as he calls Billy, Winifred, Dick and Josephine, are all near him.

This shows that true love stands for greater happiness than power of wealth.

Billy Carson could resign his position and live a life of ease and comfort but, as he has said, he preferred the life and friends won in the days of his struggle to win a place in the business world.

Duty Versus Rights.

BY THE REV. CHARLES STELZLE. Since the birth of the American Republic we have accepted as supreme the doctrine of "the right of liberty and the pursuit of happiness." In our systems of jurisprudence, and in our treatises upon statecraft and sociology, the emphasis has been upon the "rights" of mankind. We have been hearing about the rights of the child, the rights of women, the rights of capital, the rights of labor, civil rights and political rights, until the doctrine of human rights has become a thing working confusion and hatred.

In sharp contrast with this method of securing better conditions for mankind and a more harmonious spirit among men, is the doctrine taught by God. In the sacred word there is practically no reference to the rights of man-the emphasis is upon the duty of man.

When the strong oppress the weak, we immediately cry out that there has been a transgression of rights. The New Testament declares that the law of love and brotherhood has been violated.

If the rich operater oppresses the wage-earner, reducing him to a starvation plane; if he so manipulates the market and closes factories as to prevent the laboring men from enjoying food and comfort, the remedy that the Bible proposes is not in emphasizing the rights of the poor, but in thrusting in upon the employer the thought that in the treatment of his men he is to follow the law of love and of brotherhood.

Human rights will never suffer if human duties be performed. The time has come when duty must be emphasized. The duty of the mistress to the maid, of the maid to the mistress. The duty of the employer to the employee, of the employee to the employer.

Duty, then, and not rights, is the supreme need of the hour. For the doing of one's duty will carry one farther along than the mere granting of another's rights. Gradually, men are coming to learn this important truth. The growing spirit of altruism indicates it. workingman demands justice, and he is right. But God demands more than justice. His imperative is love. For love is the fulfilling of the law.

The

Hamilton the Beautiful.

BY W. F. STUART, T. H. & B. Awake! O Muse, and give me power

To chant one magic strain. While here I wander for an hour O'er hill and dale and plain. The sun is rising in the east,

The clouds are tinged with gold. Oh, how delightful is the feast! 'Tis glorious to behold.

Nature in one resplendent scene
Now bursts upon the sight,
The sparkling dewdrops melt away
Before the glowing light;

Sweet flowers are blooming at my feet
With tints so rich and rare.
With all the freshness of the morn
They permeate the air.

And all along the mountain side
Fresh beauties meet the eye.
Here broad inclines of living green,
There fruitful valleys lie,
While farther on the time-worn crags
Jut out with angry frown,
Eager to quit the earth's firm grasp
And tumble headlong down.

But list! I hear a babbling sound
'Tis like a welcome song,

It is a streamlet's new-born voice
That murmurs all day long;

I kneel beside the gurgling spring
To taste the water free,
More pure than mortals ever brewed,
And sweeter far to me.

Now high upon the mountain's brow Enchained and mute I stand

To view the landscape stretching wide The work of Nature's hand;

I see the hills that rise afar,

The vales that sleep below,

The streams that wind through verdant meads Enlarging as they go.

But now a sight sublimer still
Arrests the ravished eye,
Rocks upon endless rocks are piled
With turrets battling high;
Into the caverns deep beneath
A flood its torrent pours
And thundering on the rocks below
With maddening fury roars.

Still the beauteous city sleeps
In the morning's dreamy hours,
Its busy pulse is still at rest

Like whisp'ring leafy bowers;
Along wide avenues and streets
Tall trees like giants rise,
While turrets, domes and lofty spires
Rise towering to the skies.

Beyond I see the shining bay.
Its waters lulled to rest,
While here and there a snowy sal
Is borne upon its breast;
Let Italy tell her fairy tales

Of streams and groves and flowers-
We boast as great on all sides
'Round this Hamilton of ours.
HAMILTON, July, 1908.

Correspondence

All contributions to our Correspondence columns must be in not later than the 10th of the month to insure insertion.

Articles must be written on one side of the paper only. Noms de plume may be used, but every article must be signed with full name and address of the writer as a guarantee of good faith, and to insure insertion. No anonymous letters will be published under any circumstances.

While the Editor does not assume responsibility for opinions expressed by contributors to this department, he is held responsible in both law and moral ethics for admitting that which will injure or create ill feeling. Hence all communications are subject to revision or rejection if the Editor deems it necessary.

C. H. SALMONS, Editor and Manager.

At Sea, Steamer "Caledonia," May, 1909.

'Tis a beautiful night at sea,
And I couldn't a moment sleep.

As my ship drives on,
Towards the rising Sun,
O'er the face of the trackless deep.

Overhead are a million stars,
And the night-winds gently eroon,
And in splendor grand,
Never seen on land,

Is the queen of the tides-the Moon!

"Tis a rare old night at sea,
There's nectar in the air,

And I deeply quaff
Countless lungfuls off,

On this glorious night so fair.

I am sure there is health at hand,
From the ills I have felt ashore,
That again I'll be
Frisking fondly free,

Ere this grand old voyage is o'er.

Oh, I love the dear old sea,
And I'd have no thought of fear,
If the foam should fly,
To the masthead high,
And our course we couldn't steer.
If the heavens all grew black,
From the force of the roaring gale,
She would drive her way
Through the flying spray,
And her tumbling course she'd sail!

We have plenty of sea-room now
For we're nany leagues from shore,
Yet a berg may drift
From some yawning rift,
And come down from Labrador.

There is tonic in the sea, There is nectar in the breeze,

As it pipes along

In a raptured song Of a thousand witching glees.

And I'll stay on deck tonight,
Till I greet the morning gray.
And the rising sun,

As he starts to run,
On another new-born day.

SHANDY MAGUIRE.

Half Seas Over, Atlantic the Ocean.

STEAMSHIP "CALEDONIA," May 5, 1909. EDITOR JOURNAL: Here I am in midAtlantic on my way to Scotia's banks and braes, on the good ship "Caledonia." In the long, long ago, when we were fleeing from a famine-stricken land, I was on this part of the Atlantic the first time, a passenger on an emigrant ship. I was then in the morning of life and knew very little of the world or its ways. I was intelligent enough to know that beyond the sky line was a big charitable land, whose sons dismantled their ships of their guns and sailed them with food for my starving countrymen. I have never forgotten that noble act of mercy to the poor starving creatures in my native land, and I have all my life since then gauged my estimation of American born men by that never-to-be-forgotten act; nor have I been disappointed at any time in the long years behind me since the "Jamestown" spread her sails and departed on her voyage on her errand of mercy.

As we were steaming by Sandy Hook last Saturday the steward of the "Caledonia" handed me this telegram: "Cleveland, O., to Patrick Fennell, care steamship "Caledonia."-The Grand Officers all unite with me in wishing you a pleasant voyage, and hope you will return to us again in safety. W. S. STONE."

I went to the companion of my voyage and read it to her and, through the JOURNAL to its readers in three nations, I am not ashamed to tell that the floodgates of our eyes were opened and, amid our bosom-bursting sobs, Warren S. Stone, we prayed heartily and devotionally for God to bless you and yours, and your kind-hearted associates and theirs, for making us so happy as the ship was taking us away from our loved ones behind to foreign lands. May God reward you all one thousandfold.

Your telegram gave me another proof of the nobility of character of the big broad-gauged American.

It is when the robust health fails and the muscles of the body relax and become impaired so that they cannot respond as of yore, that a man can appreciate his friends.

Well, here we are on the Atlantic where I prayed to be one thousand times. Poor Sweetness, at this writing, is laid out for death, lacking the candles around her head, with a right good attack of charitableness, for she is giving all she ate during the past week to the fishes. I guess she'll pull through. She never died yet! But, Q Lord! she looked like misery's mother. I lost but one meal so far. I always had a knack of retaining my food where it belongs until lately.

Life on shipboard and on shore is vastly different. We have a passenger list of 116 in the second cabin, where I am domiciled. We have to entertain ourselves as best we can. There is vastly more separation of people on shipboard than on shore. The almighty dollar is lord paramount. The first cabin aristocrats are surrounded with their dollars and their dignity and if we poor plebeians of the second cabin would pollute the air they breathe by our presence, we would be shot. They have the privilege of coming into our preserves when they choose. Also, they can go into the steerage. We can also go into the steerage, but the poor people of the steerage cannot come between the wind and our nobility.

I asked the steward if there is ever a time on shipboard when the barriers of social restriction were leveled down, so that all could meet up on the square. He could not answer me. So I told him that perfect equality might prevail or, perhaps, the last might be first when the order is given to clear away the boats. Let me tell you that when the struggle for existence takes place the stalwart boys of the steerage won't be last in the desolating race.

One of the principal things confronting active fellows is how to entertain each other, so as not to sit listening to

old stale jokes which ought to have been buried with our old grandmothers.

We are faring very well. Each day the males play "push the ring," which is a kind of Scotch hop, and other games originating in Scotland or the North of Ireland. At night we start up singing and dancing in the cabin, recitations, and mock trials of detected thieves. There are some fine singers on board and they strike up nightly the old songs, the dear old songs that loving mothers crooned over them in their cradles to lull them to sleep, such as "Annie Laurie," "Jessie, the Flower of Dumblane," "Coming Through the Rye," "Auld Lang Syne," "The Meeting of the Waters," "The Low Back Car,” and a score of others. Last night I thought it so appropriate when the blowout ended with "Steer My Bark to Erin's Isle," for Erin is my home. There is no melody that can touch the heart like the songs of home and childhood:

I

"Yes, sing the guid auld songs

Auld Scotia's gentle pride,

O' the whimpling burn and sunny brae, And the cosie ingleside !

Songs

the broom and heather,

Songs o' the trysting tree.

The laverock's lilt and the gowan's blink,

The auld Scotch songs for me."

never in a long lifetime knew a bad man who could let his mind run back and linger tenderly over his mother's or his father's grave. I admire the Scotch people for the intense love they have for the melodious songs of their native or fatherland; but I cannot give them the supremacy of loving their melodies above the Irish. Scotland had her schools when it was a punishable crime for Irishmen to aspire to an education. It was in those days, when the poor scholars were around the country giving a few lessons in each house to repay for a night's lodging, that the old songs were so lavishly composed.

There is in the Irish breast a tendency to melody. Lacking an education, their thoughts ran to the crude methods of expressing in verse their feelings, and what is known as old "Come All Ye Boys," as all peasant songs begin, is the traditional way of sending down to pos

terity the unpolished history of the days when the pedagog ruled:

"The bards may go down to the place of their slumbers,

The lyre of the charmer be hushed in the grave, But far in the future the power of their numbers,

Sha'l kindle the hearts of the faithful and brave: It will waken an echo in souls deep and lonely, Like voices of reeds, by the summer breeze fanned,

It will call up a spirit of freedom when only Her breathings were heard in the songs of our land."

We are in latitude 50.16° north and longitude 41.37° west, which means half seas over, and the date is May 4th. The sea is not noticeably rough, and we all stand well upon our sea legs and muster at tables in full force.

I

I am of the opinion that sea air is not a panacea for ills of the stomach. may be wrong in the assertion, but let me see. I am a resident of fresh air, about 350 miles from salt water. I got into salt air, and it increased my appetite in a ravenous degree. Were I a recluse, trying to atone for sins of either omission or commission, I would pitch penitential vows overboard and go for the appetizing food furnished by the ship. I kept the devouring business up for two days and began to feel the old, old burning which I thought was dead, but only lightly sleeping. The last meal of the two days' gluttony came on. The meat was Belfast ham. I kept looking at it with all the longing a young fellow ever felt looking into the eyes of his first love and hankering for a kiss. Old Sweetness knew my taste, and I guess she always admired it, particularly in my choice of a wife. I kept looking at the Belfast ham and she at me; at last I turned my head away in a “Get behind me, satan," feeling, when she said: "Give me your plate. In a minute it came back with a goodly supply of the coveted meat which, when handing me, she said: "Here, eat heartily. It will do you no harm.

"The woman tempted me and I fell," like many a good man before my time, and I paid for my folly. I am now back to the simple life again, and I have come to this conclusion: The sea air makes a

man ravenously hungry. He fills up; the stomach has been given additional work, and it is not able to perform its functions. The result is a more serious condition of the organ than heretofore.

I do not know how I shall resist the temptation to have a lick at rashers of bacon and greens in the land "'mongst the lads that live in Ireland where the apple praties grow." There is no use in saying good-morning to his sable majesty till I meet him.

Last night a girl with a voice as sweet as an Irish linnet sang us a song in the steerage at a blowout we held there, which was a treat. Oh, she had an exquisitely modulated voice well adapted to the song, and it took our hearts by storm. Here is a verse of it, but it conveys none of the witching charms of the sweet singer, as she captured our hearts with her mimicry as she rolled the numbers from her musical lips:

"As down the lane goin' I felt my heart glowin' As young as it was 45 years ago.

'Twas here in the boreen I first kissed my stoireen, A sweet little colleen, with skin like the snow; I looked at my woman, a song she was hummin' As old as the hills, so I gave her a pogue, 'Twas like our old courtin', half serious, half

sportin'

When Mollie was young, and when hoops were in

Vogue.

When she'd say to myself, 'You can coort wid the best o' them.'

When I'd say to herself, 'Sure, I'm better nor gold.' When she'd say to myself, 'You're as wild as the

rest of them,'

And I'd say to herself, "Troth. I'm time enough old."

A

The Irish people address each other as himself and herself. For instance, they would not ask, "Is Mr. Salmons in?" But they would ask, "Is himself in ?" So with the woman. A young girl is known as a colleen. A boreen is a grassy lane between two hedges. pogue is a kiss; and, dear old friend, let me tell you that as my mind wanders back to the long ago, I can tell you that no husbandman ever garnered a sweeter crop than one of pogues from a colleen's lips. Maybe you know that yourself.` Au revoir,

SHANDY MAGUIRE.