a man whose quiddities and funny stories, smart repartees and pungent observations, — made with a solemn air that was so pleasing — lent such a sparkle to the table talk and helped to chase the gloom which nowadays our guest the Plague unfortunately casts over the minds of our most brilliant wits. Two days ago our rolling laughter greeted the tales he told; t'would be a sorry jest if we forgot while banquetting to-day our good old Jackson! Here his armchair gapes; its empty seat still seems to be awaiting the wag; but he, alas, has left already for a cold dwelling-place beneath the earth. Though never was so eloquent a tongue doomed to keep still in a decaying casket, we who remain are numerous and have no reason to be sorrowful. And so let me suggest a toast to Jackson's spirit, a merry clash of glasses, exclamations, as if he where alive. The Chairman He was the first to drop out of our ranks. In silence let us drink to his memory. The Young Man Have it your way. All lift their glasses in silence. The Chairman (to one of the women) Your voice, my dear, in rendering the accents of native songs reveals a wild perfection: sing, Marry, something dolorous and plaintive that afterwards we may revert more madly to merriment — like one who has been torn from a familiar world by some dark vision. Mary (sings) In times agone our village was lovely to behold; our bonny church on Sunday was full of young and old; our happy children's voices rang in the noisy school; in sunny fields the reaper swung fast his flashing tool. But now the church is empty; the school is locked; the corn bends overripe and idle; the dark woods are forlorn; and like charred ruins the village stands stricken on its hill: no sound; alone the churchyard is full and never still. A new corpse every minute is carried in with dread by mourners loudly begging God's welcome for the dead. A new hole every minute is needed for their sleep, and tombs and tombs together huddle like frightened sheep. So if an early gravestone must crown my springtime bright, you whom I loved so dearly, whose love was my delight, — to your poor Jenny's body, I pray, do not come near, kiss not her dead lips; follow with lagging steps her bier. And after I am buried, — go, leave the village, find some place where hearts are mended and destiny is kind. And when the Plague is over visit my dust, I pray… But, even dead, will Jenny beside her Edmund stay. The Chairman We thank you, Mary, melancholy Mary, we thank you all for this melodious moan. In former days a similar infection had visited, it seems, your hills and valleys,
