-so they bother

They place a fellow in a dreadful pother;
For both are sometimes maddening:
The better sense of erring man, and kill

The finer feelings-lest we fairly smother
The rising flames, ere they shall scorch the will,
And leave us all spirits of wine,' or ghosts of ill.

New Year, as says my text, is a good place

Το pause and gather strength for the next shove
Toward the grave, where we must end the race.
Now should we all look back, and each reprove
Himself, if wanting charity or love,
And try henceforth to keep as pure and clean

From this world's filth, as any harmless dove;
For with a half an eye it may be seen,
That we must not depend on any go-between.

I'm growing old, and you will all be soon,
Pitch'd clear into the middle of next year;
I wouldn't bet the hide of a raccoon

That the great final day is not close here!
At any rate 'twill soon enough appear!
For years roll round most thunderingly quick :
They vanish soon,
like froth on new-drawn beer,

Or like the dreams of night they cut their stick, And leave a few dry bones for Memory's dog to pick.

Now, brethren, make the wise determination

To strike out a new track for your poor lives, And look out sharply, now, for the salvation Of all your sweethearts, daughters, sons and wives, For anybody knows that he who strives,

Can paddle safely out the evil sea,

And land upon that blessed shore, where thrives Nothing but good, through all eternity,

ON MAN'S ORIGIN AND END.

TEXT.-Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage,

These, like man, are fruits of earth;
Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage,
All from dust receive their birth.

MY HEARERS-vegetables, as we all know, are composed of nothing but dust-the paltry dust upon which we tread; and man, proud, lordly man, is made of the same despicable material. What, then, is he, with all his gildings and trimmings, but a vegetable possessed of vitality and the powers of locomotion? A cabbage derives its growth and nourishment directly from the earth-man, indirectly. Worms feed upon the one while it still lives and flourishes, and upon the other when dead and inhumed in the bowels of the earth. In likening you to cabbages, my friends, I have reference only to the perishable portion. The soul, thought, and intellect have a home in heaven, independent of the dirt-covered cottage which they here inhabit; but the body dissolves and returns to its original dust.

My friends-look where we will, we behold once animated dust. Parts and particles of our ancestors are in each tree around us-we see fractions of our former friends in the flowers of the field—and even a portion of female beauty and loveliness is contained in the loathsome toadstool that springs from a dung heap! Oh man! thou art but dust, and to that dust thou must return, as has been said of old. The sacred urn that holds the ashes of honor contains nothing but the reminiscence of what was, but is no The plebeian is composed of just as good stuff as the patrician; and the coarse carcase of a peasant furnishes Death with as good a meal as that of a prince or potentate.

more.

My dear friends-reflect upon the condition in which you are placed. Remember that you are but grain, sown by the hand of Omnipotency, soon to be cut down by the sickle of Time, and gathered into the garner of the grave. Bestow not too much care upon that worthless conglomeration of sin and corruption called the body; for it must perish, in spite of the patchings of faith and physicians. The old clothes of mortality that you throw off when about to swim the creek which divides time and eternity are as useless to the world as a warming-pan to a West Indian; the soul would surely be ashamed to enter the courts of heaven with such

a wardrobe of wickedness. When I pass by that holy spot where rest the ashes of the dead, and read upon the tomb-stones how dear and valuable is the dust upon which they are reared, I cannot but help thinking that a cart-load of hog manure would bring more in market than all the refuse of wealth, nobility, and beauty which could be scraped together between here and the latter end of sometime ago. A church-yard is a riddle, or sieve, that separates the bran from the flour. The flour is that spiritual essence which is contained in the husk of humanity, and which is treasu. red up in heaven as being too valuable to be wasted; but the bran is the body-worthless chaff, of no account whatever when separated from the soul. The surface of this habitable globe is covered with animal as well as vegetable mould. We dance upon the graves of our forefathers, and sing songs of mirth and jollity at the tombs of our kindred, without regard to the sacredness of the dust around us. All flesh is composed of vegetable mould; and, though it derives its nourishment for a time from the ground, it must eventually amalgamate with its parent soil, and afford food for vegetation. When the Omnipotent told Nebuchadnezzar to go to grass, it was but a prophetic warning of the fate of all human flesh; for, certes, there is not a living form but must sooner or later dissolve, and distribute its substance among the vegetable productions of the earth. The bright eye of beauty must soon lose its lustre in the midnight darkness of the sepulchre--the crimson current of life must be frozen in the cold December of death-the mighty engine of the mind that moves the ever-revolv. ing wheels of thought must yet cease to operate, and the clay that composes the frail vessel of mortality shall cruble to atoms. Yes, it will return to dust, and that dust will in time be monopolized by the fairest of flowers, the vilest of weeds, and perhaps by the very smallest of small potatoes.

My worthy friends-that paltry pile of dirt called the human body is left but for a little while to encumber the world ere it is shovelled up by Time, and carted off to manure the broad field of death; but the spirit that animates it can no more be confined in the dungeon of the grave than you can frighten an old-fashioned earthquake with a pair of pistols and a bowie knife. When it shakes off its carnal shackles, it absquatulates to some unknown island in the vast ocean of eternity, where it manages to live for

ever and ever, if not longer, without either cash, food, or raiment. Toil, then, for the soul rather than for the body. The body is vegetable, and is doomed to perish; but the soul is ethereal and incorruptible. Although, gas-like, it evaporates when life's glass lamp is dashed to pieces, it ascends like the dew of the morning, unseen to its native heaven; but the body upon which you bestow so much pains-pamper with so much pride—and bedeck with so much ornament, becomes but ashes when touched by the finger of Fate and those are not worth their weight in saw-dust.

Look well after the immortal part, my friends, and though vegetables as you are, when you come to be transplanted to a more congenial soil, you will sprout anew, and flourish like a weed against the sunny side of a fence, through all eternity. So mote it be!

ON BELIEVING.

TEXT.-I'll tell you, my friends, what I believe,
And also what I don't.

MY FRIENDS-some folks tell you that you can believe in absurdities and preposterosities, if you only have a mind to; but I tell you that you can't believe in what appears irrational and without the pale of proba- or possi-bility. You may play the hypocrite with your own hearts, and affect to believe in matters and things that concern your temporal interests, and, perhaps, eternal welfares; but it is no more true believing than it would be if I were to tell you that the next shower would rain down shillings, and you pretend to believe every word of it. No, my friends; anything that comes covered with the dust of doubt, or bedimmed in the dull shadows of uncertainty, is attended with misgivings, in spite of all the wills, wishes and desires that ever found entertainment in the human heart. If you were told that a penny planted with potatoes would spring up, blossom bank bills and produce silver dollars an hundred fold, you wouldn't, nor couldn't, believe iteven though all your blessed hopes, wife, children, and a farrow cow were at stake. But all this has little to do with the general tenor of my discourse; therefore

My friends-I will tell you what I believe and what I don't. I believe that man is born to trouble-to trouble not only himself, but many of his fellow beings around him; besides bed-bugs, mos

quitoes, fleas, and other annoying but innocent insects. A bed-bug doesn't bite with malice prepense, and neither does a mosquito give a stab with a murderous premeditation; and therefore I don't believe that, under such circumstances, either of them ought to suffer the penalty of death. I don't believe that might makes right, nor that thousands should die that one may live and prosper, as the farmer held when he washed his lousy calf with a decoction of tobacco. I believe that love, like lightning, goes where it is sent; and that, take it on the whole, it does just about as much damage considering how many heart-strings it snaps-how many bosoms it makes barren of joy and peace-and how many it hurries out of the world into an awful and soul-scaring eternity: but I don't believe that love, properly tempered, ever did a body any harm, as my grandmother said of her bread pills. I believe that a good man in the valley of Jehoshophat is nearer heaven than a sinner on the top of Mount Sinai-that pollywogs are incipient frogs, and politicians patriots of the most sudden incipiency; but I don't believe that the man who works the hardest for an office under government, is the one most likely to work the hardest for his country in her day of trouble and danger-unless there be plenty of pay in perspective, or his prospects shine with the gloss of glory, like a pair of dancing pumps touched off with the white of an egg and a little lampblack.

My friends-I believe that the truth shouldn't be spoken at all times; and therefore I shall exercise the precaution to tell you that you are all given, more or less, to lying. Equivocation and subterfuge are very nice cloaks for falsehood; but the legs of the lies will stick out from under them. I don't believe that forty lies will do as much towards helping a man out of a scrape as the simple truth put forth in a state of nudity. I believe that most old maids would like to get married if they could; but I don't believe that old bachelors generally have any particular desire to get into the matrimonial harness, and help draw a wagon-load of 'little responsibilities' up the hard hill of life. I believe that great talkers are little thinkers-that not much fruit of sense is found where there is a multitude of the leaves of words The gift of gab is a contribution of nature bestowed upon those who unfortunately lack the brains to propound questions to themselves, and answer them in silence. I believe that a man may accomplish wonders if