NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.*

ELIZABETH H. JOCELYN CLEAVELAND.
Talking of sects quite late one eve,
What one and another of saints believe,
That night I stood in a troubled dream
By the side of a darkly-flowing stream.
And a "churchman" down to the river came,
When I heard a strange voice call his name,
"Good Father, stop; when you cross this tide
You must leave your robes on the other side."

But the aged father did not mind,
And his long gown floated out behind
As down to the stream his way he took,
His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book.

"I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm there
I shall want my book of Common Prayer,
And though I put on a starry crown,

I should feel quite lost without my gown."

Then he fixed his eye on the shining track,
But his gown was heavy and held him back,
And the poor old father tried in vain,

A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side,
But his silk gown floated on the tide,
And no one asked, in that blissful spot,
If he belonged to "the church" or not.
Then down to the river a Quaker strayed;
His dress of a sober hue was made,
"My hat and coat must be all of gray,

I cannot go any other way."

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin

And staidly, solemnly, waded in,

And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight
Over his forehead, so cold and white.

But a strong wind carried away his hat,
And he sighed a few moments over that,
And then, as he gazed to the farther shore

The coat slipped off and was seen no more.

The following

*This very beautiful poem was written in 1860, and having been so extensively circulated has undergone considerable change and mutilation. is printed from a copy furnished by the author.

Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray

Is quietly sailing-away-away,

But thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow,
Whether thy brim be broad or narrow.

Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms
Tied nicely up in his aged arms,

And hymns as many, a very wise thing,

That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing.

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh,
As he saw that the river ran broad and high,
And looked rather surprised, as one by one,
The psalms and hymns in the wave went down.

And after him, with his MSS.,

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness,

But he cried, "Dear me, what shall I do?

The water has soaked them through and through."

And there, on the river, far and wide,
Away they went on the swollen tide,

And the saint, astonished, passed through alone,
Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then gravely walking, two saints by name,
Down to the stream together came,

But as they stopped at the river's brink,
I saw one saint from the other shrink.

"Sprinkled or plunged-may I ask you, friend,
How you attained to life's great end?"
"Thus, with a few drops on my brow;"
"But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now.

"And I really think it will hardly do,
As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you.
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."

And straightway plunging with all his might,
Away to the left his friend at the right,
Apart they went from this world of sin,
But how did the brethren "enter in?"

And now where the river was rolling on,
A Presbyterian church went down;

Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng,
But the men I could count as they passed along.

And concerning the road they could never agree,
The old or the new way, which it could be;
Nor ever a moment paused to think

That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring long and loud
Came ever up from the moving crowd,
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new,
That is the false, and this is the true;"

Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new,
That is the false, and this is the true."
But the brethren only seemed to speak,
Modest the sisters walked, and meek,
And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,
A voice arose from the brethren then,
"Let no one speak but the 'holy men,'
For have ye not heard the words of Paul?
'Oh let the women keep silence all."

I watched them long in my curious dream,
Till they stood by the border of the stream,
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met,
But all the brethren were talking yet,
And would talk on, till the heaving tide
Carried them over, side by side;
Side by side, for the way was one,
The toilsome journey of life was done,

And priest and Quaker, and all who died,
Came out alike on the other side;

No forms or crosses, or books had they,
No gowns of silk, or suits of gray,

No creeds to guide them, or MSS.,

For all had put on "Christ's righteousness."

HOW A MAN SHOULD BE JUDGED.

Who shall judge a man from nature?
Who shall know him by his dress?

Paupers may be fit for princes,

Princes fit for something less.

Crumpled shirt and dirty jacket

May beclothe the golden ore

Of the deepest thought and feeling—
Satin vest could do no more.

There are springs of crystal nectar
Ever swelling out of stone;
There are purple buds and golden,
Hidden, crushed, and overgrown.
God, who counts by souls, not dresses,
Loves and prospers you and me;
While He values thrones the highest
But as pebbles in the sea.

Man upraised above his fellows
Oft forgets his fellows then;
Masters, rulers, lords, remember
That your meanest hands are men!
Men of labor, men of feeling,

Men of thought and men of fame,
Claiming equal rights to sunshine
In a man's ennobling name.

There are foam-embroidered oceans,
There are little weed-clad rills,
There are feeble, inch-high saplings,
There are cedars on the hills;
God, who counts by souls, not stations,
Loves and prospers you and me;
For to him all vain distinctions
Are as pebbles in the sea.

Toiling hands alone are builders
Of a nation's wealth and fame;
Titled laziness is pensioned,

Fed, and fattened on the same;
By the sweat of other's foreheads,
Living only to rejoice,

While the poor man's outraged freedom Vainly lifteth up its voice.

Truth and justice are eternal,

Born with loveliness and light;

Secret wrong shall never prosper
While there is a starry night.

God, whose world-heard voice is singing
Boundless love to you and me,

Sinks oppression with its titles,

As the pebbles in the sea.

ARTEMUS WARD CROSSING DIXIE'S LINE.

C. F. BROWN.

The train of cars in which I was to trust my walerable life was the scaliest, rickytiest lookin' lot of consarns that I ever saw on wheels afore. "What time does this string of second-hand coffins leave?" I inquired of the depot master. He said direckly, and I went in and sot down. I hadn't more'n fairly squattered afore a dark lookin' man with a swinister expression on his countenance entered the cars, and lookin' very sharp at me, he axed me what was my principles?

"Sesesh!" I answered, "I'm a Dissoluter. I'm in favor of Jeff. Davis, Bowregard, Pickens, Capt. Kidd, Bloobeard, Monro Edwards, Mrs. Cunningham, and all the rest of 'em." "You're in favor of the war?"

At the first station a troop of sojers entered the cars and inquired if "Old Wax Works" was on board. That was the disrespective stile in which they referred to me. "Becawze if Old Wax Works is on board," sez a man with a face like a double-brested lobster, "we're going to hang Old Wax Works!"

"My illustrious and patriotic Bummers!" sez I, a-gittin' up and takin' orf my shappo, "if you allude to A. Ward, it's my pleasin' dooty to inform you that he's ded. He saw the error of his ways at 15 minits past two yesterday, and stabbed hisself with a sled-stake, dying in five beautiful tabloos to slow music."

"I'm a stoodent in Senator Benjamin's law-offis. I'm going up North to steal some spoons and things for the Southern army." This was satisfactory, and the intossicated troopers went orf.

At the next station I didn't get orf so easy. I was dragged out of the cars, and rolled in the mud for several minits, for the purpose of "taking the conseet out of me," as Sesesher kindly stated.