ticable on the ground that the batteries then used would not send the fluid through even two hundred feet of wire without a sensible diminution of its force. In 1831, Joseph In 1831, Joseph Henry, now secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, then a professor at Albany, New York, as the result of numerous experiments discovered a method by which he produced a battery of such intensity as to overcome the difficulty spoken of by Barlow in 1825. By means of this discovery he magnetized soft iron at a great distance from the battery, pointed out the fact that a telegraph was possible, and actually rang a bell by means of the electro-magnet acting on a long wire. This was the last step in the series of great discoveries which preceded the invention of the telegraph.

When these discoveries ended, the work of the inventor began. It was in 1832-the year that succeeded the last of these great discoveries-when Professor Morse first turned his thoughts to that work whose triumph is the triumph of his race. He had devoted twenty-two years of his manhood to the study and practice of art; he had sat at the feet of the great masters of Europe, and had already by his own works of art achieved a noble name; and he now turned to the grander work of interpreting to the world that subtle and mysterious element with which the thinkers of the human race had so long been occupied.

I cannot here recount the story of that long struggle through which he passed to the accomplishment of his great result how he struggled with poverty, with the vast difficulties of the subject itself, with the unfaith, the indifference and the contempt which almost everywhere confronted him; how at the very moment of his tri

umph he was on the verge of despair when in this very Capitol his project met the jeers of almost a majority of the national legislature. But when has despair yielded to such a triumph? When has such a morning risen on such a night? To all cavillers and doubters this instrument and its language are a triumphant answer. That chainless spirit which fills the immensity of space with its invisible presence, which dwells in the blaze of the sun, follows the path of the farthest star and courses the depths of earth and sea-that mighty spirit has at last yielded to the human will. It has entered a body prepared for its dwelling; it has found a voice through which it speaks to the human ear; it has taken its place as the humble servant of man; and through all coming time its work will be associated with the name and fame of Samuel F. B. Morse.

Were there no other proof of the present value of his work, these alone would suffice

that throughout the world, whatever the language or the dialect of those who use it, the telegraph speaks a language whose first element is the alphabet of Morse; and in 1869, of the sixteen thousand telegraphic instruments used on the lines of Europe, thirteen thousand were of the pattern invented by him. The future of this great achievement can be measured by no known standards. Morse gave us the instrument and the alphabet; the world is only beginning to spell out the lesson whose meaning the future will read.

JAMES ABRAM GARFIELD.

NE more unfortunate

Weary of breath, Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with careFashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements, Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her: All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family,

Wipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the combHer fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses,

Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother? Had she a sister?

Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings had changed,
Love by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement, From garret to basement,

She stood with amazement,

Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver, But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurled―
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly

The rough river ran. Over the brink of it: Picture it, think of it,

Dissolute man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can.

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with careFashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly—

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely,

Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,

Into her rest,

Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast,

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour.

THOMAS HOOD.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.
S there for honest poverty

Wha hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass
him by;

We dare be poor for a' that. For a' that, and a' that,

Our toil's obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp :

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine:
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king men for a' that.

Ye see yon virkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that: Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that; For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that; The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

If all who dine on homely fare.

Were true and brave, and a' that,
And none whose garb is "hodden gray'
Was fool and knave, and a' that,

* This poem was written by Burns under the following circumstances: He was invited to a nobleman's mansion, where he entertained the company with singing until dinner-time, when he was sent to dine with the upper servants. After dinner he joined the company, and was again called to sing, when, rising, he sung the above song

upon

and departed.

The vice and crime that shame our time
Would fade and fail, and a' that,
And ploughmen be as good as kings,
And churls as earls, for a' that.

You see yon brawny, blustering sot

Who swaggers, swears, and a' that, And thinks, because his strong right arm Might fell an ox, and a' that, That he's as noble, man for man,

As duke and lord, and a' that? He's but a brute, beyond dispute, And not a man, for a' that.

A man may own a large estate,

Have palace, park, and a' that,
And not for birth, but honest worth,
Be thrice a man for a' that,
And Donald, herding on the muir,

Who beats his wife, and a' that,
Be nothing but a rascal boor,

Nor half a man, for a' that.

It comes to this, dear Brother BurnsThe truth is old, and a' that"The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man's the gold, for a' that." And, though you'd put the minted mark On copper, brass, and a' that, The lie is gross, the cheat is plain, And will not pass for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

'Tis soul and heart, and a' that, That makes the king a gentleman,

And not his crown, and a' that. And, man with man, if rich or poor, The best is he, for a' that, Who stands erect, in self-respect,

And acts the man for a' that.

CHARLES MACKAY.

THE

THEOCRITUS.

HEOCRITUS, who flourished about 282 B. C., was the son of Praxagoras and Philina, and a native of Syracuse. He appears, however, to have chiefly resided in Egypt, under the patronage of Ptolemy Philadelphus, whose eulogium he composed. The poetry of Theocritus is marked by the strength and vivacity of original genius. Everything is distinct and peculiar; everything is individualized and brought strongly and closely to the eye and understanding of the reader, so as to stamp the impression of reality. His scenes of nature, and his men and women, are equally striking for circumstance and manners, and may equally be described by the epithet "picturesque.

HELEN.

FROM THE GREEK OF THEOCRITUS.

None with such art, the basket at her side, The needle's picturing threads, inventive, plied,

So crossed the woof, the sliding shuttle threw,
And wove the web in variegated hue.
Or when across the lyre her hand she flings,
And Pallas, broad of breast, or Dian sings,
None in the minstrel's craft with Helen vies,
And all the Loves are laughing in her eyes.
O fair! O graceful damsel! but thy name
Is now a matron's, and no more the same.
We, by the dawnlight's blush, in bounding
speed

Will print the verdure of the leafy mead,
And in remembrance of our Helen wreathe
Chaplets of dewy flowers that fragrant breathe,
And long for thee as longs the yeanling lamb
To drain the milky nectar of its dam.
We first a crown of creeping lotus twine,
And on a shadowy plane suspend, as thine;