with a boot in his hand. But she recovered her wits, and he recovered his. He said to me, "You wouldn't think I had a wife and child?" "Well, I shouldn't." "I have, and—God bless her little heart-my little Mary is as pretty a little thing as ever stepped," said the "brute." I asked, "where do they live?" "They live two miles away from here." "When did you see them last?" "About two years ago." Then he told me his story. I said, "you must go back to your home again." "I mus'nt go back—I won't ---my wife is better without me than with me! I will not go back any more; I have knocked her, and kicked her, and abused her; do you suppose I will go back again?" I went to the house with him; I knocked at the door and his wife opened it. "Is this Mrs. Richardson?" "Yes, sir." "Well, that is Mr. Richardson. And Mr. Richardson, that is Mrs. Richardson.

Now come into the house."

They went in. The wife sat on one side of the room and the "brute" on the other. I waited to see who would speak first; and it was the woman. But before she spoke she fidgetted a good deal. She pulled her apron till she got hold of the hem, and then she pulled it down again. Then she folded it up closely, and jerked it out through her fingers an inch at a time, and then she spread it all down again; and then she looked all about the room and said, "Well, William?" And the "brute" said, "Well, Mary?" He had a large handkerchief round his neck, and she said, "You had better take the handkerchief off, William; you'll need it when you go out." He began to fumble about it. The knot was large enough; he could have untied it if he liked; but he said, "Will you untie it, Mary?" and she worked away at it; but her fingers were clumsy, and she couldn't get it off; their eyes met, and the lovelight was not all quenched; she opened her arms gently and he fell into them. If you had seen those white arms clasped about his neck, and he sobbing on her breast, and the child looking in wonder first at one and then at the other, you would have said "It is not a brute; it is a man, with a great, big, warm heart in his breast."

XXIII.

THE ADMISSION OF CALIFORNIA.

W. H. SEWARD.

A year ago, California was a mere military dependency of our own, and we were celebrating with unanimity and enthusiasm its acquisition, with its newly-discovered but yet untold and untouched mineral wealth, as the most auspicious of many and unparalleled achievements.

To-day, California is a State, more populous than the least and richer than several of the greatest of our thirty States. This same California, thus rich and populous, is here asking admission into the Union, and finds us debating the dissolution of the Union itself.

No wonder if we are perplexed with ever-changing embarrasments! No wonder if we are appalled by ever-increasing responsibilities! No wonder if we are bewildered by the ever-augmenting magnitude and rapidity of national vicissitudes!

SHALL CALIFORNIA BE RECEIVED? For myself, upon my individual judgment and conscience, I answer, Yes. For myself, as an instructed representative of one of the States, of that one even of the States which is soonest and longest to be pressed in commercial and political rivalry by the new commonwealth, I answer, Yes. Let California come in. Every new State, whether she come from the East or from the West, every new State coming from whatever part of the continent she may, is always welcome. But California, that comes from the clime where the west dies away into the rising east; California, which bounds at once the empire and the continent; California, the youthful queen of the Pacific, in her robes of freedom, gorgeously inlaid with gold-is doubly welcome.

Let, then, those who distrust the Union make compromise to save it. I shall not impeach their wisdon, as I certainly cannot their patriotism; but, indulging no such apprehensions myself, I shall vote for the admission of California directly, without conditions, without qualifications, and without compromise.

For the vindication of that vote I look not to the verdict of the passing hour, disturbed as the public mind now is by conflicting

interests and passions, but to that period, happily not far distant, when the vast regions over which we are now legislating shall have received their destined inhabitants.

While looking forward to that day, its countless generations seem to me to be rising up and passing in dim and shadowy review before us; and a voice comes forth from their serried ranks, saying, “ Waste your treasures and your armies, if you will; raze your fortifications to the ground; sink your navies into the sea; transmit to us even a dishonored name, if you must; but the soil you hold in trust for us —give it to us free. You found it free, and conquered it to extend a better and surer freedom over it. Whatever choice you have made for yourselves, let us have no partial freedom; let us all be free; let the reversion of your broad domain descend to us unincumbered, and free from the calamities and the sorrows of human bondage."

XXIV.

POOR LITTLE JIM.

1. The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean,
But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean;
The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild,
As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child:
A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim:
It was a collier's wife and child, they called him little Jim.

2. And oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek,
As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak,
Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life;
For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife.
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed,
And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead.

3. She gets her answer from the child: soft falls the words from him, "Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim,

I have no pain, dear mother, now, but 0! I am so dry,

Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you cry."

With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip;

He smiled to thank her, as he took each little, tiny sip.

4. "Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night to him,

And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor little Jim!

She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so dear,
Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear:
The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard,
The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word.

5. He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead,

He took the candle in his hand and walked towards the bed;
His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal,
And see, his wife has joined him-the stricken couple kneel:
With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of Him,
In heaven, once more, to meet again their own poor little Jim.

XXV.

THE LITTLE ORATOR. a

Pray how should I, a little lad,

In speaking make a figure?

e You're only joking, I'm afraid-
Do wait till I am bigger.

d But, since you wish to hear my part,
And urge me to begin it,

e I'll strive for praise with all my heart,
Though small the hope to win it.

I'll tell a tale, f how farmer John
A little roan colt bred, sir,
And every night and every morn,
He watered and he fed, sir.

g Said neighbor Joe to farmer John,
"Ar'n't you a silly dolt, sir,

To spend such time and care upon

A little, useless colt, sir?

a This is the best selection we have ever seen for a child to begin with. He can recite it and retain his childish simplicity, which is much to be desired. b Give this line with double gesture, palms up. c Right hand extended to the teacher. d Return the attention to the audience. e Right hand raised to the temples or the region of the heart. f Gesticulate to the right or left. Change position; step forward or to one side; raise the voice, and do not fail to be animated in the personation; one voice for Joe, and one for John. It will not be difficult for a child to give these voices, if he will change pitch and force.

Said farmer John to neighbor Joe,
"I bring my little roan up,

Not for the good he now can do,

But will do, when he's grown up."

The moral you can well espy,

To keep the tale from spoiling, h The little colt, you think, is I— I know it by your smiling.

¿ And now, my friends, please to excuse
My lisping and my stammers;

I, for this once, have done my best,
j And so I'll make my manners.

XXVI.

LIBERTY AND THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.

COL. E. D. BAKER -1861.

Sir, the liberty of the press is the highest safeguard to all free government. Ours could not exist without it. It is like a great, exulting and abounding river. It is fed by the dews of heaven, which distil their sweetest drops to form it. It gushes from the rill, as it breaks from the deep caverns of the earth. It is augmented by a thousand affluents, that dash from the mountain top, to separate again into a thousand bounteous and irrigating streams around. On its broad bosom it bears a thousand barks. There genius spreads its purpling sail. There poetry dips its silver oar. There art, invention, discovery, science, morality, religion, may safely and securely float. It wanders through every land. It is a genial, cordial source of thought and inspiration, wherever it touches, whatever it surrounds. Upon its borders, there grows every flower of grace, and every fruit of truth. Sir, I am not here to deny that that river sometimes oversteps its bounds. I am not here to deny

ħ With a smile and gesture to himself; pause after “I." i Both hands extended. j As the last line is uttered, the lad may step back and with a bow on "manners," retire.