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And I was no saint. And if my sou.,
With a pride like Lucifer's mocked control,
And goaded me on to madness, till
I lost all measure of good or ill,
Whose gift was it pray? Oh, many a day
I've cursed it, yet whose is the blame, I say?
His name t How strange that you question so.
When I'm sure I have told it o'er and o'er,
And why should you care to hear it more?


Well, as I was saying, Domenico
Was wont of my skill to make such light,
That, seeing him go on a certain night
Out with his lute, I followed. Hot
From a war of words, I heeded not

Whither I went, till I heard him twang
A madrigal under the lattice where

Only the night before I sang.
—A double robbery! and I swear
Twas overmuch for the flesh to bear.
Don't ask me. I knew not what I did,
But I hastened home with my rapier hid
Under my cloak, and the blade was wet.

Just open that cabinet there, and see
The strange red rustiness on it yet.

A calm that was dead as dead could be
Numbed me: I seized my chalks to trace—
What think you ?—Judas Iscariot's face!
I just had finished the scowl, no more,
When the shuffle of feet drew near my door

(We lived together, you know I said):
Then wide they flung it, and on the floor
Laid down Domenico—dead!

Back swam my senses: a sickening pain
Tingled like lightning through my brain,
And ere the spasm of fear was broke,
The men who had borne him homeward spoke
Soothingly: "Some assassin's knife
Had taken the innocent artist's life—
Wherefore, 'twere hard to say: all men
Were prone to have troubles now and then
The world knew naught of. Toward his friend
Florence stood waiting to extend
Tenderest dole." Then came my tears,
And I've been sorry these twenty years.

Now, Fra Bernardo, you have my sin:
Do you think Saint Peter will let me in?

Lippiucotts Maqazine,

FROM INDIA— W. 0. Benxett.

* Oh! come you from the Indies, and soldier, can you tell Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well? O soldier say my son is safe—for nothing else I care, And you shall have a mother's thanks—shall have a widow's prayer."

'Oh, I've come from the Indies—I've just come from the war;

And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are; From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades well,

And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade me tell I"

"And do you know my Robert, now? Oh tell me, tell m» true!

O soldier, tell me word tor word all that he said to you!
His very words—my own boy's words—Oh tell me every one'
You little know how dear to his old mother is my son."

"Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there;

In all the gallant 90ih did, your Robert did his share; Twice he went into Lucknow,untouched by steel or ball, And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought hin. safe through all.

"Oh ! thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's prayer,

The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare! Oh bless'd be God, that turned from him the sword and shot away I

And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?"

"Mother, he saved hi: colonel's life, and bravelv it was done; In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised yoin son;

A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him, I say,
And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day."

"Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue. O husband, that you knew

How well our boy pays me this flay for all that I've gont through,

All I have done and borne for him the long years sinw you're dead!

But, soldier, tell me how he looked, and all my Robert said." "He's bronzed and tanned, and bearded, and you'd hardly

know him, dame, We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the same; For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune, But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you


Oh! is he really coming home, and shall I really see 'ly boy again, my own boy, home? and when, when will H be?

. 'id you say soon ?"—" Well, he is home; keep cool, old dame; he's here."

0 Robert, my own blessed boy!"—"O mother—mothei dear!"


I may say to you, my breethering, that I am not an edeca ted man, an' I am not one o' them as bleeves that edecalion is necessary fur a Gospel minister, fur I bleeve thfl Lord edecates his preachers jest as he wants 'em to be edjcated, an', although I say it that oughtn't to say it, yet in ;he State of Indianny, whar I live, thar's no man as gits a bigger congregation nor what I gits.

Thar may be some here to-day, my breethering, as don't Know what persuasion I am uv. Well, I may say to you, my breethering, that I'm a Hardshell Baptist. Thar's some folks as don't like the Hardshell Baptists, but I'd ruther hev a hard shell as no shell at all. You see me heie to-day, my breethering, drcst up in fine close; you mout think I was proud, but I am not proud, my breethering, and although I've been a preacher uv the Gospel for twenty years, an'although I'm capting of that flat boat that lies at yure landing, I'm not proud, my breethering.

I'm not a gwine tor tell you edzarkly whar my tex may be found; suffice it to say it's in the leds of the Bible, an' you'll find it somewhar 'tween the first chapter of the book of Generation and the last chapter of the book of Revolutions, and ef you'll go and sarch the Scriptures, as I have sarched the Scriptures, youll not only find my tex, thar, but a great many ather texe* as will do you good to read, an' my tex, when jrou dhill find it, you shill f nd it to read thus: "And he played on a harp uv a thousand strings—sperits of just men made perfeck."

My tex, breethering, leads me to speak uv sperits. Now thar's a great many kinds of sperits in the world—in the fust place, thar's the sperits as some folks call ghosts, then thar's the sperits uv terpen<i;/ui, and then thar's the sperits as some folks call liquor, an' I'v got as good an artikel of them kind uv sperits on my flat-boat as ever was fotchei' down the Mississippi River, but thar's a great many other kind of sperits, for the tex sez: "He played on a harp uv a (Aou-sand strings—sperits of just men made perfeck."

But I'll tell you the kind uv sperits as is ment in the tex, it's fire. That is the kind of sperits as is ment in the tex, my breethering. Now thar's a great many kinds of fire in the world. In the fust place, thar's the common sort uv fire you lite your segar or pipe with, and then thar's camfire, fire before you're reddy, and fall back, and many other kinds uv fire, for the tex sez: " He played on a harp uv a JAou-sand strings—sperits uv just men made perfeck."

But I'll tell you the kind uv fire as is ment in the tex, m; breethering—it's hell fire! an' that's the kind uv fire as?» great many uv you'll come to, ef you don't do better nor what you have been doin'—for "He played on a harp of atfiousand strings—sperits uv just men made perfeck."

Now the different sorts uv fire in the world may be likened unto the different persuasions of Christians in the world. In the fust place we have the Piscapalions; and they are a high sailin' and a high-falutin set, and they may be likened unto a turkey buzzard that flies up into the air, and he goes up and up till he looks no bigger than your finger nail, and the fust thing you know, he cums down and down, and is a fillin' himself on the karkiss of a dead Aoss by thn side of the road—and " He played on a harp of a <Ao«-sand strings—sperits of just men made perfeck."

And then thar's the Methedis, and they may be likened ante the squirrel, runnin' up into a tree, for the Methedist believes in gwine on from one degree of grace to another, and finaiVvon to perfei kshun.and the squirrel goes up and up, and op and up,and he jumps from iim' to lim,' and branch to branch. and the fust thing you know ho falls, and down he comes kerflummux, and that's like the Methedis, for they is allers fallin' from grace, ah! And—" He played on a harp of a (/lou-sand strings—sperits of just men made perfcck."

And then, my breethering, thar's the Baptist, ah—and they hev bin likened unto a possum on a 'simmon tree, and the thunders may roll, and the earth may quake, but that possum clings there still, all—and you may shake one foot loose, and the other's thar, and you may shake all feet loose, and he laps his tail around the lim', and he clings fur' ever, for—" He played on a harp uv a i/tou-sand strings— sperits of just men made perfeck."

ONCE MORE.—O. W. Holmes.


Condisripulis, Cocctaneis, Harvardianis, Amid*.

"Will I comet" That Mi pleasant! I beg to inquire
If the gun that I carry has ever missed fire?
And which was the muster-rcill—mention but one—
That missed your old comrade who carries the gun?

Ifou see me as always, my hand on the lock,
The cap on the nipple, the hammer full cock.
It is rusty, some tell me; I heed not the scoff;
It is battered and bruised, but it always goes off!

—" Is it loaded?" I'll bet you! what doesn't it hold?
Rammed full to the muzzle with memories untold;
Why, it scares me to fire, lest the pieces should fly
Like the cannons that burst on the Fourth of July!

One charge is a remnant of College-day dreams
(Its wadding is made of forensics and themes);
Ah, visions of fame! what a flash in the pan
As the trigger was pulled by each clever young man!

And Love! bless my stars, what a cartridge is there!
With a wadding of rose-leaves and ribbons and hair,—
All crammed in one verse to go off at a shot!
—Were there ever such sweethearts? Of course there were

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