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ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS.

THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES.

An incident of the Flood in Massachusetts on May 16, 1874.

BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

No song of a soldier riding down to the raging fight from Winchester town; no song of a time that shook the earth with the nation's throb at a nation's birth; but the song of a brave man, free from fear as Sheridan's self or Paul Revere; who risked what they risked, free from strife and its promise of glorious pay - his life.

The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, and the answering echoes of life are heard; the dew still clings to the trees and grass, and the early toilers smiling pass, as they glance aside at the white-walled homes, or up the valley where merrily comes the brook that sparkles in diamond rills as the sun comes over the Hampshire hills.

What was it, that passed like an ominous breath? Like a shiver of fear or a touch of breath? What was it? The valley is peaceful still, and the leaves are afire on the top of the hill; it was not a sound nor a thing of sense but a pain, like the pang of the short suspense that wraps the being of those who see at their feet the gulf of Eternity? The air of the valley has felt the chill; the workers pause at the door of the mill; the housewife, keen to the shivering air, arrests her foot on the cottage stair, instinctive taught by the mother-love, and thinks of the sleeping ones above.

Why start the listeners? Why does the course of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse? Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say, that

gallop so wildly Williamsburg way?

God! what is that, like a human shriek from the winding valley? Will nobody speak? Will nobody answer those women who cry as the awful warnings thunder by?

Whence come they? Listen! And now they hear the sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near; they watch the trend of the vale and see the rider who thunders so menacingly.

With waving arms, and warning scream, to the home-filled banks of the valley stream, he draws no rein, but shakes the street with a shout

and the ring of the galloping feet, and this the cry that he flings to the wind: “To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!”

He cries and is gone; but they know the worst- the treacherous Williamsburg dam has burst! The basin that nourished their happy homes is changed to a demon-It comes! It comes!

A monster in aspect, with shaggy form of shattered dwellings, to take the brunt of the dwellings they shatter-white-maned and hoarse.

The merciless terror fills the course of the narrow valley, and rushing raves, with Death on the first of its hissing waves, till cottage and street and crowded mill are crumbled and crushed.

But onward still, in front of the roaring flood is heard the galloping horse and the warning word. Thank God, that brave man's life is spared! From Williamsburg town he nobly dared to race with the flood and to take the road in front of the terrible swath it mowed. For miles it thundered and crashed behind, but he looked ahead with a steadfast mind; "They must be warned!" was all he said, and away on his terrible ride he sped.

When heroes are called for, bring the crown to this Yankee rider; send him down on the stream of time with the Curtius old; his deed as the Roman's was brave and bold, and the tale can as noble a trill awake, for he offered his life for the people's sake.-Boston Pilot.

PRESIDENT BATEMAN'S ADDRESS TO THE
GRADUATING CLASS, 1877.

KNOX COLLEGE.

You have successfully and honorably completed the courses of study prescribed in Knox College, and have received the customary testimonials of diligence, good conduct and scholarship.

Your college days are ended. This day divides, as no other day has done, the past from the future of your lives. You linger here a few moments, in the blended light of memory and hope, ere you gird yourselves for the toils and conflicts that remain.

One narrow sea you have already safely crossed. The voyage you are soon to begin will only end when the heaving sea of life itself shall have been traversed, and the anchor falls upon the solemn shores of the Silent Land.

What that voyage shall be-whether prosperous or disastrous whether, as one by one you near those outer shores, the light of heaven shall fall upon your faces, the music of heaven upon your ears, and the peace and joy of heaven upon your hearts; or darkness and fear shall be round about you,- none of these friends, no, not the tenderest and dearest, can tell. God knoweth.

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But this we know: It will depend upon yourselves you make of the gifts and powers you possess choose and towards which you work- upon the worthiness of your aims and purposes in life. upon your fidelity to the immutable principles of rectitude— upon your wakeful attention and loyalty to the voice and regency of conscience, as enlightened and quickened by the word and spirit of God—upon your cordial love, belief and practice of the truth, as it is in Jesus.

I am persuaded that you need not that I should admonish you touching any of these things. Again and again have they, I am sure, been impressed upon you by these faithful teachers, more forcibly and tenderly than any words of mine can do.

You have laid a few foundations in science and learning-only that. But I am sure they are good foundations, and well laid. The superstructure is yet to be reared thereon, and it doth not yet appear what that shall be. It will depend upon you. You can make it strong and beautiful. Let me entreat you to build thereon a goodly temple, even the fabric of a manly, symmetrical, christian character · the fairest, most precious and enduring moral structure beneath the stars.

The world is waiting for you. It has need of you- sore need of you, every one, and for all your gifts and culture and power. It has a place, too, for each of you. It may not be an exalted or a conspicuous place; the acclaim and plaudits of men may not await you; not a name in this dear class of '75 may ever be known to fame, or live on the historic page; not one of you may ever achieve what men call greatness.

But in the sight of God, of angels and of all good men, there is a greatness which you, and each of you, may surely attain; there are honors which you may win, the lustre of which will remain when coronets and crowns and the heads that wear them are alike in the dust, and the sheen of their jewels is extinguished forever; there are garlands for you that will abide in perennial freshness and beauty when the academic laurel shall have withered, and the amaranth shall have lost its fabled immortality - there are songs for you, the melody of which will linger in tremulous sweetness and pathos in your hearts, when all mortal minstrelsy shall cease to ravish the ear.

Is this fancy? Say I too much? Not so.

It is simply the greatness of a good and true life—a life that the poorest and humblest may live; a life that bravely and patiently stands in its lot, be it lofty or lowly; that gratefully accepts and wisely uses whatever of earthly good Providence bestows; that makes the most and the best of passing opportunities, and finds its sure and sufficient reward in the consciousness of useful burdens cheerfully borne, and daily duties faithfully performed,—they are the honors that crown and glorify the memory of him who has helped to make the world sweeter and purer and

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