The monk, with one hand on the altar's ledge,
Held himself up; and strenuous to complete
His benediction, in the other raised

The consecrated Host. For the third time
Tracing in air the symbol of forgiveness,
With eyes closed, and in tones exceeding low,
But in the general hush distinctly heard,

Et Sanctus Spiritus!

He said; and ending

His service, fell down dead.

The golden pyx

Rolled bounding on the floor. Then, as we stood,
Even the old troopers, with our muskets grounded,
And choking horror in our hearts, at sight
Of such a shameless murder and at sight
Of such a martyr,—with a chuckling laugh,
Amen!

Drawled out a drummer-boy.

THE LESSON OF WATERLOO.

ON HEARING A LADY PLAY THE "WATERLOO WALTZ."

A moment pause, ye British fair,
While pleasure's phantom ye pursue,
And say if dance or sprightly air
Suit with the name of Waterloo!
Glorious was the victory,

Chastened should the triumph be,-
Mid the laurels she has won,
Britain weeps for many a son!

Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
Nature seemed to mourn the day,
Which consigned before its close
Thousands to their kindred clay.
How unfit for courtly balls,
Or the giddy festival,

Was the grim and ghastly view
Ere evening closed on Waterloo!

Crashing o'er the cuirassier,

See the foaming charger flying;
Trampling in its wild career

All alike-the dead and dying;
See the bullet in his side
Answered by the spouting tide,-
Helmet, horse, and rider, too,
Roll on bloody Waterloo!

Can scenes like these the dance inspire,
Or wake the enlivening notes of mirth?
No, shivered be the recreant lyre

That gave the base idea birth!

Other sounds I ween were there,
Other music rent the air,

Other waltz the warrior knew

Ere evening closed on Waterloo.

Forbear till time with lenient hand
Shall heal the pang of recent sorrow,
And let the picture distant stand,
The softened hue of years to borrow!
When our race has passed away,
Hands unborn shall wake the lay,
And give to joy alone the view
Of Britain's fame at Waterloo.

THE WORLD WE LIVE IN.-T. DE WITT TALMAGE.

ADAPTED.

If you or I had been consulted as to which of all the stars we would choose to walk upon, we could not have done a wiser thing than to select this. I have always been glad that I got aboard this planet. The best color that I can think of for the sky is blue, for the foliage is green, for the water is crystalline flash. The mountains are just high enough, the flowers sufficiently aromatic, the earth right for solidity and growth. The human face is admirably adapted for its work -sunshine in its smile, tempest in its frown; two eyes, one more than absolutely necessary, so that if one is put out, we still can look upon the sunrise and the faces of our friends. One nose, which is quite sufficient for those who walk among so many city nuisances, being an organ of two stops, and adding dignity to the human face, whether it have the graceful arch of the Roman, or turn up towards the heavens with celestial aspirations in the shape of a pug, or wavering up and down, now as if it would aspire, now as if it would descend, until suddenly it shies off into an unexpected direction, illustrating the proverb that it is a long lane which has no turn. People are disposed, I see, to laugh about the nose, but I think it is nothing to be sneezed ac.

Standing before the grandest architectural achievements,

critics have differences of opinion; but where is the blas phemer of his God who would criticise the arch of the sky, or the crest of a wave, or the flock of snow-white, fleecy clouds driven by the Shepherd of the wind across the hilly pastures of the heavens, or the curve of a snow-bank, or the burning cities of the sunset, or the fern-leaf pencilings of the frost on a window-pane?

Where there is one discord, there are ten thousand harmonies. A skyful of robins to one owl croaking; whole acres of rolling meadow-land to one place cleft by the gravedigger's spade; to one mile of rapids, where the river writhes among the rocks, it has hundreds of miles of gentle flow; water-lilies anchored; hills coming down to bathe their feet; stars laying their reflections to sleep on its bosom; boatmen's oars dropping on it necklaces of diamonds; chariots of gold coming forth from the gleaming forge of the sun to bear it in triumphant march to the sea.

Why, it is a splendid world to live in. Not only is it a pleasant world, but we are living in such an enlightened age. I would rather live ten years now than five hundred in the time of Methuselah. But is it not strange that in such an agreeable world there should be so many disagreeable people? But I know that everybody in this audience is all right. Every wife meets her husband at night with a smile on her face; his slippers and supper ready; and the husband, when the wife asks him for money, just puts his hand in his pocket, throws her the purse, and says, "here you are, my darling, take all you want;" every brother likes his own sister better than any other fellow's sister, and the sister likes best the arm of a brother, when around her waist.

Of all the ills that flesh is heir to, a cross, crabbed, illcontented man is the most unendurable because the most inexcusable. No occasion, no matter how trifling, is permitted to pass without eliciting his dissent, his sneer, or his growl. His good and patient wife never yet prepared a dinner that he liked. One day she prepares a dish that she thinks will particularly please him. He comes in the front door, and says, Whew! whew! what have you got in the house? Now, my dear, you know that I never did like codfish." Some evening, resolving to be especially gracious, he

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starts with his family to a place of amusement. He scolds the most of the way. He cannot afford the time or the money, and he does not believe the entertainment will be much, after all. The music begins. The audience are thrilled. The orchestra, with polished instruments, warble and weep, and thunder and pray-all the sweet sounds of the world flowering upon the strings of the bass viol, and wreathing the flageolets, and breathing from the lips of the cornet, and shaking their flower-bells upon the tinkling tambourine.

He sits motionless and disgusted. He goes home, saying, "Did you see that fat musician that got so red blowing that French horn? He looked like a stuffed toad. Did you ever hear such a voice as that lady has? Why, it was a perfect squawk! The evening was wasted." And his companion says, "Why, my dear!" "There, you needn't tell me you are pleased with every thing. But never ask me to go again!" He goes to church. Perhaps the sermon is didactic He twists

and argumentative. He yawns. He gapes.

himself in his pew, and pretends he is asleep and says, “I could not keep awake. Did you ever hear any thing so dead? Can these dry bones live?" Next Sabbath he enters a church where the minister is much given to illustration. He is still more displeased. He says, "How dare that man bring such everyday things into his pulpit? He ought to have brought his illustrations from the cedar of Lebanon and the fir-tree, instead of the hickory and sassafras. He ought to have spoken of the Euphrates and the Jordan, and not of the Kennebec and Schuylkill. He ought to have mentioned Mount Gerizim instead of the Catskills. Why, he ought to be disciplined. Why, it is ridiculous." Perhaps afterward he joins the church. Then the church will have its hands full. He growls, and groans, and whines all the way up toward the gate of heaven. He wishes that the choir would sing differently, that the minister would preach differently, that the elders would pray differently. In the morning, he said, "the church was as cold as Greenland;" in the evening, "it was hot as blazes." They painted the church; he didn't like the color. They carpeted the aisles; he didn't like the figure. They put in a new furnace; he didn't like the patent. He wriggles and squirms, and frets

and stews, and worries himself. He is like a horse that, prancing and uneasy to the bit, worries himself into a lather of foam, while the horse hitched beside him just pulls straight ahead, makes no fuss, and comes to his oats in peace. Like a hedge-hog, he is all quills. Like a crab, that, you know, always goes the other way, and moves backward in order to go forward, and turns in four directions all at once, and the first you know of his whereabouts you have missed him, and when he is completely lost he has gone by the heel,‚—so that the first thing you know you don't know any thing, and while you expected to catch the crab the crab catches you.

So some men are crabbed,—all hard-shell, and obstinacy, and opposition. I do not see how he is to get into heaven unless he goes in backward, and then there will be danger that at the gate he will try to pick a quarrel with St. Peter. Once in, I fear he will not like the music, and the services will be too long, and that he will spend the first two or three years in trying to find out whether the wall of heaven is exactly plumb. Let us stand off from such tendencies. Listen for sweet notes rather than for discords, picking up marigolds and harebells in preference to thistles and coloquintida, culturing thyme and anemones rather than nightshade. And in a world where God hath put exquisite tinge upon the shell washed in the surf, and planted a paradise of bloom in a child's cheek, and adorned the pillars of the rock by hanging tapestry of morning mist, the lark saying, "I will sing soprano," and the cascade replying, “I will carry the bass," let us leave it to the owl to hoot, and the frog to croak, and the bear to growl, and the grumbler to find fault.

THE SAD STORY OF BLOBBS AND HIS PULLET.

In a tiny country villa lived our Blobbs, but all alone; Never wife or chubby children this staid bachelor had known.

Yet-for hearts must cling to something-he had made himself a pet

Of a little snow-white pullet, with her wings just tipped with jet.