on the jewels in the diadem, and flashes in beauty in the morning. Science tells us that those prolific beds of coal in the bowels of the earth were once forests on the surfaceforests of luxuriant vegetation; that they incorporated the sun's rays, and then, in merciful convulsions, were imbedded in the center of the lower earth by an all-provident foresight for the wants of an inhabited world. Science tells us, too, that time was when the shapeless crystal was yet new to the covering of the earth. Subjected to the wheel of the lapidary, it sparkles out to view as a gem of the first water. It is but the release of the imprisoned rays which shone from the same great source long centuries ago; so that, in both the cottage fire-light and in the monarch's gem, we have just the resurrection of some olden summer-the great return of some sepulchral sunlight, from which man has rolled away the stone.

DRUNKENNESS.

FLY drunkenness, whose vile incontinence
Takes both away the reason and the sense!
Till with Circæan cups thy mind possest,
Leaves to be man, and wholly turns a beast.
Think while thou swallow'st the capacious bowl,
Thou let'st in seas to sack and drown thy soul.
That hell is open, to remembrance call,
And think how subject drunkards are to fall.
Consider how it soon destroys the grace
Of human shape, spoiling the beauteous face,
Puffing the cheeks, blearing the curious eye,
Studding the face with vicious heraldry.
What pearls and rubies does the wine disclose,
Making the purse poor to enrich the nose!
How does it nurse disease, infect the heart,
Drawing some sickness into every part.
It weaks the brain, it spoils the memory,
Hasting on age and willful poverty;

It drowns thy better parts, making thy name

K. N. E.-19.

To foes a laughter, to thy friends a shame;
'Tis virtue's poison and the bane of trust,
The match of wrath, the fuel unto lust.
Quite leave this vice, and turn not to't again
Upon presumption of a stronger brain.

For he that holds more wine than others can,
I rather count a hogshead than a man.

-Randolph.

LIII.-PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE.

VOYAGER upon life's sea,

To yourself be true;

And where'er your lot may be,

Paddle your own canoe.

Never, though the winds may rave,
Falter nor look back,
But upon the darkest wave

Leave a shining track.

Nobly dare the wildest storm,

Stem the hardest gale,

Brave of heart and strong of arm,

You will never fail.

When the world is cold and dark,
Keep an end in view,
And toward the beacon mark,

Paddle your own canoe.

Every wave that bears you on
To the silent shore,

From its sunny source has gone

To return no more:

Then let not an hour's delay
Cheat you of your due;
But while it is called to-day,
Paddle your own canoe.

If your birth denied you wealth,
Lofty state, and power,

Honest fame and hardy health

Are a better dower;

But if these will not suffice,

Golden gain pursue,

And to win the glittering prize,

Paddle your own canoe.

Would you wrest the wreath of fame
From the hand of Fate?

Would you write a deathless name
With the good and great?
Would you bless your fellow-men?
Heart and soul imbue

With the holy task, and then

Paddle your own canoe.

Would you crush the tyrant Wrong,
In the world's fierce fight?
With a spirit brave and strong,

Battle for the Right;

And to break the chains that bind

The many to the few

To enfranchise slavish mind,

Paddle your own canoe.

Nothing great is lightly won,
Nothing won is lost-

Every good deed nobly done,

Will repay the cost;

Leave to Heaven, in humble trust,

All you will to do;

But if you succeed, you must

Paddle your own canoe.

-Mrs. Sarah T. Bolton.

LIV. THE SNIVELER.

ONE of the most melancholy productions of a morbid condition of life is the sniveler: a biped that infests all classes of society, and prattles, from the catechism of despair, on all subjects of human concern. The spring of his

mind is broken. A babyish, nerveless fear has driven the sentiment of hope from his soul. He cringes to every phantom of apprehension, and obeys the impulses of cowardice, as though they were the laws of existence. He is the very Jeremiah of conventionalism, and his life is one long and lazy lamentation. In connection with this maudlin brotherhood, his humble aim in life is to superadd the snivelization of society to its civilization. Of all bores he is the

most intolerable and merciless.

He drawls misery to you through his nose on all occasions. He stops you at the corner of the street to intrust you with his opinion on the probability that the last measure of Congress will dissolve the Union. He fears, also, that the morals and intelligence of the people are destroyed by the election of some rogue to office. In a time of general health he speaks of the pestilence that is to be. The mail can not be an hour late but he prattles of railroad accidents and steamboat disasters. He fears that his friend who was married yesterday will be a bankrupt in a year, and whimpers over the trials which he will then endure. As a citizen and politician, he has ever opposed every useful reform, and wailed over every rotten institution as it fell. He has been, and is, the foe of all progress, and always cries over the memory of the "good old days." In short, he is ridden with an eternal nightmare, and emits an eternal wail.

-E. P. Whipple.

THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY.

COULD we but know

The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,
Where lie those happier hills and meadows low;
Ah! if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil

Aught of that country could we surely know,

Who would not go?

Might we but hear

The hovering angel's high imagined chorus,

Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,
One radiant vista of the realm before us,

With one wrapt moment given to see and hear,
Ah! who would fear?

Were we quite sure

To find the peerless friend who left us lonely;
Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,
To gaze in eyes that here were love-lit only-
This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,
Who would endure?

LV.-THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH.

At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on the door-step, faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb.

The long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home, a happy, cheerful home, and of those who had peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him, so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were, that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again. He rose and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The street was silent and empty; the few passengers who passed by, at that late hour, hurried