I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man; but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else; and if not a more religious, think I am a better man on Sunday, than on any other day of the seven.

But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor, decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes could not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.

I am fond of loitering about country churches; and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, around which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still, sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the church-yard, where, by the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe, but there was one real mourner, who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceasedthe poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few

of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words.

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased-" George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer; but I could perceive by the feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother's heart.

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was a bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection; direc tions given in the cold tones of business; the strik ing of spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her, took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation-" Nay, now-nay, now-don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head, and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted.

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering.

I could see no more-my heart swelled into my throat-my eyes filled with tears-I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed.

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her.

"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing:
Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspringing.

Speak to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flow'r; From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us. Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from word-sirens that lure us to ill. Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; Work-thou shalt ride on Care's coming billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow;

Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!

How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.
Labor is wealth! In the sea the pearl groweth:
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon flow-
eth.

From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;
Temple and statue the marble block hides.

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.

WILLIAM M. THACKERAY.

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket, perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom, up four pairs of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

Is grand, through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks With worthless old knickknacks and silly old books,

And foolish old odds, and foolish old ends, Cheap bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked,)

Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed,— A two-penny treasury, wondrous to see,

What matter? 'Tis pleasant to you, friend, and

me.

No better divan need the Sultan require
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinnet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp:
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp.
A mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon!

Long, long through the hours and the night, and the chimes,

Here we talk of old books and old friends and old times;

And we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie.
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,

There's one that I love and cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair,
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed
chair!

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,

With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair!

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms A thrill must have passed through your withering

old arms.

I looked and I longed. I wished in despair-
I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place.
She'd a scarf on her neck and a smile on her

face,

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, As she sat there and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a saint or the throne of a prince.
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet, I declare
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed
chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,

In the silence of night, I sit here alone-
I sit here alone; but we yet are a pair-

My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair.

She comes from the past, and revisits my room:
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair;
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair!

ST. JOHN THE AGED.

rowing very old. This weary head
hath so often leaned on Jesus' breast,
ys long past that seem almost a dream,
at and hoary with its weight of years.
limbs that followed Him, my master, oft,
Galilee to Judah; yea, that stood

ith the cross and trembled with His groans,
e to bear me even through the streets
each unto my children. E'en my lips
e to form the words my heart sends forth.
■rs are dull; they scarcely hear the sobs

y dear children gathered 'round my couch; -es so dim, they cannot see their tears. ays His hand upon me,-yea, His hand, ot His rod—the gentle hand that I hose three years, so oft pressed in mine, endship such as passeth woman's love.

d, so old! I cannot recollect aces of my friends, and I forget Fords and deeds that make up daily life; at dear face, and every word He spoke, more distinct as others fade away,

at I live with Him and th' holy dead than with living.

seventy years ago

La fisher by the sacred sea.

at sunset. How the tranquil tide

d dreamily the pebbles! How the light up the distant hills, and in its wake urple showers wrapped the dewy fields! hen He came and called me. Then I gazed e first time on that sweet face. Those eyes out of which, as from a window, shone ty, looked on my inmost soul, ghted it forever: Then His words

on the silence of my heart, and made hole world musical. Incarnate love hold of me and claimed me for its own; wed in the twilight, holding fast antle.

hat holy walks we had,

harvest fields, and desolate, dreary wastes; ftentimes He leaned upon my arm,

ed and way-worn. I was young and strong, o upbore Him. Lord! now I am weak,

ld and feeble. Let me rest on Thee!

t thine arm around me. Closer still! trong Thou art! The twilight draws apace; let us leave these noisy streets and take ath to Bethany; for Mary's smile

5 us at the gate, and Martha's hands long prepared the cheerful evening meal. James, the Master waits, and Peter, see, one some steps before.

What say you, friends?

35

That this is Ephesus, and Christ has gone
Back to His kingdom? Ay, 'tis so, 'tis so!
I know it all and yet, just now, I seemed
To stand once more upon my native hills
And touch my Master! Oh! how oft I've seen
The touching of His garments bring back strength
To palsied limbs! I feel it has to mine.
Up! bear me once more to my church—once more!
There let me tell them of a Saviour's love;
For, by the sweetness of my Master's voice
Just now, I think He must be very near-
Coming, I trust, to break the veil which time
Has worn so thin that I can see beyond,
And watch His footsteps.

So, raise up my head.

How dark it is! I cannot seem to see
The faces of my flock. Is that the sea
That murmurs so, or is it weeping? Hush!
My little children! God so loved the world
He gave His Son; so love ye one another;
Love God and man, Amen. Now bear me back.
My legacy into an angry world is this,

I feel my work is finished. Are the streets so full?
What call the folks my name? "The holy John?"
Nay, write me rather, Jesus Christ's beloved,
And lover of my children.

Lay me down

Once more upon my couch, and open wide
The eastern window. See! there comes a light
Like which broke upon my soul at eve,
When, in the dreary Isle of Patmos, Gabriel came
And touched me on the shoulder. See! it grows
As when we mounted toward the pearly gates.
I know the way! I trod it once before!
And hark! it is the song the ransomed sang
Of glory to the Lamb! How loud it sounds!
And that unwritten one! Methinks my soul
Can join it now. But who are these who crowd
The shining way? O joy, it is the eleven!
With Peter first, how eagerly he looks!
How bright the smiles beaming on James' face.
I am the last. Once more we are complete
To gather 'round the Paschal feast. My place
Is next my Master. O my Lord! my Lord!
How bright Thou art, and yet the very same
I loved in Galilee! 'Tis worth the hundred years
To feel this bliss! So lift me up, dear Lord,
Unto Thy bosom, full of perfect peace.
There shall I abide.

Lasca used to ride

On a mouse-grey mustang close to my side,
With blue serape and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or of creeds;
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;

Little she cared save to be by my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride,
From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.
She was as bold as the billows that beat,
She was as wild as the breezes that blow;
From her little head to her little feet
She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine,
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.

She would hunger that I might eat,
Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
But once when I made her jealous for fun,
At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,
One Sunday, in San Antonio,

To a glorious girl on the Alamo,

She drew from her garter a dear little dagger, And-sting of a wasp-it made me stagger! An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night; But she sobbed, and sobbing, so swiftly bound Her torn reboso about the wound,

That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eyes was brown, a deep, deep brown;
Her hair was darker than her eye;
And something in her smile and frown,
Curled crimson lip and instep high,
Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.
She was alive in every limb

With feeling to the finger-tips;

And when the sun is like a fire

And sky one shining soft sapphire,
One does not drink in little sips.

Forgot the herd that were taking their rest,
Forgot that the air was close opprest,
That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon
In the dead of night or the blaze of noon;
That once let the herd at its breath take fright,
Nothing on earth can stop the flight;

And woe to the rider and woe to the steed,
Who fall in front of their mad stampede!

*

*

Was that thunder? I grasped the cord

*

Of my swift mustang without a word.

sprang to the saddle and she clung behind.

I

Away! on a hot chase down the wind!

But never was fox-hunt half so hard,

And never was steed so little spared,

For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared

In Texas, down on the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
There was one chance left, and you have but one;
Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;
Crouch under his carcass and take your chance;
And if the steers in their frantic course
Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
You may thank your stars; if not, good-bye
To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh.
And the open air, and the open sky,

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande!

The cattle gained on us, and just as I felt
For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,
Down came the mustang, and down came we,
Clinging together, and what was the rest?
A body that spread itself on my breast.
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;
Then came thunder in my ears,

And over us surged the sea of steers,
Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
And when I could rise-
Lasca was dead!

HANNAH JANE.

D. B. LOCKE.

half so handsome as when, twenty years one,

d home in Piketon, Parson Avery made one;

at house crowded full of guests of every gree;

- all envying Hannah Jane, the boys all wying me.

ers then were taper, and her skin as white milk,

vn hair, what a mass it was! and soft and e as silk;

-moved willow by a brook had ever such grace,

of Aphrodite, with a pure Madonna face.

but meagre schooling; her little notes

me

l of little pot-hooks, and the worst orthoaphy;

ar" she spelled with double e, and "kiss" h but one s;

1 one's crazed with passion what's a letter re or less?

dered in her writing, and she blundered en she spoke,

y rule of syntax, that old Murray made, ‣ broke;

was beautiful and fresh, and I—weli, I s young;

and face o'erbalanced all the blunders her tongue.

t little better. True, I'd longer been at ool;

ue and pen were run, perhaps, a little re by rule;

was all, the neighbors round who both of well knew,

ich I believed-she was the better of the

nged; the light of seventeen's no longer her eyes;

hair is gone-that loss the coiffeur's art plies;

is thin and angular; she slightly forward ds;

ers once so shapely, now are stumpy at ends.

's but very little, and in little are we one; ity rare, that more than hid that great ect, is gone.

nu relations now deride my homely wife, me that I am tied to such a clod for life.

37

I know there is a difference; at reception and levee The brightest, wittiest, and most famed of women smile on me;

And everywhere I hold my place among the greatest men,

And sometimes sigh, with Whittier's judge, "Alas! it might have been."

When they all crowd around me, stately dames and brilliant belles,

And yield to me the homage that all great success compels,

Discussing art and statecraft, and literature as well,

From Homer down to Thackeray, and Swedenborg on "hell,"

I can't forget that from these streams my wife has never quaffed,

Has never with Ophelia wept, nor with Jack Falstaff laughed !

Of authors, actors, artists-why, she hardly knows the names;

She slept while I was speaking on the Alabama claims.