GOD SAVE OUR PRESIDENT. All hail! unfurl the Stripes and Stars, Ten times ten thousand patriots greet Come, with one heart, one hope, one aim,- To elevate, with solemn rites, The Ruler of our land! Not to invest a potentate We bow beneath no sceptred sway, Columbia's sons, erect and free, Our ruler boasts no titled rank, He swears to cherish and defend God of our country! seal his oath God save the Union of the States, WHAT IS A MINORITY?-JOHN B. GOUGH. What is a minority? The chosen heroes of this earth have been in a minority. There is not a social, political, or religious privilege that you enjoy to-day that was not bought for you by the blood and tears and patient sufferings of the minority. It is the minority that have vindicated humanity in every struggle. It is a minority that have stood in the van of every moral conflict, and achieved all that is noble in the history of the world. You will find that each generation has been always busy in gathering up the scattered ashes of the martyred heroes of the past, to deposit them in the golden urn of a nation's history. Look at Scotland, where they are erecting monuments-to whom?-to the Covenanters. Ah, they were in a minority. Read their history, if you can, without the blood tingling to the tips of your fingers. These were the minority, that, through blood, and tears, and bootings, and scourgings-dyeing the waters with their blood, and staining the heather with their gore-fought the glorious battle of religious freedom. Minority! if a man stand up for the right, though the right be on the scaffold, while the wrong sits in the seat of government; if he stand for the right, though he eat, with the right and truth, a wretched crust; if he walk with obloquy and scorn in the by-lanes and streets, while the falsehood and wrong ruffle it in silken attire, let him remember that wherever the right and truth are there are always "Troops of beautiful, tall angels" gathered round him, and God himself stands within the dim future, and keeps watch over his own! If a man stands for the right and the truth, though every man's finger be pointed at him, though every woman's lip be curled at him in scorn, he stands in a majority; for God and good angels are with him, and greater are they that are for him than all they that be against him. MAKIN' AN EDITOR OUTEN O' HIM.-WILL CARLETON Good mornin', sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body to-day? I'm glad you're to home, for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away. Your paper last week wa'n't so spicy nor sharp as the one week before: But I s'pose when the campaign is opened, you'll be whoopin' it up to 'em more. That feller that's printin' The Smasher is goin' for you perty smart; And our folks said this mornin' at breakfast, they thought he was gettin' the start. But I hushed 'em right up in a minute, and said a good word for you; I told 'em I b'lieved you was tryin' to do just as well as you knew; And I told 'em that some one was sayin', and whoever 'twas it is so, That you can't expect much of no one man, nor blame him for what he don't know. But, layin' aside pleasure for business, I've brought you my little boy, Jim; And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor outen o' him. "My family stock is increasin', while other folks' seems to run short. I've got a right smart of a family-its one of the old-fashioned sort: There's Ichabod, Isaac, and Israel, a workin' away on the farm, They do 'bout as much as one good boy, and make things go off like a charm. There's Moses and Aaron are sly ones, and slip like a couple of eels; But they're tol'able steady in one thing-they al'ays git round to their meals. There's Peter, is busy inventin' (though what he invents I can't see), And Joseph is studyin' medicine-and both of 'em boardin' with me. There's Abram and Albert is married, each workin' my farm for himself, And Sam smashed his nose at a shootin', and so he is laid on the shelf. The rest of the boys are all growin' 'cept this little runt, which is Jim, And I thought that perhaps I'd be makin' an editor outen o' him. "He ain't no great shakes for to labor, though I've labored with him a good deal, And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he couldn't help but to feel; But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is big, Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig. I keep him a carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs, And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs; And then there is things to be doin' a helpin' the women in doors; There's churnin' and washin' of dishes, and other descrip tions of chores; But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, I'm afraid, So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade. His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim, But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him. "It ain't much to get up a paper, it wouldn't take him long for to learn; He could feed the machine, I'm thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow to turn. And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do; Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements right through. I used for to wonder at readin', and where it was got up, and how; But 'tis most of it made by machinery-I can see it all plain enough now. And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs, Each one with a gauge and a chopper, to see to the length of the lines; And I hear a New York clairvoyant is runnin' one sleeker than grease, And a-rentin' her heaven-born productions at a couple of dollars apiece; An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, I've a whim, If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen o' Jim." The editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye, Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made his reply: "Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both? Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath? Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek? Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week? Can he courteously talk to an equal, and brow-beat an impudent dunce? Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half-a-dozen at once? Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch, And be sure that he knows how much to know, and know how to not know too much? Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check. rein on his pride? Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros' hide? Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage and vim? If so, we perhaps can be 'makin' an editor outen o' him." The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread, And he said: "Jim, I guess we'll be goin'; he's probably out of his head." -Extract from "The Editor's Guests," in Farm Ballads. THE SILENT HARP. This poem was read at a memorial meeting, held in Detroit, Mich., in behalf of MR. and MRS. P. P. BLISS. The harp of Zion's psalmist now is still; Ten thousand eyes in bitter grief have wept, No more, on earth, that voice redemption sings, And teach us how the gospel may be sung! Both words and melodies may consecrate, The earthly harp is still; but up on high, |