So let him lie here in our midst to-day, and let our people go and bend with solemn thoughtfulness and look upon his face and read the lessons of his burial. As he paused here on his journey from his Western home and told us what by the help of God he meant to do, so let him pause upon his way back to bis Western grave and tell us, with a silence more eloquent than words, how bravely, how truly, by the strength of God he did it. God brought him up as he brought David up from the sheepfolds to feed Jacob his people, and Israel his inheritance. He came up in earnestness and faith, and he goes back in triumph. As he pauses here to-day, and from his cold lips bids us bear witness how he has met the duty that was laid on him, what can we say out of our full hearts but this—"He fed them with a faithful and true heart, and ruled them prudently with all his power.” The Shepherd of the People! that old name that the best rulers ever craved. What ruler ever won it like this dead President of ours ? He fed us faithfully and truly. He fed us with counsel when we were in doubt, with inspiration when we sometimes faltered, with caution when we would be rash, with calm, clear, trustful cheerfulness through many an hour when our hearts were dark. He fed hungry souls all over the country with sympathy and consolation. He spread before the whole land feasts of great duty and devotion and patriotism on which the land grew strong. He fed us with solemn, solid truths. He taught us the sacredness of government, the wickedness of treason. He made our souls glad and vigorous with the love of Liberty that was in his. He showed us how to love truth and yet be charitable-how to hate wrong and all oppression, and yet not treasure one personal injury or insult. He fed all his people from the highest to the lowest, from the most privileged down to the most enslaved. Best of all, he fed us with a reverent and genuine religion. He spread before us the love and fear of God just in that shape in which we need them most, and out of his faithful service of a higher Master, who of us has not taken and eaten and grown strong ? “ fIe fed them with a faithful and true beart.” Yes, till the last. For at the last, behold him standing ith hand reached out to feed the South with Mercy and the North with Charity, and the whole land with Peace, when the Lord, who had sent him, called him and his work was done.


Tullymucclescrag, Parrish of Ballyraggett, near
Ballysluggathey, County of Kilkenny,

Ireland, Jinuary the 1tb. MY DEAR NEPHEW, I haven't sent ye a letther since the last time I wrote to ye, bekase we have moved from our former place of livin' and I didn't know where a letther would find ye; but I now with pleasure take up me pin to inform ye of the death of yer own livin' uncle, Ned Fitzpatrick, who died very suddenly a few days ago afther a lingerin' illress of six weeks. The poor fellow was in violent convulsions the whole time of his sickness, lyin' perfectly quiet, and intirely speechless-all the while talkin' incoherently, and cryin' for wather. I had no opportunity of informin' ye of his death sooner, except I wrote to ye by the last post, which same went off two days before he died; and then ye would have postage to pay. I'am at a loss to tell what his death was occasioned by, but I fear it was by his last sickness, for he was niver well ten days togither durin' the whole of his confinement; and I believe his death was brought about by bis aitin' too much of rabbit stuffed with pais and gravy, or pais and gravy stuffed with rabbit; but be that as it may, when he brathed his last, the docther gave up all hope of his recovery. I need'nt tell ye anything about his age, for ye well know that in June next he would have been just seventy-five years old lackin’ten months, and, had he lived till that time, would have been just six months

dead. His property now devolves to his next of kin, which all died some time ago, so that I expect it will be divided between us; and ye know his property, which was very large, was sold to pay his debts, and the remainder he lost at a horse race; but it was the opinion of ivery body at the time that he would bave won the race if the baste he run aginst had'nt been too fast for him.

I niver saw a man in all my life, and the docthers all said so, that observed directions or took medicine betther than he did. He said he would as leve dhrink bitter as sweet if it had only the same taste, and ipecakana as wkisky-punch if it would only put him in the same humor for fightin'. But, poor sowl! he will niver ate or dhrink any more, and ye hav’nt a livin' relation in the world except meself and yer two cousins who were kilt in the last war.

I can not dwell on the mournful subject any longer, and shall sale me letther with black salin'-wax, and put in it


uncle's coat-of-arms. So I beg ye not to brake the sale when ye open the lettber, and don't open it until two or three days afther ye resave this, and by that time ye will be well prepared for the sorrowful tidings. Yer old sweetheart sinds her love unknownst to ye. When Jarry McGhee arrives in America, ax him for this letther, and if he don't brung it from amongst tho rest, tell him it's the one that spakes about yer uncle's death, and saled in black. I remain yer affectionate ould grandmother,

BRIDGET O’HOOLEGOIN. P. S.-Don't write till ye resave this.

N. B.—When yez come to this place, stop, and don't rade any more until my next.


With Farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she lis neice. He often look'd at them,
And often thouglit “I'll make them man and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,
And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day
When Allan call'd his son, and said, “My so
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die :
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora; take her for your wife ;
For I have wished this marriage, night and day
For many years.” But William answer'd short:
“I can not marry Dora; by my life,
I will not marry Dora." T'ben the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said,
“You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus !
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so shall it be now for me. Look tó it:
Consider, Willian : take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish,
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
And never more darken my doors again."
But William answered madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he looked at her
The less he liked her; and bis ways were harsh ;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His neice and said, “My girl I love you well;
But if you speak with him that was my son,
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law.''
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
“It can not be; my uncle's mind will change !"

And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William ; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he passed his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest-time he died.

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Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said, “I have obeyed my uncle until now, And I have sinned, for it was all through me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake,-the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when liis heart is glad of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off, the farmer came into the field And spied her not; but none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart failed her; and the reapers reapod, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his lat, To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then, when the farmer passed into the field, He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said, “Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, “This is William's child !" “And did I not,” said Allan, “did I not Forbid you, Dora ?” Dora said again, “Do with me as you will, but take the child, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone !" Aud Allan said, “I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you ! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more.'

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her bands, And the boy's cry came to lier from the field, More and more distant. She bowed down her head,

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