And how small they appeared by his side, the common run of politicians, who spend their days with the laying of pipe, and the setting up of pins, and the pulling of wires; who barter an office to secure this vote, and procure a contract to get that; who stand always with their ears to the wind to hear how the Administration sneezes, and what their constituents whisper, in mortal trepidation lest they fail in being all things to everybody!

How he stood among them! he whose very presence made you forget the vulgarities of political life, who dared to differ with any man ever so powerful, any multitude ever so numerous; who regarded party as nothing but a means for higher ends, and for those ends defied its power; to whom the arts of demagogism were so contemptible that he would rather have sunk into obscurity and oblivion than descend to them; to whom the dignity of his office was so sacred that he would not even ask for it for fear of darkening its lustre !

Honor to the people of Massachusetts, who, for twentythree years, kept in the Senate, and would have kept him there never so long, had he lived, a man who never, even to them, conceded a single iota of his convictions in order to remain there.

And what a life was his! a life so wholly devoted to what was good and noble! There he stood in the midst of the grasping materialism of our times, around him the eager chase for the almighty dollar, no thought of opportunity ever entering the smallest corner of his mind, and disturbing his high endeavors; with a virtue which the possession of power could not even tempt, much less debauch; from whose presence the very thought of corruption instinctively shrank back; a life so unspotted, an integrity so intact, a character so high, that the most daring eagerness of calumny, the most wanton audacity of insinuation, standing on tiptoe, could not touch the soles of his shoes.

They say that he indulged in overweening self-appreciation. Ay, he did have a magnificent pride, a lofty selfesteem. Why should he not? Let wretches despise themselves, for they have good reason to do so; not he. But in his self-esteem there was nothing small and mean; no man

lived to whose very nature envy and petty jealousy were more foreign. His pride of self was like his pride of country. He was the proudest American; he was the proudest New Englander; and yet he was the most cosmopolitan American we have ever seen.

He is at rest now, the stalwart, brave old champion, whose face and bearing were so austere, and whose heart was so full of tenderness; who began his career with a pathetic plea for universal peace and charity, and whose whole life was an arduous, incessant, never-resting struggle, which left him all covered with scars. And we can do nothing for him but remember his lofty ideals of liberty, and equality, and justice, and reconciliation, and purity, and the earnestness, and courage, and touching fidelity with which he fought for them-so genuine in his sincerity, so singleminded in his zeal, so heroic in his devotion.

People of Massachusetts! He was the son of your soil, in which he now sleeps; but he is not all your own. He belongs to all of us in the North and in the South-to the blacks he helped to make free, and to the whites he strove to make brothers again. Over the grave of him whom so many thought to be their enemy, and found to be their friend, let the hands be clasped which so bitterly warred against each other. Let the youth of America be taught, by the story of his life, that not only genius, power, and success, but more than these, patriotic devotion and virtue, make the greatness of the citizen. If this lesson be understood, more than Charles Sumner's living word could have done for the glory of America, will be done by the inspiration of his great example. And it will truly be said, that although his body lies moldering in the earth, yet in the assured rights of all, in the brotherhood of a reunited people, and in a purified Republic, he still lives, and will live forever.

DIFFIDENCE.

"I'm after axin', Biddy dear—”
And here he paused awhile

To fringe his words the merest mite
With something of a smile-

A smile that found its image
In a face of beauteous mold,
Whose liquid eyes were peeping
From a broidery of gold.

"I've come to ax ye, Biddy dear,
If" then he stopped again,
As if his heart had bubbled o'er
And overflowed his brain.
His lips were twitching nervously
O'er what they had to tell,

And timed the quavers with the eyes
That gently rose and fell.

"I've come-" and then he took her hands
And held them in his own,

"To ax"-and then he watched the buds
That on her cheeks had blown,-
"Me purty dear-" and then he heard
The throbbing of her heart,

That told how love had entered in

And claimed its every part.

"Och! don't be tazin' me," said she,
With just the faintest sigh,

"I've sinse enough to see you've come,
But what's the reason why?"
"To ax-" and once again the tongue
Forbore its sweets to tell,

"To ax-if Mrs. Mulligan
Has any pigs to sell."

THE LIPS THAT TOUCH LIQUOR MUST NEVER TOUCH MINE.-GEORGE W. YOUNG.

You are coming to woo me, but not as of yore,
When I hastened to welcome your ring at the door;
For I trusted that he who stood waiting me then,
Was the brightest, the truest, the noblest of men.
Your lips, on my own when they printed "Farewell,"
Had never been soiled by "the beverage of hell;"
But they come to me now with the bacchanal sign,
And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I think of that night in the garden alone,

When in whispers you told me your heart was my own.
That your love in the future should faithfully be
Unshared by another, kept only for me.

Oh, sweet to my soul is the memory still,

Of the lips which met mine, when they murmured "I will;" But now to their pressure no more they incline,

For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!

O John! how it crushed me, when first in your face
The pen of the "Rum Fiend" had written disgrace;"
And turned me in silence and tears from that breath
All poisoned and foul from the chalice of death.
It scattered the hopes I had treasured to last;
It darkened the future and clouded the past;
It shattered my idol, and ruined the shrine,

For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I loved you-Oh, dearer than language can tell,
And you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well!
But the man of my love was far other than he
Who now from the "Tap-room" comes reeling to me:
Iu manhood and honor so noble and right-

is heart was so true, and his genius so bright-
And his soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine;
But the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

You promised reform, but I trusted in vain;
Your pledge was but made to be broker again:
And the lover so false to his promises now,
Will not, as a husband, be true to his vow.
The word must be spoken that bids you depart

Though the effort to speak it should shatter my heart—
Though in silence, with blighted affection, I pine,
Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!

If one spark, in your bosom, of virtue remain,
Go fan it with prayer till it kindle again;
Resolved, with "God helping," in future to be
From wine and its follies unshackled and free!

And when you have conquered this foe of your soul,~
In manhood and honor beyond his control-
This heart will again beat responsive to thine,
And the lips free from liquor be welcome to mine.

SHORT SENSATIONAL STORY.

Sophia Saunders searchingly scrutinized Sarah, scowling severely.

Stephen Smith-Sarah's suitor-strong, splendidly sinewed, shapely Stephen, slept soundly.

Sophia spoke. She said Sarah should sell stale smelling soles.

Stephen snored.

Sophia spitefully shook Sarah.

"Surrender!" said she.

Sarah screamed shrilly.

Stephen seeing sweet Sarah's situation, stealing stealthily, suddenly squeezed Sophia's side, saying: "Stop such silly squabbles, such stupid strife; stop striking Sarah."

She staggered.

"So," sneered Sophia, "savage Stephen sneakingly supports Sarah! Seek safety-skedaddle!”

Stephen smiling satirically said: "Sarah shall sell stale soles, sweet Sophia, shall she?"

66

She shall!" shrieked Sophia.

So saying, Sophia Saunders strolled seaward stalking stiffly, selecting sloppy shingle spots. Slackening speed, she sat. Straightway she sentimentalized:

See star-spangled sky; see sinking sun; see salt sea; see Sophia Saunders, spinster, Sarah's sister, spurned, slighted, scorned. So Sarah supposes selling stale soles sinful! Sacre! She shall see."

She stood still some seconds solemnly sea-surveying. Suddenly she said: "See Stephen so sneaking, so sanctimonious, so supremely stupid; see sister Sarah so sweetly seraphic, sweet Sunday school scholar, sublime sinner, see Sophia swim. Stephen, sister Sarah shall sell sweet solesso shall she starve."

Sarah shuddered.
Stephen sneezed.

Suddenly Sophia sprang screaming, splashing salt spray skyward.

"Save Sophia, Stephen! see, she sinks!" screamed Sarah. "Scarcely, sweetheart," said Stephen, sullenly.

So Sophia Saunders sank.

Sophia's suicide saved Sarah selling soles so stale. She systematically sold sweet soles. She survived Sophia several

summer seasons.

Sometimes she sang sad songs softly, sorrowing Sophia's sad suicide. Still she stayed single, scornfully spurning Stephen Smith's soft speeches.

Sole, a fish.