The crisis through which this reform is passing will do good. It will make known its friends, and unmask its foes. The concussions above and around us will purify the atmosphere: and when the clouds have parted and melted away, we shall breathe purer air and behold sunnier skies.

We know not, indeed, what is ahead; what desertion of apparent friends may occur; what temporary defeat we may have to bear; nor against what intrigues we may be called upon to guard. For one, I count on the opposition of parties. I anticipate the double-dealing of political leaders. The cause more than once may be betrayed into the hands of its foes; more than once be deserted by those who owe to it whatever of prominence they have. But these reflections do not move me. They stir no ripple of fear on the surface of my hope. No good cause can ever be lost by the faithlessness of the unfaithful; no true principle of government overthrown by the opposition of its enemies; nor the progress of any reform, sanctioned by God and promotive of human weal, long retarded by any force or combination which can be marshaled against it. Over throne and proud empires the gospel has marched, treading bayonets, and banners, and emblems of royalty proudly under its feet; and out of that gospel no principle or tendency essential to the kingdom that is yet to be established on the earth can be selected so weak or so repugnant to fallen men as not to receive, ere the coming of that kingdom, its triumphant vindication. On this rock I plant my feet, and from its elevation contemplate the future, as a traveler gazes upon a landscape waving in golden-headed fruitfulness underneath the azure of a cloudless sky.

HOW TO CURE A COUGH.

One Biddy Brown, a country dame,
As 'tis by many told,

Went to a doctor-Drench by name-
For she had caught a cold.

And sad, indeed, was Biddy's pain,
The truth must be confest,

Which she to ease found all in vain,
For it was at her chest.

The doctor heard her case—and then,
Determined to assist her,
Prescribed-oh! tenderest of men,
Upon her chest a blister!

Away went Biddy, and next day
She called on Drench again.
"Well, have you used the blister, pray,
And has it eased your pain?"

"Ah, zur," the dame, with curtsey cries,
"Indeed, I never mocks;

But, bless ye! I'd no chest the size,
So I put it on a box.

"But la! zur, it be little use,

It never rose a bit;

And you may see it if you choose,

For there it's sticking yet!"

O'CONNELL'S HEART.-A. H. DORSEY.

The last words of this great and extraordinary man were, "My body to Iro land, my heart to Rome, and my soul to God."

Bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

That heart of a nation which pulsates no more,
The fount that gushed ever with Freedom's high lore.

Through years over Erin it brooded and wept,

It watched while she slumbered, and prayed when she slept, And the Saxon raged on that their chains had not crushed The faith of a nation whose harp they had hushed.

Bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

It was broken at last when the famine-plague's glaive
And the spade turned the shamrock in grave after grave;
When the angels of God turned weeping away

From the want-stricken earth and its famishing clay,
And the wail of the dying arose from the sod-
The dying, those martyrs to faith and their God-
Came like the wild knell of his hope's fairest day,
Is it strange that its life-tide ebbed quickly away?

Bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

O God! how it struggled to burst the vile chain
That fettered thee, Erin, but struggled in vain!
How humble to God! to the Saxon what scorn!

To thy friends true and loving, thy foes proud and stern!
How strong, like a barrier of angels it stood,

Crying, "Justice! we struggle for justice, not blood!"
And in Christ's holy name chided back the mad throngs
Who, indignant, were thirsting for blood for their wrongs.

Bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

From Erin's sad sunset to Italy's light,

Where the sunshine of glory hath sprung from the night,
Where the golden-eyed spirit of Freedom's new birth,
Aroused by a voice which thrills o'er the earth,
Will with the fair angels keep vigils around thee,
Rejoicing that, freed from the fetters that bound thee,
Released from its anguish, its watchings, its weeping,
It rests far above where its ashes are sleeping.

Yes; bear it on tenderly,
Slowly and mournfully!

From Lough Foyle's dark waters to Shannon's broad waves, To the rough Munster coast which the ocean tides lave, Comes a sad note of wailing; it swells like the sea,

It sounds from the hill-tops, it shrieks o'er the lea!

O Erin! O Erin! what crime hast thou done,

That the light should be blotted away from thy sun,
Thy faith be downtrodden, thy blessings all flee,

And thy sons and thy daughters be martyred with thee?

Bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

Where sleep the apostles, where martyred saints rest,
Lay it tenderly down near the shrines of the blest;
For the spirit that lit up its casket of clay
Hath gone with the lustre of faith round its way,
Appealing before the tribunal of Heaven,

O Erin! for thee that thy chains may be riven,

And the day hasten on when the Saxon shall wonder,
And flee from the wrath of its answering thunder.

I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES.-W. HOYLE.

"Twas in the flow'ry month of June,
The sun was in the west,

When a merry, blithesome company
Met at a public feast.

Around the room rich banners spread,
And garlands fresh and gay;
Friend greeted friend right joyously
Upon that festal day.

The board was filled with choicest fare;
The guests sat down to dine;

Some called for "bitter," some for "stout,"
And some for rosy wine.

Among this joyful company,

A modest youth appeared;

Scarce sixteen summers had he seen,
No specious snare he feared.

An empty glass before the youth
Soon drew the waiter near.

"What will you take, sir?" he inquired,
"Stout, bitter, mild, or clear?

"We've rich supplies of foreign port,
We've first-class wine and cakes."

The youth with guileless look replied,

66

I'll take what father takes.”

Swift as an arrow went the words

Into his father's ears,

And soon a conflict deep and strong
Awoke terrific fears,

The father looked upon his s071,
Then gazed upon the wine,

Oh God! he thought, were he to taste,
Who could the end divine!

Have I not seen the strongest fall,

The fairest led astray?

And shall I on my only son

Bestow a curse this day?

No; heaven forbid! "Here, waiter, bring

Bright water unto me.

My son will take what father takes:

My drink shall water be."

HOW MR. COVILLE COUNTED THE SHINGLES ON HIS HOUSE.-JAMES M. BAILEY.

There are men who dispute what they do not understand. Mr. Coville is such a man. When he heard a carpenter say that there were so many shingles on the roof of his house, because the roof contained so many square feet, Coville doubted the figures; and, when the carpenter went away, he determined to test the matter, by going up on the roof and counting them. And he went up there. He squeezed through the scuttle-Coville weighs 230-and then sat down on the roof, and worked his way carefully and deliberately toward the gutter. When he got part way down, he heard a sound between him and the shingles, and became aware that there was an interference, some way, in further locomotion. He tried to turn over and crawl back, but the obstruction held him. Then he tried to move a little, in hopes that the trouble would prove but temporary, but an increased sound convinced him that either a nail or a sliver had hold of his cloth, and that if he would save any of it, he must use caution. His folks were in the house, but he did not make them hear, and besides he didn't want to attract the attention of the neighbors. So he sat there until after dark, and thought. It would have been an excellent opportunity to have counted the shingles, but he neglected to use it. His mind appeared to run in other channels. He sat there an hour after dark, seeing no one he could notify of his position. Then he saw two boys approaching the gate from the house, and reaching there, stop. It was light enough for him to see that one of the two was his son, and although he objected to having the other boy know of his misfortune, yet he had grown tired of holding on to the roof, and concluded he could bribe the strange boy into silence. With this arrangement mapped out, he took his knife and threw it so that it would strike near to the boys and attract their attention. It struck nearer than he anticipated. In fact, it struck so close as to hit the strange boy on the head, and nearly brained him. As soon as he recovered his equilibrium, he turned on Coville's boy, who, he was confident, had attempted to kill him, and