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. SHE WOULD BE A MASON. The funniest story I ever heard, Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true, He is tyler of lodge Cerulean Blue, And tyles and delivers the summons due, This ridiculous Mrs Byrde. She followed him round, this inquisitive wife, He consented at last to admit her. And first, to disguise her from bonnet to shoon, His breech-ah! forgive me-I meant pantaloon; The Lodge was at work on the Master's Degree; The officers sat like Solomon, wise; The brimstone burned amid horrid cries; Oh, horrible sounds! oh, horrible sight! In spending thus the hours of night? Ah! could their wives and daughters know For those Masons joined in a hideous ring, The candidate howling like everything, (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 burnGive old Morey another turn, And make him all grim and gory." Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde, She staggered and fell in the nearest chair, His teeth around the arms were strung,— Such uses made of human bone. The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame, Good angels, that inquiring came From blissful courts, looked on with shaine And tearful melancholy. Again they dance, but twice as bad, "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!" And drown the yells of mercy! "Blood to drink," etc., etc. The ridiculous woman could stand no more- What then, you ask me, did befall Mehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all— She had dreamed she'd been in the Masons' hall. THAT BABY IN TUSCALOO.-BARTLEY T. CAMPBELL. ABRIDGED FOR RECITATION. So! you're all the way from Kansas, You don't seem much of a stranger, What! five whole days on the journey, Good gracious! who'd have thought Jennie Away from the Youghiogheny, The farm, and mountain blue I wouldn't have thought it of her, You say she's not very lonely; Just think-my-Jennie-a-mother, Here, Jack, run off to the kitchen-- She must not strike a lick "Till she hears the news from Kansas, Perhaps you may think me foolish But you must excuse an old man- Well, well, how the years slip by us Silent and swift and sly, For all the world like the white clouds But only in this they differ- Where each may discharge his burden, But what's the use in talking, And she calls him for her father: The old man what used to nurse her There's no use keeping a secret, I'll not soon forget her answer, And that night Jennie and Jackson No one can know what I suffered- You ask did I forgive Jennie? Big tears swept away my hate, sir, |