"ARE YOU A MASON?"

Rev. Mr. Magill, Rector of St. Paul's Church, Peru, Illinois, being asked the above question by a lady, responded as follows:

I am of a band

Who will faithfully stand

In the bonds of affection and love;
I have knocked at the door,
Once wretched and poor,

And there for admission I strove.

By the help of a friend,
Who assistance did lend,
I succeeded an entrance to gain;
Was received in the West,
By command of the East,
But not without feeling some pain.

Here my conscience was taught
With a moral quite fraught
With sentiments holy and true;
Then onward I traveled,
To have it unraveled,
What Hiram intended to do.

Very soon to the East

I made known my request,

And "light" by command did attend;
When lo! I perceived,

In due form revealed,

A Master, and Brother, and Friend.

Thus far I have stated

And simply related

What happened when I was made free;
But I've "passed" since then,

And was "raised" up again
To a sublime and ancient degree.

Then onward I marched,

That I might be “arched,"
And find out the treasures long lost;
When behold! a bright flame,
From the midst of which came
A voice which my ears did accost.

Through the "veils" I then went,
And succeeded at length

The "Sanctum Sanctorum" to find;

By the "Signet " I gained,
And quickly obtained

Employment, which suited my mind.

In the depths I then wrought,
And most cheerfully sought
For treasures long hidden there;
And by labor and toil

I discovered rich spoil,

Which are kept by the craft with due care.

Having thus far arrived,

I further contrived

Among valiant Knights to appear;

And as Pilgrim and Knight

I stood ready to fight,

Nor Saracen foe did I fear.

For the widow distressed
There's a chord in my breast;
For the orphan and helpless I feel;
And my sword I could draw
To maintain the pure law
Which duty the Masons reveal.

Thus have I revealed
(Yet wisely concealed,)

What the "free and accepted" well know;
I am one of the band

Who will faithfully stand

As a brother, wherever I go.

ORATORY AND THE PRESS.-DANIEL DOUgherty.

The grand days of oratory are gone forever. It is not improbable that the teeming future may give birth to those whose resplendent genius will deservedly rank them among the immortals of the past. Certain it is that Oratory can

never be lost while Liberty survives.

Twin born with Freedom, then with her took breath,

That art whose dying will be Freedom's death.

But for all this, the glory, the pride, and the power of the orator have passed away. In the lassical commonwealth

of old, the aspirations of the patricians were for oratory or arms, and not a few, like Cæsar, excelled in both. The Senate convened or the people met in grand assembly to hear discussed the weighty questions affecting the welfare of the State. There the orator appeared. His whole brain and soul were bent on moving those whom he addressed-he had no thoughts beyond. If others disputed, it brought into play the highest flights of rival genius. Eschines, contesting with Demosthenes, called forth the "Oration on the Crown." The orators then were the leaders of the nation, the directors of public opinion, the controllers of legislation, the arbiters of peace or war. At home they were the idols of the people,-abroad they were the guests of kings. They were the marked men of the world.

But in these latter days there has risen a power mightier than an army of orators; a power that has dwarfed their genius, destroyed their influence, and lowered them to the level of ordinary mortals; a power that can banish kings, destroy dynasties, revolutionize governments, embroil nations in triumphant or disastrous wars, and for good or ill is changing the aspect of the civilized world. The glory of the orator sank when the printing press arose. The orator, at

best, can speak to thousands; the press to hundreds of thousands. The orator speaks rarely; the press every day. The orator may, at the choicest moment, fail from ill health or one of many causes; the press, free from all the ills that flesh is heir to, moves on its mission with the facility, power, and precision of machinery. The orator may move an audience; the press can arouse a nation. The speech dies with the sounds that give it birth; the press lives forever on the imperishable page. The orator now addresses himself less to the audience of the evening than to the world of readers of the next morning.

Let us hope that the press may be faithful, pure, devoted to truth, right, justice, freedom, and virtue, as the orators have been. The orators-let me repeat it to their immortal honor-could never be silenced by the frowns of power, or bribed to desert a noble cause. They dared, they defied tyranny, and preferred death to dishonor. If the press gloat in licentiousness; if it stoop to strike the private man; if it

expose to the public gaze the sacred privacy of homes; if it violate all decency in thrusting gentle woman to the gossips of the town; if it catch at idle rumor or envious tongues to malign the innocent; if it can be bribed to suppress the truth, or circulate the falsehood; if it shield the public wrong-doer, and denounce the faithful public servant; if it pander to the base passion of the populace-then we may grieve that this great engine should work such mischief to society.

If, on the other hand, its mission be to disseminate intelligence and truth, to educate the masses to be faithful to their country and just to their fellow-men, to expose with an unsparing hand to public execration the corrupt legisla tor or the unjust judge; if it be honestly independent instead of timidly neutral in all that concerns the city and State; if it lift up modest and true worth and hurl down brazen infamy; if all its aims be the public good, the honor of the nation, and the glory of God-then we may be well reconciled that the days of oratory are over.

"Loud as a scandal on the ears of town,

And just as brief the orator's renown;

Year after year debaters blaze and fade,

Scarce marked the dial e'er depart the shade.
Words die so soon when fit but to be said,
Words only live when worthy to be read."

THE PICTURE.

Matches are made for many reasons

For love, convenience, money, fun, and spite;
How many against common sense are treasons!
How few the happy pairs who match aright!
In the fair breast of some bewitching dame,
How many a youth will strive fond love to waken
And when, at length, successful in his aim,

Be first mis-led, and afterwards mis-taken!
Then curse his fate, at matrimony swear,
And, like poor Adam, have a rib to spare!
How many ladies,-speculating dears!--
Will make six matches in so many years,

So fast, sometimes, the amorous gudgeons bite;
Others, like bungling housemaids in the dark,
Will fret and fume, and lose full many a spark,
And never, never get a match to light,—

Nor think their want of skill the job could hinder,
But lay the fault upon the plaguy tinder.

Old men young women wed-by way of nurses;
Young men old women-just to fill their purses:
Nor young men only-for 'tis my belief

(Nor do I think the metaphor a bold one,)
When folks in life turn over a new leaf,
Why very few would grumble at a gold one!

A worthy knight, yclept Sir Peter Pickle,

By love was made to look exceeding glumpy;
The maid whose charms had power his heart to tickle,
Was Miss Cordelia Carolina Crumpy;

This said Sir Peter was, as you shall hear,

Although a knight, as poor as any poet:

But handsome as Apollo Belvidere,

And vain Sir Peter seemed full well to know it. No wonder, then, that Miss Cordelia Crumpy Could not unmoved hear such a lover sue; Sweet, sympathetic maiden, fat and stumpy,

Green-eyed, red-haired, and turned of sixty-two!

But tell me, Muse, what charm it was could tickle
The once invincible Sir Peter Pickle:

Was it her eyes-that, so attached to one day,
Looked piously seven different ways for Sunday?
Was it her hump, that had a camel suited?

Her left leg, bandy?--or her right, club-footed?

Or nose, in shape so like a liquor funnel?

Or mouth, whose width might shame the Highgate tunnel? Was it the beauties of her face combined

A face-(since similes I have begun on,)

Not like a face that I can call to mind,

Except the one beneath the Regent's cannon?
No, gentle friends; although such beauties might
Have warmed the bosom of an anchorite,

The charm that made our knight all milk and honey
Was that infallible specific-Money'

Peter, whom want of brass had made more brazen,

In moving terms began his love to blazon:

Sigh after sigh in quick succession rushes,
Nor are the labors of his lungs in vain;

Her cheek soon crimsons with consenting blushed
Red as a chimney-pot just after rain!