Lawyer, I'll not detain you-this story is old to you,

I'll leave my cause in your hands, sir, please see what you.

can do.

And I'll pay you what I can, and will bless you all the same,
If you fail after doing your best to win,-in my little chil-
dren's name.
-Ohio State Journal.

EULOGY ON LAFAYETTE.-CHARLES SPRAGUE. While we bring our offerings for the mighty of our own land, shall we not remember the chivalrous spirits of other shores, who shared with them the hour of weakness and woe! Pile to the clouds the majestic column of glory; let the lips of those who can speak well, hallow each spot where the bones of your bold repose; but forget not those who, with your bold, went out to battle!

Among these men of noble daring, there was one, a young and gallant stranger, who left the blushing vinehills of his delightful France. The people whom he came to succor were not his people; he knew them only in the melancholy story of their wrongs. He was no mercenary wretch, striving for the spoil of the vanquished; the palace acknowledged him for its lord, and the valleys yielded him their increase. He was no nameless man, staking life for reputation; he ranked among nobles, and looked unawed upon kings. He was no friendless outcast, seeking for a grave to hide his cold heart; he was girdled by the companions of his childhood; his kinsmen were about him; his wife was before him.

Like a

Yet from all these he turned away and came. lofty tree, that shakes down its green glories to battle with the winter's storm, he flung aside the trappings of place and pride to crusade for Freedom, in Freedom's holy land. He came; but not in the day of successful rebellion; not when the new-risen sun of Independence had burst the cloud of time, and careered to its place in the heavens. He came when darkness curtained the hills, and the tempest was abroad in its anger; when the

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plough stood still in the field of promise, and briers cumbered the garden of beauty; when fathers were dying, and mothers were weeping over them; when the wife was binding up the gashed bosom of her husband, and the maiden was wiping the death-damp from the brow of her lover. He came when the brave began to fear the power of man, and the pious to doubt the favor of God.

It was then that this one joined the ranks of a revolted people. Freedom's little phalanx bade him a grateful welcome. With them he courted the battle's rage; with theirs, his arm was lifted; with theirs, his blood was shed. Long and doubtful was the conflict. At length, kind Heaven smiled on the good cause, and the beaten invaders fled. The profane were driven from the temple of Liberty, and, at her pure shrine, the pilgrim warrior, with his adored commander, knelt and worshipped. Leaving there his offering, the incense of an uncorrupted spirit, he at length arose, and, crowned with benedictions, turned his happy feet toward his long-deserted home.

After nearly fifty years, that one has come again. Can mortal tongue tell, can mortal heart feel the sublimity of that coming? Exulting millions rejoice in it; and the long, loud, transporting shout, like the mingling of many winds, rolls on, undying, to Freedom's furthest mountains. A congregated nation comes around him. Old men bless him and children reverence him. The lovely come out to look upon him; the learned deck their halls to greet him; the rulers of the land rise up to do him homage. How his full heart labors! He views the rusting trophies of departed days; he treads upon the high places where his brethren moulder; he bends before the tomb of his father; his words are tears, the speech of sad remembrance. But he looks around upon a ransomed land and a joyous race; he beholds the blessings, those trophies secured, for which those brethren died, for which that father lived; and again his words are tears, the eloquence of gratitude and joy.

Spread forth creation like a map; bid earth's dead multitude revive; and of all the pageants that ever glittered to the sun, when looked his burning eye on a sight like this! Of all the myriads that have come and gone, what cherished minion ever ruled an hour like this? Many have struck the redeeming blow for their own freedom; but who, like this man, has bared his bosom in the cause of strangers? Others have lived in the love of their own people; but who, like this man, has drunk his sweetest cup of welcome with another? Matchless chief! Of glory's immortal tablets, there is one for him, for him alone! Oblivion shall never shroud its splendor; the everlasting flame of liberty shall guard it that the generations of men may repeat the name recorded there, the beloved name of Lafayette.

HOW TERRY SAVED HIS BACON.

Early one fine morning, as Terence O'Fleary was hard at work in his potato-garden, he was accosted by his gossip, Mick Casey, who he perceived had his Sunday clothes on.

"Ah! Terry, man, what would you be afther doing there wid them praties, an' Phelim O'Loughlin's berrin' goin' to take place? Come along, ma bochel! sure the praties will wait."

"Och! no," says Terry; "I must dig on this ridge for the childers' breakfast; an' thin I'm goin' to confession to Father O'Higgins, who holds a stashin beyant there at his own house."

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Bother take the stashin!" says Mick; "Sure that 'ud wait too."

But Terence was not to be persuaded. Away went Mick to the berrin'; and Terence, having finished "wid the praties," as he said, went down to Father O'Higgins, where he was shown into the kitchen to wait his turn for confession. He had not been long standing there before

the kitchen fire, when his attention was attracted by a nice piece of bacon which hung in the chimney-corner. Terry looked at it again and again, and wished the "childer had it home wid the praties."

66

Murther alive!" says he," will I take it? Shure the priest can spare it; an' it would be a rare thrate to Judy an' the gossoons at home, to say nothin' iv myself, who hasn't tasted the likes this many's the day." Terry looked at it again, and then turned away, saying, "I won't take it why would I, an' it not mine, but the priests? an' I'd have the sin iv it, shure! I won't take it," replied he; "an' it's nothin' but the Ould Boy himself that's timptin' me. But shure it's no harm to feel it, any way," said he, taking it into his hand, and looking earnestly at it! "Och! it's a beauty; and why wouldn't I carry it home to Judy and the childer? An' shure it. won't be a sin afther I confesses it."

Well, into his great-coat pocket he thrust it; and he had scarcely done so, when the maid came in and told him that it was his turn for confession.

"Murther alive! I'm kilt and ruined, horse and foot. What'll I do in this quandary, at all, at all? I must thry an' make the best of it, anyhow," says he to himself, and in he went.

He knelt to the priest, told his sins, and was about to receive absolution, when all at once he seemed to recollect himself, and cried out:

"Oh! sthop, sthop, Father O'Higgins, dear! for goodness' sake, sthop! I have one great big sin to tell yit; only, sur, I'm frightened to tell it, in the regard of niver having done the like afore, sur, niver!"

"Come!" said Father O'Higgins, "you must tell it to me."

"Why, then, your riverince, I will tell it; but, sur, I'm ashamed like."

"Oh! never mind: tell it," said the priest.

"Why, then, your riverince, I went out one day to a gintleman's house, upon a little bit of business; an' he

bein' ingaged, I was showed into the kitchen to wait. Well, sur, there I saw a beautiful bit iv bacon hangin' in the chimbly-corner. I looked at it, your riverince, an' my teeth began to wather. I don't know how it was, but I suppose the divil timpted me, for I put it into my pocket; but, if you plaze, sur, I'll give it to you;" and he put his hand into his pocket.

"Give it to me!" said Father O'Higgins. "No, certainly not give it back to the owner of it."

Why, then, your riverince, sur, I offered it to him, and he wouldn't take it."

"Oh! he wouldn't, wouldn't he?" said the priest : "then take it home, and eat it yourself, with your family."

"Thank your riverince kindly!" says Terence," an' I'll do that same immediately; but first and foremost, I'll have the absolution, if you plaze, sur."

Terence received absolution, and went home rejoicing that he had been able to save his soul and his bacon at the same time.

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE.-GEORGE Arnold.

'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,

Tall and slender, and sallow and dry;
His form was bent, and his gait was slow,
His long, thin hair was as white as snow;
But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye,
And he sang every night as he went to bed,
"Let us be happy down here below;

The living should live, though the dead be dead,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He taught his scholars the rule of three,
Writing, and reading, and history too,
Taking the little ones on his knee,

For a kind old heart in his breast had he,

And the wants of the smallest child he knew:
"Learn while you're young," he often said,
"There is much to enjoy down here below;
Life for the living, and rest for the dead,”
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.