his country, and is respectful and amenable to its authori ties. Such, my friends, is what the reflecting portion of mankind has always thought upon the subject of honor. This was the honor of the Greek; this was the honor of the Roman: this the honor of the Jew; this the honor of the Gentile; this, too, was the honor of the Christian, until the superstition and barbarity of Northern devastators darkened his glory and degraded his character.

Man, then, has not power over his own life; much less is he justified in depriving another human being of life. Upon what ground can be who engages in a duel, through the fear of ignominy, lay claim to courage? Unfortunate delinquent! Do you not see by how many links your victim was bound to a multitude of others? Does his vain and idle resignation of his title to life absolve you from the enormous claims which society has upon you for his services, his family for that support, of which you have robbed them, without your own enrichment? Go, stand over that body; call back that soul which you have driven from its tenement; take up that hand which your pride refused to touch, not one hour ago. You have, in your pride and wrath, usurped one prerogative of God— You have inflicted death. At least, in mercy, attempt the exercise of another; breathe into those distended nos trils, let your brother be once more a living soul! Merciful Father! how powerless are we for good, but how mighty for evil! Wretched man! he does not answer,— he cannot rise. All your efforts to make him breathe are vain. His soul is already in the presence of your common Creator. Like the wretched Cain, will you answer, "Am I my brother's keeper?" Why do you turn away from the contemplation of your own honorable work? Yes, go as far as you will, still the admonition will ring in your ears: It was by your hand he fell! The horrid instrument of death is still in that hand, and the stain of blood upon your soul. Fly, if you will,-go to that house which you have filled with desolation. It is the shriek of his widow, they are the cries of his children,-the broken sobs of his parent;-and, amidst the wailings, you distinctly hear the voice of imprecation on your own guilty head! Will your honorable feelings be content with this? Have you now had abundant and gentlemanly satisfaction?

DD*

PETER'S RIDE TO THE WEDDING.

PETER would ride to the wedding-he would,
So he mounted his ass-and his wife
She was to ride behind, if she could,
"For," says Peter, "the woman, she should
Follow, not lead through life."

"He's mighty convenient, the ass, my dear,
And proper and safe-and now

You hold by the tail, while I hold by the ear,
And we'll ride to the kirk in time, never fear,
If the wind and the weather allow."

The wind and the weather were not to be blamed,
But the ass had adopted the whim,

That two at a time was a load never framed

For the back of one ass, and he seemed quite ashamed That two should stick fast upon him.

"Come, Dobbin," says Peter, "I'm thinking we'll trot.' "I'm thinking we won't," says the ass,

In language of conduct, and stuck to the spot
As if he had shown he would sooner be shot
Than lift up a toe from the grass.

Says Peter, says he, "I'll whip him a little,”"Try it, my dear," says she,

But he might just as well have whipped a brass kettle; The ass was made of such obstinate mettle

That never a step moved he.

"I'll prick him, my dear, with a needle," said she,
"I'm thinking he'll alter his mind,"

The ass felt the needle, and up went his heels;
"I'm thinking," says she, "he's beginning to feel
Some notion of moving-behind."

"Now lend me the needle and I'll prick his ear,
And set t'other end, too, agoing."

The ass felt the needle, and upward he reared;
But kicking and rearing was all, it appeared,
He had any intention of doing.

Says Peter, says he, "We get on rather slow;
While one end is up t'other sticks to the ground;
But I'm thinking a method to move him I know,
Let's prick head and tail together, and so

Give the creature a start all around."

So said, so done; all hands were at work,
And the ass he did alter his mind,
For he started away with so sudden a jerk,
That in less than a trice he arrived at the kirk,
But he left all his lading behind.

THE PHANTOM ISLES.-JOHN MONSELL

In the Bay of New York there are many small islands, the frequent resort of summer pleasure-parties. One of the dangers haunting these scenes of amusement is that high tides often cover the islands. The incidents recorded In the following lines actually took place under the circumstances mentioned, and the entire change in the heart and life of the bereaved father makes the simple story as instructive as it is interesting and touching.

THE Phantom Isles are fading from the sea;

The groups that thronged them leave their sinking shores; And shout and laugh, and jocund catch and glee

Ring through the mist, to beat of punctual oars, Through the gray mist that comes up with the tide, And covers all the ocean far and wide.

Of the gay revellers one child alone

Was wanting at the roll's right merry call;
From boat to boat they sought him; he was gone,
And fear and trembling filled the hearts of all;
For the damp mist was falling fast the while,
And the sea, rising, swallowing up each isle.

The trembling father guides the searching band,
While every sinew, hope and fear can strain,
Is stretched to bring the quiv'ring boat to land,
And find the lost one,-but is stretched in vain :
No land they find, but one sweet call they hear,
'Steer this way, father! this way, father dear !”

That voice they follow, certain they have found,
But vainly sweep the waters o'er and o'er;
The whisp'ring waves have ceased their rippling sound:
Their silence telling they have lost their shore:
Yet still the sweet young voice cries loud and clear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear !"

Onward they rush, like those who in the night
Follow the phantom flame, but never find;
Now certain that the voice has lead them right,
Yet the next moment hearing it behind;
But wrapt in gurgling, smothered sounds of fear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear!"

The night is spent in vain-no further cry

Cheers them with hope, or wilders them with fear; With breaking morning, as the mists sweep by, They can see nothing but wide waters drear; Yet ever in the childless father's ear

Rings the sad cry, "Steer this way. father dear !"

And on through life, across its changeful tide,

Where many a doubtful course before him lay,
That sweet young voice did help him to decide,
When others strove to lure his bark astray;
Calling from beaven, in accents soft and clear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear !"

Until there at length-drawn upward to the land
Where is no more sorrow, no more sea:
Cheering him brightly from its crystal strand
Into the haven where his soul would be;
These its last whispers in his dying ear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear !”

HOTSPUR'S DEFENCE.-SHAKSPEARE

My liege, I did deny no prisoners,

But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd,
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home-;
He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and thumb he held
A pouncet-box which ever and anon

He gave his nose, and took 't away again ;

Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,

Took it in snuff;-and still he smil'd and talk'd; And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He called them-taught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holyday and lady termis

He question'd me; among the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what;

He should, or he should not;-for he made me mad,

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds (God save the mark !), And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, disjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answer'd indirectly, as I said;

And I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation,

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

VALUE OF REPUTATION.-CHARLES PHILLIPS.

WHO shall estimate the cost of a priceless reputation,that impress which gives this human dross its currency, -without which we stand despised, debased, depreciated? Who shall repair it injured? Who can redeem it lost? Oh, well and truly does the great philosopher of poetry esteem the world's wealth as "trash" in the comparison. Without it, gold has no value; birth, no distinction; sta tion, no dignity; beauty, no charm; age, no reverence;— without it every treasure impoverishes, every grace deforms, every dignity degrades, and all the arts, the decorations, and accomplishments of life stand, like the beacon-blaze upon a rock, warning the world that its approach is dangerous,-that its contact is death.