That beat on the ear like the surf on the Through the dewy incense, cool and light,
shore.
"Twas as if the pulse of the air had stopped,
And a death-like silence had swiftly dropped
On the leaden beat of that pulse instead.
Then the listening folk to each other said,
With many a doubting shake of the head:
"Now what has happened at York below?
Is it peril to friend, or peril to foe?"
While the scowling Tories gathered about,
And swore, "The Yankees are put to rout,
As they often were put to rout before."

The houses along the way-side loom
All inky black from the heavy gloom,
With now and then a gleam of light
From a cheerful home on the solemn night;
And all is silent; the very breath

Of the air seems hushed in a sombre death,
Save farther down, from a way-side inn,
Where a smothered noise of a jovial din
Speaks loudly of mirth and light within.
But now through the hush of the night around
Comes the distant sound

Of the measured pound
Of a horse's hoofs on the solid ground.

Then away and away, with a fainter beat
And a duller thud of the horse's feet;
But back through the silent night he hears
The sound of shouts and of ringing cheers.

By noon, by night,

Through the early light

Of the misty morning, fresh and bright-
He gallops by night, he gallops by day,
To Philadelphia, far away;

For he brings the news of joy and of
cheer

To the Congress of States assembled there.

At first it throbs to the listening ear,
But ever it sounds more full, more clear,
Galloping, galloping, nearer fast,
Up the road. As the inn is passed
The door flies open, the guests pour out
On the tavern porch, a merry rout,

A hush like death in the silent street;
Not a sound is heard but the lonely beat
Of the queer old watchman, up and down
Through the silence of Philadelphia town.
Like a gloomy pall hang the folds of night,
Save here and there where a glow of light

While the light and the glow from the bar- From a corner lamp casts a misty mark room there

Stream over the road with a ruddy glare.
The rider flashes across the light,

And is swallowed again in the jaws of night.
No check of rein as he gallops along,
But he shouts his news to the listening
throng-

He shouts the news as he gallops past:
"Cornwallis is taken at York at last."

Of brightness around on the pavement dark: 'Tis the heart of the night, from which is born The fluttering breath of the early morn.

Like the solemn shade which the midnight brings,

Like the blackness from which the morning
springs,

Was the gloom that hung like a heavy blight
On the cause of freedom, the cause of right;.

For up and down through the breadth of the | And then of voices asking for more
land

Were rout and disaster on every hand.
We fought with a stern and stubborn will
The redcoats, Indians, Tories; still,
Fighting each foot, we were driven back,
Like the stag at bay with the hounds on its
track.

But the quaint old town lay fast asleep,
All wrapped around with a silence deep;
Only the watch, with his lautern and bill,
Stops as he walks the streets all still,
And gives, with a quavering, sing-song call,
The hours: ""Tis two o' the clock, and all
Is well in the morning." The voice rings near
And loud in the silence; then, faint and clear,
Another voice like an echo fell:
""Tis two o' the clock, and all is well
In the morning." Another, another, till
They die in the distance, and all is still,
And the watchman resumes his lonely beat
With swaying light down the silent street.
Then suddenly falls another sound
On the heavy silence that broods around,
Of galloping feet on the stony ground.
With a clatter of iron hoofs, and a spark
Struck now and then from a stone in the dark,
Past the gleam of the corner light,

839

Of the news; then the sound of a banging
door,

And footsteps hurrying here and there.
Then a cheer rang out on the frosty air.
It is taken up, and around, about,
It is echoed again with lusty shout.
Then the seal of silence is broken, and out--
Where the empty night was just before-
Bursts the pent-up life with a mighty roar.
Then, rolling down through the darkness,
fell

The deep-toned bay of the State-house bell,
With a clash and a loud vibrating tone
That speak of a joy; and, one by one,
The others join in a swell of sound
Of exultation that roars around;
While bonfires, blazing up and down
Through the length and breadth of the shout-
ing town,

Throw a ruddy light, that blazes high
To meet the light of the eastern sky.
The volleys of cannon at break of day
With their loud concussions seem to say,
"We greet you at Yorktown, far away."

And so, as the dawn of that day grew bright, Was the dawn that followed the dreary night

He rides, with a flash through the shadows of Of trouble and woe and gloom and fear, night

Of steel and buckle and sabre bright.

The President's house stood grim and black,
Where the rider leaped from the horse's back,
And with a hitch of the strap or rein

He knocked at the door and he shouted amain,
With so loud a knock and so brave a shout
That the watch came crowding around, about,
And thought to arrest him out and out
For a tipsy rake on a drunken bout.

But the voices without, and the noise and
din

Through the stilly night, wake the sleepers

within.

The door is opened, a stream of light
Throws a sudden glare on the inky night
That shines on the watch, and a stranger

there

All stained with dust, in the flickering glare,
While their breaths go up on the frosty air.
Then he tells his news, in the ruddy glow:
"Cornwallis is taken at York below."

When the watchmen have heard the news,
they cry

It out with the hours, and far and nigh
It is taken up, until, one by one,
They carry it out through the sleeping town:
"Three o' the clock, and all is well.
Oh, hear the news that I have to tell:
Cornwallis is taken. The news to-day
Was brought from Yorktown, far away."

At first 'twas the gleam of a single light
That flickered across the dusk of night;
Then presently others began to flash;
Then came the sound of a rising sash,

That broke at last to a morning clear,
The first bright news of the coming day,
Brought by Tilghman, over away
From Yorktown and Gloucester, far below
To the south, a hundred years ago.

JOURNALISTIC LONDON.
Second Paper.

"THE

THE TIMES" has often been called the As emblemJupiter of the Press. atic of its power, the title is well chosen. Among all the newspapers of the world, none has wielded so wide and extensive an influence as this great English paper. If buildings have a physiognomical charFace to face acter of their own, those of The Times are peculiarly representative. with The Times office, you confront a Enter sturdy, immovable institution. and make a tour of the premises, and you are impressed with the air of order and repose that pervades every department. There is no hurry in The Times office. Even when the last "forms" go down to press, they go in a calm, systematic fashion. No rushing, no calling, no noisy hammering, accompanies the operation. Now and then something nearly approaching a fuss attends the insertion of the weather chart or a war map into the latest pages, but this is of rare occurrence. as if the entire establishment, with its em

It is

gurated by him. With his permission, | tion of men and means and machinery little as this is to say, we may not have necessary to the daily journal's producsaid it, for it is hard to tell which most tion. Apart from the correspondents, the predominates in Mr. Macdonald's charac- telegraphists, the steamers, the railway ter, the wisdom of practical experience or trains, that are engaged in its service the unostentation of native modesty. A abroad, there are at home the editors, few weeks since, when I took my friend leader-writers, critics, reviewers, reportMr. Ridley to make a pictorial sketch of ers, messengers, a multitude of persons, Printing-house Square, and the old door- men of the highest culture and learning, way with the well-known testimonial in- down to the nimblest of chroniclers, telescription over it, the square, the doorway, graph clerks, and messengers.

These,

the whole place, had been trans-
formed. The Times offices had
been rebuilt. The change was
not in any way typical of the
phoenix rising from the ashes of
a conflagration (as at Chicago,
where the very site of The Times
office there was lost in the flames),
for there was no suggestion of
ashes, no débris of fire, no track of de-
struction. Cleanliness and order reigned
as before. Calm, steady-looking compos-
itors were setting up types near the new
windows, as they were doing near the old
ones years before; though, in place of
the old grimy bricks, new offices, spick
and span, looked down upon us on all
sides through plate-glass windows. The
English sentiment in regard to the pre-
servation of trees is touchingly illustrated
in the new square by the presence of a
smoke-grimed trunk, which in the winter
stretches withered-looking arms toward
the new building, and in the summer puts
forth a few green leaves that whisper to
the printers, as they come and go, sugges-
tions of woods and meadows and quiet
rural landscapes.

The ordinary public that reads its morning newspaper over breakfast has a very vague idea of the tremendous organiza

The

formidable as is their power, simply sup-
ply the pabulum, the manuscript, the ma-
terial for manufacture. How great and
how little all this is an outsider can hard-
ly appreciate until he has seen a leading
newspaper establishment at work.
Times office is a vast machine-shop and
factory. Everything in the place, ex-
cept the paper, is made on the spot. The
Walter machines, which are shown at
work in the illustration on page 844,
were made here, as were also those which
print The Daily News, The Scotsman,
the Liverpool Post, the New York Times,
and other papers. Indeed, the whole of
the appliances in the printing of the
paper and lighting of the rooms (even
the electric lamps) are manufactured on
the premises, which embrace machine-
shops, type, stereotype, and electrotype
foundries, electricians' laboratories, etc.
The whole of the new buildings were