his passions against his interests, and to prevail on him, in the name of liberty, to destroy all the fruits of liberty; in the name of patriotism, to injure and afflict his country; and in the name of his own independence, to destroy that very independence, and make him a beggar and a slave.

DANIEL WEBSTER.

SMALL BEGINNINGS.

A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time, to breathe its early vows;
And age was pleased, in heats of noon to bask beneath its boughs;
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern,

A passing stranger scooped a well, where weary men might turn,

He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink;

He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink.
He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new

A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true.

It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became

A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame.

The thought was small, its issue great; a watch-fire on the hill,

It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!

A nameless man amid a crowd that thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and love, unstudied, from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown,--a transitory breath,-
It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! () word of love! O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last.

CHARLES MACKAY,

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,

Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY,

THE VOLUNTEER'S WIFE.

"An' sure I was tould to come to your Honor,
To see if ye'd write a few words to me Pat.
He's gone for a soldier, is Misther O'Connor,
With a sthripe on his arm and a band on his hat.

"An' what'll ye tell him? It ought to be aisy

For sich as yer Honor to spake wid the pen,— Jist say I'm all right, and that Mavoorneen Daisy (The baby, yer Honor,) is betther again.

"For when he went off it's so sick was the childer
She never held up her blue eyes to his face;
And when I'd be cryin' he'd look but the wilder,
An' say, ‘Would you wish for the counthry's disgrace?'

"So he left her in danger, and me sorely gratin',

To follow the flag with an Irishman's joy;—

O, it's often I drame of the big drums a batin',

An' a bullet gone straight to the heart of me boy.

"An' say will he send a bit of his money,

For the rint an' the docther's bill due in a wake;— Well, surely, there's tears on yer eye-lashes, honey! Ah, faith, I've no right with such freedom to spake.