of applause.

('Ah! this is something like,' said the manager, rubbing his hands.)

The chairs were next attacked and broken into the completest
kindling-wood, as by a madman. The manager began to look grave.

There were two tables left, a piano, and a closet. The actor stepped
behind the scenes and reappeared with an axe. Bang! went the
timber--crack--splinter--

'Stop!' roared the manager.

'Go on!' 'bravo!' 'go on!' roared the audience.

The stage was cleared, but the scenery still remained. And into the
scenery went the actor 'like mad.' Planks and canvas came tumbling down;
the manager called his assistants; the house was delirious with joy. The
manager rushed on the stage; the actor kicked him over into the
orchestra, and seizing the prompter's box, hurled it crashing after.

We do not know how matters were arranged, but we believe that the
manager never tried afterwards to convert a classic actor to the
romantic school.

* * * * *

The shade of Bishop BERKLEY would rejoice, could it read at
this late date such a tribute to the merit of the once famed tar water,
which he invented. But a solemn feeling steals over our heart when we
remember that the hand which penned these lines now lies cold in death,
and that the shades of the idealist and the poet may ere this have
joined in the spirit land.

TAR WATER.

BY GEORGE W. DEWEY.

From the granite of the North,
Leapt this pure libation forth,
Cold as the rocks that restrained it;
From the glowing Southern pine,
Oozed this dark napthalian wine,
Warm as the hearts that contained it;
In a beaker they combine
In a nectar as divine
As the vintage of the Rhine,
While I pledge those friends of mine

Who are nearest, who are dearest in affection.
I have filled it to the brim;
Not a tear could ride its rim;
Not a fleck of sorrow dim
The flashing-smiles that swim
In the crystal which restores their recollection.

Floating on the pitchy wine,
Comes an odor of the brine,
Half suggesting solemn surges of the sea;
A sailor in the shrouds,
Furling sail amid the clouds;
Noisy breakers singing dirges on the lee,
To those friends upon the main,
Who have ventured once again,
In the realm which cleaves in twain
Loving hearts, that fill with pain
When the storm proclaims the terrors of December.
I w