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"Nonsense, child, you have better taste.

DARK SHADOWS.

Oh! yes, I remember another-Glorious knights of the round table of the King of heaven.'

"I suppose it was after that you went asleep." "No, Jane; I only shut my eyes dazzled by the splendor. And this is the man whom the Smiths, Jones, and Robinsons delight to honor-who attracts crowds while such a man as Mr. Marsh had only a decent congregation."

Jane knew the sore point in her father's heart, and wisely endeavored to change the conversation. She really believed that if Mr. Flingall, had all the attributes of the angel Gabriel her father would not acknowledge them. Alas! with

with what a power do prejudices take hold of the human heart, and how stubbornly they keep their place in spite of every proof. We must confess that Mr. Courtain's opinion of Mr. Flingall's preaching was quite correct; but this opinion was often bitterly expressed, and the keen edge of truth should not be poisoned by bitterness.

"Father, I was greatly disappointed in not seeing Florence this evening at church. She told me a good while ago that she attends church every Sunday evening, and I have a great mind to break my resolution and go to see her. I think she is in trouble, though she tries to hide it."

"Poor Florry!" There was a long silence; that "Poor Florry" sounded like a benediction, and neither of them knew how much poor Florry needed a blessing. "Father, I have news to tell you, but don't go and sound a trumpet among our friends and acquaintances about it."

ous.

"Friends and acquaintances! they are very numer. When I sound a trumpet, a troop cometh." "I have been writing a novel," said Jane, with a face so flushed and in such a nervous tone that a confession of some crime might warrant."

"A novel! I suppose the lovers get married, and after many separations fall in for a fortune." "No, sir; nothing quite so common." "What is the title to be ?"

"Simply, 'John Hardiman, Esq."

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"Well, that title is just like yourself, and I am quite sure the story is a sensible one. How did you find time to write it; I did not think you had an hour in the day to spare."

"Two hours every evening for the last twelve months. I did not intend to publish it so soon, but I must tell you the whole story. I saw an advertisement the other day in the Times, offering very remunerative terms to young ladies who could write stories, or who had any experience in writing for Magazines. I went to the address on Thursday, and brought my manuscript with me. Think of my sur. prise when I found that it was Miss Liddoc, the celebrated novelist. You know she writes a great many novels, and furnishes a great many tales for several magazines. She has seven or eight young ladies employed in writing different portions of a book-one describes foreign scenery; another, a love scene; another, death from love, and so on, then Miss Liddoc puts all together, after carefully correcting and revising."

"Why that beats anything as to book-making that I ever fancied, even Dean Swift's conceit is not so strange as that."

"No matter-it requires great cleverness to do it, and besides she gives employment to several. Many poor governesses have been employed in copying manuscript, and one of them told me that 'the day only will reveal all the good Miss Liddoc has done.' Such a sweet sad face as she has!"

"Go on, I am all attention."

"I showed her my manuscript, she kept it, and I received this note from her this morning; I'll read it for you, father. Essex Square, S.

'Dear Miss Courtain-I am greatly pleased with your book. The plot is admirable, the style original, and the interest is well kept up to the end. I could not go to bed until I finished it last night. I will get my publisher to print it and I shall gladly write a preface. At least the first edition ought to bring you £500. I will gladly pay you two pounds a week for writing portions of the works I have on hand, but you can make more money and acquire a higher reputation by writing for yourself.

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Whilst Jane was reading this letter the old man's eyes were filling with tears of joy. He thought of the past days of poverty-the dark days of trial, and was really dazzled by the glorious vision that this letter raised up.

"That is a kind, unselfish letter, Jane."

"But my secret is not yet fully revealed. I don't wish James to know anything of this. The book will be sent to him for review, and we will see what he says of it."

"Your secret is safe with me, my child."

It was now nine o'clock, their hour of prayer, when Mr. Courtain said, "Go up and see, Jane, if your mother is able to come down this evening."

Away went Jane, fall of glorious dreams, opens her mother's door, looks round, sees no one, goes into the next room, quietly says "mother, come to prayers." No reply! Perhaps she is gone to the garden-she tries there. How strange!

"Father, I don't see mother, anywhere." "Oh! nonsense."

"She is not in her room, I have searched every. where."

"Try again," said the old man, and again she searched. The little cottage stood separate, so they had no neighbors to ask. However, they opened the door, and looked round.

"Father, a 'bus will be passing in ten minutes, I will go and look; think I know where she is gone." "No, Jane, you must not go alone, at this hour; I'll go with you."

They went back to lock the door, for they kept no servant, and father and daughter stood together waiting for the 'bus with sorrowful hearts. Jane told her father that her mother had gone of late very much to Mrs. Jones'.

"To Mrs. Jones'!" he echoed in a tone of surprise and horror, "I had no idea of this; God help us! I wonder, Jane, you never told me."

"Father dear, you had trouble enough; and I did all I could to prevent it."

The day had been very fine, but now the rain poured down in torrents, they were, therefore, obliged to take a cab to get to the railway. They were soon in the heart of the city, and hastened with anxious hearts to Mrs. Jones'. There were no lights in any of the windows, and Jane at first thought it useless to knock, but after a short consultation with her father she pulled the bell, and having waited for at least twenty minutes, pulled again. Having forgotten to bring an umbrella, they were both drenched with rain. The old man stood with his back against the shutters, protected a little by the show-board overhead. At length after waiting an hour which seemed like a year, a servant looked up from the area below.

"Drat yez, what's the go now ?" "Is your mistress at home?"

DARK SHADOWS.

"None of that go with me; be hoff with yez, or I'll call Bill."

"Was Mrs. Courtain here this evening ?" said Jane putting her head close to the Iron bars, and speaking low as if afraid of her own voice.

"Be you her daughter ?"

"Oh, do tell me please was she here this evening?" "No, she was not, and if she had any decency in her she would not come here again, after all that master said to her the other day.'

"Father, we must go to the next hotel and stop there to-night, and in the morning I will go to Florry's."

"To Florry's, why there "? "I'll tell you again."

CHAPTER XX.

NEXT morning at six o'clock the old man and his daugher sat down to a cup of tea before starting for Mrs. Hooker's.

"I think Jane I will remain here until your return, I do not feel very well, and a rest for a short time on the sofa will do me good. Oh! Jane, Jane, my child" said the old man, now completely breaking down, "martyrdom were easy compared to this."

"We have not yet looked in prayer for strength to bear whatever trials He may see fit to put upon us this day." Taking her Bible from her pocket, she read the 94th Psalm, and the words fell upon their hearts like a blessing from God.

Jane Courtain went upon her mission. The ribbons of her bonnet had been tarnished by the rain of last night; her gown was of brown cashmere, externally she looked unquestionably shabby, but her sweet intellectual face plainly showed the refined mind. She told the cab to wait and went up the steps of her sister's grand residence in one of the most fashionable quarters. The butler in his shirt sleeves and duster in hand opened the door, or rather half opened it, as he uttered in an impudent tone, "Well,"

"Is Mrs. Hooker at home? Please give her this note."

"Can't at this hour; call again"" He was rudely closing the door when Emily Hooker crossing the hall caught a look of her face.

"Pray, dont be so rude, Fleming,-What does the lady want."

"She ain't no lady, Miss. Has a begging letter, but can't take it after the orders I got yesterday." "Do you want to see Mrs. Hooker," said Emily, in such sweet tones that they fell like music on poor Jane's heart.

"On very important business; send her this note and I'll regard it as a great favor."

"Certainly," and as Emily took the note herself and asked Miss Courtain to take a seat in the breakfast parlour, she overheard the butler communicating to one of the housemaids "my life and heart on it, if that aint another of them, Sarah, my luv. Another plum." This was not altogether unintelligible to Jane, but the sorrow and anxiety about her mother absorbed every other feeling; even the rudeness of her sister's servant failed to ruffle her. She had not been sitting many minutes when Emily returned, and flinging her arms round her neck," dear aunt Jane, how glad I am to see you. You are just what I pictured you. I often longed to see you, from all mamma told me of you. Take off your bonnet, and come up to mamma's bed-room." Jane kissed "the angel girl" and felt for the moment happy.

"Emily, leave us alone for a little, and then come up and bring your sisters to see your aunt."

The sisters wound their arms round each other, and in silence wept.

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"Florence, was my mother here yesterday ?" "Oh! Jane, Jane, my life is miserable! I often wish now I was in my grave."

"Florence, don't say so; surely you know where to cast all your care."

"

"Oh, I often wanted you near me; why didn't you come."

"Florry, was our mother here yesterday."

"She was, and would not leave the steps until I gave her a pound. The housemaid knows that she is my mother, and I have to bribe her to secrecy. Mr. Hooker thinks my mother is dead. Would to God she were!" and Florence put her hands to her face and wept bitterly.

"Was she-was she-dr-u drunk at the time ?" asked Jane, forcing her lips to utter the hated word." "Oh, yes, she could scarcely stand."

"Then you have not seen her since."

"No; Mr. Hooker went away somewhere on Saturday, had he been at home I don't know what I could have done. Oh! God help me!"

"Then, Florence, let us kneel down and ask His help, for He has promised to hear us when we call upon him in the day of trouble." After a short, fervent prayer, Jane said "I must now go, Florry; father is waiting at Cheapside for me.'

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Why didn't you bring him; I am very miserable and my own have forsaken me. What have I done that you should treat me in this manner ?"

"Florry, let us not talk of it now; I'll come again. I would like to see the children before I go. Are they all like Emily ?"

"They are the best children I ever met; I love them as if they were my own."

Jane bore up nobly, she even mastered her own feelings lest she might add to the grief which she saw plainly Florry must feel. Had she even a good cry it would ease her burdened heart, but even this was denied her, for she must not let her father see any trace of tears.

When she returned to the hotel, the servant told her that the old gentleman was suddenly taken ill, and that they had sent for the doctor and the minister. "Where is he now"? she asked in a painfully calm tone.

"Second flight, mam, number thirteen."

When she reached number thirteen she found the doctor had gone, and the clergyman alone remained. As she was going with quick step towards the bed, the clergyman very gently put out his hand-" Pardon me, but the doctor said his life hung on being kept quiet, and to insure that I remained myself. His daughter, I persume?

"Yes, I'm his daughter; and I thank you very very much for your kindness."

"It is a very pleasing duty," and he looked as if he had been receiving rather than giving kindness.

"Have you any friends in the city who could remain with you for a day or two, as I fear your father can't be well removed for that time ?"

"Thank you, I'm accustomed to battle alone and I won't need help,"

The clergyman smiled at this brave speech. He, too, was long accustomed to battle alone, and no one ever heard a complaint from his lips. The clergyman is our old friend the Rev. John Manton, and being no novice in reading the human heart, he saw one of the martyr race in the delicate form before him.

“Tell me, what did the doctor say; tell me exactly ?" saying this she sat down on the opposite chair and looked into his face.

"When he awakes he must get this draught, and at ten o'clock to-night the doctor will come again, and then we will know all."

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What power was in that we; by it he identified himself with their sufferings and bore a part of them. "I'll send my eldest girl to stay with you. I don't live far from this, and she will be a comfort to you. I understand your father was Mr. Flingall's predecessor. I heard him preach many years ago, I suppose before you were born, and in that sermon he taught me a lesson I have never forgotten."

"What was it ?"

With the same kind smile he simply said "I'll tell you when I call after dinner. Read this leaflet," and he handed her the following lines

"My heart was full of happiness,
Each scene around was bright,
I lean'd on my beloved one,

His candle gave me light;

I thought such joy would still be mine,
Such bliss would never cease,
And gladly said to all around,

That wisdom's paths are peace.

But soon a cloud obscured my path,
A cross before me lay,

I knew it was for me to bear,
And yet I turned away.
The voice of my beloved spake,
Yet stern it seemed to be,
He pointed to the cross and said
"Take it and follow me."

"Father! O father, ask not this,
"Tis more than I can bear;

Lay any other burden on

But this in mercy spare;
Let me but move one step aside
And so escape the loss;
Father, thy feeble child will sink
Beneath this weary cross."

My prayer unheard, unheeded sped,
Or was, if heard, denied,

He hedged my way so closely in,

I could not turn aside.

Yet still I strove to break the fence,

Rebelled against the rod,

And struggled sorely 'gainst thy will
My Saviour and my God.

But he who loved me at the first
Still loved me to the end,
And spite of all my waywardness,
Remained my faithful friend;
He bore with all my loud complaints,
Gainst my rebellion strove,

And showed me that the dreaded cross
Was sent in faithful love.

I stooped-I raised it up, and lo!
My heavy weight was gone,
My Saviour bore the load for me,
I was not left alone;

Then grateful, humbled to the dust,
Once more my path I trod,
Feeling how light the burden is
Which we can cast on God."

She knelt down and thanked the God of all comfort for sending her consolation at such a moment by such a kind messenger.

(To be continued.)

LORD Wellington tells of an elephant lifting a drunken soldier against his will, and by placing him on its back, saved his life. Which was the more manly?

The Factory Child.

BY ERNEST JONES.

THE factory child went on its way,
All weary and repining;

Oh! brightly with the summer day
Both heaven and earth were shining,
And it thought how sweet it were to play
'Mid the corn and flowers, and new-mown hay,
And the bowery bushes twining.

The town was hot with a furnace heat,

And the sky was dark with smoke;

But a woodwind came down the narrow street,
And again it thought-how sweet, how sweet,
Where the daisies grow and the waters fleet
From the mill-wheel's whirling stroke.

And soon the houses were waxing few,
Clear shone the morning air;

And the dust was slaked with a shower of dew,
And a dwarfish tree with a fresher hue

Was scattered here and there.

And soon the space began to expand

By the woods on either side,
At first in a track of garden land,

And then the corn-fields green and grand
Were stretching far and wide.

And the hills, the pleasant and smiling hills
Rose up in a mighty line,

And the singing birds, and the singing rills,

And the bees, and the dazzling daffodils,

And the thrush, that the depth of the woodland fills, Made melody divine.

But it heard its mother's voice behind, Rebuking its sad delay;

For the bell had ceased-and sorrow blind,

It thought how the laggard was punished and fined,

Of the heavy task, and the home unkind,

And the hot close hungry day.

But the angel of death had touched the child,

And she felt the longing for flight;

And the bright of her eye became more void,

And the hue of her cheek more bright.

And onward and onward, through alley and street,
Unconscious and eager she trod,

While her heart kept time to the fall of her feet,
For 'twas flying from man to God.

At noon thro' the breezy upland glade

She reached a far seen height;

Oh, fleet was the air that round it played,

And the coppice waved and the corn fields swayed,
Till the distant town like a spot was laid

On the side of the emerald light.

And weary she sank in that green retreat,
On the fresh cool dewy sod,

Till she heard thro' the hush of the noon-day heat,
Like the music of dreams in her slumbers sweet,
The fall of the passing angels' feet
Who gather the flowers of God.

They will miss her not in the factory town, Tho' vainly the bell shall ring;

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

They are busy treading such young hearts down, What to them is so small a thing?

And the pitiless mother shall think with a frown Of the earnings she used to bring,

But the angels of God have prepared her a crown At the throne of eternity's King.

Abraham Lincoln.

By RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

How

THE President stood before us a man of the people. He was thoroughly American, had never crossed the sea, had never been spoiled by English insularity, or French dissipation; a quite native, aboriginal man, as an acorn from the oak; no aping of foreigners, no frivilous accomplishments, Kentuckian born, working on a farm, a flat boatman, a captain in the Blackhawk war, a country lawyer, a representative in the rural legislature of Illinois-on such modest foundations the broad structure of his frame was laid. slowly, and yet by happily prepared steps, he came to his place. All of us remember-it is only a history of five or six years-the surprise and the disappointment of the country at his first nomination by the Convention of Chicago. Mr. Seward, then in the culmination of his good fame, was the favorite of the Eastern States; and when the new and comparatively unknown name of Lincoln was announced (notwithstanding the report of the acclamations of that Convention) we heard the result coldly and sadly. It seemed too rash, on a purely local reputation to build so grave a trust in such anxious times; and men naturally talked of the changes in politics as incalculable. But it turned out not to be chance. The profound good opinion which the people of Illinois and of the West had conceived of him, and which they had imparted to their colleagues, that they also might

*Most of our readers are doubtless aware that this truly great man, this genuine specimen of "Nature's nobility,' was a consistent Total Abstainer and Prohibitionist nearly the whole of his laborious life, and that he faithfully adhered to these principles even during the war. The Alliance News says "It is due alike to the cause of temperance, and to the sacred memory of that illustrious man, the late President of the United States, to let it be widely known that for more than 50 years he had been a rigid abstainer from all intoxicating liquors-neither using them himself, keeping them in his house, nor on any occasion providing them for his friends or visitors.

This fact, though well known in America, and often referred to in the American papers, has been systematically ignored by the general press of this country.

On the occasion of Mr. Lincoln's nomination to the Presi dency by the Chicago Convention in 1860, an influential deputation of the leaders of the Republican party went to wait upon Mr. Lincoln at his modest residence Springfield, Illinois. A kind and thoughtful neighbor, knowing Mr. Lincoln's abstinent habits, and anticipating that the good, simplehearted man would feel himself in a difficulty from a conscientious objection to providing for others what he on principle abstained from himself, politely sent a present of a package of wine and liquors, for the use of Mr. Lincoln's guests. But honest Abe, though touched by the kindness of his generous neighbor, at once returned the package with a graceful and grateful message, saying that he had not hitherto been in the habit of entertaining his friends with such things, and did not think that he ought to change his style of life even in view of the national honor that was intended to be conferred upon him.

Some two years since, an instance occurred that brought out a still more striking and public avowal of Mr. Lincoln's steadfast adherence to his abstinence principle and practice. It is related that while the presidential party, on one occasion were dining at Erie, a certain gentleman offered Mr. Lincoln some wine, and rather rudely tried to force it upon him. Mr. Lincoln replied: "I have lived fifty years without the use of intoxicating liquor, and I do not think it worth while to change my habits now.'

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justify themselves to their constituents at home, was not rash, though they did not begin to know the riches of his worth.

A plain man of the people, an extraordinary fortune attended him. Lord Bacon says, "Manifest virtues procure reputation; occult ones fortune." He offered no shining qualities at the first encounter; he did not offend any superiority. He had a face and manner which disarmed suspicion, which inspired confidence, which confirmed good will. He was a man without vices. He had a strong sense of duty, which it was very easy for him to obey. Then, he had what farmers call a long head; was excellent in working out the sum for himself; in arguing his case and convincing you fairly and firmly. Then, it turned out that he was a great worker-had prodigious faculty of performance-worked easily. A good worker is so rare; everybody has some disabling quality. host of young men that start together, and promise so many brilliant leaders for the next age, each fails on trial; one by bad health, one by conceit or by love of pleasure, or lethargy, or an ugly temper-each has some disqualifying fault that throws him out of the career. But this man was sound to the core, cheerful, persistent, all right for labor, and liking nothing so well.

In a

Then he had a vast good nature, which made him tolerable and accessible to all; fair-minded, leaning to the claim of the petitioner; affable, and not sensible to the affliction which the innumerable visits paid to him, when president, would have brought to anyone else. And how this good nature became a noble humanity, in many a tragic case which the events of the war brought to him, everyone will remember; and with what increasing tenderness he dealt when a whole race was thrown on his compassion. The poor negro said of him, on an impressive occasion, "Massa Linkum am eberywhere."

Then his broad good humor, running easily into jocular talk, in which he delighted and in which he excelled, was a rich gift to this wise man. It enabled

On one occasion, Mr. Lincoln, seeing that strong drink was producing most pernicious and demoralizing effects in the Federal armies, both amongst officers and privates, sent a telegram to Mr E. C. Delavan, of Albany, to come up to Washington, to confer with the War Department and himself, in respect to some steps to be taken to put a stop to the frightful and growing evil. The result was that various measures were devised to prevent alcoholic liquors being sold or supplied to the soldiers. Mr. Delavan prepared an excellent address to the army, setting forth the evils of drinking, and the benefits of abstinence; and copies of the document were sent through the department, to the soldiers in all the troops throughout the various encampments. The result of the combined agencies, with other similar efforts by the American Temperance Union, was the formation of temperance societies among the soldiers, and the arrestment of the evil, to a very great extent, of late. General Grant wisely and nobly gave his countenance and practical example in favor of temperance of the strictest kind. It was reported in the New York Evening Post, a few months ago: The general lives in the plainest style; messes with his staff. On the table neither distilled liquor nor wine is permitted. The general will not have it about him for his own use or other's.' If those newspaper writers, who so fiercely denounce the new President, Andrew Johnson, for having taken two glasses of brandy when jaded and exhausted by travel and excitement, the effect of which was visible to the malignant gaze of political rancor, not less than to the loyal patriots who witnessed his inaugural ceremony, would themselves follow the noble example of the martyred President and his great general, they would exert a more beneficial influence not only amongst our own public men but also on the masses, for whom they profess to have patriotic regards.

How sad that that great, sober, simple-hearted, magnanimous emancipator of four millions of African bondsmen, the second Washington of the American nation, should have been ruthlessly shot down by a drink-nerved actor! Even this fiendish assassin, with all his long cherished secession rancor, could not prepare his hand and his heart to do the murderous deed until he had gulped down several glasses of brandy. Another fearful illustration that the drink demon' goes about seeking whom he may devour, and sparing none whom he can slay."

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THE DANGER OF THE DRINKING CUSTOMS.

him to keep his secret; to meet every kind of man and every rank in society; to take off the edge of the severest decisions; to mask his own purpose, and sound his companion; and to catch with true instinct the temper of every company he addressed. And, more than all, it is to a man of severe labor, in anxious and exhausting crises, the natural restorative, good as sleep, and is the protection of the overdriven brain against rancor and insanity.

He is the author of a multitude of good sayings, so disguised as pleasantries that it is certain they had no reputation at first but as jests; and only later, by the very acceptance and adoption they find in the mouths of millions, turn out to be the wisdom of the hour. I am sure if this man had ruled in a period of less facility of printing, he would have become mythological in a very few years, like Esop or Pilpay, or one of the Seven Wise Masters, by his fables and proverbs. But the weight and penetration of many passages in his letters, messages, and speeches, hidden now by the very closeness of their application to the moment, are destined hereafter to a wide fame. What pregnant definitions; what unerring common sense; what foresight; and, on great occasions, what lofty, and more than national, what humane tone! brief speech at Gettysburg will not easily be surpassed by words on any recorded occasion. This, and one other American speech, that of John Brown to the court that tried him, and a part of Kossuth's speech at Birmingham, can only be compared with each other, and with no fourth.

His

His occupying the chair of state was a triumph of the good sense of mankind, and of the public conscience. This middle-class country had got a middleclass president, at last. Yes, in manners and sympathies, but not in powers, for his powers were superior. This man grew according to the need. His mind mastered the problem of the day; and, as the problem grew, so did his comprehension of it. Rarely was man so fitted to the event. In the midst

of fears and jealousies, in the Babel of Councils and parties, this man wrought incessantly with all his might and all his honesty, laboring to find what the people wanted, and how to obtain that. It cannot be said there is any exaggeration of his worth. If ever a man was fairly tested he was. There was no lack of resistance, nor of slander, nor of ridicule. The times have allowed no state secrets; the nation has been in such ferment, such multitudes had to be trusted, that no secret could be kept. Every door was ajar, and we know all that befel.

Then, what an occasion was the whirlwind of the war! Here was place for no holiday magistrate, no fair-weather sailor; the new pilot was hurried to the helm in a tornado. In four years-four years of battle-days-his endurance, his fertility of resources, his magnanimity, were sorely tried and never found wanting. There, by his courage, his justice, his even temper, his fertile counsel, his humanity, he stood a

To the Memory of Abraham Lincoln,

Assassinated April 14, 1865.

BY THE REV. DAWSON BURNS, London.

"FATHER, Thy will be done!" In this sharp hour of pain,

Teach us in Christ's own words from murmuring to refrain ;

Upon our fevered lips they drop as cooling balm, And at their strengthening touch our throbbing hearts grow calm.

'Twas yesterday he stood, high in his simple state,
With victory around him, in moderation great;
To-day, 'tis "dust to dust ;" the funeral rites appear;
Two kindred nations kneel, weeping beside his bier.

He loved his country well, and, resolute to save
Her sons from future woes, he dug black slavery's
grave;

The hemispheres bent o'er to watch the monster die— Then, shuddering, they caught the slaughtered patriot's sigh.

Could he have guessed the end, his stout heart had not quailed;

Not in the path of right his true soul would have failed;

But from him gracious Heaven had hid the final scene, And till the worst was passed he knew not what had been.

Greatest of crimes is this, and murderer greatest he
Who Lincoln's fate has joined to elder tragedy—
Of William, Holland's chief, robbed of heroic life,
And Henry, hope of France, stabbed by Ravaillac's
knife.

And Lincoln, too, is fallen, by shot most foully fired, But mourn him as we must, our hopes have not expired;

For as we loathing view this parricidal crime,
We hail the judgment writ to assure all coming time:

That deeds of blood performed, with purpose to defeat
The purposes of God, their blind contrivers cheat;
And who for Freedom's sake is basely stricken down
Shall wear, while Freedom lives, more than a royal

crown.

Thus Lincoln now is crowned. For ages hence his

name

Shall, like a beacon, blaze upon the heights of fame. Time's oft effacing hand shall fix this record fast"Pure was his course throughout, and noblest at the last!"

heroic figure in the centre of a heroic epoch. He is The Danger of the Drinking Customs.

the true history of the American people in his time. Step by step he walked before them; slow with their slowness, quickening his march by theirs; the true representative of this continent; an entirely public man; father of his country, the pulse of twenty millions throbbing in his heart, the thought of their minds articulated by his tongue.-From Speech delivered at Concord, April 19th, 1865.

GREAT. The go-ahead man who in breaking his way to gold breaks the golden rule, may be rich, but can't be great.

HE is the best pillar of the church who stands under the most holiness, and on the most sin.

By the Rev. WM. ARNOT, D.D., Edinburgh.

THE customs of society encouraging the use of intoricating drinks constitute one of the most formidable dangers to youth in the present day. All are aware that drunkenness, in our country, is the most rampant vice. How broad and deep is the wave whereby it is desolating the land! It is not our part, at present, to register any array of facts tending to show how many are held helpless in its chain, and how deeply that chain cuts into the life of the victim. The extent and the virulence of the malady we shall not prove, but assume to be known. Our special business is to remind the young of the enticements by which they are led into that horrible pit. It is specially true of

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