But let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayer of both should not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has his own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offences, for it must needs be that offences come; but woe unto that man by whom the offence cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of these offences, which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through his appointed time, he now wills to remove, and that he gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty Scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, that the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. With malice towards none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on, to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wound, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations. TIM TUFF.-EDWARD CAPERN. Did you ever hear tell of old Timothy Tuff, And the bargain he struck with Sir Peregrine Muff? If not, give an ear, and you'll very soon smile At a very sharp trick of a cunning old file. Our Tim was a very good fellow, they say, For making a "deal" in his own sort of way; So placid in manner, so smooth-tongued and civil, No matter whatever the business or job, Tim's conscience, you see, seldom knew any twitches, Not pleased with one chin, Timmy always showed two; At a very long credit, if rumor be true. Now Tim was not short, and Tim was not tall, No giant in girth, and yet not very small; A very long coat 'neath a very broad hat, Tim "chopped" an old "kicker," and made his man pay. Sir Peregrine Muff was out riding one day, On a sweet little pony, a dark colored bay; With a sugar-loaf hat, and a vest of bright yellow, And a pair of "white ducks," when he met with the fellow. Tim saw, by Sir Peregrine's cut of the coat, And the tuft that he wore on his chin, Eke a goat, By the rings on his fingers, his necktie and pin, So, eying Sir Peregrine Muff for a while, “Good mornin', yer honor," said Tim, with a smile. Sir Peregrine made him a very low bow, And asked him the price of his "nwice-wooking cwow." "I'm twi'd of this pwony," Sir Peregrine said, "And I think I sha' kweep a mwilch cwow in his stwead. What mwilk will she gwive neow, a-day, if I shwop?" "Eight quarts," chuckled Tim, "ef he gees orra drop." Sir Peregrine thought, as he looked at each feature, If he would but agree then and there on the road. And," greedily eying a silver-knobbed whip, And the crittur is yours, and as cheap as the 'groot.' The bargain was struck, and away galloped Tim, You'll mwilk her each mworn and you'll mwilk her each eve DEAD IN THE STREET. Under the lamp-light, dead in the street, There she lies, Face to the skies, Starved to death in a city of plenty. That life has something divine and holy. Boasted charms, classical brow, Look at her lips, - -once they could smile; A blush shall bring to the saintliest face. And yet, despite of all, still I ween Has stooped to finger the dainty curl; A blessing for her, his darling girl. Joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, Fancy will picture a home afar, Out where the daisies and buttercups are, Far from those sodden streets, foul and low; And an aged couple, dead to mirth. Or lying awake o' nights to hark For things that may come in the rain and dark,- Better they never know She whom they cherished so Dead in the street. MOTHER AND POET.-ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. LAURA SAVIO, OF TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861. Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, - Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud, by that test. What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings; to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little; to sew by degrees And broider the long clothes and neat little coat; To teach them. . It stings there! I made them, indeed, The tyrant cast out. And when their eyes flashed . . O my beautiful eyes! . . At first happy news came-in gay letters, moiled Then was triumph at Turin. Ancona was free! And some one came out of the cheers in the street, I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime |