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E'en children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven:
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

APPEAL TO YOUNG MEN.-LYMAN BEECHER.

Could I call around me in one vast assembly the temperate young men of our land, I would say,-Hopes of the nation, blessed be ye of the Lord now in the dew of your youth. But look well to your footsteps; for vipers, and scorpions, and adders surround your way. Look at the generation who have just preceded you: the morning of their life was cloudless, and it dawned as brightly as your own; but behold them bitten, swollen, enfeebled, inflamed, debauched, idle, poor, irreligious, and vicious, with halting step dragging onward to meet an early grave! Their bright prospects are clouded, and their sun is set never to rise. No house of their own receives them, while from poorer to poorer tenements they descend, and to harder and harder fare, as improvidence dries up their resources. And now, who are those that wait on their footsteps with muffled faces and sable garments? That is a father-and that is a mother-whose gray hairs are coming with sorrow to the grave. That is a sister weeping over evils which she cannot arrest; and there is the broken-hearted wife; and there are the children, hapless innocents, for whom their father has provided the inheritance only of dishonor, and nakedness, and woe. And is this, beloved young men, the history of your course? In this scene of desolation, do you behold the image of your future selves? Is this the poverty and disease which, as an armed man, shall take hold on you? And are your fathers, and mothers, and sisters, and wives, and children, to succeed to those who now move on in this mournful procession, weeping as they go? Yes: bright as your morning now

opens, and high as your hopes beat, this is your noon, and your night, unless you shun those habits of intemperance which have thus early made theirs a day of clouds, and of thick darkness. If you frequent places of evening resort for social drinking; if you set out with drinking, daily, a little, temperately, prudently, it is yourselves which, as in a glass, you behold.

DUNDREARY IN THE COUNTRY.

Diwectly after the season is over in town, I always go into the countwy. To tell you the twuth, I hate the countwyit's so awful dull-there 's such a howid noise of nothing all day; and there is nothing to see but gween twees, and cows, and butter-cups, and wabbits, and all that sort of cattle-I don't mean exactly cattle either, but animals, you know. And then the earwigs get into your hair-bwushes if you leave the bed-woom window open; and if you lie down on the gwass, those howid gwasshoppers, all legs, play at leap-frog over your nose, which is howible torture, and makes you weady to faint, you know, if it is not too far to call for assistance. And the howid sky is always blue, and everything bores you; and they talk about the sunshine, as if there was more sunshine in the countwy than in the city,-which is abthurd, you know,-only the countwy sun is hotter, and bwings you all out in those howid fweckles, and turns you to a fwiteful bwicky color, which the wetches call healthy. As if a healthy man must lose his complexion, and become of a bwicky wed color-ha, ha!-bwicky-howid-bwicky wed color-cawotty wed color!

Then that howid shooting that my keeper dwags me out to, on the first of September. My man begins the torture by calling me before daybweak, and, half asleep, out I go into the Home Farm-the stubble sharp and hard, like walking over hairbwushes-turnips with a cup of cold water in every leaf. Then the howid dogs go staring about, and stiffening their tails, and snarling-as the birds wise with a noise like twenty watchmen's wattles spwinging at once, enough to deafen a fellah, and making any one quite nervous. "Bang

bang!" I go--genewally miss-because the birds don't give one time, you know; and all those keepers and beaters, and fellows loading your gun and cawying the game and the luncheon-they disturb your aim, and put a fellah out.

But I know something more howid still, and that's pheasant-shooting, among those howid hazel bushes that switch back in a fellah's face and howid bwambles that tear your coat, and oak boughs that knock your hat off, and the sharp stakes that wun into a fellah's boots; and pwesently in the middle of this up gets a pheasant like a squib going off, and off he goes like a special twain with wings, and so quick that no fellah can get a shot at him.

Then there's thnipe-shooting-howid difficult-might as well go out shooting with pistol-bullets at humble bees-ha, ha!--I say, thath a good idea. A thnipe doesn't, you know, fly stwait, like any wational bird ought to fly, but he dodges like a lawyer-a sort of bawister bird the thnipe is, and it takth several weeks to hit him.

And that weminds me of a good story Talboys-Talboys, of Suffolk-told me about a thnipe a fwiend of his had down in Cambwidgeshire. He, Talboys' fwiend's fwiend, had a fwiend (I want to be clear, you know,) down to Cambwidgeshire to shoot. First day he goes out, Talboys' fwiend's fwiend fires at a thnipe in a water meadow, and kills him. Upon which Talboys' fwiend gets vewy wild, and thwearth, and thwows down his gun. "Why," says he," drat it, if you haven't shot the thnipe that has amused me the whole year!" Thath not a bad stowy, I think, about that iwational bird, the thnipe.

As for hunting, I don't see the p-p-pull of it-except you want to induce a welation to bweak his neck in order that you may come into his pwoperty. I don't want to bweak my collar-bone or my wibs at "b-b-bull-finches" and "waspers;" or dwown myself at water-leaps; or bweak my legs at double fences-and that's what it comes to-and be tumbled upon in ditches by horse-jobbers and farmers, and get up and find your horse thwee miles off, and a monster with a pitchfork pursuing you, as the only one left, for twespassing. Oh, no hunting for me, thank you!

Of all countwy amusements, I think fishing is after all pewaps the most abominable. It bores a fellow more than

any other. You go out in a punt with a large hamper of luncheon, to keep it steady, I suppose, and an old keeper who takes too much beer, to make it unsteady again, which is widiculous, you know. Then the keeper takes some howid wiggling wed worms out of a dirty bag of wet moss, and tortures the poor cweatures howibly by putting them on your hook, smiling all the time as if he was doing a mewitowious action- the old wuffian! Then you sit on your chair under an osier bed by the hour together, the bulrushes bobbing while you bob, till you get quite giddy looking at them, and the weeping willows weeping away like anything. Pwesently, after about an hour, just as you are half asleep and beginning to enjoy it, you see your wed float moving in a most extwaordinary way, as if it was curtsying. Then suddenly there comes a dwag that nearly pulls you off your chair. "A bite, sir, a bite," cwies the old keeper, seizing the opportunity to take another lift at the beer-jug. Then you pull, and out on to the top of your hat flies a gwate monster of a perch, howid cweature, with wed gold fins, stawing eyes, back a wegular fan of pwickles, a wet flabby tail, and gills like the leaves of a wed pincushion. And so it goes on, till you get all wet and dirty; and sometimes an eel dwags your wod away, and the old keeper, by this time nearly drunk, has to swim after it; and sometimes you miss the stwoke, and catch a willow twee, which no fellah can land. And the only good time is when you put the wod and line down and go to luncheon.

But there is one thing I like—that is, widing. I like to be astwide a horse-if he is not vicious or too fast, and if a fellah can manage him. I like sketching, too; only the twees will get so like cauliflowers, and the gwass like spinach-and the blue sky will wun, and get all over the paper.

Altogether, take my word for it, the countwy ith a mithtake-it wants impwoving-it is only fit for wedfathed people who thell corn. One twee is like another-one wiver can't be distinguished from another till you look at it on a map, and then, of course, any fellah can tell a wiver. Partwiges are much better woasted than on the wing, and people only pwetend to like shooting them. And as for lambs, they're i-i-idiotic little things, without mint-sauce, and there's no mint-sauce in the countwy. It is dwedful solitary in the

countwy, when you're alone, I mean-of course, not with plenty of people. And one can't play billiards alone, and you can't have people in from the plough, you know, to play with a fellah, because it stops work. So if you think, old fellah, of going in the countwy to get a bwicky wed color, take my advice-as Lord B-Bacon or somebody said to a fellah who was what they call thpoony (foolish thing to be thpoony,) on a girl, and going to marry her-and a capital thing it was to say-ha, ha! "Don't.”

THE DYING ACTOR.-EDGAR FAWCETT.

What time is it?-Seven o'clock you say?
Why, then I should be at the theatre soon.
Ah, no! - lying here day after day
Has set my intellect out of tune.
I remember now it was weeks ago
Thank God, I have savings left me still!
We actors were always given, you know,
To die without paying the doctor's bill.
Nay, life has not blended, at the last,

That bitter torment with wasted health;
And yet, as I search the perished past,
How I seem to have flung away my wealth!
It was easily gained, 'twas rashly spent,

In times when my looks were a thing to laud,
When a bevy of fragrant notes were sent

On the morning after I played in Claude!
How the stubborn critics would wage their fight
As to what had made me the people's choice!
Some swore 'twas merely my stately height,

And a sort of throb in my mellow voice;
Yet I thrilled my hearers and moved to tears,
And I charmed them whether they would or no;
There were nights in those distant youthful years
When the whole house rang to my Romeo!

Yet none could chide me for being proud

While the fame I won was most broadly spread;
Though the women's praises were always loud,
It is certain they never turned my head.

I was stanch to my friends through worst and best;
That truth is my life's one spotless page;
They have played their parts and gone home to rest-
I am talking here on an empty stage!

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