for liberty's sake, has been almost godlike! History has so recorded it. Who comprised that gallant army, without food, without pay, shelterless, hopeless, penniless, and almost naked, in that dreadful winter—the midnight of our Revolution—whose wanderings could be traced by their blood tracks in the snow; whom no arts could seduce, no appeal lead astray, no sufferings disaffect; but who, true to their country and its holy cause, continued to fight the good fight of liberty until it finally triumphed? Who, sir, were Roger Sherman and-? But it is idle to enumerate. To name the Northern laborers who have distinguished themselves, and illustrated the history of their country, would require days of the time of this house. Nor is it necessary. Posterity will do them justice. Their deeds have been recorded in characters of fire! NAYLOR. THE LAST LEAF. I saw him once before, As he passed by the door; The pavement-stones resound They say that in his prime, Not a better man was found But now he walks the streets, So forlorn; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure, And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,- for the reader But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, While the whole camp, with "Nell," on English meadows Wandered, and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes-o'ertaken As by some spell divine Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp! and wasted all its fire; Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory And on that grave where English oak and holly Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, BRET HARTE. NATIONAL MORALITY. The crisis has come. By the people of this generation, by ourselves, probably, the amazing question is to be decided: Whether the inheritance of our fathers shall be preserved or thrown away: whether our Sabbaths shall be a delight or a loathing: whether the taverns, on that holy day, shall be crowded with drunkards, or the sanctuary of God with humble worshipers; whether riot and profaneness shall fill our streets and poverty our dwellings, and convicts our jails, and violence our land; or whether industry, and temperance, and righteousness, shall be the stability of our times; whether mild laws shall receive the cheerful submission of freemen, or the iron rod of a tyrant compel the trembling homage of slaves. Be not deceived. Our rocks and hills will remain till the last conflagration. But let the Sabbath be profaned with impunity, the worship of God be abandoned, the government and religious instruction of children neglected, and the streams of intemperance be permitted to flow, and her glory will depart. The wall of fire will no longer surround her, and the munition of rocks will no longer be her defence. The hand that overturns our laws and temples is the hand of death, unbarring the gate of Pandemonium, and letting loose upon our land the crimes and miseries of hell. If the most High should stand aloof, and cast not a single in gredient into our cup of trembling, it would seem to be full of superlative woe. But he will not stand aloof. As we shall have begun an open controversy with him, he will contend openly with us. And never, since the earth stood, has it been so fearful a thing for nations to fall into the hands of the living God. The day of vengeance is at hand. The day of judgment has come. The great earthquake which sinks Babylon is shaking the nations, and the waves of the mighty commotion are dashing upon every shore. Is this, then, a time to remove the foundations, when the earth itself is shaken? Is this, a time to forfeit the protection of God, when the hearts of men are failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are to come upon the earth? Is this a time to run upon his neck and the thick bosses of his buckler, when the nations are drinking blood, and fainting, and passing away in his wrath? Is this a time to throw away the shield of faith, when his arrows are drunk with the blood of the slain? to cut from the anchor of hope, when the clouds are collecting, and the sea and the waves are roaring, and thunders are uttering their voices, and lightnings blazing in the heavens, and the great hail is falling from heaven upon men, and every mountain, sea, and island is fleeing in dismay from the face of an incensed God? HENRY WARD BEECHER. MAHSR JOHN. I heahs a heap o' people talkin', ebrywhar I goes, He shorely wuz de grates' man de country ebber growed- I only has to shet my eyes, an' den it seems to me He alluz wore de berry bes' ob planter's linen suits, 1 |