And gliding before him, pale and dim,
Were jibbering fiends and spectres grim.

"Ho, ho!" says Nick, "'t is a welcome cold
You give to a friend so true and old,

Who has been for years in your own employ,
Running about like an errand boy;

But we'll not fall out, for I clearly see

That you are rather afraid, and 't is strange, of ME! Do you think I've come for you? never fear,

You can't be spared for a long while here.

"There are hearts to break, there are souls to win
From the ways of Peace to the. paths of Sin;
There are homes to be rendered desolate;
There is trusting Love to be changed to Hate;
There are hands that murder must crimson red;
There are Hopes to crush, there is blight to be shed
Over the YOUNG and the PURE and the FAIR,
Till their lives are crush'd by the fiend, Despair.

"This is the work you have done so well,
Cursing this earth and peopling Hell;
Quenching the light on the inner shrine
Of the human soul, till you make it mine;
Want and sorrow, disease and shame,
And crimes that even I shudder to name,
Dance and howl in their hellish glee,
Around those spirits you've marked for me.

"Oh! selling of grog is a good device
To make a hell of a paradise;

Wherever may roll that fiery flood,

It is swollen with TEARS, it is stained with BLOOD.
And the voice, that was heard just now in prayer,
With its muttered curses stirs the air.

And the hand, that shielded the wife from ill,
In its drunken wrath is raised to kill.

"Hold on your course, you are filling up
With the wine of the wrath of God your cup,
And the fiends exult in their homes below,

As you deepen the pangs of human wo;
Long shall it be, if I have мY way,

Ere the night of death shall close your day;
For to pamper your lust for the glittering pelf,
You rival, in mischief, the Devil himself."

No more said the fiend, for clear and high,
Rang out on the air the watchman's cry.
With a choking sob and a half-formed scream,
The grog-seller woke-it was all a dream;
His grisly guest with the horns had flown,
The light was out and the fire was gone,
And sad and silent his bed he sought,
And long of that wondrous vision thought.

BURLEIGH.

ARTEMUS. WARD'S LONDON LECTURE.

ADAPTED.

I

DON'T expect to do great things here-but I have thought that if I could make money enough to buy me a passage to New Zealand I should feel that I had not lived in vain.

I don't want to live in vain.-I'd rather live in Chicago-or here. But I wish when the Egyptians built this hall they had given it a little more ventilation.

I really do n't care for money. I only travel round to

see the world and to exhibit my clothes. These clothes I have on were a great success in America.

How often do large fortunes ruin young men! I should like to be ruined, but I can get on very well as I am.

I am not an artist, yet I have a passion for pictures. I have had a great many pictures-photographs-taken of myself. Some of them are very pretty-rather sweet to look at for a short time—and as I said before, I like them.

I could draw on wood at a very tender age. When a mere child I once drew a small cart-load of raw turnips over a wooden bridge. The people of the village noticed me. I drew their attention. They said I had a future before me. Up to that time I had an idea it was behind me.

Time passed on. It always does, by the way. You may possibly have noticed that time passes on. It is a kind of way time has.

I became a man. I haven't distinguished myself at all as an artist-but I have always been more or less mixed up with art. I have an uncle who takes photographs and I have a servant who-takes anything he can get his hands on.

When I was in Rome-Rome in New York State I mean a distinguished sculpist wanted to sculp me. But I said, "No." I saw through the designing man.

The remembrance often makes me ask, "Where are the boys of my youth?" I assure you this is not a conundrum. Some are amongst you here some in America-some are in gaol.

Hence arises a most touching question, "Where are the girls of my youth?" Some are married-some would like to be.

O my Maria! Alas! she married another. They frequently do. I hope she is happy-because I am. Some people are not happy. I have noticed that.

A gentleman friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes. I said, "Why these weeps?" He said he had a mortgage on his farm-and wanted to borrow $200. I lent him the money-and he went away. Some time after he returned with more tears. He said he must leave me forever. I ventured to remind him of the $200 he borrowed. He was much cut up. I thought I would not be hard upon him-so told him I would throw off one hundred dollars. He brightened-shook my handand said, "Old friend, I won't allow you to outdo me in liberality, I'll throw off the other hundred."

This story hasn't anything to do with my lecture, I know-but one of the principal features of my lecture is that it contains so many things that don't have anything to do with it.

He kept a hotel. I remember one

I met a man in Oregon who had n't any teeth-not a tooth in his head; yet that man could play on the bass drum better than any man I ever met. They have queer hotels in Oregon. where they gave me a bag of oats for a pillow-I had nightmares of course. In the morning the landlord said, "How do you feel, old hoss, hay?" I told him I felt my oats.

I went to Great Salt Lake City by way of California. I went to California on the steamer "Ariel."

When I reached the "Ariel," at pier No. 4, New York, I found the passengers in a state of great confusion about their things, which were being thrown around by the ship's porters in a manner at once damaging and idiotic. So great was the excitement, my fragile form was smashed this way, and jammed that way, till finally

I was shoved into a state-room which was occupied by two middle-aged females, who said, “ Base man, leave us, Oh, leave us!" I left them-Oh, I left them!

I here introduce a great work of art. It is an oil painting-done in petroleum. It is by the Old Masters. It was the last thing they did before dying. They did this, and then they expired.

Some of the greatest artists in London come here every morning before daylight with lanterns to look at it. They say they never saw anything like it before-and they hope they never shall again.

When I first showed this picture in New York, the audience were so enthusiastic in their admiration of it that they called for the artist-and when he appeared they threw brickbats at him.

The Overland Mail Coach, the den on wheels in which we were crammed for ten days-and ten nights. Those of you who have been in the penitentiary-and stayed there any length of time—as visitors-can realize how I felt.

The American Overland Mail Route commences at Sacramento, California, and ends at Atchison, Kansas. The distance is two thousand two hundred miles, but you go part of the way by rail. The Pacific Railway is now completed from Sacramento, California, to Fulsom, California, which only leaves two thousand two hundred and eleven miles to go by coach. This breaks the monotony —it came very near breaking my back.

The actors of the Mormon theatre are all amateurs, who charge nothing for their services.

You must know that very little money is taken at the doors of their theatres. The Mormons mostly pay in grain and all sorts of articles.

The night I gave my little lecture there, among my