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good-to check her onward march to greatness and glory. I have not courage enough. I am too cowardly for that. I would I dare not, in the exercise of such a threat, lie down, and place my body across the path, that leads my country to prosperity and happiness. This is a sort of courage widely different from that which a man may display in his private conduct and personal relations. Personal or private courage is totally distinct from that higher and nobler courage which prompts the patriot, to offer himself a voluntary sacrifice to his country's good.

Apprehensions of the imputation of the want of firmness sometimes impel us to perform rash and inconsiderate acts. It is the greatest courage, to be able to bear the imputation, of the want of courage. But pride, vanity, egotism, so unamiable and offensive in private life, are vices which partake of the character of crimes, in the conduct of public affairs. The unfortunate victim of these passions, cannot see beyond the little, petty, contemptible circle, of his own personal interests. All his thoughts are withdrawn from his country, and concentrated on his consistency, his firmness, himself! The high, the exalted, the sublime emotions of a patriotism, which, soaring toward heaven, rises far above all mean, low, or selfish things, and is absorbed by one soul-transporting thought of the good and the glory of one's country, are never felt in his impenetrable bosom. That patriotism, which, catching its inspirations from the immortal God, and, leaving at an immeasurable distance below all lesser, grovelling, personal interests and feelings, animates and prompts to deeds of self-sacrifice, of valor, of devotion, and of death itself-that, is public virtue; that is the noblest, the sublimest of all public virtues!

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THE BEST SEWING-MACHINE.

OT one? Don't say so! Which did you get?
One of the kind to open and shut?

Own it or hire it? How much did you pay?
Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y.
I'm a single man, and somewhat green;
Tell me about your sewing-machine."

"Listen, my boy, and hear all about it —
I don't know what I could do without it;
I've owned one now for more than a year,
And like it so well that I call it my dear;'
'Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen,
This wonderful family sewing-machine.

"It's none of your angular Wheeler things,
With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings;
Its work would bother a hundred of his,
And worth a thousand! Indeed it is;
And has a way—you need not stare—
Of combing and braiding its own back hair!

"Mine is not one of those stupid affairs

That stands in a corner with what-nots and chairs,
And makes that dismal, headachy noise,
Which all the comfort of sewing destroys;
No rigid contrivance of lumber and steel,
But one with a natural spring in the heel.

"Mine is one of the kind to love,
And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove;
Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot,
And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot,

And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops,
With an indefinite number of hoops.

"None of your patent machines for me,
Unless Dame Nature is the patentee;
I like the sort that can laugh and talk,
And take my arm for an evening walk;
That will do whatever the owner may choose,
With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws!

"One that can dance, and possibly - flirt;
And make a pudding as well as a shirt -
One that can sing without dropping a stitch,
And play the housewife, lady, or witch
Ready to give the sagest advice,

Or to do up your collars and things so nice.

"What do you think of my machine?
A'n't it the best that ever was seen?
'Tis n't a clumsy, mechanical toy,

But flesh and blood! Hear that, my boy?
With a turn for gossip, and household affairs,
Which include, you know, the sewing of tears.

"Tut, tut, don't talk. I see it all

You need n't keep winking so hard at the wall:
I know what your fidgety fumblings mean:
You would like, yourself, a sewing-machine!
Well, get one, then - of the same design —
There were plenty left where I got mine!"

HOW THE MONEY GOES.

OW goes the money? Well,

HOW

I'm sure it is n't hard to tell;

It goes for rent and water-rates,

For bread and butter, coal and grates,
Hats, caps, and carpets, hoops and hose-
And that's the way the money goes!

How goes the money? Nay,
Don't everybody know the way?
It goes for bonnets, coats, and capes,
Silks, satins, muslins, velvets, crapes,
Shawls, ribbons, furs, and furbelows -
And that's the way the money goes!

How goes the money? Sure,

I wish the many ways were fewer;
It goes for wages, taxes, debts,
It goes for presents, goes for bets,
For paints, pomade, and eau-de-rose-
And that's the way the money goes!

How goes the money? Now,
I've scarce begun the mention how;

It goes for laces, feathers, rings,

Toys, dolls, and other baby-things,
Whips, whistles, candies, bells, and bows!
And that's the way the money goes!

How goes the money? Come,

I know it didn't go for rum;

It goes for schools and Sabbath chimes,
It goes for charity sometimes,

For missions and such things as those-
And that's the way the money goes!

How goes the money? There,
I'm out of patience, I declare;
It goes for plays and diamond pins,
For public alms and private sins,
For hollow shams and silly shows-
And that's the way the money goes!

A

THANKSGIVING DAY.

BRIGHT little damsel, dressed plainly and neat,
Came tripping along o'er the wet, miry street,
For November s first snow-gift was passing away
In the chemical change of a red-featured clay;
So she guarded her clothes with a housewifely care,
Still gliding ahead like a creature of air,
While every brisk nerve in her feet seem'd to say,
Going home, going home to keep Thanksgiving Day.

On her well-rounded arm a nice basket she bore,
With a present, perchance, of some delicate store;
For she poised it precisely, and peep'd now and then

Beneath its snug lid with a critical ken;

All was right, and 't would seem that her movements kept time

With the inward response of a musical chime,

For nothing that song of her spirit could stay,

Home, father and mother, and Thanksgiving Day.

Then on came the cars, with a whistle and din,
And light as a lark the young damsel leap'd in,
And I saw her no more, save a glimpse through the pane
Of a face that no evil had ventured to stain,
Surrounded by travellers, on business intent,
Some anxious, some weary, some feeble and bent,
Though mingled with others vociferous and gay,
In anticipation of Thanksgiving Day.

So Fancy her limning took up, and behold
A village sprang forth from her pencil of gold,
And a quaint, rural house 'mid its roof-trees arose,
Where a man and a woman, in Sabbath-day clothes,
Gazed forth from their gate o'er the hill-top so brown,
For their daughter to come from her work in the town,
And, lo! there she hastens, all smiling and gay,
To gladden their souls on this Thanksgiving Day.

O land of my birth! dear New England, the clime
Of pilgrims, and heroes, and sages sublime,
Whatever of change o'er thine annals may sweep
When we in thine elm-girdled bosom shall sleep,
To a love-lighted home, where the virtues preside,
And God is acknowledged as Ruler and Guide,
Still gather thine own, from their work or their play,
To this feast of the heart, old Thanksgiving Day.

THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.

I

CANNOT vouch my tale is true,

Nor say, indeed, 't is wholly new;
But true or false, or new or old,
I think you'll find it fairly told.
A Frenchman, who had ne'er before
Set foot upon a foreign shore,
Weary of home, resolved to go
And see what Holland had to show.
He didn't know a word of Dutch,

But that could hardly grieve him much;

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