PETER'S RIDE TO THE WEDDING.

Peter would ride to the wedding,-he would,
So he mounted his ass-and his wife
She was to ride behind, if she could;
"For," says Peter, "the woman, she should
Follow, not lead through life.

"He's mighty convenient, the ass, my dear,
And proper and safe-and now

You hold by the tail, while I hold by the ear,
And we'll ride to the kirk in time, never fear,
If the wind and the weather allow.”

The wind and the weather were not to be blamed,
But the ass had adopted the whim

That two at a time was a load never framed

For the back of one ass, and he seemed quite ashamed That two should stick fast upon him.

"Come, Dobbin," says Peter, " I'm thinking we'll trot." "I'm thinking we wont," says the ass,

In language of conduct, and stuck to the spot
As if he had shown he would sooner be shot
Than lift up a toe from the grass.

Says Peter, says he, "I'll whip him a little,-"

But he might just as well have whipped a brass kettle; The ass was made of such obstinate mettle

That never a step moved he.

"I'll prick him, my dear, with a needle," said she,
"I'm thinking he'll alter his mind."

The ass felt the needle, and up went his heels;
"I'm thinking," says she, "he's beginning to feel
Some notion of moving-behind.”

"Now lend me the needle and I'll prick his ear,
And set t'other end, too, a-going."

The ass felt the needle, and upward he reared;
But kicking and rearing was all, it appeared,
He had any intention of doing.

Says Peter, says he, " We get on rather slow;

While one end is up t'other sticks to the ground;

But I'm thinking a method to move him I know,
Let's prick head and tail together, and so

Give the creature a start all around."

So said, so done; all hands were at work,
And the ass he did alter his mind,
For he started away with so sudden a jerk,
That in less than a trice he arrived at the kirk,
But he left all his lading behind.

THE PHANTOM ISLES.-JOHN MONSELL.

In the Bay of New York there are many small islands, the frequent resort of summer pleasure-parties. One of the dangers haunting these scenes of amusement is that high tides often cover the islands. The incidents recorded in the following lines actually took place under the circumstances mentioned, and the entire change in the heart and life of the bereaved father makes the simple story as instructive as it is interesting and touching.

The Phantom Isles are fading from the sea;

The groups that thronged them leave their sinking shores; And shout and laugh, and jocund catch and glee

Ring through the mist, to beat of punctual oars, Through the gray mist that comes up with the tide, And covers all the ocean far and wide.

Of the gay revelers one child alone

Was wanting at the roll's right merry call;
From boat to boat they sought him; he was gone,
And fear and trembling filled the hearts of all;
For the damp mist was falling fast the while,
And the sea, rising, swallowing up each isle.

The trembling father guides the searching band,
While every sinew hope and fear can strain
Is stretched to bring the quiv'ring boat to land,

And find the lost one--but is stretched in vain,
No land they find, but one sweet call they hear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear!"

That voice they follow, certain they have found,
But vainly sweep the waters o'er and o'er;
The whisp'ring waves have ceased their rippling sound,
Their silence telling they have lost their shore :
Yet still the sweet young voice cries loud and clear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear!"

Onward they rush, like those who in the night
Follow the phantom flame, but never find;
Now certain that the voice has led them right,
Yet the next moment hearing it behind;
But wrapt in gurgling, smothered sounds of fear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear!"

The night is spent in vain; no further cry

Cheers them with hope, or wilders them with fear;
With breaking morning, as the mists sweep by,
They can see nothing but wide waters drear;
Yet ever in the childless father's ear

Rings the sad cry, “Steer this way, father dear!”
And on through life, across its changeful tide,

Where many a doubtful course before him lay,
That sweet young voice did help him to decide
When others strove to lure his bark astray;
Calling from heaven, in accents soft and clear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear!
Until, at length, drawn upward to the land

Where there is no more sorrow, no more sea,
Cheering him brightly from its crystal strand
Into the haven where his soul would be,-
These its last whispers in his dying ear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear!"

HOTSPUR'S DEFENCE.-Shakspeare.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners,

But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and thumb he held

A pouncet-box which ever and anon

He gave his nose, and took 't away again;-
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff;-and still he smiled and talked;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He called them-untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me; among the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answered neglectingly, I know not what;

He should or he should not ;-for he made me mad

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman

Of guns, and drums, and wounds (God save the mark!),
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was,

That villanous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, disjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said;
And I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

VALUE OF REPUTATION.-CHARLES PHILLIPS.

Who shall estimate the cost of a priceless reputation,-that impress which gives this human dross its currency; without which we stand despised, debased, depreciated? Who shall repair it injured? Who can redeem it lost? Oh, well and truly does the great philosopher of poetry esteem the world's wealth as "trash" in the comparison. Without it, gold has no value; birth, no distinction; station, no dignity; beauty, no charm; age, no reverence. Without it every treasure impoverishes, every grace de forms, every dignity degrades, and all the arts, the decorations, and accomplishments of life, stand, like the bea

con-blaze upon a rock, warning the world that its ap proach is dangerous, that its contact is death.

The wretch without it, is under eternal quarantine,-no friend to greet, no home to harbor him. The voyage of his life becomes a joyless peril; and in the midst of all ambition can achieve, or avarice amass, or rapacity plunder, he tosses on the surge,-a buoyant pestilence. But, let me not degrade into selfishness of individual safety or individual exposure this universal principle; it testifies a higher, a more ennobling origin.

It is this which, consecrating the humble circle of the hearth, will at times extend itself to the circumference of the horizon, which nerves the arm of the patriot to save his country; which lights the lamp of the philosopher to amend man; which, if it does not inspire, will yet invigorate the martyr to merit immortality; which when one world's agony is passed, and the glory of another is dawning, will prompt the prophet, even in his chariot of fire, and in his vision of heaven, to bequeath to mankind the mantle of his memory!

O divine, O delightful legacy of a spotless reputation! Rich is the inheritance it leaves; pious the example it testifies; pure, precious, and imperishable, the hope which it inspires! Can there be conceived a more atrocious injury than to filch from its possessor this inestimable benefit, to rob society of its charm, and solitude. of its solace; not only to outlaw life, but to attaint death, converting the very grave, the refuge of the sufferer, into the gate of infamy and of shame!

I can conceive few crimes beyond it. He who plunders my property takes from me that which can be repaired by time; but what period can repair a ruined reputation? He who maims my person, affects that which medicine may remedy; but what herb has sovereignty over the wounds of slander? He who ridicules my poverty, or reproaches my profession, upbraids me with that which industry may retrieve, and integrity may purify; but what riches shall redeem a bankrup