threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once-better, I should say. But, when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady. Ugh, that rain-if it isn't enough to break in the windows. "Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow. How I am to go to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But, if I dio I'll do it. No, sir, I won't borrow an umbrella. No; and you shan't buy one. Now, Mr. Caudle, only listen to this, if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it into the street. I'll have my own umbrella, or none at all. "Ha! and it was only last week I had a nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you, you can go to sleep. You've no thought of your poor patient wife and your own dear children. You think of nothing but lending umbrellas. 'Men, indeed!-call themselves lords of creation!—pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an unbrella! "I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you want; then you may go to your club, and do as you like-and then nicely my poor dear children will be used; but then, sir, then you'll be happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you never would have lent that umbrella! "You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and of course you can't go. No, indeed, you don't go without the umbrella. You may lose the debt for what I care-it won't be so much as spoiling your clothes-better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas. " And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella? Oh, don't tell me that I said I would go-that's nothing to do with it; nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her, and the little money we were to have we shan't have at all-because we've no umbrella. "The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet; for they shan't stay at home; they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't; you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school: mark that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault: I didn't lend the unbrella. Caudle, are you asleep? (A loud snore is heard.) Oh, what a brute a man is! Oh, dear, dear, d-e-a-r." ADDRESS TO THE SOLDIERS.-By Rev. Jacob M. Munning. SOLDIERS from the army and navy, once soldiers but now again citizens, we hail you to-day as our benefactors and deliverers. We welcome you home from the fatigues of the march, the wearisome camp, and the awful ecstacy of battle. Through four terrible years you have looked without quailing on the ghastly visage of war. You have patiently borne the heats of summer and the frosts of winter. You have cheerfully exchanged the delights of home for the hardships of the campaign or blockade. Not only the armed foe, but the wasting malaria has lurked along your resistless advance. You know the agony and the transport of the deadly encounter. How many times, standing each man at his post in the long line of gleaming sabres and bayonets, every hand clenched and every eye distended, you have caught the peal of your leader's clarion, and sprung through the iron storm to the embrace of victory! But all that has passed away. The mangled forests are putting on an unwonted verdure, the fields once blackened by the fiery breath of war are now covered with their softest bloom, and the vessels of commerce are riding on all the national waters. The carnage, the groans, the cries for succor, the fierce onset and sullen recoil, the thunders of the artillery, and the missiles screaming like demons in the air, have given way to pæans, civic processions and songs of thanksgiving. The flag of your country, so often rent and torn in your grasp, and which you have borne to triumph again and again, over the quaking earth or through the hurricane of death in river and bay, rolls out its peaceful folds above you, every star blazing with the glory of your deeds, in token of a nation's gratitude. We come forth to greet you-sires and matrons, young men and maidens, children and those bowed with age; to own the vast debt which we can never pay, and to say, from full hearts, we thank you, God bless you! But while we thus address you, you are thinking of the fallen. With a soldier's generosity you wish they could be here to share in the hard-earned welcome. Possibly they are here from many a grave in which you laid them after the strife; pleased with these festivities, and with the return of joy to the nation, but far above any ability of ours either to bless or to injure. You may tarnish your laurels, or an envious hand may pluck them from you. But your fallen comrades are exposed to no such accident. They are doubly fortunate, for the same event which crowned them with honor has placed them beyond the possibility of losing their crown. Many of them died in the darkest hours of the republic; others in the early dawn of peace, while the morning star? D were singing together. But victory and defeat make no differences among them now. They have all conquered in the final triumph. Their names will thrill the coming ages, as they are spoken by the tongues of the eloquent; and their deeds will forever be chanted by immortal minstrels. They were together “brave men, who repose in the public monuments, all of whom alike, as being worthy of the same honor, the country buried, not alone the successful or victorious; ny justly, for the duty of brave men done by all, their fortune being such as God assigned to each." "By fairy hands their knell is rung, THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG.-By Howard Glyndon, THE days of June were nearly done; Sang birds and children, "All is well!” Through Maryland's historic land, In Cumberland's romantic vale Was heard the plundered farmer's wail, With taunt and jeer, and shout and song, Through frightened Pennsylvania! The tidings startled hill and glen; The foe laughed out in open scorn; * * * * It was the languid hour of noon, In pleasant Pennsylvania! When, sudden o'er the slumbering plain, Beneath that curse of iron hail, That threshed the plain with flashing flail, Then, like a sudden summer rain, We felt the old ancestral thrill, From sire to son transmitted still, And fought for Freedom with a will, The breathless shock-the maddened toil- In bloody Pennsylvania! To westward fell the beaten foe; Sou'-westward, with the sinking sun, But ah! the heaps of loyal slain! Back, through the verdant valley lands, 35 THE SOLILOQUY OF ARNOLD.—By Rev. Edward C. Jones. When he was invested with the command of West Point by Wash. ington, General Arnold entered into a secret correspondence with Sir Henry Clinton, and agreed that he would make a disposition of his forces which would enable the British general to surprise the post under such circumstances that the garrison must either lay down their arms, or be cut to pieces. THE plan is fixed; I fluctuate no more Betwixt despair and hope. As leaves the shore And, therefore, to the strong I yield this heart and hand. What else befits me? I have misapplied The nation's funds, and ever gratified Each vaulting wish, tho' Justice wept the deed; I must have gold. How else the clamorous cry Of creditors appease, and satisfy Demands which haunt me more than dreams of blood, Go? And my path, though smooth, like Tartarus is dark. These rocky ridges, how they shelve on high, Yes, 'tis your own Gibraltar, Washington! With few sulphureous clouds to blot these azure skies. And yet a pang comes over me--I see |