The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, And music is shrieking away; Terpsichore governs the hour, And fashion was never so gay! An arm round a tapering waist How closely and how fondly it clings! So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz, And that's what they do at the Springs! In short as it goes in the world They eat, and they drink, and they sleep; They talk, and they walk, and they woo; They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep, They read, and they ride, and they dance; (With other remarkable things:) They pray, and they play, and they pay— And that's what they do at the Springs! -John G. Saxe. Why Don't the Men Propose. WHY don't the men propose, mamma ? WH Why don't the men propose? Each seems just coming to the point, And then away he goes! It is no fault of yours, mamma, Yet, oh! they wont propose! I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, For coronets and eldest sons I'm ever on the watch; I've hopes when some distingue beau But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt, I've tried to win by languishing And dressing like a blue; I've bought big books, and talk'd of them But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, I threw aside the books, and thought I felt convinced that men preferred And so I lisped out naught beyond Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout, I started, turning pale; I really thought my time was come, And what is to be done, mamma? I really have no time to lose, At ball's I am too often left Where spinsters sit in rows; Why wont the men propose, mamma? Why wont the men propose? N Repudiation. JEATH a ragged palmetto a Southerner sat, A-twirling the band of his Panama hat, And trying to lighten his mind of a load, By humming the words of the following ode: "Oh, for a nigger, and oh, for a whip, Oh, for a cocktail, and oh, for a nip, Oh, for a shot at old Greeley and Beecher, But hearing of a richer clime, He took his only son, And came where golden minds are lost, They hoped to fill their pockets from For though a mining minor, Tom Was never known to shirk; And while with zeal he worked his claim, His father claimed his work. Time's record on his brow now showed A fair and spotless page; And, as his age became him well, Thinking that he was up to all The California tricks, He now resolved to pick his way In less than eighteen circling moons One by good Inck at trade in stock, And one by stock in trade. With health and wealth he now could live Upon the easy plan; While everybody said of course, He was a fine young man. But Thomas fell, and sadly too, Who of his friends would thought it! He ran for office, and alas! For him and his-he caught it. Mixing no more with sober men, With governor and constable He had a host of friends. But soon he found he could not take, In councils with the patriots His brandy straightway made him walk While lager beer brought to his view The nips kept nipping at his purse- His cups of wine were followed by Each morning found him getting low Thus uselessly, and feebly did His short existence flit, Till in a drunken fight he fell The doctors came, but here their skill They found of no avail; They all agreed, what ailed poor Tom Was politics and ale. PERSONAL. Washington. [From under the elm, read at Cambridge, July 3, 1875, on the 100th anniversary of Washington taking command of the Amercan army.] Famed vaguely for that old fight in the wood, Which redly foamed around him, but could not overwhelm The life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm. To arms has yielded, from the town, Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to see Haughty they said he was, at first, severe, That shines our beacon now, nor darkens with the dead. A stranger among strangers then, How art thou since renowned the Great, the Good, The winged years that winnow praise and blame, What figure more immovably august Than that grave strength so patient and so pure, Fed from itself, and shy of human sight, And not with holiday stubble, that could burn Nor fanned nor damped, unquenchably the sa.ne, Minds strong by fits, irregularly great, In perfect symmetry of self-control, The discipline that wrought through lifelong throes A nature too decorous and severe, Too self-respectful in its griefs and joys Who find no genius in a mind so clear That seems to pace the minuet's courtly maze And tell of ampler leisures, roomier length of days. His broad-built brain, to self so little kind That no tumultuary blood could blind, Looms not like those that borrow height of haze. It was a world of statelier movement then Of that ideal Rome that made a man for men. Washington as a Civilian. HOWEVER his military fame may excite the wonder of mankind, it is chiefly by his civil magistracy that Washington's example will instruct them. Great generals have arisen in all ages of the world, and perhaps most in those of despotism and darkness. In times of violence and convulsion they rise, by the force of the whirlwind, high enough to ride in it and direct the storm. Like meteors, they glare on the black clouds with a splendor that, while it dazzles and terrifies, makes nothing visible but the darkness. The fame of heroes is indeed growing vulgar; they multiply in every long war; they stand in history, and thicken in their ranks almost as undistinguished as their own soldiers. But such a chief magistrate as Washington appears like the pole-star in a clear sky, to direct the skillful statesman. His presidency will form an epoch, and be distinguished as the age of Washington. Already it assumes its high place in the political region. Like the milky way, it whitens along its allotted portion of the hemisphere. The latest generations of. men will survey, through the telescope of history, the space where so many virtues blend their rays, and delight to separate them into groups and distinct virtues. As the best illustration of them, the living monument to which the first of patriots would have chosen to consign his fame, it is our earnest prayer to Heaven that our country may subsist, even to that late day, in the plenitude of its liberty and happiness, and mingle its mild glory with Washington's The announcement of the afflicting event of his death was made in the House of Representatives as soon as the news reached Philadelphia, by John Marshall, then a member of Congress from Virginia. Both Houses immediately adjourned. The whole country was filled with gloom by the intelligence. Men of all parties in politics, and creeds in religion, united with Congress in paying honor to the memory of the citizen who, in the language of the resolution of Marshall adopted by the House, " was first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen." These manifestations were no mere outward semblance of grief, but the natural outbursts of the hearts of the people, prompted by the loss of a father. He was indeed everywhere regarded as the "Father of His Country." His remains were deposited in a family vault, on his own estate, on the banks of the Potomac, where they still lie entombed. ON Extract from an Oration on James A. Garfield. N the morning of Saturday, July 2, the President was a contented and happy man-not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly happy. On his way to the railroad. station to which he drove slowly, in conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of leisure and keen anticipation of pleasure, his talk was all in the grateful and congratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial his administration was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular favor, and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties confronting him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind him, and not before him; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he loved, now recovering from an illness which had but lately disquieted and at times almost unnerved him; that he was going to his Alma Mater to renew the most cheerful associations of his young manhood and to exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had followed every step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his college course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his countrymen. Surely if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning, James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him; the next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave. Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest-from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death, and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly |