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Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz Shall not the roaring waters their headlong

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Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight her battlements are manned;

Defiance greets the army that marches on the land.

And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid,

Out-out into the darkness-faster, and still Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol

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HE streets were empty. Pitiless cold had driven all who had the shelter of a roof to their homes; and the north-east blast seemed to howl in triumph above the untrodden snow. Winter was at the heart of all things. The wretched, dumb with excessive misery, suffered, in stupid resignation, the tyranny of the season.

Human

blood stagnated in the breast of want; and death in that despairing hour, losing its terrors, looked in the eyes of many a wretch a sweet deliverer. It was a time when the very poor, barred from the commonest things of earth, take strange counsel with themselves, and, in the deep humility of destitution, believe they are the burden and the offal of the

world.

It was a time when the easy, comfortable man, touched with finest sense of human suffering, gives from his abundance; and, whilst bestowing, feels almost ashamed that, with such wide-spread misery circled round him, he has all things fitting, all things grateful. The smitten spirit asks wherefore he is not of the multitude of wretchedness; demands to know for what especial excellence he is promoted above the thousand thousand starving creatures in his very tenderness for misery, tests his privilege of

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exemption from a woe that withers manhood in man, bowing him downward to the brute. And so questioned, this man gives in modesty of spirit -in very thankfulness of soul. His alms are not cold, formal charities; but reverent sacrifices to his suffering brother.

It was a time when selfishness hugs itself in its own warmth; with no other thoughts than of its pleasant possessions; all made pleasanter, sweeter, by the desolation around. When the mere worldling rejoices the more in his warm chamber because it is so bitter cold without, when he eats and drinks with whetted appetite, because he hears of destitution prowling like a wolf arcund his well-barred house; when, in fine, he bears his every comfort about him with the pride of a conqueror. A time when such a man sees in the misery of his fellow-beings nothing save his own victory of fortune-his own successes in a suffering world. To such a man, the poor are but the tattered slaves that grace his triumph.

It was a time, too, when human nature often shows its true divinity, and with misery like a garment clinging to it, forgets its wretchedness in sympathy with suffering. A time, when in the cellars and garrets of the poor are acted scenes which make the noblest heroism of life; which prove the immortal texture of the human heart, not wholly seared by the branding-iron of the torturing hours. A time when in want, in anguish, in throes of mortal agony, some seed is sown that bears a flower in heaven.

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And at the frame are seated,
In order placed, they work in haste,
To get the quilt completed;

While fingers fly, their tongues they
ply,

And animate their labors
By counting beaux, discussing clothes,
Or talking of their neighbors.

Dear! what a pretty frock you've on ;"
"I'm very glad you like it;"

"I'm told that Miss Micomicon

Don't speak to Mr. Micate." "I saw Miss Belle, the other day,

Young Green's new gig adorning;" "What keeps your sister Ann away?"

She went to town this morning."

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'Tis time to roll;" "my needle's broke;"

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So Martin's stock is selling."

"Louisa's wedding gown's bespoke;"

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The quilt is done, the tea begun,
The beaux are all collecting;
The table's cleared, the music's heard,-
His partner each selecting ;-
The merry band in order stand,

The dance begins with vigor,
And rapid feet the measure beat,
And trip the mazy figure.

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A

JOHN B. GOUGH.

YANKEE, walking the streets of London, looked through a window upon a group of men writing very rapidly; and one of them said to him in an insulting manner, "Do you wish to buy some gape-seed?" Passing on a short distance the Yankee met a man, and asked him what the business of those men was in the office he had just passed. He was told that they wrote letters dictated by others, and transcribed all sorts of documents; in short, they were writers. The Yankee returned to the office, and inquired if one of the men' would write a letter for him, and was answered in the affirmative. He asked the price, and was told one dollar. After considerable talk, the bargain was made; one of the conditions of which was that the scribe should write just what the Yankee told him to, or he should receive no pay. The scribe told the Yankee he was ready to begin; and the latter said,—

"Dear marm:" and then asked, "Have you got that deown?" "Yes," was the reply, "go on."

"I went to ride t'other day: have you got that deown?"

"Yes; go on,

go on."

"And I harnessed up the old mare into the wagon: have you got that deown?"

"Yes, yes, long ago; go on."

"Why, how fast you write! And I got into the wagon, and sat deown, and drew up the reins, and took the whip in my right hand: have you got that deown?”

"Yes, long ago; go on."

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"Dear me, how fast you write! I never saw your equal. And 1 said to the old mare, ' Go 'long,' and jerked the reins pretty hard: have you got that deown ?"

"Yes; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I wish you wouldn't bother me with so many foolish questions. Go on with your letter."

“Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and I hollered, 'Go 'long, you old jade! go 'long.' Have you got that deown?"

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