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vant, dhen to saw der young mans trunk like a post-hole, mitout a fife or dhree-cent pieces in der dwo-dimes National Pank, or a rag of a new bair of clothes to his backs.

Wło ish der reason of dot decay, und how is der matter mit dot lowness down of der yooth? Yoost look you back und say, who makes oben der flood-gates of all dot zin und unhabbiness. Vas dot der drinker? nein; vas dot der dea. ler? nein; vas dot der manufackdure? vell, I baed you. He vas der feller, und mine brayer vos dot he should been combelled to look down indo his deep shtills, filled shucpfull of dheir outsites in mit dher tears of wifes, modhers and sisders, und been made to feel himself der hefy emotions of greif und sorrows, vat causes each leedle dear-drob to drickle dheir feadures down. I yoost dink dot der zin of Mister Kain vould been notting, in kombarison to der afflictions of his soul, on dot periods.

Young mans, nefer don'd trink some tings. Demberanco vas der froot of goot tings. Indemberance vas ids destroykr. Der first makes you habby like der deuce; vhile der seckond brings on your head misery und crime, und in der esh. timation of your friends you vas a toadshtool, mitout one redeeming feadures. Enyhow, your feadures would soon brove lt, of you shduck to it.


So you beg for a story, my darling, my brown-eyed Leopold, And you, Alice, with face like morning, and curling locks of

gold; Then come, if you will, and listen-stand close beside my

kneeTo a tale of the Southern city, proud Charleston by the sea,

It was long ago, my children, ere ever the signal gun
That blazed above Fort Sumpter had wakened the Nortb

as one; Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to

their hearts' desire.

On the roofs and the glittering turrets, that night, as the sun

went down, The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled crown; And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their

eyes, They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St Michael's rise High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball, That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall,-First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor.


And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound.

The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light; The children prayed at their bedsides, as you will pray to

night; The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone; And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on.

But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street; For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling

feet; Men stared in each other's faces through mingled fire and

smoke, While the frantic bells went clashing, clamorous stroke on

stroke. By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled, With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in name

less dread, While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and capa

stone higi, And planted their flaring banners against an inky sky. For the death that raged behind them, and the crash of ruin

loud, To the great square of the city, were driven the surging

crowd; Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, With its heavenward-pointing finger the Church of St. Mich:

ael stood. But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail,A cry of horror, blended with the roaring of the gale, On whose scorching wings up-driven, a single flaming brand Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand. “ Will it fade?” The whisper trembled from a thousand

whitening lips; Far out on the lurid harbor, they watched it from the ships,–

A baleful gleam that brighter and ever brighter shone,
Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-wisp to a steady beacon

grown. “ Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave

right hand, For the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning

brand'" So cried the mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard; But they looked each one at his fellow; and no man spoke

a word.

Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the

sky, Clings to a column,and measures the dizzy spire with his eye? Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible sickening

height? Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the

sight? But see! he has stepped on the railing; he climbs with his

feet and his hands; And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath

him, he stands; Now once, and once only, they cheer him,-a single tem

pestuous breath,And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the still

ness of death. Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of

the fire, Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of

the spire. He stops I Will he fall? Lol for answer, a gleam like a me

teor's track, And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand

lies shattered and black. Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering

air: At the church-door mayor and council wait with their feet

on the stair; And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his

hand,The unknown savior, whose daring could compass a deed so

grand. But why does a sudden tremor seize on them while they gaze? And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and a

maze? OCC*

He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his life

to save; And the face of the hero, my children, was the sable face of

a slave! With folded arms he was speaking, in tones that were clear

not loud, And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of

the crowd :"You may keep your gold: I scorn it!-but answer me, ye

who can, If the deed 'I have done before you be not the deed of a

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He stepped but a short space backward; and from all the

women and men There were only sobs for answer; and the mayor called for

a pen, And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran: And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its

door, a man.


The schoolmaster was weary,

Was weary, old and gray;
And heaviness came o'er him

Upon that summer day,
A heaviness of spirit

And nameless sense of pain,
He struggled hard to banish,

But struggled all in vain.
The drowsy schoolroom murmur

He heard, and in his trance,
He knew his school were watching

His face with stealthy glance.
He knew, and for a moment,

He aroused himself again,
To battle off the stupor

That crushed his weary brain.
In vain! for with the effort,

His head dropped on his breast,
His breath came faint and fainter,

And soon he sank to rest.

And then arose an uproar.

And boundless was the glee
Among those little scholars,

The schoolmaster to see.
The dunce tried all his antics,

His vacant stare and grin,
To gain one shout of laughter

And multiply the din.
See, now he points his finger

At the master's face so white,
And rolls his eyes and chatters

With ludicrous affright)
And all the little urchins

And maidens shout with joy;
And with the tears of laughter

Cry,“ What a funny boy !"
An hour now was passing,

But still the master slept;
And greater grew the tumult

These little scholars kept,
Until a little maiden,

Who watched the haggard faco,
With grave concern and wonder,

Stole softly from her place,-
Stole softly to the master

And gently touched his head,
And started back in terror-

The schoolmaster was dead!

“HEZ” AND THE LANDLORD. In a quiet little Ohio village, many years ago, was a tapern where the stages always changed, and the passengers expected to get breakfast. The landlord of the said hotel was noted for his tricks upon travelers, who were allowed to get fairly seated at the table, when the driver would blow his horn (after taking his“ horn,”) and sing out,“Stage ready, gentlemen!”– whereupon the passengers were obliged to hurry out to take their seats, leaving a scarcely-tasted breakfast behind them, for which, however, they had to fork over

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