But let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayer of both should not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has his own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offences, for it must needs be that offences come; but woe unto that man by whom the offence cometh."

If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of these offences, which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through his appointed time, he now wills to remove, and that he gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to him?

Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty Scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, that the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.

With malice towards none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on, to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wound, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

TIM TUFF.-EDWARD CAPERN.

Did you ever hear tell of old Timothy Tuff,

And the bargain he struck with Sir Peregrine Muff?

If not, give an ear, and you'll very soon smile

At a very sharp trick of a cunning old file.

Our Tim was a very good fellow, they say,

For making a "deal" in his own sort of way;

So placid in manner, so smooth-tongued and civil,
That he seldom fell out with the very old “divil”

No matter whatever the business or job,
Or whether he cheated a beggar or "nob,"
His father or brother, or "dear cousin John,"
So long as he minded his great number one.

Tim's conscience, you see, seldom knew any twitches,
Since that was as tough as his buff leather breeches.
And now, peradventure, you'd like me to draw
His portrait, as Tim in the market I saw.
First, then, to begin, he had squinting pig's eyes,
A pug turn-up nose, and a mouth of huge size;

Not pleased with one chin, Timmy always showed two;
And the old wig he wore he once bought of a Jew,-

At a very long credit, if rumor be true.

Now Tim was not short, and Tim was not tall,

No giant in girth, and yet not very small;

A very long coat 'neath a very broad hat,
And a waistcoat once black, but now snuffy and fat,
With a pair of old top-boots once worn by the squire,
Was the "rig" of bald Timmy, the puffer and liar.
Just a word about Timothy's trade: 'twas a robber,
Or something much like it, a run-about jobber.
When pigs were in danger of losing their life
Tim saved the poor creatures by using the knife;
And if an old “jibber" e'er fell in his way,

Tim "chopped" an old "kicker," and made his man pay.
No sheep, howe'er "cawded," no lean "skentered" cow,
('Tis true, I declare, what I'm telling you now,)
But turned him in cash as good mutton or beef,
And honest men sold all they could to the thief.

Sir Peregrine Muff was out riding one day,

On a sweet little pony, a dark colored bay;

With a sugar-loaf hat, and a vest of bright yellow,

And a pair of "white ducks," when he met with the fellow. Tim saw, by Sir Peregrine's cut of the coat,

And the tuft that he wore on his chin, Eke a goat,

By the rings on his fingers, his necktie and pin,
That the dandy young swell was a thing to take in.

So, eying Sir Peregrine Muff for a while,

“Good mornin', yer honor," said Tim, with a smile.

Sir Peregrine made him a very low bow,

And asked him the price of his "nwice-wooking cwow." "I'm twi'd of this pwony," Sir Peregrine said,

"And I think I sha' kweep a mwilch cwow in his stwead. What mwilk will she gwive neow, a-day, if I shwop?" "Eight quarts," chuckled Tim, "ef he gees orra drop."

Sir Peregrine thought, as he looked at each feature,
That Crumple appeared such a beautiful creature,
He offered to give Tim the pony he strode

If he would but agree then and there on the road.
Tim's eyes, like the stars on a cold frosty night,
Soon twinkled with joy, and quoth he to the knight,
""Tis hardly enu', yet ef off ee wull zlip,

And," greedily eying a silver-knobbed whip,
"Let me ha'e the bridle and zaddle to boot,

And the crittur is yours, and as cheap as the 'groot.'
And, zir, as ez want vor tu git alung quick,
Your whip'll du better, ez thinks, than a stick."

The bargain was struck, and away galloped Tim,
And laughed in his sleeve at Sir Peregrine's whim;
But as for the baronet, he, in his pride,
Was driving his cow when his maid he espied.
Sir Peregrine's brain, ever given to dream,
Was feasting away on rich visions of cream,
When thus to his dairymaid, "Ma-awy," said he,
"Aw vewy fwine cweature indweed, isn't she?

You'll mwilk her each mworn and you'll mwilk her each eve
Take cware of her Ma-awy, for neow I must leave."
"Gude lawks!" screamed the dairymaid; "zir, tez a hox."
"Dwear me" drawled Sir Peregrine; "hang the old fox."

DEAD IN THE STREET.

Under the lamp-light, dead in the street,
Delicate, fair, and only twenty,

There she lies,

Face to the skies,

Starved to death in a city of plenty.
Spurned by all that is pure and sweet,
Passed by ousy and careless feet;
Hundreds bent upon folly and pleasure,
Hundreds with plenty of time and leisure,-
Leisure to speed Christ's mission below,
To teach the erring and raise the lowly.
Plenty in Charity's name to show

That life has something divine and holy.

Boasted charms, classical brow,
Delicate features, look at them now;

Look at her lips, - -once they could smile;
Eyes, well, nevermore shall they beguile;
Nevermore, nevermore words of hers

A blush shall bring to the saintliest face.
She had found, let us hope and trust,
Peace in a higher and better place.

And yet, despite of all, still I ween
Joy of some hearth she must have been.
Some fond mother, fond of the task,

Has stooped to finger the dainty curl;
Some proud father has bowed to ask

A blessing for her, his darling girl.
Hard to think, as we look at her there,
Of all the tenderness, love, and care,
Lonely watching, and sore heart-ache,-
All the agony, burning tears,

Joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Breathed and suffered for her sweet sake.

Fancy will picture a home afar,

Out where the daisies and buttercups are,
Out where life-giving breezes flow,

Far from those sodden streets, foul and low;
Fancy will picture a lonely hearth,

And an aged couple, dead to mirth.
Kneeling beside a bed to pray,

Or lying awake o' nights to hark

For things that may come in the rain and dark,-
A hollow-eyed woman with weary feet:

Better they never know

She whom they cherished so
Lies this night lone and low,-

Dead in the street.

MOTHER AND POET.-ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

LAURA SAVIO, OF TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861.

Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, -
And one of them shot in the west by the sea,
Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast,
And are wanting a great song for Italy free,
Let none look at me!

Yet I was a poetess only last year,

And good at my art, for a woman, men said;
But this woman, THIS, who is agonized here,

The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
Forever, instead.

What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain!

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud, by that test.

What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees

Both darlings; to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little; to sew by degrees

And broider the long clothes and neat little coat;
To dream and to doat!

To teach them. . It stings there! I made them, indeed,
Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt,
That a country's a thing men should die for at need.
I prated of liberty, rights, and about

The tyrant cast out.

And when their eyes flashed . . O my beautiful eyes! . .
I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels
Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise
When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels!
God, how the house feels!

At first happy news came-in gay letters, moiled
With my kisses-of camp-life and glory, and how
They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled,
In return would fan off every fly from my brow
With their green laurel bough.

Then was triumph at Turin.

Ancona was free!

And some one came out of the cheers in the street,
With a face pale as stone, to say something to me:
My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet,
While they cheered in the street.

I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained
To be leaned on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained
To the height he had gained.