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gentleness of a woman and humility of a child. "Out of the strong came forth sweetness." "How is the strong staff broken, and the beautiful rod!"

But not before this assembly only does the venerable image of the departed statesman this day distinctly stand. For more than a thousand miles—east, west, north, and south— it is known and remembered, that at this place and hour, a nation's representatives assemble to do honor to him whose fame is now a nation's heritage. A nation's mighty heart throbs against this capitol, and beats through you. In many cities, banners droop, bells toll, cannons boom, funeral draperies wave.

In crowded streets and on surrounding wharves, upon steamboats, and upon cars, in fields, in workshops, in homes, in schools, millions of men women and children, have their thoughts fixed upon this scene, and say mournfully to each other, " This is the hour in which, at the capital, the nation's representatives are burying Henry Clay." Burying Henry Clay? Bury the record of your country's history—bury the hearts of living millions—bury the mountains, the rivers, the lakes, and the spreading lands from sea to sea, with which his name is inseparably associated, and even then you would not bury Henry Clay—for he is in other lands and speaks in other tongues, and to other times than ours.

A great mind, a great heart, a great orator, a great career, have been consigned to history, She will record his rare gifts of deep insight, keen discrimination, clear statement, rapid combination, plain, direct, and convincing logic. She will love to dwell on that large, generous, magnanimous, open, forgiving heart. She will linger with fond delight on the recorded or traditional stories of an eloquence that was so masterful and stirring, because it was but himself struggling to come forth on the living words—because, though the words were brave and strong, and beautiful, and melodious, it was felt that behind them there was a soul, braver, stronger, more beautiful, and more melodious than language could express.

She will point to a career of statesmanship which has, to a remarkable degree, stamped itself on the public policy of the country, and reached in beneficent practical results the fields, the looms, the commercial marts, and the quiet homes of all the land where his name was with the departed father and is with the living children, and will be with successive generations, the honored household word.


The funniest story I ever heard,
The funniest thing that ever occurred,
Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde,
Who wanted to be a Mason.

Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true,
As good a Mason as any of you;
He is tyler of lodge Cerulean Blue,
And tyles and delivers the summons due,
And she wanted to be a Mason too—
This ridiculous Mrs Byrde.

She followed him round, this inquisitive wife,
And nabbed and teased him half out of his life;
So to terminate this unhallowed strife,

He consented at last to admit her.
And first, to disguise her from bonnet to shoon,
The ridiculous lady agreed to put on
His breech—ah! forgive me—I meant pantaloon:

And miraculously did they fit her.

The Lodge was at work on the Master's Degree;
The light was ablaze on the letter G;
High soared the pillars J. and B.;
The officers sat like Solomon, wise;
The brimstone burned amid horrid cries;
The goat roamed wildly through the room;
The candidate begged 'em to let him go home;
And the devil himself stood up in the east,
As proud as an alderman at a feast;—
When in came Mrs. Byrde.

Oh, horrible sounds! oh. horrible sight!

Can it be that Masons take delight

In spending thus the hours of night?

Ah! could their wives and daughters know

The unutterable things they say and do.

Their feminine hearts would hurst with woe;

But this is not all my story,
For those Masons joined in a fiideous ring,

The candidate howling like everything,
And thus in tones of death they sing:

(The candidate's name was Morey;)
"Blood to drink and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash and lives to take,
Hearts to crush and souls to burn—
Give old Morey another turn,

And make him all grim and gory."

Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,
Unable to speak a single word;
She staggered and fell in the nearest chair,
On the left of the Junior Warden there,
And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans,
That the chair was made of human bones.

Of human bones! on grinning skulls
That ghastly throne of horror roils,—
Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore!
Those bones, the bones that Morgan wore!
His scalp across the top was flung,
His teeth around the arms were strung,—
Never in all romance was known
Such uses made of human bone.

The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame,
Just like a place we will not name;
Good angels, that inquiring came
From blissful courts, looked on with shame

And tearful melancholy.
Again they dance, but twice as bad,
They jump and sing like demons mad;

The tune is Hunkey Dorey— "Blood to drink," etc., etc.

Then came a pause—a pair of paws
Reached through the floor, up-sliding doors,
And grabbed the unhappy candidate!
How can I without tears relate
The lost and ruined Morey's fate?
She saw him sink in a fiery hole,
She heard him scream, " My soul! my soul!"
While roars of fiendish laughter roll,

And drown the yells of mercy! "Blood to drink," etc., etc.

The ridiculous woman could stand no more—
She fainted and fell on the checkered floor,
'Midst all the diabolical roar.
What then, you ask mo. did befall
Mehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all—
She had dreamed she'd been in the Masons' hall.

THAT BABY IX TUSCALOO.—Bartley T. Camprell.

So! you're all the way from Kansas,

And knew my Jennie there;
Well, I'm mighty glad to see you;

Just take that vacant chair.
You don't seem much of a stranger,

Though never here before;
Jack, take the gentleman's beaver

And hang it on the door.

What! five whole days on the journey,

Good gracious! who'd have thought Jennie

Could ever live so far
Aw:ay from the Youghioghcny,

The farm, and mountain blue—
I wouldn't have thought it of her,

And that's 'twixt me and you.

You say she's not very lonely;

Then she don't feel the worst.
What! Jennie has—got—a—baby?

Why didn't you say that first?
And now please repeat it over,

I can't believe my ear;
Just think—my—Jennie—a—mother,

Pshaw, now, what's this?—a tear?

Here, Jack, run oft' to the kitchen—

Tell mother to come right quick!
Let the bakin' go this minute,

She must not strike a lick
'Till she hears the news from Kansas,

Twill make her young again.
So, you know the little one's mother;

Here, let us shake again.

Perhaps you may think me foolish

For makin' such a row,
But you must excuse an old man—

Mind, I'm a grand-pa now.
Well, well, how the years slip by us

Silent and swift and sly,
For all the world like the white clouds

Drifting along the sky.



But only in this they differ—

We're coin' with the years Into the harbor of old age,

Up to the silent piers, Where each may discharge his burden,

And furl his wrinkled sail, And thank his heavenly Master

Who saved him through the gale.

But what's the use in talking,

I'm fairly bustin' with joy,
I'd like to whoop like an Ingun—

You tell me it's a boy?
And she calls him for her father:

You see she don't forget
The old man what used to nurse her

And play " peep" with his "pet."


There's no use keeping a secret,

She married 'gainst our will,
A lad by the name of Jackson,

Whose father kept the mill.
I thought he was sort of shiftless,

Though he was big and strong,
And I told my daughter kiudly,

He'd never get along.

I'll not soon forget her answer,

Twas spoken like a queen.
Said she: "I will take the chances,

Whatever comes between."
What I said I don't remember,

My anger did the rest,
And that night Jennie and Jackson

Left for the distant West.

No one can know what I suffered—

I walked about all day.
With a face as white as chalk, sir,

And tried, but could not pray.
Now a man can't reach his Maker

With heart so full of scorn Against an honest fellow man,

Who for some good was born.

You ask did T forgive Jennie?

My precious little kid!
Big tears swept away my hate, sir,

Forgive! of conn e I aid.

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