"O Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray,

A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day! So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank;
But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, stood gazing where he sank.
And when above the surges they saw his crest appear,
Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain;
And fast his blood was flowing; and he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows;
And oft they thought him sinking—but still again he rose.

Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place;
But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within,
And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day, we should have sacked the town!"

"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safe to shore;

For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before."

And now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands;
Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands.
And, now with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River Gate, borne by the joyous crowd.
—T. B. Macaulay.

THE DEMAGOGUE.

The lowest of politicians is that man who seeks to gratify an invariable selfishness by pretending to seek the public good. For a profitable popularity he accommodates himself to all opinions, to all dispositions, to every side, and to every prejudice. He is a mirror, with no face of its own, but a smooth surface from which each man of ten thousand may see himself reflected.

He glides from man to man, coinciding with their views, simulating their tastes, and pretending

their feelings; with this one he loves a man; with that one he hates the same man; he favors a law, and he dislikes it; he approves and opposes; he is on both sides at once, and seemingly wishes that he could be on one side more. He attends meetings to suppress intemperance,-but at elections makes every grog-shop free to all drinkers. He can with equal relish plead most eloquently for temperance, or toss off a dozen glasses of whisky in a dirty doggery.

He thinks that there is a time for every thing, and therefore at one time he jeers and leers, and swears with a carousing blackguard crew; and at another time professing to have been happily converted, he displays all the various features of devotion. Indeed, he is a capacious Christian-an epitome of faith.

He piously asks the class-leader of the welfare of his charge, for he was always a Methodist, and always will be,-until he meets a Presbyterian; then he is a Presbyterian, Old School or New, as the case requires; however, as he is not a bigot, he can afford to be a Baptist in a good Baptist neighborhood, and with a wink he tells the pious elder that he never had one of his children baptized, not he! He whispers to the Reformer that he abhors all creeds but Baptism and the Bible. After this, room will be found in his heart for the fugitive sects also, which come and go like clouds in a summer sky.

Upon the stump his tact is no less rare. He roars and bawls with courageous plainness, on points about which all agree; but on subjects where men differ, his meaning is nicely balanced on a pivot that it may dip either way. He depends for success chiefly upon humorous stories. A glowing patriot telling stories is a dangerous antagonist; for it is hard to expose the fallacy of a

hearty laugh, and men convulsed with merriment are slow to perceive in what way an argument is a reply to a story; men who will admit that he has not a solitary moral virtue, will vote for him, aud assist him in obtaining the office to which he aspires.-H. W. Beecher.

SCOTT AND THE VETERAN.

An old and crippled veteran to the War Department came,
He sought the Chief who led him on many a field of fame-
The Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er his banner rose,
And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes.

"Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried, "The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I was at your side? Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane? 'Tis true, I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again.”

"Have I forgotten?" said the Chief; "my brave old soldier, no! And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so; But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old, and gray,

And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day.

"But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow,
"The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors now;
They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old red, white, and blue,
And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true.

"I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun,
To get the range of traitors' hearts, and prick them, one by one,
Your Minie-rifles and such arms, it ain't worth while to try;
I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my powder dry!"

"God bless you, comrade!" said the Chief,-"God bless your loyal heart!

But younger men are in the field, and claim to have a part; They'll plant our sacred banner firm, in each rebellious town, And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down!"

"But, General!"-still persisting, the anxious veteran cried, "I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide; And some, you know, must bite the dust and that, at least, can I; So give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die!

"If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in command
Put me upon the rampart with the flag-staff in my hand:
No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shell may fly,
I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!

"I'm ready, General; so you let a post to me be given,
Where Washington can look at me, as he looks down from Heaven,
And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne,-
There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane!'

"And when the fight is raging hot, before the traitors fly,
When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky,
If any shot should pierce through me, and lay me on my face,
My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's place!"
-Bayard Taylor.

HAMLET'S INSTRUCTION TO THE PLAYER.

Speak the speach, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you-trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus: but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. Oh! it.offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwigpated fellow tear a passion to tatters,-to very rags,-to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-show and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant: it out-herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it.

Be not too tame neither, but let our own discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold as 't were, the mirror up to nature;-to

show virtue her own feature; scorn her own image; and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this overdone or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, can not but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh whole theater of others. Oh! there be players, that I have seen play,-and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.— Shakespeare.

HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S.

So you beg for a story, my darling, my brown-eyed Leopold,
And you, Alice, with face like morning, and curling locks of gold;
Then come, if you will, and listen-stand close beside my knee-
To a tale of the Southern city, proud Charleston by the sea.

It was long ago, my children, ere ever the signal gun
That blazed above Fort Sumter had wakened the North as one;
Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire

Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their hearts' desire.

On the roofs and the glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went down,

The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled crown;
And bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes,
They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's rise

High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball,
That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall,—
First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor-round,
And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound.

The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light;
The children prayed at their bedsides, as you will pray to-night;
The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone;
And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on.