It stood like a lone island in a sea full of storms; and every tide and wave seemed eager to devour it. Upon thousands of hearts great sorrows and anxieties have rested, but on none such, and in such measure, as upon that simple, truthful, noble soul, our faithful and sainted Lincoln. He wrestled ceaselessly, through four black and dreadful purgatorial years, wherein God was cleansing the sin of his people as by fire.

At last the watcher beheld the gray dawn for the country. The East came rushing towards us with arms full of joy for all our sorrows. Then it was for him to be glad exceedingly, that had sorrowed immeasurably. Peace could bring to no other heart such joy, such rest, such honor, such trust, such gratitude. But he looked upon it as Moses looked upon the promised land. Then the wail of a nation proclaimed that he had

gone
from

among us. In one hour joy lay without a pulse, without a gleam, or breath. A sorrow came that swept through the land as huge storms sweep through the forest and field, rolling thunder along the sky, dishevelling the flowers, daunting every singer in thicket or forest, and pouring blackness and darkness across the land and up the mountains. Did ever so many hearts in so brief a time touch two such boundless feelings? It was the uttermost of joy; it was the uttermost of sorrow—noon and midnight, without a space between.

And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than when alive. The nation rises up at every stage of his coming. Cities and states are his pall-bearers, and the cannon beats the hours with solemn progression. Dead, he yet speaketh! Is Washington dead? Is Hampden dead? Is David dead? Is any man that ever was fit to live dead? Disenthralled of flesh, and risen in the unobstructed sphere where passion never comes he begins his illimitable work. His life now is grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful as no earthly life can be. Your sorrows, oh

people, are his peace! Your bells, and bands and muffled drums, sound triumph in his ear. Wail and weep here; God makes it echo joy and triumph there.

The Return of Enoch Arden.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Enoch yearned to see her face again;
"If I might look on her sweet face again
And know that she is happy.” So the thought
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth,
At evening when the dull November day
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.
There he sat down gazing on all below;
There did a thousand memories roll upon him,
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by
The ruddy square of comfortable light,
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes
Against it, and beats out his weary life.

Enoch shunnid the middle walk and stole
Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence
That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

Now when the dead man come to life beheld
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee,
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,
And his own children tall and beautiful,
And him, that other, reigning in his place,
Lord of his rights and of his children's love,

T'hen he, tho’ Miriam Lane had told him all,
Because things seen are mightier than things heard,
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

He therefore turning softly like a thief,
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
And feeling all along the garden wall,
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed,
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door,
Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and pray’d.

"Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence ? O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness A little longer ! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. My children too! must I not speak to these? They know me not. I should betray myself. Never: no father's kiss for me--the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son."

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again, All down the long and narrow street he went

Beating it in upon his weary brain,
As tho it were the burthen of a song,
“Not to tell her, never to let her know.”

TONE OF RIDICULE.

(See Tone Drill No. 180.) [The tone of Ridicule indicates an “amused contempt” or “mocking merriment.” It says, “Look at the absurdity in this thing and laugh at it."']

The Evidence of Mr. O'Brien.

JOHN P. CURRAN.

What is the evidence of O'Brien ? What has he stated ? How does Mr. O'Brien's tale hang together? Look to its commencement. He walks along Thomas street, in the open day (a street not the least populous in the city), and is accosted by a man, who, without any preface, tells him, he'll be murdered before he goes half the street, unless he becomes a United Irishman! Do you think this is a probable story? Suppose any of you, gentlemen, be a United Irishman, or a freemason, or a friendly brother, and that you met me walking innocently along, just like Mr. O'Brien, and meaning no harm, would you say, “Stop, sir, don't go further, you'll be murdered before you go half the street, if you do not become a United Irishman, a freemason, or a friendly brother ?”

Did you ever hear so coaxing an invitation to felony as this? “Sweet Mr. James O'Brien, come in and save your precious life; come in and take an oath, or you'll be murdered before you go half the street! Do, sweetest, dearest Mr. James O'Brien, come in and do not risk your valuable existence.” What a loss had he been to his king, whom he loves so marvellously!

Well, what does poor Mr. O'Brien do? Poor, dear man, he stands petrified with the magnitude of his danger-all his members refuse their office—he can neither run from the danger, nor call for assistance; his tongue cleaves to his mouth! and his feet incorporate with the paving stones—it is in vain that his expressive eye silently implores protection of the passenger; he yields at length, as greater men have done, and resignedly submits to his fate: he enters the house, and being led into a room, a parcel of men make faces at him: but mark the metamorphosis—well may it be said, that "miracles will never cease,”—he who feared to resist in the open air, and in the face of the public, becomes a bravo, when pent up in a room, and environed by sixteen men; and one is obliged to bar the door while another swears him; which, after some resistance, is accordingly done, and poor Mr. O'Brien becomes a United Irishman, for no earthly purpose whatever, but merely to save his sweet life!

TONE OF GRIEF.

(See Tone Drill No. 110.) [The tone of Grief manifests a deep personal suffering. It is more poignant than sadness, but less so than agony. Sometimes there is the note of despair. ]

Ivan the Czar.

FELICIA HEMANS.

He sat in silence on the ground,

The old and haughty Czar,
Lonely, though princes girt him round,

And leaders of the war;
He had cast his jewelled sabre,

That many a field had won,
To the earth beside his youthful dead-

His fair and first-born son.

“There is no crimson on thy cheek,

And on thy lip no breath;