delirious spirit of this world-wonderful warrior, whose haughty star withered kings and whose brow was unawed, whether his eagles hovered around the Alps or shrieked amid the flames of Moscow, died a powerless prisoner on tne lonely billow-dashed isle of St. Helena. These have gained names more lasting than Egyptian pyramids. But oh! the doleful price of their eternal ruin. Who, who can read the history of such men as these and then seek a like immortality? may the winds of annihilation blow such desires from our earth! But is there no way of gaining a name, noble, glorious, immortal? Boundless are the fields, endless are the ways, and numberless the examples of pure and heavenly renown. Though the ways which lead to never-ending shame are many, there are paths that lead to fame, unsuilied and undying, up which many great minds have toiled unceasing, till death cut the fetters and sent them home.

The scholar, astronomer, poet, orator, patrio and philosopher, all have fields, broad, fertile, perennial. The ruins of the "Eternal City" "still breathe, born with Cicero." The story of Demosthenes, with his mouth full of pebbles, haranguing the billows of old ocean, will be stavomered by the school-boy "down to latest time." And after "the foot of time" has trodden down his marble tombstone, and strewed his grave with the dust of ages, it will be said that nature's orator, Patrick Henry, while accused of treason and threatened with death, "hurled his crushing thunderbolts" at the haughty form of tyranny, and cried, "Give me liberty or give me death," in accents that burned all over Europe.

Washington, too, has a pyramid in every American heart. When the serpent, tyranny,wrapped his freezing folds around our nation's heart, and with exulting hisses raised his horrid coils to heaven, then Washington hurled a thunderbolt that drove him back to molder and rot beneath the crumbling thrones of Europe, and sent the startling echo of freedom rumbling around our broad green earth. A fire of desolation may kindle in our metropolis and strew it in the dust, yea, may burn away our continent with all its monuments, but his name will be breathed with reverence till the ocean has ceased to heave, and time has ceased to be. Our countryman, Franklin, too; look at the pyramid that bears his

name, burying its mighty summit in the lowering thundercloud, while around it the lightnings play and lurk, and write "Immortality." Has not Newton a name among the immortal? How eagerly did he grasp the golden chain, swung from the Eternal Throne, and with what intense rapture and thrilling delight did he climb upward, vibrate through the concave of the skies, gaze around upon the stars, and bathe in the glorious sunlight of eternal truth that blazed from the center--Deity.

Can time, or winds, or floods, or fire, destroy Luther's pyramid? He reared it by an awful conflict, more terrible than ever hung on the the tread of an army. The one carries thrones and empires, the silent thoughts of the other tell on the destiny of the world. Nerved by the Omnipotent, he stood up amid the smoke and flash of century-working batteries, and thundered, “Truth,” till the world reeled and rocked as if within the grasp of an earthquake. Milton, too; the wave of oblivion may surge over the pyramids, yea, may engulf all Africa, but Milton, who painted pyramids with heavenly glow, unlocked the brazen gates of the fiery gulf, heard its raging howl and saw its maddening billows heave and plunge, will strike anew his golden lyre in heaven when yonder sun shall stay his fiery wheels mid-heaven, sicken, darken, and pitch lawless from his flaming chariot into the black chaos of universal ruin.

Nor is this all. A day is coming when the pyramids built in blood shall crumble and sink, when yonder firmament shall frown in blackness and terror, when the judgment fires shall kindle around the pillars that stay creation, and rolling their smoke and flames upward, fire the entire starry dome, when burning worlds shall fly, and lighten through immensity, when the car of eternity rumbling onward, shall ever travel over the dismal loneliness and bleak desolation of a burned up universe; and then shall the pyramids of the just tower away in the sunlight of heaven, while their builders shall cull the flowers and pluck the fruits of the perennial city, and to God who created them, and to Christ who redeemed them, swell an anthem of praise, increasing, louder and deeper, with the ceaseless annals of eternity.

PROVERBEEL FEELOSSIFY.-BY AGRIKLER.

You've heard o' Measter Tupper? well I've heerd on un too
And I've had his book a lend ma, but I didden rade un droo.
When a man begins ta rite, tes 'mazin how the words ull graw,
But a verry littel book ull hould what mooast on us do knaw,
Zo I tuk my pen and piaper jest for to sketch it down,
And thaught I'd try and knock up a vew prawverbs o' my own
Noa man es wise athout a wife—that's true and not no viction,
Vor the verry peth o' wisdom es got at by conterdiction,
And that's one raisin wy I beant zo wise as Zolomon!
Becas they zay he'd lots o' wives and I got only one,
But spwite o' Zolomon's example maike one wife suffize,
Vor tiant by no mians elthy to be moor than common wise.
No man es wise as thenks he is-jest tiake that as a rule-
And a self-appwinted tiacher es vust-cuzzen to a vool.
Ef yer house be miade o glass, yer naibers doant ee stoan um,
And remember that the "mortices be nilly nicey boane um."
Which latten words do signerfy (I ax'd our passun twice),
That when you taaks about the deead, zay allus zummat nice.
When a man do brag o' honesty (no sign can well be wuss),
Button up yer britches pocket, and be keerful o' yer puss.
Two thengs come awver I like a leech that's touch'd wi saalt,
A judge as shaws no marcy, and a man athout a faalt:
And as vor faaltless wimmen, perhaps you mid a zeen um;
But them o' that zort mooastly dies afor their mothers

wean um.

If you wants to borrow money, and hant got nor a vriend,
Dooant never goo to them chaps as do advertise to lend;
And ef you've money got to lend, jest tiake a vriendly hent,
And never lend to he as offers twenty-vive per cent.
Vor even ef it zhould be paid, it only proaves the rule,
One o' the two must be a roague, and tother one a vool.
If you tiakes a lot o' fissick vor the colic or the gout,
You only puts one divil in to drave another out-
Which proaves that docturs aal alike, thaw one may tother
banter,

Do hould the doctrine "simul lies simillibus cow ranter,"
Which passun zes do mian the zeame as when a chap in-

vites ye

To tiake, when you been dreenkin, a heer o'th' dog as bites ye. But a better plan than puttin that there maxim to tha pruff, Es, jest to liave off drenkin when you vinds you've had

enough.

And not like thay tea tottlers, to miake a stupid rule,
Or zay good drenk is pwison becaase a man's a fool.
Or like a Cockney spoortsman, when a clems a hoss out zide,
Bleame the hoss vor drawin he,when twere he as coulden ride.

Wi regard to wars and fitins, I mid be rong or right, But one thing's perty clear, it tiakes two to make a fight; And as for miakin one o' thay, I'd never hav a roun',

'Less I were shour and sartain I cud knock tha tother down. And ef the tother wer the siame opinion as I,

He'd be a blessed fool to stick up there and let ma try.
Zo ef my plan wer carried out by booath the grate and smaal,
I zomehow thenk there'd never be noa fitin not at aal.
Devence but not deviance es noo onmanein whim-
Doant never fight-but allus kip yerself in fightin trim.

-Rhymes in the West of England Dialect

THE TWO TEMPLES.-C. T. CORLIS.

Through the mist of the years in the long, long ago,
I saw in a vision a Temple, aglow-

Aglow with the beams of the orient sun,

Whose splendor and vastness conception outrun.

No sound of the hammer or trowel was there,
In silence that Temple uprose in the air,
Like some gorgeous castle in fairy tale told,
All covered with silver and inlaid with gold.

The walls of that Temple in marble were laid.
Its roof-trees and coverings of cedar were made;
They laid its foundations deep down in the mold,
That this Temple might last through the

The tribe of Naphtali to Solomon bore

ages

A man who was skilled in mechanical lore,-
That cunning artificer, Hiram of Tyre,

untold.

Wrought vessels in gold that the world might admire.

He wrought them in brass, and in silver as well,
Their number and fashion would fail me to tell,
The tables, and altars, and candlesticks bore
An impress of genius man saw not before.

The pillars called Jachin and Boaz he made,
With lily-work and with pomegranates o'erlaid,
Twelve cubits about them and eighteen in length,
The former for beauty, the latter for strength.
When seven long years had in silence rolled on,
The capstone was laid and the Temple was done;
The craft were assembled and paid for their hire,
From the humblest apprentice to Hiram of Tyre.

That Temple of Solomon, where is it now?
The priest and the miter he wore on his brow?
The king and the subject, the master and slave,
Together they sleep in the night of the grave!

They builded with marble that Temple of old,
It has faded and gone like a tale that is told!
They builded with cedar, gold, silver, and brass,
It has vanished like dew when exhaled from the grass

But we have a Temple not builded with hands,
Eternal as truth, in its glory it stands;
Age dims not its luster, grand, gorgeous, sublime,
Unmarred by the tempests, untarnished by time.

Its porch is as wide as the east from the west,
Its altar the heart in each true Mason's breast,
Its coverings of charity richer than gold,
Its jewels are good deeds of value untold.

Here all nations meet in one language and tongue,
The anthems of praise to Jehovah are sung;
No jarring of sects, neither clashing of creeds,
This Temple's as wide as the world and its needs.

All schisms are banished, no Christian or Jew;
Mohammedan, Pagan, nor Buddhist, nor Foo;
For these are all lost in the brotherhood-where
They meet on the level and work by the square.

"TIS FIVE-AND-TWENTY YEARS.

Sitting upon our cottage stoop,
By autumn maples shaded,

I call the gentle visions up
That time had nearly faded.

The evening light comes from the west,
In streams of golden glory:

So fold your head, love, on my breast,
And hear my olden story.

"Tis five-and-twenty years, my dear,
Since, hearts and hands together,
We launched our bark,-the ocean clear
And all serene the weather.

With simple trust in Providence,
We set the sails upon her:

My fortune, hope and common sense;
Your dowry, love and honor.