on the trunk line to perdition. And finally,
you must promise to come to our next camp
meeting, clean shaved, and with a contrite
heart."

"No," cried the almost expiring colonel,
"I won't; not for all the toebacco in
Virginny! Nor yet for Martin Van Buren, or
Dan'el Webster! Nor yet for to be
postmaster!"

"You won't, brother?" asked Zephaniah,
persuasively raising his fist.

"No; I'm darned if I do!"

"Then," returned the Grace-Walker, meekly,
"I must sing another little hymn."

Immediately afterwards Colonel Quagg's
tortures recommenced. He struggled, he
roared, he entreated; but in vain. All he
could see were the long man's arms whirling
about like the sails of windmills. All he
could feel was the deadly pain of the
blows on his already hideously bruised face
and body. All he could hear was the
snuffling voice of his tormentor singing, with
an occasional stammer, a verse of a little
hymn commencing:

          "I'm goin' home to bliss above—
                   Will you go, will you go?
           To live in mercy, peace, and love—
                   Will you go, will you go?
           My old companions, fare you well,
           A brighter fate has me befel,
           I mean up in the skies to dwell—
                  Will you go, will you go?"

He could stand it no longer. He threw out
his arms, and groaned, "Spare my life, and
I'll promise anything."

"Happy to hear it, colonel," answered
brother Stockdolloger, helping his adversary
to rise, and then coolly settling his own
white neckcloth and broad-brimmed hat.
"Perhaps you'll be good enough to look after
my hoss a bit. He cast a shoe just after I
left Punkington."

Colonel Quagg, quite humiliated and
crestfallen, proceeded to shoe the horse,
which had been quietly cropping the stunted
herbage while the colonel was being licked.
The operation finished, as well as Quagg's
bruised arms would permit, the Grace-Walker
gravely handed him a coin, which the
blacksmith as gravely took ; then mounted his
steed, and rode away. As for 'Zeek he
had been hiding away somewhere during the
combat. But he now appeared ; and, to judge
by the energetic manner in which he blew the
bellows and a certain grin overspreading his
swarthy countenance, he seemed not
altogether displeased at the discomfiture of his
master.

Colonel Quagg had never read Shakspeare,
but he had unconsciously enacted the part of
Ancient Pistol. He had been compelled to
eat the leek which he had mocked. He
had been a woodmonger, and bought
nothing of brother Stockdolloger but cudgels.
He had taken a groat, too, to heal his pate.
Let us hope with Fluellen that it was good
for his wounded sconce.

There is a seat at religious camp meetings in
America called the "anxious seat." A camp
meeting is not unlike a fair—a very pious
one, of course ; and the anxious seat is one on
which sit the neophytes, the newly-entered—
those who have anything to confess, anything
to complain of, anything to disclose, or to
tell, or to ask.

Upon the anxious seat at the next camp
meeting near Rapparoarer city of the Grace-
Walking Brethren sat Colonel Goliah Quagg.
Amid a breathless silence, he frankly avowed
his former evil course of life; narrated the
events of his conversion by brother Stockdolloger,
and promised amendment for the future.
A brother who had been reposing on a bench,
with his limbs curled up after the manner of
a dog—a long, yellow-faced brother, who had
a curious habit of shutting his eyes when he
expectorated—rose to speak when the colonel
sat down. He expressed how happy he was
to have been the instrument of Colonel
Quagg's conversion; and that the means he
had employed, though somewhat rough, had
been efficacious. With much modesty also
he alluded to his own conversion. It was
not such a long time ago, he said, that he
himself had been but as one of the wicked.
He owned it with shame that he had at
one time been one of the abandoned men
called prizefighters—a pugilist to be backed
and betted upon for hire and gain; and
that he had beaten Dan Grummles,
surnamed the Brooklyn Pet, in a stand-up fight
for two hundred dolls, aside.

Colonel Quagg kept his promise. He left
off rum and parson-licking. He resigned
the command of the Tigers, and is now, as
Elder Quagg, a shining and a burning light
among the Grace-Walking Brethren.

CHIPS.

THE CHRISTMAS CATTLE SHOW

THE geography and statistics of the Smithfield
Cattle Show which has recently taken
place present in a narrow compass a view of
by whom and where the best stock for fattening,
as distinguished from the best stock for
breeding or dairy purposes, is raised.

First come, according to the order of
the catalogue, thirty-three Devons—steers,
bullocks, heifers and cows, from two years
and upwards—nice compact little animals,
all of a dark red, with fine sort skins,
covered with curly hair, and faces mild but
genteel. These are all bred in North
Devonshire, or Somersetshire, or Norfolk. The
Norfolks are smaller than those bred on
their native hills. All make up in quality
and quantity of choice joints, for what they
want in gross weight. A royal farmer,
Prince Albert, takes off the first prize for a