here. Society
believes me mad--that I am not, is to me a miracle.

O ye wise ones of the earth,--legislators of the land,--would ye
avenge the blood that has been spilt by violence on the ruthless
murderer, would ye inflict punishment upon him, spare and slay him
not. Take down the gallows, and in its place erect your prisons doubly
strong, for there, within their ever-during walls of granite, lies the
hell of the villain who has robbed his brother of his life.

THE WATER CURE.

Since the introduction of the limpid waters of Lake Cochituate into
the goodly city of Boston, the water commissioners have had their
hands full of business, for the various accidents incidental to the
commencement of the service, the bursting of pipes, the demands for
payments of damages, applications for accommodations, &c., have
rendered the offices no sinecures.

The other day, a poorly but decently-dressed Irish woman entered the
office of the commissioners on Washington Street, and walked up to the
head clerk.

"Well, my good woman, what do you want?"

"I want to see the dochthor."

"The doctor! what doctor?"

"How should I know his name, and me niver seeing him?"

"This is the water commissioner's office, my good woman."

"Ah! and sure I've hard of the wonderful cures you've made. If my poor
Teddy had been alive at this moment, he wouldn't have been dead the
day."

"O, you want the water brought into your house."

"Sure and I'd like that same."

"Well, where do you live?"

"Broad Strate--near Purchase Strate--it's a small cellar I have to
myself. I used to take boarders; but it's poorly I am, and I can't
work as I used to, dochthor."

"Well, haven't you got any water?"

"Divil a bit. I have to take my pail and go to Bread Strate for it."

"And the water doesn't come into your cellar?"

"Sure it comes into me cellar sometimes--but it's as salt as brine;
it's the say water. I've tried to drink it, but it made me sick. O,
I'm bad, dochthor, dear; if you think the water'll cure me, tell me
where I can get it."

"You've got the pipes down your way?"

"I've got the pipes, dochthor, dear--but sorrow a bit of tibaccy. Do
you think smoking is good for the rheumatiz?"

"There's some mistake here," said the clerk; "what's that you've got
in your hand?"

"They tould me to bring this bit ov pasteboord here, sure."

The clerk took it. It was a dispensary ticket. He explained the
mistake, and told the applicant wh