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- = =S= . = '“™ : \-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