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Then up sprang Appius Claudius: “Stop bim, alive oi dead!
Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings lis

He looked upon his clients,—but none would work his will;
He looked upon liis lictors, -- but they trembled and stood still.
And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left;
And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,
And there ta’en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done ir

T. B. Macaulay.

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Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant,

Away in the sunny clime ?
By humble growth of a hundred years

It reaches its blooming time;
And then a wondrous bud at its crown

Breaks into a thousand flowers;
This floral queen, in its blooming seen,

Is the pride of the tropical bowers;
But the plant to the flower is a sacrifice,
For it blooms but once, and in blooming dies.

Have you further heard of this Aloe plant,

That grows in the sunny clime,
Ilow every one of its thousand flowers,

As they drop in the blooming time,
Is an infant plant, that fastens its roots

In the place where it falls on the ground;
And, fast as they drop from the dying stem,

Grow lively and lovely around?
By dying it liveth a thousand fold
In the young that spring from the death of the old.

Have you heard the tale they tell of the swan,

The snow-white bird of the lake?
It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave,

It silently sits in the brake;
For it saves its song till the end of life,

And then, in the soft, still even,
Mid the golden light of the setting sun,

It sings as it soars into heaven.
And the blessed notes fall back from the skies;
'Tis its only song, for in singing it dies.

You have heard these tales; shall I tell you one,

A greater and better than all?
Have you heard of him whom the heavens adore;

Before whom the hosts of them fall?
How lie left the cloirs and anthems above,

For earth in its wailings and woes,
To suffer the shame and pain of the cross,

And die for the life of his foes?
O prince of the noble! O suferer divine!
What sorrow and sacrifice equal to thino!

Have you heard this tale,--tlie best of them all,

The tale of the Holy and True?
He dies, but his life, in untold souls,

Lives on in the world anew.
His seed prevails, and is filing the earth,

As the stars fill the sky above;
He taught us to yield up the love of life,

For the sake of the life of love.
His death is our life, lis loss is our gain,
The joy for the tear, the peace for the pain.

Now hear these tales, ye weary and worn,

Who for others do give up your all; Our Saviour hath told you the seed that would gi0w,

Into cartli's dark bosom must fall, -
Must pass from the view, and die away,

And then will the fruit appear;
The grain, that seems lost in the carth below,

Will return many fold in the ear.
By death comes life, by loss comes gain;
The joy for the tear, the peace for the pain.


Sitting in my humble doorway,

Gazing out into the niglit,
Listening to the stormy tumult

With a kind of sad delight,

Wait I for the loved who comes not,

One whose step I long to licar,
One who, though he lingers from me,

Still is dearest of the dear.

Soft! he comes,-now licart be quick,

Leaping in triumphant pride;-
Oh! it is a stranger footstep',

Gone by on the other side.

All the night seems filled with weeping,

Winds are wailing mournfully,
And the rain-tears together

Journey to the restless sea.

I can fancy, sea, your murmur,

As they with your waters flow,
Like the griefs of single beings

Making up a nation's woe.

Branches, bid your guests be silent;

Hush a moment, fretful rain;
Breeze, stop sigling; —let me listen,

God grant not again in vain!

In my cheek the blood is rosy,

Like the blushes of a bride.
Joy! Alas! a stranger footstep

Goes by on the other side.

Ah! how many wait forever

For the steps that do not comel
Wait until the pitying angels

Bear them to a peaceful home.

Many, in the still of midnight,

In the streets have lain and died, While the sound of human footsteps

Went by on the other side.


Now, Mr. Caudle,-Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; There's an end of the marriage state, I think,—an end of all confidence between man and wife, --if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudie, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still, -not that I care much about it,--still, I should like to know.

There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Jír. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?

And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say-you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion,—not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to bimself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason, when he keeps a secret that sets bim and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be al. lowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason, when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.

Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute !—yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creatur, when you might oblige me, and you won't.

I'm sure I i don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle;

I dare say it's a very good thing; Í dare say it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me, you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Candle. D. Jerrold.


Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;
And, from its station in the hall,
An ancient time-piece says to all,


Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands,
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk wlio, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,


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