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SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE PILGRIMS.

Edward Everett. METHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, adventurong Fessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown

I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but, brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I sce them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now driven in fury before ihe raging tempest, on the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing Hoods over the floating deck, and beats, with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, -weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile trites.

Shut, now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventious and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the house. less heads of women and children? was it liard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea ?-was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes that not all combines were able to blast this bud of THE GREAT BELL ROLAND.-By Theodore Tilton

TOLL! Roland, toll!
In old St. Bavon's tower,
At midnight hour,
The great bell Roland spoke!
All souls that slept in Ghent awoke!
What meant the thunder-stroke?
Why trembled wife and maid ?
Why caught each man his blade ?
Why echoed every street
With tramp of thronging feet?

All flying to the city's wall!

It was the warning call
T'hat Freedom stood in peril of a foe!

And even timid hearts grew bold
Whenever Roland tolled,
And every hand a sword' could liold!

So acted men

Like patriots then
Three hundred years ago!

Toll! Roland, toll!
Bell never yet was hung,
Between whose lips there swung
So grand a tongue !

If men be patriots still,

At thy first sound

True hearts will bound,

Great souls will thrill!
Then toll and strike the test
Through each man's breast,

Till loyal hearts shall stand confest, -
And may God's wrath smite all the rest!

Toll! Roland, toll!
Not now in old St. Bavon's tower
Not now at midnight hour-
Not now from River Scheldt to Zuyder Zee-

But here,—this side the sea !
Toll here, in broad, bright day!
For not by night awaits

Toll! Roland, toll !
Till cottager from cottage wall
Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun!
The sire bequeathed them to the son
When only half their work was done!

Toll! Roland, toll!
Till swords from scabbards leapı

Toll! Roland, toll!
What tears can widows weep
Less bitter than when brave men fall!

Toll! Roland, toll!
In shadowed hut and hall
Shall lie the soldier's pall,
And hearts shall break while graves are filled!

Amen! so God hath willed ! And

grace

anoint us all!

may His

Toll! Roland, toll!
The Dragon on thy tower
Stands sentry to this hour,
And Freedom so stands safe in Ghent,
And merrier bells now ring,
And in the land's serene content,
Men shout, “God save the King !"

Until the skies are rent!
So let it be!
A kingly king is he
Who keeps his people free!

Toll! Roland, toll!
Ring out across the sea !
No longer They, but We,
Have now such need of thee!

Toll! Roland, toll!
Nor ever may thy throat
Keep dumb.its warning note,
Till Freedom's perils be outbraved!

Toll! Roland, toll !
Till Freedom's flag, wherever waved,
Shall shadow not a man enslaved !

Toll! Roland, toll!
From northern lake to southern strand!

Toll! Roland, toll!
mul friend and foe at the command.

CATO'S SOLILOQUY.-- By Addison. It must be so.--Plato, thou reasonest well !Else, wlience this pleasing hope, this fond desire This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity !-thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before we; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us,And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works,-lle must delight in virtue; And that which He delights in must be happy. But when? or where? This world was made for Cesar. I'm weary of conjectures,-this must end them.

[Laying his hand on his sword.]

Thus ain I doubly arm’d. My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before nie.
This in a moment brings me to my end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amid the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE.

"THAT's the third umbrella cone since Christmas

That

windows? Nonsense, you don't impose upon me. You can't be itsleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you do hear it? Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me.

He return the umbrella? Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella! There do you hear it? Worse and worse! Cats and dogs, and for six weeks-always six weeks.

And no unibrella!

"I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They shan't go through such weather I'm deterinined. No! they shall stop at home and never learn anything-the blessed creatures !-sooner than go and get wet. And, when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing-who, indeed, but their father. People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.

“But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to. morrow,--you knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me, you hate to have me go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Candle. No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more. No: and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteenpence at least-sixteenpence?-two-and-eightpence, for there and back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em? I can't pay for 'em; and I'm sure you can't if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and beygaring your children--buying umbrellas!

"Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care-I'll go to mother's to-morrow, I will, and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way, -and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman; it's you that's a foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs; and, with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold-it always does. But, what do you care for that?

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