ments, in regard to politics and government, on mankind; infused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions of others; or given a more lasting direction to the current of human thought. Their work doth not perish with them. The tree Which they assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer; for it has struck its roots deep; it has sent them to the very centre; no storm, not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its branches spread wide; they stretch their protecting arms broader and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens.

We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age will come, in which the American revolution will appear less than it is, one of the greatest events in human history. No age will come, in which it will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that a mighty step, a great advance, not only in American affairs, but in human affairs, was made on the 4th of July, 1776. And no age will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor, in producing that momentous event.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA POWDER.

A Frenchman once,-so runs a certain ditty,-
Had crossed the Straits to famous London city,
To get a living by the arts of France,

And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance.
But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill;
His fortunes sank from low to lower still;
Until, at last,-pathetic to relate,-
Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate.
Standing, one day, beside a cook-shop door,
And gazing in, with aggravation sore,

He mused within himself what he should do
To fill his empty maw, and pocket too.
By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan,
And thus to execute it straight began:

A piece of common brick he quickly found,
And with a harder stone to powder ground,
Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty piece
Of paper, labelled "Poison for de Fleas,"

And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try,
To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy.
From street to street he cried, with lusty yell,
"Here's grand and sovereign flea poudare to sell!"
And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last,
For soon a woman hailed him as he passed.
Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot,
And made him five crowns richer on the spot.
Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,
Went into business on a larger scale;

And soon, throughout all London, scattered he
The "only genuine poudare for de flea."
Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation
Of mingled boasting and dissimulation,

He thought he heard himself in anger called;
And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled—
In not a mild or very tender mood-

From the same window where before she stood:
"Hey, there," said she, "you Monsher Powder-man!
Escape my clutches, now, sir, if you can;

I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know
That decent people won't be cheated so."

Then spoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh,
With humble attitude and tearful eye,

"Ah, Madame! s'il vous plait, attendez-vous,
I vill dis leetle ting explain to you:

My poudare gran! magnifique! why abuse him?
Aha! I show you how to use him;

First, you must wait until you catch de flea;
Den, tickle he on de petite rib, you see;
And when he laugh,-aha! he ope his throat;
Den poke de poudare down!—BEGAR! HE CHOKE.”

IN THE OTHER WORLD.-H. BEECHER STOWE.

It lies around us like a cloud,

A world we do not see;
Yet the sweet closing of an eye
May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek;
Amid our worldly cares
Its gentle voices whisper love,
And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred,
And palpitates the veil between
With breathings almost heard.

The silence,-awful, sweet, and calm,→
They have no power to break;
For mortal words are not for them
To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,
So near to press they seem,
They seem to lull us to our rest,
And melt into our dream.

And in the hush of rest they bring,
'Tis easy now to sce

How lovely, and how sweet a pass
The hour of death may be.

To close the eye, and close the ear,
Wrapped in a trance of bliss,
And gently dream in loving arms,—
To swoon to that-from this.
Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
Scarce asking where we are,

To feel all evil sink away,

All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us! watch us still,
Press nearer to our side,

Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
With gentle helpings glide.

Let death between us be as naught,
A dried and vanished stream,-

Your joy be the reality,

Our suffering life the dream.

VERY DARK.

The crimson tide was ebbing, and the pulse grew weak and faint,

But the lips of that brave soldier scorned e'en now to make

complaint;

"Fall in rank!" a voice called to him; calm and low was his reply:

"Yes, I will if I can do it,-I will do it, though I die."

And he murmured, when the life-light had died out to just a spark,

"It is growing very dark, mother,-growing very dark.”

There were tears in manly eyes, then, and manly heads were bowed,

Though the balls flew thick around them, and the cannons thundered loud;

They gathered round the spot where the dying soldier lay, To catch the broken accents he was struggling then to say; And a change came o'er the features where death had set his mark,

"It is growing very dark, mother-very, very dark.”

Far away his mind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and vales, Where the loved ones watched and waited with that love that never fails;

He was with them as in childhood, seated in the cottage door,

Where he watched the evening shadows slowly creeping on the floor;

Bend down closely, comrades, closely, he is speaking now, and hark,

"It is growing very dark, mother, very, very dark."

He was dreaming of his mother, that her loving hand was

pressed

On his brow for one short moment, ere he sank away to

rest;

That her lips were now imprinting a fond kiss upon his

cheek,

And a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and low, and meek;

Her gentle form was near him, her footsteps he could mark,But--"It's growing very dark, mother, -very, very dark." And the eye that once had kindled, flashing forth with patriot light,

Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering gloom of night;

Ah, poor soldier! ah, fond mother! you are severed now for

aye;

Cold and pulseless, there he lieth, where he breathed his

life away;

Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not one

heavenly spark?

Ah! it has grown dark, mother, very, very dark.

THE FIREMAN.--ROBERT T. CONRAD.

The city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls
Night's dusky mantle, soft and silent, falls;
Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand of lead,
And ready torpors wrap each sinking head.
Stilled is the stir of labor and of life;

Hushed is the hum, and tranquilized the strife.
Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears;
The young forget their sports, the old their cares;
The grave are careless; those who joy or weep
All rest contented on the arm of sleep.
Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now,
And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow;
Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide,
Her heart's own partner wandering by her side;
'Tis summer's eve; the soft gales scarcely rouse
The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs;
And, faint and far, some minstrel's melting tone
Breathes to her heart a music like its own.
When, hark! O horror! what a crash is there!
What shriek is that which fills the midnight air?
"Tis fire! 'tis fire! She wakes to dream no more;
The hot blast rushes through the blazing door;
The dun smoke eddies round; and, hark! that cry:
"Help! help! Will no one aid? I die, I die!"
She seeks the casement; shuddering at its height
She turns again; the fierce flames mock her flight;
Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play,
And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey.

"Help! help! Will no one come?" She can no more,
But, pale and breathless, sinks upon the floor.
Will no one save thee? Yes, there yet is one
Remains to save, when hope itself is gone;
When all have fled, when all but him would fly,
The fireman comes, to rescue or to die.

He mounts the stair, -it wavers 'neath his tread;
He seeks the room, flames flashing round his head;
He bursts the door; he lifts her prostrate frame,
And turns again to brave the raging flame.
The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath;
The falling timbers menace him with death;