And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands,
llung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands;
And sang, “ Ilurrah for Tubal Cain !
Our stanch good friend is he;
And, for the ploughshare and the plough,
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword.”

MRS. CAUDLE’S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS.

Douglas Jerrold. THIERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you need n't begin to whistle : people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you ; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living : now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest ? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long : it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it is n't often I open my mouth, goodness knows !

Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear ? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what your do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wer'nt you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is ; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that. It's a pity you hav’nt something worse to complain of try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves : a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but hei husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd never tie theniselves up to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? - Why, do much better without you, lam certain.

And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about.Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt ; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd.

However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love ; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons ! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.

THE MANTLE OF ST. JOIN DE MATHA.

John G. Whittier.

A LEGEND OF

TUS RED, WHITE, AND BLUE." A. D. 1154-1864.

A strong and mighty Angel,

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,

“Wear this,” the Angel said; “Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign

The white, the blue, and red.” Then rose up John de Matha

In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of Frauce

The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle

Before him open flew,
The drawbridge at his coming fell,

The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand,

And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant

Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis,

His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven score Christian souls

Whose ransom he had paid.
But, torn by Paynim hatred,

Her sails in tatters huny;
And on the wild waves rudderless,

A shattered hulk she swung.
“God save us !" cried the captain,

For naught can man avail: 0, woe betide the ship that lacks

Her rudder and her sail !

“ Behind us are the Moormen;

At sea we sink or stran: There's death upon the water,

There's death upon the land !" Then up spake John de Matha :

“God's errands never fail ! Take thou the mantle which I wear,

And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle,

The blue. the white the red:

"God help us !" cried the seamen,

"For vain is mortal skill; The good ship on a stormy sea

Is drifting at its will."
Then up spake John de Matha:

‘My mariners, never fear! The Lord whose breath has filled her sail

May well our vessel steer !"
So on through storm and darkness

They drove for weary hours ;
And lo! the third gray morning shone

On Ostia's friendly towers.
And on the walls. the watchers

The ship of mercy knewThey knew far ofl'its holy cross,

The red, the white, the blue.
And the bells in all the steeples

Rang out in glad accord,
To welcome home to Christian soil

The ransomed of the Lord.

So runs the ancient legend

By bard and painter told ; Aud lo ! the cycle rounds again,

The new is as the old ! With rudder foully broken,

And sails by traitors torn, Our country on a midnight sea

Is waiting for the morn.
Before her, nameless terror ;

Behind, the pirate foe;
The clouds are black above her,

The sea is white below.

The hope of all who suffer.

Is not your sail the banner

Which God hath blest anew,
The mantle that de Matha wore,

The red, the white, the.blue ?
Its hues are all of heaven-

The red of sunset's dye,
The whiteness of the moonlit cloud,

The blue of morning's sky.
Wait cheerily, then, O mariners,

For daylight and for land;
The breath of God is on your sail,

Your rudder in His hand.

Sail on, sail on, deep freighted

With blessings and with hopes ;
The saints of old with shadowy bands

Are pulling at your ropes.
Behind ye, boly martyrs

Uplift the palm and crown;
Before ye, unborn ages send

Their benedictions down.

Take heart from John de Matha !

God's errands never fail ! Sweep on through storm and darkness,

The thunder and the hail !
Sail on! The morning cometh,

The port ye yet shall win ;
And all the bells of God shall ring

The good ship bravely in !

A

PSALM OF LIE

H W Loncif.71