I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.

And here and there a foamy flake,
Upon me, as I travel,

With many a silvery water-break
Above the golden gravel.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers,
I move the sweet foget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses,
I linger by my shingly bars,
I loiter round my cresses.

the light of morn, and noon, and dewy eve; and, being dead, he yet speaks eloquently, and in the midst of us.

Mahomet still lives in his practical and disastrous influence in the East. Napoleon still is France, and France is almost Napoleon. Martin Luther's dead dust sleeps at Wittenburg, but Martin Luther's accents still ring through the churches of Christendom. Shakespeare, Byron, and Milton, all live in their influence, for good or evil. The apostle from his chair, the minister from his pulpit, the martyr from his flame-shroud, the statesman from his cabinet, the soldier in the field, the sailor on the deck, who all have passed away to their graves, still live in the practical deeds that they did, in the lives they lived, and in the powerful lessons that they left behind them.

"None of us liveth to himself;" others are affected by that life; "or dieth to himself; " others are interested in that death. Our queen's crown may moulder, but she who wore it will act upon the ages which are yet to come. The noble's coronet may be reft in pieces, but the wearer of it is now doing what will be reflected by thousands who will be made and moulded by him. Dignity, and rank, and riches, are all corruptible and worthless; but moral character has an immortality that no sword-point can destroy; that ever walks the world and leaves lasting influences behind.

What we do is transacted on a stage of which all in the universe are spectators. What we say is transmitted in echoes that will never cease. What we are is influencing and acting on the rest of mankind. Neutral we cannot be. Living we act, and dead we speak; and the whole universe is the mighty company forever looking, forever listening, and all nature the tablets forever recording the words, the deeds, the thoughts, the passions, of mankind!

Monuments, and columns, and statues, erected to heroes, poets, orators, statesmen, are all influences that extend into the future ages. "The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle" still speaks. "The Mantuan bard still sings in every school. Shakespeare, the bard of Avon, is still translated

into every tongue. The philosophy of the Stagyrite is still felt in every academy. Whether these influences are beneficent or the reverse, they are influences fraught with power. How blest must be the recollection of those who, like the setting sun, have left a trail of light behind them by which others may see the way to that rest which remaineth with the people of God!

It is only the pure fountain that brings forth pure water. The good tree only will produce the good fruit. If the centre from which all proceeds is pure and holy, the radii of influence from it will be pure and holy also. Go forth, then, into the spheres that you occupy, the employments, the trades, the professions of social life; go forth into the high places or into the lowly places of the land; mix with the roaring cataracts of social convulsions, or mingle amid the eddies and streamlets of quiet and domestic life; whatever sphere you fill, carrying into it a holy heart, you will radiate around you life and power, and leave behind you holy and beneficent influences.

CUMMING.

AGAINST WHIPPING IN THE NAVY.

THERE is one broad proposition, Senators, upon which I stand. It is this, that an American sailor is an American citizen, and that no American citizen shall, with my consent, be subjected to the infamous punishment of the lash. Placing myself upon this proposition, I am prepared for any consequences.

I love the navy. When I speak of the navy, I mean the sailor as well as the officer. They are all my fellowcitizens and yours; and come what may, my voice will ever be raised against a punishment which degrades my countrymen to the level of a brute, and destroys all that is worth living for, personal honor and self-respect.

In many a bloody conflict has the superiority of Amer

ican sailors decided the battle in our favor. I desire to secure and preserve that superiority. But can nobleness of sentiment or honorable pride of character dwell with one whose every muscle has been made to quiver under the lash? Can he long continue to love a country whose laws crush out all the dignity of manhood and rouse all the exasperation of hate in his breast?

Look to your history, that part of it which the world knows by heart, and you will find on its brightest page the glorious achievements of the American sailor. Whatever his country has done to disgrace him and break his spirits, he has never disgraced her. Man for man, he asks no odds, and he cares for no odds, when the cause of humanity or the glory of his country calls him to the fight.

Who, in the darkest days of our Revolution, carried your flag into the very chops of the British Channel, bearded the lion in his den, and awoke the echo of old Albion's hills by the thunder of his cannon, and the shouts of his triumph? It was the American sailor; and the names of John Paul Jones and the Bon Homme Richard will go down the annals of time forever.

Who struck the first blow that humbled the Barbary flag, — which, for a hundred years, had been the terror of Christendom, drove it from the Mediterranean, and put an end to the infamous tribute it had been accustomed to exact? It was the American sailor; and the names of Decatur and his gallant companions will be as lasting as monumental brass.

In your war of 1812, when your arms on shore were covered by disaster, when Winchester had been defeated, when the army of the Northwest had surrendered, and when the gloom of despondency hung like a cloud over the land,

- who first relit the fires of national glory, and made the welkin ring with the shouts of victory? It was the American sailor; and the names of Hull and the Constitution will be remembered as long as we have a country to love.

That one event was worth more to the Republic than

all the money which has ever been expended for a navy. Since that day, the navy has had no stain upon its national escutcheon, but has been cherished as your pride and glory; and the American sailor has established a reputation throughout the world, in peace and in war, in storm and in battle, for a heroism and prowess unsurpassed.

The great climax of Cicero in his speech against Verres is, that, though a Roman citizen, his client had been scourged. Will this more than Roman Senate long debate whether an American citizen, sailor though he be, shall be robbed of his rights? whether, freeman as he is, he shall be scourged like a slave?

Forbid it,

Shall an American citizen be scourged? Heaven! Humanity forbid it! For myself, I would rather see the navy abolished, and the stars and the stripes buried, with their glory, in the depths of the ocean, than that those who won for it all its renown should be subjected to a punishment so brutal, to an ignominy so undeservd.

COMMODORE STOCKTON.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT, AN' A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toil's obscure, an' a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, an' a' that;

Gi'e fools their silks, an' knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that;