And now as I look on it I'm back at the happy day
When Lizzie and I, united, were smiling along the way.
Not pompous was the journey, yet all the world took part,
For each was truly all the world to the other's loving heart.

Our wedding jaunt it was, and my proudest day of life,
For it led to the loving old folks, to show my precious wife;
And as Old Gray jogged onward, all earth and air and sky
Were naught to me, for heaven was there, in Lizzie's beam-
ing eye.

To her it seemed all nature in summer's richest dress
Was thus arrayed in sympathy to greet our happiness;
And even wayside posies looked up as if to say,

God made us to shed fragrance on the holy marriage day.

Yet, she with sense superior detected in the air
The odor of each blossom, and knew 'twas blooming there;
And oft Old Gray was halted in each elapsing hour,
That I, responsive to her wish, might cull the wilding flower.

The woods and fields and mountain sides for her had wealth untold

A silver flood the river ran, the sun cast rays of gold. With soul refined, she saw and felt ten thousand glories there,

While I-well, I could only see my wife so wondrous fair.

Ah, me! It was a tour of joy, an episode of bliss-
With earnest faith in every pulse, hope fervent as a kiss;
And ever as the day wore on I seemed to love her more,
Yet now, with forty years agone, we love as ne'er before.

Childhood has claimed maternal care that never was denied,
As the gentle, tender mother followed the blushing bride;
All who grew around us with love reward her care,

And think there's none so kind and wise as mother sitting there.

The years have sped, and good and ill have met us on the way,

But jointly we've kept moving on, as on the joining day; And still for better or for worse, life's lessons we have conned,

But never dreamed of learning how to break the joining bond.

Yes, Lizzie and I are one, and two we'll never be,

Till death an arrow launches at Lizzie or at me;

And though our heads are frosted, and the frosty locks are thin,

Our hearts, like winter fires, are glowing warm within.

BBBBB

THE DESTROYER.-H. M. SCUDDER.

Intemperance creates in man an ungovernable appetite. Men who have fallen have told us it is not a desire, not an appetite, not a passion; these ordinary words fail to express the thing. It is more like a raging storm that pervades the entire being; it is a madness that paralyzes the brain, it is a corrosion that gnaws the stomach, it is a storm-fire that courses through the veins; it transgresses every boundary, it fiercely casts aside every barrier, it regards no motive, it silences reason, it stifles conscience, it tramples upon prudence, it overleaps everything that you choose to put in its way, and eternal life and the claims of God are as feathers, which it blows out of its path.

What does it do to man's body? It diseases it; it crazes his brain, it blasts his nerves, it consumes his liver, it destroys his stomach, it inflames his heart, it sends a fiery flood of conflagration through all the tissues; it so saps the recuperative energies of man's body, that oftentimes a little scratch upon a drunkard's skin is a greater injury than a bayonet-thrust through and through the body of a temperate man. It not only does this, but the ruin that it brings into the nervous system often culminates in delirium tremens. Have you ever seen a man under its influence? Have you heard him mutter, and jabber, and leer, and rave like an idiot? Have you heard him moan, cry, shriek, curse, and rave, as he tried to skulk under the bedclothes? Have you looked into his eyes, and seen the horrors of the damned there? Have you witnessed these things? Have you seen the scowl on his face, so that the whole atmosphere was filled with tempest? Have you seen him heave on his bed, as though his body was undulating upon the rolling waves like a fire? If you have, then you know what it does to the body.

It enthralls the will. A man's will ought to be king. The will of the drunkard is an abject slave. The noblest and the mightiest men have been unable to break off the chain when it is once riveted. I verily believe there have been no such wails of despair out of hell itself as have gone

up from the lips and heart of the drunkard who knew he never could be recovered.

What does it do to the heart? If a man is made in the image of God's intellect, a woman is made in the image of God's heart. A tender woman is tenderest to her child. Is there anything that can unmother a woman, that can pluck the maternal heart out of her, and put in its place something that is powerful and fiendish? Is there any other agent on earth, or even in the world of the damned, that can so transform a mother's heart into something for which thought itself cannot find similitude? Satan himself cannot do it; but rum can.

It wrecks character. It is a double shipwreck; the drunkard not only loses his own respect, but he loses the respect of everybody else. His own character, with its real worthiness and with its reputation, is gone, and his worthiness in the estimation of other people is gone, too-both of them, slain, are buried in one grave; and the grave-digger and the murderer, who are they? Rum. It wipes out the likeness of God from the soul, and makes a man a mixture of the brute and the demon, evolving the stupidity of the one and the philosophy of the other; and the Bible tells us that no drunkard shall ever inherit the kingdom of God.

PETER LONGPOCKET.

Despised by the world and unblest with a wife,
Peter Longpocket lived an old bachelor's life;
As rich as a Jew, with more money than brains,
He had just wit enough to count up his gains;
Besides with a heart that was constantly craving,
He possessed a remarkable talent for saving;
And a wife was a something he could not afford;
Twould cost him too much to give her her board.
But if ever he ventured the journey to go,
The woman for him must be just so and so;

Must be handsome and young, must be modest and trim,
And must love none on earth so sincerely as him;

Must be saving and close, must not travel the streets any,

Giving never to beggar or heathen a penny.

But Peter was doomed to a fate not uncommon,
To be humbugged out of his wits by a woman;

One day as he stood at his two-story casement,

To observe what might cause either mirth or amazement, There chanced to pass by with a step light and nimble, As pretty a lass as e'er wielded a thimble;

And onward she tripped, so fantastic and airy:

Egad," muttered he, "she's an angel or fairy."
His wits flew about him in a contrary direction,
For his mind was employed in unusual reflection,
And each former thought to a new one gave place,
And marriage and love stared him full in the face.
The expense on one hand, Fannie's charms on the other,
No wonder poor Peter was thrown in a bother.
At last on this point he determined to tarry,

If a wife wouldn't eat much, I think I might marry!
Peter's heart of its bumping had got somewhat better,
When it was nearly renewed by the sight of a letter:
But when on the back he had read the appellative,
The writing convinced him it came from a relative.
Though letters he hated as bad as the gallows,
He reluctantly opened and read it as follows,—
"Dear cousin, I hope this will find you quite hearty,
As it comes to request you to honor our party.

We shall have what will warrant an evening's amusement,
And several fair girls as a stronger inducement.
Our party, perhaps, may amount to a dozen.
At present, no more, your affectionate cousin."
Excuse me for cutting a long story short,
The guests all assembled, resolved upon sport;
Among them was seen Mr. Longpocket's phiz,
For no one could doubt but this visage was his.
Miss Fannie was there, too, as fresh as a rose,
With eyes sparkling bright and as jetty as sloes;
Peter soon recollected he'd seen her before,

And his heart sat to work with its bumping once more.
Now 'midst a second confusion of Babel,

The ladies and gentlemen sat down to the table.

'Cousin Peter sit here, or perhaps you'll sit there,

Step up to the head, and take that arm chair."

Miss Fannie step round to the opposite side."

'Yes, madam," with diffidence Fannie replied. Peter drew great respect, for quite near the top he sat, And the blushing young Fannie directly opposite. "Shall I help you to this? Shall I help you to that? Choose coffee or tea, Miss? Choose lean, Miss, or fat?" "I've no choice, I thank you. Tis quite immaterial." 'Help yourselves, ladies, I can't be near you all.” "Miss Fannie," says Peter," what would you prefer?" "Oh, la!" exclaimed cousin, "you need not help her;" "What! not help Miss Fannie"" cried he with surprise, "I scarce ever eat, sir," Miss Fannie replies;

"Dear me! now that's strange."

true,

"But," says cousin, "'tis

And indeed I don't wonder it seems strange to you,
Cousin Peter. I've known her almost from a child,

She was always so delicate, modest and mild.

And for a twelve month or so, or I think some such matter. She consumed but two biscuits and one glass of water.” Says Peter, "the thing is confoundedly queer,

And yet she looks hearty, and buxom, and fair,"

And he thought to himself, " If her living's so small
She might soon learn to live on nothing at all."
So he began in good earnest his courting career,
And Fannie soon saw his intention quite clear;
To his own satisfaction his wishes he carried,

She heard him, then blushed, and shed tears, and then mar ried.

The wedding passed over as most weddings do,

They had excellent fare, though the guests were but few, The third morning came, he was sitting at home, Dreaming of transport and rapture to come;

When in tones somewhat shrill, was heard the good lady,
“Come, my dear Longpocket, your breakfast is ready."
"I'm coming, my dear," said he in the door,

When a sight struck him stiff in the midst of the floor;
Two fine looking hams of a good clever size,
Were the objects that caused such excessive surprise;
Quite tempting they looked, just fresh from the pot,
Well cooked, I dare say, and smoking, and hot.
“Why, Fannie, my dear," cried he in great haste,
"What means this unheard of extravagant waste?"
“What means this, indeed?” cried she in a huff,
"It means I am hungry; I've starved long enough;
So sit down, my dear, don't take it amiss,

If you can eat that one, I'm able for this."
"Distraction!" cried Peter, what! eat a whole ham!
I'm ruined, undone, what a beggar I am!.

Is it possible, madam, you can eat all that meat?
You told me it was not your practice to eat."
"Is it possible? Yes, to be sure," she replied,
"Eat all that and more too, if I had it, beside."
"That and more if I had it. Oh! gluttony, sure,
In a week such a woman would make a man poor."
The shock so completely disordered his head,
That he fell in a fit and was carried to bed;
The doctors were called his complaints to allay,
'That and more if I had it," was all he could say;
'That and more if I had it," was still on his tongue;
*That and more if I had it," re-echoed and rung;
And then quite exhausted, he gave up the ghost,
And in another hour he was as still as a post.