be sure, is to convince, but more to persuade; and, most of all, to inspire with noble and generous passions. It is the cant of criticism, in all ages, to make a distinction between logic and eloquence, and to stigmatize the latter as declamation. Logic ascertains the weight of an argument, eloquence gives it momentum. The difference is between the vis inertiæ of a mass of metal, and the same ball hurled from the cannon's mouth. Eloquence is an argument alive and in motion, the statue of Pygmalion inspired with vitality.

YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL."-W. S. GILBERT.

"Twas on the shores that round the coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone, on a piece of stone,
An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,

And I heard this wight on the shore recite
In a singular minor key:

“Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And a mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

Till I really felt afraid,

For I couldn't help thinking the man had been

drinking,

And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
How you can possibly be

"At once a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trowsers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:

""Twas on the good ship Nancy Bell,
That we sailed to the Indian sea,
And there on a reef we came to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all of the crew was drowned,
(There was seventy-seven o' soul,)

And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here!' to the muster roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And the bo'sun tight, and the midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;

Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, Which

of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,

And the cook he worshipped me;

But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

In the other chap's hold, you see.

"I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom;

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,

'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I,

And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can and will-cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt

And the pepper in portions true,

(Which he ne'er forgot,) and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too.

"Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,

Which his smiling features tell,

"Twill soothing be if I let you see

How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round,

And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,

And as I eating be

The last of his chops, why I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see.

"And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark nor play;
But I sit and croak, and a single joke
I have, which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!'"

THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH.*

JoHN H. YATES.

Well, wife, I've found the model church—I worshipped there to-day!

It made me think of good old times before my hair was

gray.

*See "The Old Man in the Stylish Church," No. 6, page 42.

The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years

ago,

But then I felt when I went in it wasn't built for show.

The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door;

He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor;
He must have been a Christian, for he led me through
The long aisle of that crowded church, to find a place and
pew.

I wish you'd heard that singin'-it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice, “Let all the people sing!

The tune was Coronation, and the music upward rolled,

Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire;

I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir,

And sang as in my youthful days, "Let angels prostrate fall, Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all.”

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore;

I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form,
And anchor in the blessed port forever from the storm.

The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell all the preacher said;
I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read;
He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye
Went flashin' along from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner
by.

The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple gospel truth;
It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth.
Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed;
'Twas full of invitations to Christ, and not to creed.

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews;
He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews,
And-though I can't see very well-I saw the falling tear
That told me hell was someways off, and heaven very near.

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face!

RR*

Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shail meet with friend,

"Where congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end."

I hope to meet that minister-thát congregation too—

In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue.

I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening gray,
The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day.

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory be won;
The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run.
O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore
To shout our sate arrival where the weary weep no more.

NOW.

Arise! for the day is passing
While you lie dreaming on;
Your brothers are cased in armor,
And forth to the fight are gone;
Your place in the ranks awaits you;
Each man has a part to play;
The past and the future are nothing
In the face of the stern to-day.

Arise from your dreams of the future,
Of gaining a hard-fought field,
Of storming the airy fortress,
Of bidding the giant yield;
Your future has deeds of glory,
Of honor; (God grant it may!)
But your arm will never be stronger,
Or needed as now,-to-day.

Arise! If the past detain you,

Her sunshine and storm forget;
No chains so unworthy to hold you
As those of a vain regret;

Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever;
Cast her phantom arms away,
Nor look back, save to learn the lesson
Of a nobler strife to-day!