But let us all to-day combine

Still other monuments to raise;

Here for the dead we build a shrine,
And now to those who crippled pine
Let us give hope of happier days.
Let homes of those sad wrecks of war
Through all the land with speed arise;
They cry from every gaping scar,
66 Let not our brother's tomb debar
The wounded living from your eyes."

A noble day, a deed as good,
A noble scene in which 'tis done,
The birth-day of our nationhood,
And here again the nation stood,
On this same day its life renown.
A bloom of banners in the air,
A double calm of sky and soul,
Triumphal chant and bugle blare,
And green fields spreading bright and fair,
As Heavenward our hosannas roll.

Hosannas for a land redeemed,

The bayonet sheathed, the cannon dumb;
Passed as some horror we have dreamed,
The fiery meteors that here streamed,
Threat'ning within our homes to come.
Again our banner floats abroad,
Gone the one stain that on it fell;
And bettered by his chast'ning rod,
With streaming eyes uplift to God,
We say, "He doeth all things well."

CRIME ITS OWN DETECTER.-By D. Webster.

AGAINST the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I cannot have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the opprobrium, how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern that all who had a part in planning, or a hand in executing, this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice. Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary case. In some respects it has hardly a precedent anywhere-certainly none in our New England history. An aged man, without an

enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butchery murder, for mere pay. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man to whom sleep was sweet-the first sound slumbers of the night hold him in their soft but strong embrace.

The assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment; with noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges; and he enters and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly light. The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer; and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given, and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he yet plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the wounds of the poignard! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! he feels it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished! the deed is done! He retreats-retraces his steps to the window, passes through as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him; the secret is his own, and he is safe!

Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the splendor of noon, -such secrets of guilt are never safe; "murder will out. True it is that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intently dwell on the scene; shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself-or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself-it labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human

heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant; it finds itself preyed on by a torment which it dares not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it asks no sympathy or assistance either from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him; and like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master;-it betrays his discretion; it breaks down his courage; it conquers his prudence. When suspicions, from without, begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be confessed; it will be confessed; there is no refuge from confession but in suicide, and suicide is confession.

ARTEMUS WARD'S TRIP TO RICHMOND.

It's putty plane to my mind that we earnt tu have Peas as long as the fife goes on. Not much. The sympathizin' Demos promist that these rebellion shood be over as soon as they was 'lected, an' they air doin' all in thar power to get it over-all over the North. You cood stick more loyalty in a chicken's ear than sich men possess.

The other day I 'pinted myself a committee ov the Whole to go to Richmond an' see ef I coodent convins J. Davis ov the error of his ways, and persuade him to jine the Young Men's Christian Association. Sumthin' must soon be did to have the War stopt, or by the time it's ended the Northern Sympathizers will have no Southern Brethren, or no Constitootion, or no Declaration of Injypendence, or no nothing, or anything else. None. Whar cood we procoor G. Washingtons, J. Quincy Jeffersons, Thomas Adamses, and etsettery, to make another Constitootion and so 4th-the larst espe cially? Echo ansers-Whar? That's why the Blacks air taken sich good care ov that instrooment—which reminds me ov a little incident, as A. L. obsarves.

But, I am goin' to tell you about me trip to the Capitol ov the Southern Conthieveracy. It was a bootiful_mornin' that I started; nary a cloud obskewered the Orb ov Day, and I rove at the Secesh lines, when a dirty looking Confed. called me "Halt," and pinted a bagonet at me. He arst me who I was, an' whar I was gone.

66

My friendly ruff, sez I, "I've just bin up North stealin things an' sich for Jeff. Me an' him air ole pals.'

He left me pars.

After traveling a spell, I obsarved a ole house by the roadside, & feelin' faint and thirsty, I entered. The only family I found at home was a likely lookin' young femail gal, whose Johnny had gone for a solger. She was a weepin' bitterly. "Me putty rose-bud,' sez I, "why dost thou weep?" She made nary answer, but weepedested on. I placed me hand onto her hed, brusht back the snowy ringlets from her pale brow, an' kis-an' passyfied her.

แ

"What cawsed them tears, fare maid?" I arskt again.

Why," sez she, "brother John promist 2 bring me home some Yankee boans to make jewelry, but he had to go an' git killd, & now I won't get ary Boan, an'-O, it's 2 bad-boohoo-oo-o!"

Yes, it was muchly 2 bad-and more too. A woman's tears brings the undersined, an' for the time bein' I was a rebel sympathizer.

66

Enny Fathers ?"

"Only one.

Unkle Reub."

But he's ded. Mother went over to see

"Was John a putty good brother?"

Yes, John was O so kind. His was the only breast I had to repose these weary head onto.'

I pitied the maid, and hinted that she might repose her weary head on my Shirt front-an' she reposed. And I was her Brother John for a while, as it were.

Ere we parted, I arskt for a draught of water to squench me thirst, an' the damsel tript gaily out of the door to procure it. As she was gone a considirable period, I lookt out the winder and saw her hoppin' briskly 4th, accompanied by 2 secesh cusses, who war armed to the teeth. I begin to smell as many as two mouses. The "putty dear" had discovered I was a Yankee, an' was goin' to hev me tooken prisoner. I frustrated her plans a few-I leapt out the back winder as quick as a Prestidiguretaterandisch, an' when she entered the domicil, she found "brother John" non ester, (which is Latin or sumthin',) and be4 I had proceeded much I found me Timerepeter non ester too. The fare maid, who was Floyd's Neace, had hookt it while reposin' on me weskit. It was a hunky watch-a family hair-loom, an' I woodn't have parted with it fer a dollar & sixty-nine cents ($1.69).

In doo corse ov mail I arrov in Richmon. I unfolded me mission, and was ushered into J. Davis's orgust presents. But the result was not as soothing to weak nerves as my hart could wish, and I returned to Washington, disgustid with all peas measures. The sympathizers may do their own dirteatin' in the footer, as they hev done in the parst. Good-by! Adoo! Farewell!

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.-By Mrs. Norton.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier falter'd, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.
And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars:
But some were young-and suddenly beheld life's morn decline;
And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!
"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage:
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to

shine,

On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant

tread;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine,)

For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another-not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her

eye;

Too innocent for coquetry,—too fond for idle scorning,—
Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest

mourning;

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen
My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison,)