

hard hearts of maids : it was thought she was a woman, aud day the dramatist has been enabled to obtain no redress.

was turned into a cod fish. The ballad is very pitiful.

Mopsa. Is it true, too, think you? Of course, in the face of these things authors can't and won't

Autolycus. Five Justice's hands at it. write dramas, unless, which is rarely the case, the profit

Ballad-selling flourishes as well to-day as it did in the from a single theatre gives promise of adequately remuner.

time of Shakspeare, and doleful ditties are hawked about ating him for his labor. Justice may some day arrive to a

our streets by young Autolycuses, who, if not so picturesque sense of the peculiar evil existing in this matter—but while

and dashing as their distinguished original, are scarcely less we hope we strongly doubt it.

shrewd and roguish. They hold forth usually upon the -SCHEMES to relieve Broadway of its crowd of travel stone base of church railings, whiere they spread out in long are continually urged upon our citizens through the daily array, their tempting wares, sundry bricks and rocks securpapers, many of which we cannot help suspecting to have ing them against sudden flirtations with the wind. The been dated at the lunatic asylum, while even the best of collections usually afford a greater variety than Autolycus them are suggestive of weak good nature on the part of could display—including the doleful, the pitiful, the merry, their authors. The fact is Broadway does not want relier. the patriotic, the amorous, the heroic, of various degrees of ing-if we except one or two points where the tide of travel interest, and ascending from the positively silly to the comencounters and is interrupted by the cross-travel from river paratively good. We stopped the other day to glance over to river. Look at it for a moment. If Broadway is relieved a collection, and nearly the first our eye alighted upon, was of its crowd, its business bustle, its press of yehicles, as one set forth as follows:-“ The Fate of a False Lover ; or,

| The Successful Triumph of Margaret Garity, who was Tried " to and fro Its double tide of chariots flow."

for Stabbing her Seducer with a Carving lnife, at Newark,

New Jersey." This was a glorious beginning. We could the street is destroyed—the value of its property is depre. I do no less than read :ciated, its characteristics as an animated, spirited, gay, and thoroughly alive street, are removed, its charm and interest

" Come all who feel for innocence, as a resort and promenade cease—and Broadway—as we

And learn what I shall say, know it, as we delight in it, as it is celebrated the world

Concerning acts of violence

That took place the other day. over, becomes a matter of history—a second or third rate affair ranking with Bowery or Canal street. People go to

«'Tis of a fiend in human shape, Broadway for its noisy, bustling, gay commotion; the shop

Whose name I cannot tell, keepers live by it; the property owners grow rich by it;

He played his tricks some like an ape, all the world (in Manhattan Island) like it, saving and ex

And then did boast and swell." cepting certain nervous, restless busybodies who can't let the ballad proceeds to state how,“ This fiend did court an well enough alone. The points where travel in Broadway is Irish dame” and “brought her to disgrace," and then seriously incommoded are Canal street, Chambers street, and Fulton street, and in each of these places the difficulty is in

"He did engage another lass, the cross travel. Open avenues, therefore, from river to

And to her he was wed,

But awful was his fate, alas, river, and the difficulty is removed. But as for turning out

This comfort from him fed. of Broadway its tides of travel, the very source of its splendor and attraction, the thing is preposterous. We want

" For Margaret met him on the way, Broadway as it is—not the dull, slow, half filled avenue of

and took a carving-knife,

She stabbed him then without delay, a third rate town, but the brilliant, dashing panorama of life, I

By which he lost his life.”

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