ELOQUENCE Twas night! the stars were shrouded in a veil of mist— a cloudy canopy o'erhung the earth— the vivid lightnings flashed and shook their fiery tresses in the face of heaven— the deep toned thunder rolled along the vaulted sky— the elements were in wild commotion— the storm-spirit howled in the air— the winds whistled— the hail stones fell like a shower of pearls— the huge undulations of the ocean dashed upon the rock-bound shore— torrents leaped from the mountain tops— pigs squealed— geese cackled— cattle bellowed— and George FitzGerald sprang from his sleepless couch with vengeance stamped upon his brow, murder in his heart, and the fell instrument of destruction in his hands. The storm increased— the lightnings flashed with a brighter glow— the thunder growled with a deeper energy— the wind whistled with a wilder fury— the confusion of the hour was congenial to his soul and the stormy passion that raged in his bosom— he clenched his weapon with a sterner grasp— a demoniac smile gathered on his lip— he grated his teeth, raised his arm, sprang with a yell of triumph on his victim, and relentlessly killed— a flea.