a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.' "That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Wel ler, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

"Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered.

"Wot I like in that 'ere

style of writin'," said the elder Mr. Weller, "is, that there ain't no callin' names in it,-no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind; wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?"

"Ah! what indeed?" replied Sam.

"You might just as vell call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's arms at once, which is wery vell known to be a collection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller.

"Just as well," replied Sam.

"Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows: his father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying. "Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.' ” "So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically.

"But now," continued Sam, "now i find what a reg'lar soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip i must ha' been, for there ain't nobody like you, though i like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

"So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear,-as the gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, to tell you that the first and only time i see you your likeness wos took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken by the profeel macheen (wich p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.'"

“I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, dubiously.

"No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contesting the point.

'Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam.

"That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller.

"Not a bit on it," said Sam: "she'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'."

"Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that: and I wish your mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?"

"That's the difficulty," said Sam; "I don't know what to sign it."

'Sign it-Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

"Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with your own name."

"Sign it Pick vick, then," said Mr. Weller; "it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell."

"The wery thing," said Sam. "I could end with a werse: what do you think?"

"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule."

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter,

"Your love-sick
Pickwick."

THE LOVED AND LOST.

"The loved and lost!" Why do we call them lost?
Because we miss them from our onward road.
God's unseen angel o'er our pathway crossed,
Looked on us all, and, loving them the most,
Straightway relieved them from life's weary load.

They are not lost; they are within the door

That shuts out loss and every hurtful thing,With angels bright, and loved ones gone before, In the Redeemer's presence evermore,

And God himself, their Lord their Judge and King.

And this we call a loss! O selfish sorrow

Of selfish hearts! O we of little faith!
Let us look round, some argument to borrow,
Why we in patience should await the morrow
That surely must succeed the night of death.

Aye, look upon this dreary, desert path,

The thorns and thistles wheresoe'er we turn; What trials and what tears, what wrongs and wrath, What struggles and what strife the journey hath! They have escaped from these; and lo! we mourn.

Ask the poor sailor, when the wreck is done,

Who, with his treasure, strove the shore to reach, While with the raging waves he battled on, Was it not joy, where every joy seemed gone, To see his loved ones landed on the beach?

A poor wayfarer, leading by the hand

A little child, had halted by the well
To wash from off her feet the clinging sand,
And tell the tired boy of that bright land

Where, this long journey past, they longed to dwell;

When lo! the Lord, who many mansions had,
Drew near, and looked upon the suffering twain;
Then, pitying, spake, "Give me the little lad;
In strength renewed, and glorious beauty clad,
I'll bring him with me when I come again."

Did she make answer, selfishly and wrong,
"Nay, but the woes I feel he too must share?"
Or, rather, bursting into grateful song,
She went her way rejoicing, and made strong
To struggle on, since he was freed from care!

We will do likewise; Death hath made no breach
In love and sympathy, in hope and trust;
No outward sign or sound our ears can reach,
But there's an inward, spiritual speech

That greets us still, though mortal tongues be dust.

It bids us do the work that they laid down,--
Take up the song where they broke off the strain;
So journeying, till we reach the heavenly town,
Where are laid up our treasure and our crown,
And our lost loved ones will be found again.

THE LAST JOURNEY.-CAROLINE A. SOUTHEY.
Slowly, with measured tread,
Onward we bear the dead

To his lone home;

Short grows the homeward road;
On with your mortal load!

O grave! we come.

Yet, yet,-ah! hasten not
Past each remembered spot
Where he hath been,-
Where late he walked in glee,
These from henceforth to be
Never more seen.

Rest ye; set down the bier!
One he loved dwelleth here;
Let the dead lie

A moment that door beside,
Wont to fly open wide
Ere he drew nigh.

Hearken! he speaketh yet!
"O friend! wilt thou forget
(Friend, more than brother!)
How hand in hand we've gone,
Heart with heart linked in one,-
All to each other?

"O friend! I go from thee,

Where the worm feasteth free,

Darkly to dwell,

Giv'st thou no parting kiss?

Friend! is it come to this?

O friend, farewell!"

Uplift your load again;

Take up the mourning strain:

Pour the deep wail!

S

Lo! the expected one
To his place passeth on;
Grave, bid him hail!

Yet, yet,-ah slowly move!
Bear not the form we love
Fast from our sight;

Let the air breathe on him,
And the sun beam on him
Last looks of light.

Here dwells his mortal foe;
Lay the departed low,
Even at his gate!
Will the dead speak again,
Uttering proud boasts, and vain
Last words of hate?

Lo! the cold lips unclose,-
List! list! what sounds are those,
Plaintive and low?

"O thou, mine enemy,

Come forth and look on me,

Ere hence I go.

"Curse not thy foeman now,—

Mark! on his pallid brow

Whose seal is set!

Pardoning I pass thy way;
Then wage not war with clay,-.
Pardon,-forget!"

Now all his labor's done!
Now, now the goal is won!
O, grave, we come!
Seal up the precious dust;—
Land of the good and just,
Take the soul home!

REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE.

Ill does it become me, O Senators of Rome,-il does it become Regulus, after having so often stood in this venerable assembly clothed with the supreme dignity of the Re