young, in whose bosoms burned the sacred love of liberty, uprose in the greatness of their strength, arrayed themselves for the contest, and marched boldly forth to mingle in the holy strife for equal rights. Wealth, royalty, and absolution were spurned, and principles of eternal truth and freedom of the soul, guarded by free investigation, were selected as the firm ground and towering bulwarks where to plant themselves for defence. They kindled their watch-fires on every tall height, a beacon-light to the oppressed, a terror to the oppressors. The assault was made; the conflict most severe. But He who rules in right gave the battle to the weak, defeat to the strong. In their weakness, the weak grew strong; in their strength the strong were made weak. Truth, long crushed, rose in triumph over error. Oppression, long successful, gave place to the right; and the justice of God's ways were distinctly revealed to man.

THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

BY REV. WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY.

AND this is death! how cold and still,
And yet how lovely it appears!
Too cold to let the gazer smile,

But far too beautiful for tears.

The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek hath lost its rose-like red;
And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair,

That never looked so fair as now,
When life and health were laughing there,
I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast,

And that strong passion once rebel
That need not, cannot be suppressed.

I wonder not that parents' eyes
In gazing thus grow cold and dim,
That burning tears and aching sighs
Are blended with the funeral hymn;
The spirit hath an earthly part,

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies,
And heaven would scorn the frozen heart

That melts not when the infant dies.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget! Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, My memory warmly treasures yet Thy features calm and mildly sweet; But no, that look is not the last; We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, Where love no more deplores the past, Nor breathes that withering word - Farewell!

RECOLLECTIONS OF PETERBOROUGH.

FROM A SPEECH AT THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.

BY JAMES WILSON, JR.

SIR, when I learned some few weeks ago that it was proposed to celebrate this Centennial Anniversary of the settlement of my native town, I resolved to be present; and in the expectation that I might be called on for a word, I began to search the by-places and corners of my mind, to ascertain whether any thing connected with Peterborough history had been stowed away there, that might be brought out to contribute to the interest of the occasion.

We have heard of the patriotism of our ancestors, of their unanimity in sustaining and devotion to the American cause, in her early efforts for free government. They sought for a government of equal and impartial laws. Permit me to relate to you an anecdote illustrating their profound respect for sound laws.

My grandfather, as you know Mr. President, kept a tavern in a small house, the shape of which sets all description at defiance; but its rickety remains are still to be seen upon the farm of your townsman, Captain William Wilson. A number of persons being assembled at his public house, an occurrence happened, not unusual in the town at that time, namely, a fight. There was a blow, and blood drawn. The defeated party threatened an immediate prosecution, but the spectators interposed their friendly advice, and a reference of the matter was agreed to by the parties. Five good men and true were designated as referees, who undertook to arbitrate upon the momentous matter. A solemn hearing was

gone into. Every person present was inquired of as to the fact. After a deliberate hearing of the parties, their several proofs and allegations, the referees awarded that the aggressor should pay the cost of reference, by a full treat for all the company, and give as damages to the injured man, for the blood lost, an equal quantity of cherry-rum, which they appraised at a half-pint. Ill-blood is sometimes created between the parties to a law-suit, that continues to circulate in the veins of succeeding generations. No such result followed the Peterborough law-suit above reported. The wisdom of the referees was universally commended, as manifested in their liberal award of damages, and their sagacity highly extolled for the discovery of an adequate and proper remedy for healing the wound inflicted upon "the peace and dignity of the State." The referees, the parties and their witnesses all separated perfect friends.

We have heard that one of the prominent traits of the early inhabitants was a fondness for fun, It was on all occasions sought after, and it mattered little at whose expense it was procured. The name of one has already been mentioned, famous for his singular cast of mind and his witty sarcasms "Old Mosey Morison." I at this moment have in mind an anecdote which, by leave, I will relate; and if I omit the name of the individual upon whom the wit was perpetrated, I suppose the chief marshal of the day will take no exception to the relation of the story. Mosey Morison was here universally called, in common parlance, “Uncle Mosey." A young gentleman of no small pretensions to learning and high standing in this town, some forty years ago, went to the town of Nelson, then called Packersfield, to instruct a winter school. In the course of the winter "Uncle Mosey" happened to call at the store of a Mr. Melville, where a large number of the people of Packersfield were assembled, and there met the young Peterborough school-master. The school-master accosted him in the familiar salutation of "How do you do, Uncle Mosey?" The old gentleman, looking away, and manifesting no sign of