down, I never thought of the cigar in my
mouth, and all the time the crew were making
a spread eagle of him, I was burning a hole
in the back of his neck with the red end of it.

We made him hard and fast, for he was
raving mad with delirium tremens. To cool
him, every time the watch was called, the
captain had a bucket or two of salt water
thrown over him.

Four days before we reached Rio, a low,
long, black schooner hailed and asked very
anxiously for news from Europe. They sent
a boat aboard us, and we all fully thought we
were in for a regular clearance. The officer
in command, a black-bearded, neat-looking
little fellow, spoke broken English with a
French accent. Whether it was that they
were only slavers, or that we were not worth
robbing, or that they had better business on
hand; after accepting a file of newspapers, and
asking me especially, as I spoke French, what
news from France, they were about to depart,
when the officer's eyes fell upon our prisoner
in chains.

With a start, and a French oath, he
exclaimed, "T'ien c'est toi, Monsieur Louche,
que diable fait-tu ici ?"

Then followed a whispering, which ended
by the Frenchman coolly saying to the captain,
"Dis is a friend of mine; I vil save you de
trouble of taking him any more." With that
they hurried into their boat, and in a few
minutes we had seen the last of the Dominie,
as a Scotch sailor had named him.

Years passed before we met again.

THE TWO TREES.

I SAW two trees. The one was fair and high,
    And threw its leafy branches round it wide;
So perfect was its shape, that ev'n the sky
    Seemed proud to have that space thus occupied:
Yet was it hollow; all its heart was gone;
But year by year it swell'd and flourish'd on.

The other was by grandeur so unmark'd,
    That it was scarce distinguish'd where it stood
With many more—sometime before impark'd
     From the last vestige of an ancient wood—
But though small glory clothed it as it grew,
Its heart was to the core still sound and true.

And as it pleased the lord of that domain
     At length to try the truth of those two oaks,
The proud one with a few sharp clefts was slain;
     The humble one sustained a thousand strokes;
And when at length at eventide it fell,
A nobler fall was not in all the dell.

The proud one, yielding little but its dress,
     Was left upon the spot to rot away;
The humble one lived still—in use to bless,
      In ornament to charm, from day to day—
Transferr'd into the mansion's fairest room,
Where Genius flings round Art immortal bloom.

Also I knew two men, like those two trees:
     The one was in profession great and high,
And scorn'd the other, who could not so please
     With much display the superficial eye.
Who does not see how meek true worth may stand,
Whilst great pretence would cumber all the land?

For he (the humbler) powerful was, but mild—
     Teacher of teachers, strong, profound, but clear;
Unostentatious as a little child,
     Yet in sagacity an ancient seer;
And though his days were not in public spent,
He gave again, through man, what God had lent.

And while an epitaph upon a wall,
    Which many criticise, but few believe,
Now of the faded Pharisee tells all—
    Excepting what he did to make us grieve—
His neighbour's uses dwell in Wisdom's heart,
And unto all his race their good impart.

PROTECTED CRADLES.

WHEN the child of the Lancashire or
Yorkshire operative first sees the light, it is assailed
by every possible disadvantage that can stunt
its growth and enfeeble its intellect. It is
disarmed for the battle of life at the threshold of
existence,—its limbs are palsied by drugs, and
deformed by careless nursing, sometimes by
criminal nursing. The expense of providing
for her family drives the mother to the
factory, and leads to the employment of an
ignorant hireling nurse, who, to earn the
pittance with a minimum of trouble, journeys
to the chemist's shop, and purchases Godfrey's
Cordial. With this notable mixture she
returns to her charge, stupifies it, and so earns
"peace and quietness." Gradually she finds
that the Cordial has not the old effect,—that
it is not strong enough; to remedy this, she
adds a little laudanum, or, mayhap, some
crude opium, to the mixture, and again is her
charge as quiet, almost, as death. She extends
her nursery; "takes care of," perhaps, eight
or nine infants, and becomes a good customer
to her neighbour, the chemist.

Indisputable facts prove the extent to which
this system is adopted. Walking about
Manchester and Birmingham, advertisements of
"Mothers' quietness," "Soothing Syrup,"
arrest the attention at every turn. It is easy
to perceive that the druggists are driving a
good trade—that the quiet homes of the poor
reek with narcotics. The Report of the Board
of Health furnishes some appalling facts on
this head. In Preston, twenty-one druggists
sold, within the space of one week, no less a
quantity than sixty-eight pounds of narcotics,
nearly all of which were for the use of children;
and the calculation of the quantity of
Godfrey's Cordial sold in Preston, gave a
weekly allowance of half an ounce to each
family! Generally, Godfrey's Cordial is mixed
in the proportion of one ounce and a half of
pure laudanum to the quart, and the stronger
it is the faster it is sold. It may be had at
public houses and general dealers', as well as
at druggists'; and on market-days the people
from the surrounding neighbourhoods
regularly provide themselves with this "mother's
comfort," as they purchase other household
provisions. About two thousand gallons of
Godfrey's Cordial are sold in Manchester
alone every year. Mr. F. C. Calvert, at a