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aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! he feels it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished the deed is done! He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder; no eye has seen him; no ear has heard him; the secret is his own, and he is safe! Ah, gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake! Such a

secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe! Not to speak of that Eye which glance through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the splen

dor of

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The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hapless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim.

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depths of pain and height of passion,

For the fair disdainful dame.

But, O! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise!
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

DRYDEN.

THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY.”

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way

It ran a hundred years to a day,

And then, of a sudden, it Ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened, without delay
Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits-
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot-
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will
Above or below, or within or without-
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore

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(as Deacons do,

With an "I dew vum or an "I tell yeou") —

He would build one shay to beat the taown

'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';

It should be so built that it couldn't break daown:

"Fur," said the Deacon, "it's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain, 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,

Is only jest

To make that place uz strong uz the rest.”

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke
That was for spokes, and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood, to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;

The hubs from logs from the "Settler's ellum"
Last of its timber they couldn't sell 'em -

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Never an axe had seen their chips,

And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide,
Found in the pit where the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon,

Do! I tell

66 naow she'll dew!"

you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren

where were they?

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay,
As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake-day!

Eighteen hundred - it came, and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.

Eighteen hundred, increased by ten-
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came-
Running as usual much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive;

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Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

(This is a moral that runs at large:

Take it. You're welcome.

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No extra charge.)

First of November-the Earthquake-day.
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay-

But nothing local, as one may say.

There couldn't be · for the Deacon's art

Had made it so like in every part

That there wasn't a chance for one to start.

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring, and axle, and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.

"Huddup!" said the parson, Off went they,

At what the · Moses

The parson was working his Sunday text-
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
- First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill-
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock
Just the hour of the Earthquake-shock!

What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce.
How it went to pieces all at once

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O. W. HOLMES.

IRISH ALIENS AND ENGLISH VICTORIES.

even

I SHOULD be surprised, indeed, if, while you are doing us wrong, you did not profess your solicitude to do us justice. From the day on which Strongbow set his foot upon the shore of Ireland, Englishmen were never wanting in protestations of their deep anxiety to do us justice; Strafford, the deserter of the people's cause, the renegade Wentworth, who gave evidence in Ireland of the spirit of instinctive tyranny which predominated in his character, even Strafford, while he trampled upon our rights, and trod upon the heart of the country, protested his solicitude to do justice to Ireland! What marvel is it, then, that gentlemen

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