And so I laid the foundation, sir,
Of what you see to-day;

Old, little a-past the prime of life,
And a general wasting away.

'Taint a natural fever this, sir;
Its one no doctor can cure;
I was made to bear strong burdens,
Ox-like and slow, but sure,
And I only lived for my pleasures,
Though I was a Christian bred;

I lived for self, sir, and here's the end,
Crawling about half dead.

Well, well, 'twont do to think on't;

I try to forget my pain,

My poisoned blood, and my shattered nerves,

My wreck of body and brain;

Only I saw you drinking just now,

Drinking that devil's drain;

That's where I liked to have stepped into hell,

And gone by the fastest train.

You don't like my blunt speech, mebbe;

Well, 'tis n't the nicest cut,

Only when a man's looked over the brink,

He knows what he's talking about;

And if, with his eyes wide open,

He's walked straight into the flame, And nothing less than the mercy of God Has turned his glory to shame,

Then when he says there's a drunkard's hell, You'd better believe it's true;

I've fought the devil hand to hand,

And tested him through and through;

We know, who've bartered body and soul,
What body and soul are worth;

And there's nothing like to a drunkard's woe
In all God's beautiful earth.

Wife, children! Haven't I had them? Yes,
No man has had sweeter than I;

But children and wife are dead and dust;
Why, what could they do but die?
Don't ask me to tell you of them, because
It blots out God's mercy even;

And it don't seem sure, though I've left my cups,
That my sin can be forgiven.

I tell you it's hard for a shattered hulk
To drift into harbor safe;

And I feel, sometimes, with my three-score years,
Like a hopeless, homeless waif;

But there's one thing certain: I've overcome!
And I'll fight while I draw a breath,
When I see a fine young fellow like you
Going down to the gates of death.

You'll laugh, perhaps, at an old man's zeal;
I laughed in a young man's glee;
But God forbid, if you reach three-score,
You should be a wreck like me.

-Alice Robbins.

XL.-PHYSICAL EDUCATION.

THAT is, undoubtedly, the wisest and best system which takes the infant from the cradle and conducts him along through childhood and youth up to high maturity, in such a manner as to give strength to his arm, swiftness to his feet, solidity and amplitude to his muscles, symmetry to his frame, and expansion to his vital energies. It is obvious that this branch of education comprehends not only food and clothing, but air, exercise, lodging, early rising, and whatever else is requisite to the full development of the physical constitution. The diet must be simple, the apparel must not be warm, nor the bed too soft.

Let parents beware of too much restriction in the man

agement of their darling boy. If they would make him. hardy and rugged and fearless, they must let him go abroad often in his early boyhood, and amuse himself by the hour together in smoothing and twirling the hoary locks of winter. Instead of keeping him shut up all day with a stove, and graduating his sleeping-room by Fahrenheit, they must let him face the keen edge of a north wind when the mercury is below zero; and, instead of minding a little. shivering and complaining when he returns, cheer up his spirits and send him out again. In this way they will teach him that he was not born to live in the nursery, nor to brood over the fire, but to range abroad as free as the snow and the air, and to gain warmth from exercise.

I love and admire the youth who turns not back from the howling wintry blast, nor withers under the blaze of summer; who never magnifies "mole-hills into mountains," but whose daring eye, exulting, scales the eagle's airy crag, and who is ready to undertake any thing that is prudent and lawful within the range of possibility. Who would think of planting the mountain-oak in a green-house? or of rearing the cedar of Lebanon in a lady's flower-pot? Who does not know that in order to attain their mighty strength and majestic forms, they must freely enjoy the rain and the sunshine, and must feel the rocking of the tempest?

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way,
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act! act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'er head.

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

-Longfellow.

XLII. THE Grave.

OH, the grave! the grave! It buries every error; covers every defect; extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of

an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him? But the grave of those we loved,— what a place for meditation! There it is we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs; its noiseless attendants, its mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love; the feeble, fluttering, thrilling-oh, how thrilling!-pressure of the hand; the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us, even from the threshold of existence! Aye, go to the gave of buried love and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, never, never return, to be soothed by thy contrition.

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant, on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. -Washington Irving.