ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS.

C. F. BROWN.

"MR. SHAKER," sed I, "you see before you a Babe in the Woods, so to speak, and he axes a shelter of you." "Yay," sed the Shaker, and he led the way into the house, another bein sent to put my horse and wagon un der kiver.

A solum female, lookin somewhat like a last year's bean-pole stuck into a long meal-bag, cum in and axed me was I athirst and did I hunger? To which I asserted, "A few." She went orf, and I endeavored to open a conversation with the old man.

"Elder, I spect," sed I.

"Yay," he said.

"Health's good, I reckon?" "Yay."

"What's the wages of a Elder, when he understands his bizness or do you devote your sarvices gratooitous?"

"Yay."

"Storm nigh, sir?"

"Yay."

"If the storm continues there'll be a mess underfoot, hay?”

'Yay."

"If I may be so bold, kind sir, what's the price of that pecooler kind of wesket you wear, includin trimmins?" "Yay."

"I pawsed a minit, and then, thinkin I'd be faseshus with him and see how that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, burst into a hearty larf, and told him that as a yayer he had no living ekel.

He jumped up as if bilin water had been squirted into his ears, groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the realin and sed:

"You're a man of sin!"

He then walked out of the room.

Directly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty It is troo they was drest in meal-bags like the old one I'd met previsly, and

and slick lookin galls as I ever met.

their shiny, silky hair was hid from sight by long, white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear; but their eyes sparkled like diamonds, their cheeks was like roses, and they was charmin enuff to make a man throw stuns at his grandinother, if they axed him to. They commenst clearing away the dishes, casting shy glances at me all the time. I got excited. I forgot Betsey Jane in my rapter, and sez I,

"My pretty dears, how air you?"

"We air well," they solumly sed.

"Where is the old man?" said I, in a soft voice. "Of whom dost thou speak-Brother Uriah?"

"I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls me a man of sin. Should'nt wonder if his name was'nt Uriah."

"He has retired."

"Wall, my pretty dears," sez I, "let's have some fun. Let's play puss in the corner. What say ?"

"Air you a Shaker, sir?" they asked.

"Wall, my pretty dears, I haven't arrayed my proud form in a long weskit yet, but if they wus all like you perhaps I'd jine 'em. As it is, I am willing to be Shaker protemporary."

They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they was a little skeery. I tawt 'em puss in the corner, and sich like plase, and we had a nice time, keepin quiet of course, so that the old man should'nt hear. When we broke up, sez I:

"My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections have you? to a innersent kiss at partin?" "Yay," they said, and I-yayed."

DEATH OF AN INEBRIATE.

RAISE me up gently-there

Oh! give a breath of the pure, cold air;
I am dying at last-

I am going so fast

But no one will care how soon I am cold

They will hurry me under the damp, dark mould,

And "only a pauper," they'll say as they pass,
"Another poor wretch is buried; alas!
That all were not lying beneath the sod
Who set at naught the great laws of God."

Bring water I pray ;

I drank nothing else in my childhood's day-
How it ran by our door!

How it leaped on the shore!

Oh! why did I drink from the poisoned bowl
That has wrecked my life and ruined my soul?
That has laid in the grave my lovely wife,
And filled my life with bitterest strife?

Why are you here? Can you say me a prayer?
Do you think I can find forgiveness up there?

What a wretch I have been !

None but God knoweth how great is my sin;
But the bowl I've forsook-.

Have you 'mong you a book

The book that tells of the "prodigal son ?"
Ah! the life that God gave me is almost gone-
The shadows are deepening, my eyes are dim-
I have heard your prayer and beautiful hymn;
I may be forgiven-God knows alone-

I shall trust and hope to behold his throne.

I am going-good bye!

No one loves me down here--I hope that on Ligh
My pure wife waits for me

By the great crystal sea

She loved me till death, so true was her heart—
'Twill be sweet thus to meet her, never to part,
Where no tempter can come, on a glorified shore:
My life has been bitter-I'm glad 'tis most o'er.
Your faces look sad-Oh! strive ye to save

Some youth from despair and a vile drunkard's grave.

THE VISION OF IMMORTALITY.-E. P. WESTON.

I WHO essayed to sing, in earlier days,

The Thanatopsis and The Hymn to Death,
Wake now the Hymn to Immortality!

Yet once again, oh! man, come forth and view
The haunts of nature; walk the waving fields,
Enter the silent groves, or pierce again

The depths of the untrodden wilderness.

And she shall teach thee. Thou hast learned before
One lesson-and her Hymn of Death hath fallen
With melancholy sweetness on thine ear,

Yet she shall tell thee with a myriad tongue
That life is there-life in uncounted forms—
Stealing in silence through the hidden roots,
In every branch that swings-in the green leaves
And waving grain, and the gay summer flowers
That gladden the beholder. Listen now,
And she shall teach thee that the dead have slept
But to awaken in more glorious forms-
And that the mystery of the seed's decay
Is but the promise of the coming life.
Each towering oak that lifts its living head
To the broad sunlight, in eternal strength,
Glories to tell thee that the acorn died.

The flowers that spring above their last year's grave
Are eloquent with the voice of life and hope—
And the green trees clap their rejoicing hands,
Waving in triumph o'er the earth's decay!
Yet not alone shall flower and forest raise
The voice of triumph and the hymn of life.
The insect brood is there :-each painted wing
That flutters in the sunshine, broke but now
From the close cerements of a worm's own shroud,
Is telling, as it flies, how life may spring
In its glad beauty from the gloom of death

Where the crushed mould beneath the sunken foot
Seems but the sepulchre of old decay;

Turn thou a keener glance, and thou shalt find
The gathered myriads of a mimic world.
The breath of evening and the sultry morn
Bears on its wing a cloud of witnesses

That earth from her unnumbered caves of death
Sends forth a mightier tide of teeming life;
Raise then the Hymn to Immortality!
The broad green prairies and the wilderness,
And the old cities where the dead have slept,
Age upon age, a thousand graves in one,
Shall yet be crowded with the living forms
Of myriads, waking from the silent dust.

Kings that lay down in state, and earth's poor slaves,
Resting together in one fond embrace,

The white-haired patriarch and the tender babe,
Grown old together in the flight of years;
They of immortal fame and they whose praise
Was never sounded in the ears of men,-
Archon and priest, and the poor common crowd,-
All the vast concourse in the halls of death,-

Shall waken from the dreams of silent years
To hail the dawn of the immortal day.

Aye, learn the lesson! Though the worm shall be
Thy brother in the mystery of death,

And all shall pass, humble and proud and gay
Together, to earth's mighty charnel-house,
Yet the immortal is thy heritage!

The grave shall gather thee: yet thou shalt come,
Beggar or prince, not as thou wentest forth,
In rags or purple, but arrayed as those
Whose mortal puts on immortality!

Then mourn not when thou markest the decay
Of nature, and her solemn hymn of death
Steals with a note of sadness to thy heart.
That other voice, with its rejoicing tones,

Breaks from the mould with every bursting flower,
"O grave! thy victory!" And thou, oh, man!
Burdened with sorrow at the woes which crowd
Thy narrow heritage, lift up thy head
In the strong hope of the undying life,
And shout the Hymn to Immortality.
The dear departed that have passed away
To the still house of death, leaving thine own,
The gray-haired sire that died in blessing thee,
Mother, or sweet-lipped babe, or she who gave
Thy home the light and bloom of Paradise,-
They shall be thine again, when thou shalt pass
At God's appointment, through the shadowy vale,
To reach the sunlight of the Immortal Hills.
And thou that gloriest to lie down with kings,
Thine uncrowned head no lowlier than theirs,
Seek thou the loftier glory to be known

A king and priest to God!-when thou shalt pass
Forth from these silent halls to take thy place
With patriarchs and prophets and the blest
Gone up from every land to people heaven.
So live, that when the mighty caravan.

Which halts one night-time in the vate of Death,
Shall strike its white tents for the morning march,
Thou shalt mount onward to the Eternal Hills,
Thy foot unwearied, and thy strength renewed
Like the strong eagle's for the upward flight!