SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE PILGRIMS. Edward Everett. METHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. 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 the 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 floods 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 tribes. 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 conventions 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 houseless heads of women and children? was it hard 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 combined, were able to blast this bud of hope! Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious! 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! Why trembled wife and maid? With tramp of thronging feet? All flying to the city's wall! And every hand a sword could hold! Like patriots then Three hundred years ago! Toll! Roland, toll! Bell never yet was hung, If men be patriots still, True hearts will bound, Till loyal hearts shall stand confest,- 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 A noble foe without the gates, But perjured friends within betray, And do the deed at noon! Toll! Roland, toll! Thy sound is not too soon! To arms! Ring out the leader's call! Till every hero's breast Shall swell beneath a soldier's crest! Toll! Roland, toll! Till cottager from cottage wall Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun! Till swords from scabbards leap! What tears can widows weep Less bitter than when brave men fall! 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 may His grace anoint us all! 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!" So let it be! A kingly king is he Who keeps his people free! 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 flag, wherever waved, From northern lake to southern strand! Till friend and foe, at thy command, Toll! Roland, toľ`↓ CATO'S SOLILOQUY.-By Addison. IT must be so.-Plato, thou reasonest well!— Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Eternity-thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! Through all her works,-He must delight in virtue; But when? or where? This world was made for Cresar. Thus ain I doubly arm'd. My death and life, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE. "THAT'S the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold? Indeed! He does not look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taker cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And, as I am alive, if it isn't Saint Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the You can't windows? Nonsense, you don't impose upon me. be asleep 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 umbrella! "I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They shan't go through such weather. I'm determined. 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. 66 But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's tomorrow, 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. Caudle. 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-eight pence, 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 beggaring 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? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent your umbrella for. Of course. Nice clothes, I shall get too, trapesing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoilt, quite. Needn't I wear 'em then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows, it isn't often that I step over the |