nauseous lore which has found men sick or left them so, since the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind.

No; these are trifles, compared with the merits which wise men concede to me-if not in my single self, yet as the representative of a class-of being the grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish, which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise, the cow shall be my great confederate. Milk and water! The ToWN PUMP and the Cow! Such is the glorious copartnership, that shall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea and coffee trade, and finally monopolize the whole business of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation! Then, Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding no hovel so wretched, where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then Disease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw its own heart, and die. Then Sin, if she do not die, shall lose half her strength. Until now, the phrensy of hereditary fever has raged in the human blood, transmitted from sire to son, and rekindled in every generation by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat of passion cannot but grow cool, and war -the drunkenness of nations-perhaps will cease. At least, there will be no war of households. The husband and wife, drinking deep of peaceful joy-a calm bliss of temperate affections shall pass hand in hand through life, and lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted close. To them, the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow the delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces shall express what their spirits were, and are to be, by a lingering smile of memory and hope.

Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to an unpractised orator. I never conceived, till now, what toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they shall have the business to themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir! My dear hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated by my instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor-casks into one great pile, and make a bonfire, in honor of the Town Pump. And, when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors, then, if you revere my memory, let a marble fountain, richly sculptured, take my place upon

the spot. Such monuments should be erected everywhere, and inscribed with the names of the distinguished champions of my cause. *

*

*

One o'clock! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins to speak, I may as well hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young girl of my acquaintance, with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband, while drawing her water, as Rachel did of old! Hold out your vessel, my dear! There it is, full to the brim; so now run home, peeping at your sweet image in the pitcher as you go; and forget not, in a glass of my own liquor, to drink-"SUCCESS TO THE TOWN PUMP!"

From Twice Told Tales.

SPRING.

Thank Providence for Spring! The earth-and man himself, by sympathy with his birth-place-would be far other than we find them, if life toiled wearily onward, without this periodical infusion of the primal spirit. Will the world ever be so decayed, that spring may not renew its greenness? Can man be so dismally age-stricken, that no faintest sunshine of his youth may revisit him once a year? It is impossible. The moss on our time-worn mansion brightens into beauty; the good old pastor, who once dwelt here, renewed his prime, regained his boyhood, in the genial breezes of his ninetieth spring. Alas for the worn and heavy soul, if, whether in youth or age, it have outlived its privilege of spring-time sprightliness! From such a soul, the world must hope no reformation of its evil-no sympathy with the lofty faith and gallant struggles of those who contend in its behalf. Summer works in the present, and thinks not of the future; Autumn is a rich conservative; Winter has utterly lost its faith, and clings tremulously to the remembrance of what has been; but Spring, with its outgushing life, is the true type of the Movement!

ISAAC M'LELLAN.

ISAAC M'LELLAN is a native of Portland, Maine, and was born about the year 1806. In early life, his father, Isaac M'Lellan, removed to

Boston, where for many years he was a prominent merchant, distinguished for his integrity and success in business. The son was prepared for college at Phillips Academy, Andover, and graduated at Bowdoin College in 1826. After receiving his degree, he returned to Boston, completed a course of legal study, and was admitted to practice in the courts of that city. But the Muses and general literature had more charms for him than clients and briefs, and for many years he contributed, both in prose and poetry, to several magazines and papers published in the city and vicinity, and had the editorial management of two or three of them. About the year 1840, he made a tour abroad, and passed about two years in Europe. On his return, he gave a description of his journeyings, in a series of letters published in the Boston Daily Courier. Since that period, he has been engaged chiefly in literary pursuits, and now resides in the city of New York.

Mr. M'Lellan's published works are, "The Fall of the Indian," in 1830; "The Year and other Poems," in 1832; and "Mount Auburn and other Poems," in 1843. Though the Muse of Mr. M'Lellan aims at no ambitious flight, yet in the middle region of the descriptive and the lyrical in which she delights chiefly to play, she moves with even and graceful wing, bearing such offerings as the following:

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.1

New England's dead! New England's dead!

On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle poured

Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New England sword

With slaughter deeply dyed.

Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,

By brook and river, lake and rill,

And by the roaring main.

"Mr. President: I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts: she needs none. There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves.-There is her history. The world know it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every State, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever." - Webster's Speech in Reply to Hayne, 1830.

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviours of the land!
O, few and weak their numbers were-
A handful of brave men;

But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.

The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,

To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?
And where are ye to-day?

I call the hills reply again

That ye have passed away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright,
Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;

An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away.

The celebrated Wilson, the ornithologist, requested that he might be buried near some sunny spot, where the birds would come and sing over his

In this dim, lonely grot,

No foot, intrusive, ever will be found,

But o'er me, songs of the wild bird shall sound,
Cheering the spot.

Not amid charnel stones

Or coffins dark, and thick with ancient mould,
With tattered pall, and fringe of cankered gold,
May rest my bones.

Year after year

Within the silver birch-tree, o'er me hung,
The chirping wren shall rear her callow young,
Shall build her dwelling near.

There, at the purple dawn of day,

The lark shall chant a pealing song above,
And the shrill quail, when the eve grows dim and gray,
Shall pipe her hymn of love.

The blackbird and the thrush,

And golden oriole, shall flit around,

And waken, with a mellow gush of sound,
The forest's solemn hush.

Birds from the distant sea

Shall sometimes hither flock, on snowy winds,
And soar above my dust in airy rings,
Singing a dirge to me.

WHAT IS LIFE?

What is Life?-a bubble dancing
On the sparkling fountain's brim,
Painted by the sunbeam glancing
O'er its evanescent rim.
Soon its soft reflected glories,
Images of colored skies,
Vanish-when the haze of evening
O'er the panorama dies.

Life, with all its bliss and troubles,
Melts like unsubstantial bubbles!

What is life?-a little journey,
Ending ere 'tis well begun;
"Tis a gay disastrous tourney,
Where a mingled tilt is run;