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\-OL. II
Cast Away.
BY. BOYLE o'RIELLY.
Crtawiij! oust away! hear the wild wail
ing tone
Hiding up from the sea, like a lost spirit’s
moan.
Cast away! cast away! ’tis the voice of
the wreck,
Os the fragments of bulwark, and taff
rail, and deck, —
Os the timbers, all shivered, of stroug
hull and mast, —
Cast, away! cast away! ’tis the wreck
drift gone past.
Tis the wreck dr<ft that cries out its
woe, and is gone
With the wild ocean current that hur
ries it on
To the wastes of the Infinite, like a dark
soul,
Hoj >c —deserted, and driven far wide of
its goai,
Drifting out to Eternity from its life’s
care,
Drifting out, drifting out, on the stream
of despair.
Oh, ye poor riven timbers! What vol
umes ye speak
Os the irailty of man: all your strong
beams were weak,
All your braces were vain, all your
seams opened wide,
All your massive wrought bolts and your
towering pride.
Oil! what were they ? what were they’,
before the wil l roar
Os the tempest-lashed sea, and the black
rugged shore,
W here the tall vessel struck and was
dashed back a wreck,
With her treasures of freight and brave
men on her deck ?
W ith brave men who were helpless, who
knew that man’s arm
Was all powerless there ’gainst the wrath
of the storm:
Oh! where are they, ye rent beams ?
Ah ! will ye not say
ftiey are saved. But ye cry: Cast away!
cast away !
Castaway! castaway! and the breeze
takes the dirge,
Aad carries its death-tones far off’ o’er
th surge.
To the homes of tha lost ones: all happ*
they are,
la their fond dreams of hope for the dear
ones afar.
flat the death-notes are wailing without
on the breeze,
And the cry of the wreck-drift far off’ on
the seas
Will come soon—ah! too soon comes the
sorrowing day,
V hen they echo its moan—Cast away !
cast away!
ILund the merchant, who, in his proud
. TM home, dreams of gold
Adi the ocean dirge hover: his heart
will grow cold
hh the chill of Adversity, now loom
ing near,
I*die an iceberg, whose presence is felt
in the air;
-**l he shuddering wakes ’twas a
dream, —and he tries
b to slumber, but slumber has fled
from his eyes,
r the cry cl the wreck-drift is with
, t him ail day,
' ■ > tie echoas its wail—Cast a wav ! east
away!
drilling and moaning their hopc
v ; ess refrain,
” timbers are scattered abroad
, , oYr the main;
!u iC J ai!or who stands on the deck of
. me ship
' v, Tg onward, repeats with a tremu-
Ti , 10US ]i P» ,
11 s ran p words that come up from the
l> ... tdack heaving wave,
ll, g past in the night,—like a voice
trorn the grave:
’Tis the wreck-drift still tossed on its pur
poseless way,
With its lost spirit cry—Cast away!
cast away!
The Incumbent of Bagshot.
BY THE BARON SCHLIPPRNBACFI.
I had just arrived from Oxford, and
was stauding at the bookstall of the
Paddington terminus, inquiring for a
cheap edition of Lever’s early novels,
when a middle-aged man, a clergyman,
came up to the same stall, and asked the
bustling newspaper man, who was busy
folding a bundle of newspapers still wet
from the press, for a second-hand copy
of War bur ton’s “Crescent and the
Cross.’’ I hardly know why, but the face
lof my fellow-purchaser struck me as a
remarkable one; and being a little of an
artist, and about as much of a physiogno
mist, I gave him a long and studious
look, lie was a tall, strongly-made
clergyman, in high church costume—
collarless coat, cassock waistcoat and
Homan collar; and there was a deep
band of crape round his hat. A high,
wide brow, rather deeply furrowed by
contemplation; keen, cold, gray eyes;
a close-pressed mouth, and a full, bold
chin, indicating an inflexible wiil—were
the chief points I observed, combining to
produce the face of a man of strong
sense and determination. For a mis
sionary Bishop, or a Havelock—allying
the soldier and the man of religion —
such a face seemed to promise every
qualification. His manner, quiet, self
possessed, imperturable, was just what
might have been expected from such a
countenance. Asa head of my college,
as my Colonel, as the head of my firm,
as my doctor in the hour of danger, as
my priest, as my Bishop, I could have
believed and confided in such a man. A
magnetic sense of power, physical and
mental, seemed to pass from him and
instantly overcome my weaker will.
“How much?” I said; “two shil
lings V>
“Two shillings.”
I took out my purse, but found to my
mortification, I had no more silver, and
only the two £2O notes my father had
sent me for my trip in Cornwall.
“I am so sorry,” I said to the book
stall keeper; “I have no silver, and only
two £2O notes. I suppose I could not
take the book and pay for it when l re
turn from Cornwall ?’’
“Not exactly,” said the man insolently,
as he slapped the damp papers together;
“I’ve done that once too often. No, not
for Joseph.”
“You need not be insolent,” I said,
rather ruffled.
“We don’t give credit, sir, at this es
tablishment.”
“Pray allow me to have the pleasure
of paying for the books in question.”
said uiy fellow purchaser; stepping to
ward me. “I think I heard you say you
were going West—to Cornwall ?”
I thanked him, accepted his offer, and
explained that I had some notes in my
purse, but no silver. 1 was going to the
Great Western Hotel.
So was he. My luggage and his, lie
believed, had just gone on by the same
truck. We walked together to the hotel.
He proved most agreeable; a thorough
traveled man of the world, full of anec
dote and humorous allusion. Reverend
Henry Atkins, Vicarage, Bagshot, that
was the name and address lie* gave, as
we stood in the hotel office taking our
bedrooms We were both, we found,
going to Exeter by the 7:15 p. m. train
the next day. I changed one of my
notes paid back the small sum borrowed,
and we parted.
“I hope we shall meet again,” he said
on parting,
lie followed the porter who carried his
trunk and bag up stuns. I watched him
as he went, up out of sight, and said to
AUGUSTA, GOA., FEBRITiARY 26, 1870.
myself, “Tbatinan was born for a states
man or a general ; what a pity such a
mind should be restriete i to the petty
cares of a small parish! Well,” though
I, “if every one was in his right place
the world would be very different.”
I went to the theatre th it night to see
the last burlesque, as eager for London
amusements as an Oxford man who has
been reading hard for his degree might
be pardoned foi being. I did not stay
for the last piece, and gyt back to the
hotel about half-past eh. n. To while
away half an hour I into a bil
liard room near the hot 1 $ Tlicie was
a ruffish sort of pseudpfnifitary man
there playing with a frie: , a little Jew.
They played reasonably v eil, and once
or twice the Captain (as he was called),
made a winning hazard t at rather as
tonished me, had it not been obviously
the effect of luck more than of skill. At
the end of the game the Jew left, and
the Captain, after one or tvro experimen
tal strokes, in which he £ v "ied, asked me
if I had any objection to a game. I ac
cepted the invitation, being rather proud
ot my play. Just as 1 ji.t* selected my
cue and chalked the c l, die little Jew
returned and perched he ist f on a high
neat close to the iharkp ■ I l ive shillings
a game the Captain just to pre
vent it being insipid. *,>l
“One gets so do<5 ;i y reless,” he
said, “if one doesn’t pa., f, : something.
Mosy, be kind A* h pell.
I must have some brandy, not; that in
ternal chain we had at Greenwich has,
I declare, made me feel quite queer.”
The waiter came ; and, after a gulp of
the brandy, the Captain said he felt more
himself, and made one or two very fair
strokes; then he fell off’ again, and
missed twice.
“Fred, you’re no good to-night; not a
bit of good,” said the Jew. “I shall
put my mouey on this gentleman, for he
plays a good steady game.”
1 made three very good strokes in
succession, encouraged by this praise,
(ass that L was!) and and every time I
scored the Jew rolled back in his seat
and exclaimed with unction:
“Stroke, indeed!”
As I turned to chalk my cue and take
the red ball out of the left hand to top
po r ket, into which I bad stuck it, I saw,
to my surprise, the stern, calm face of
my friend of the morning fixed steadily
on me. He had come in unnoticed by
me, and was sitting near the marker, and
speaking to him in alow voice. I nodded
to him and went on with the game,
which I won in a canter.
“Like my’ confounded luck!” said the
Captain, tossing down the five shillings
and spitefully digging*his cue into the
ehalk til! it actually sqjieaked with pain
“but lin always a happy -go-lucky ;
come, I’ll have another go.”
“That’s right, Fred,” said the Jew ;
never say die ; but, Lord, you’re no
match for this gentleman. You never
could do the long-stroke , you never put
side enough on, does lie, marker ?”
The drowsy marker, who had been
mechanically doling out the score,
shrugged his shoulders and said:
“The Captain plays a very good game
when he tries; but he does not always
leave ’em as he should do.”
“Suppose we have a liitle more liquid
before we begin again ?” said the Cap
tain to me. “What shall it be ? I feel
awfully dry. Let’s have some more
brandy. I can’t hit it, somehow, to
night at all. How awfully 1 missed that
last carom.”
“Well, you did,” said the Jew. “Why
I believe L could have got that.”
0, of course you could ; you can do
anything. Touch the bell, marker ; thank
you. Excuse me for moment, sir, I must
go and secure my bed. I didn’t tell them
that I should sleep here. Come along,
Mosy, and see about yours.”
The moment they had gone, the Vicar
of Bagshot came straight up to me with
a vpry serious and earnest expression on
his faee.
“You may think me intrusive,” he
said, “but do let me strongly advise you
aot to play another game with that fel
low. That is MaeDougall, one of the
most notorious billiard sharpers in Lon
don ; the Jew is an accomplice. The
rascal has let you win the first game;
he’ll now propose higher stakes, and win.
Take care too, or the’ll doctor your
brandy. They’ve gone out now to get
something to make it get into your head
faster before the betting begins. I have
no motive, you must see, but the interest
I feel for a young man unacquainted with
London tricks. Hush! here they come.”
Just at that rnomem the braudy and
the two thieves came in. I observed the
Jew instantly go toward the smoking
glasses and stir one of them round as
he turned his uaek to me.
The Captain pulled off’ his coat, turned
up his right shirt cuff, and spotted the
red ball with his usual gay nonchalance.
“You begin,” he said,
“Thank you , H said I, putting on my
coat, “I don’t think I shall play any more
night.”
Nut play ? not play ? why, you en
gaged with me,” he said, looking round
the room in surprise, half in suspicion,
half in anger. “May I ask, sir, what
has produced this sudden change of in
tention !”
* Marker,, ’ said I, ir you may take that
brandy and water—l have had enough :
Fin afraid you’d find it rather strong.”
“0, I see,” said the Captain, unmask
ing at once, and advancing threateningly
toward the Vicar, who was watching him
like a hawk. “This fellow here, who
ever he ina} 7 be, has been good enough
to slander me and my friend while my
back was turned. And pray sir, who
are you ?” As he said this he walked
up to the Vicar, flourishing the butt end
of his cue menacingly. “I don’t know
your name,” he said with a impu
dent fixed stare, “or where you are par
son, but you’re as like a lag I once knew
in Australia as two peas. You remem
ber Gentleman Jack, Mosv V*
“Os course 1 do, and s’elp me, bathe’s
the very image of him,” jabbered the
Jew.
“You were then, I presume, in the
same chain gang,” saip the A r icar, as he
rose and clenched his fist. “I’ll bear
this insolence no longer. You are both
notorious billiard sharpers ; the marker
knows it, and has been paid for admit
ting you. The police all know you, One
word more and I’ll ring the bell and send
the waiter for a constable and give you
in charge. Now, you bo off. I won’t
take the trouble to knockdown this sham
Captain for his insolence—a feather would
do that. Go, both of you ; I’ll not let
my friend here be robbed by two such
pitiful thieves.”
The Captain was a poltroon. I saw
that he could have stabbed the Vicar on
the spot. Ilis color came and went.
He had once resolved on a rush ; then a
tear seized him, as he saw his adversary
standing like a marble statue—a phalanx
in himself. Muttering and cursing, the
two rascals slunk away, like Satan from
the spear of the archangel.
“Perfect strangers to me, 1 assure you,
gents,” said the marker; “never seed
’em afore in my life.”
“You don’t care to take your brandy,”
said I.
“Don’t seem to care for any more,
thank you, sir. You pay for the table,
sir ?”
“He doesn’t deserve it, but still pay,”
said the Vicar* So I paid.
“The police shall know how these rooms
ate conduced, depend upon it,” he said
Ito the mark ras we*l est; “you might as
well garote a m m at once. What a
city!” he said to me as we turned to the
hotel, and I thanked him for his good ad
vice, “What whirlpool of godless ini
quity. Adulterated bread—adulterated
wine—adulterated beer— adulterated
medieincs—the very adulterating ingre
dients themselves adulterated! At every
foot one walks, a snare; in every street,
a pitfall; only vice disguised, and vice it
self as like virtue as if she was twin-sis
ter; sham everything. When will the
fire descend upon it ! When will the
fire descend !”
In the coffee-room, where we sat talk
ing for half an hour, I expressed my
surprise at the Vicar’s entering a public
billiard room.
“You do not know me,” he said “I
am like Paley; lam never afraid of
humbugs. I like to see the devil’s
schemes, that 1 may counteract them.
We Church-of-England men know too
little of llie world; that is why the Be*
lials and the Asmodei of cities cheat and
fool us so often and outrageously. I make
a point when I visit the metropolis, of
occasionally going to such places. Ano
ther night you might have met me at
Cremorne, or at the equally dangerous
Alhambra. It is my duty, sir, and how
ever unpleasant, Igo everywhere to see
sin and lolly at their flood. You will at
least admit that my experience of ras
cality has been useful to you to-night !’
“I owe you a thousand thanks, r I re
plied. “1 had heard of billiard sharpers,
but had never met any before.”
“i think I’ll wish you a good night,
now,” he said, “as I am accustomed to
early country hours, and I begin to feel
wha; children call The sandsman’ busy
at my eyes. To-morrow, then, at 7:15,
we meet. Good-night.”
So I wished the Viear good-night, and
we parted. I was out nearly ail day,
making calls and transacting business. I
got back to the hotel about half-past six.
order* and down my luggage, and asked at
the bar if the Rev. Mr. Atkinson was
gone. The porter said he was on the
platform waiting for me. He had just
paid his bill and taken his luggage for
ward.
I took ray ticket, but did not see him. I
got my luggage labeled for Exeter, still
he did nut appear ; but when the guard
opened a door of a first-class carriage for
me, I found a plaid and some books ou
the opposite seat.
“There’s a gentleman, sir, a clergy
man, taken that seat. He’s been looking
for a friend. I suppose that’s you, sir.
If he don’t 7 ook sharp he’ll miss the
train.”
The guard had already come for the
tickets. The sharp cry, “Take your
seats?’’ had just gone forth, when the
Vicar came running up, and said,
1 Open this door, guard.” The guard
opened the door, and the Vicar took his
place, laughing, opposite me. I hardly
knew him at first, for he wore a large
dark great coat, and has on a traveling
cap drawn down over his ears. He had
a roil of papers and two magazines in his
hand.
“How I hate this fuss and hurry!” he
said, its he folded his plaid over his legs;
“how 1 hate this destruction of all in
dividuality? When f was young, the
coach journey was a deliberate quiet af
fair—ttie traveler was a recognized in
dividualitv. The coachman and guard
kuew you, and chatted; the ostler chatted;
the insides and outsides knew* )uu, and
chatted. There was interest in every
village ; the people came oat to see you
pass; the dinner was amusing . Now
you are a mere parcel sent by train.
The pointsman, the signalman, arc mere
machines not cared lor by you. Whiz,
rattle, battle, scream, lnss! away you
are flashed, and the only tiling to break
the journey is the name of a station so
pronounced as to be unintelligible.”
I laughed aim niuted at the annoy
ances, delay* an i dangers of the old
system —me overladen Coaches, the exor
bitant landlords, the endless lees.
“Well,” he said, “perhaps in a futme
| age ot balloons or electric spark explor
es, people will uik of the delight >i
JSTo. 50