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noblest instincts of our nature? We love the land of our adoption: so do we that of our birth. Let us ever be true to both; and always exert ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity of the republic.

Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the go'den cord of union! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall propose its severance!

But no! the Union cannot be dissolved; its fortunes are too brilliant to be marred; its destinies too powerful to be resisted. Here will be their greatest triumph, their most mighty development.

And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have filled her golden horns;-when within her broad-armed port shall be gathered the products of the industry of a hundred millions of freemen;-when galleries of art and halls of learning shall have made classic this mart of trade;-then may the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills of the north, stand up on the banks of the Great River, and exclaim, with mingled pride and wonder,-Lo! this is our country;-when did the world ever behold so rich and magnificent a city-so great and glorious a republic!

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.-By Colman.

A MEMBER of the Esculapian line lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne: no man could better gild a pill, or make a bdl, or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; or draw a tooth out of your head; or chatter scandal by your bed; or spread a plaster. His fame full six miles round the country ran; in short, in reputation he was solus: all the old women called him " a fine man!" His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade (which oftentimes will genius fetter), read works of fancy, it is said, and cultivated thebelles letters." Bolus loved verse; and took so much delight in't, all his prescriptions he resolved to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pass of writing the directions on his labels in dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables, or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras.

He had a patient lying at death's door, some three miles from the town,-it might be four, to whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article-in pharmacy that's called cathartical: and on the label of the stuff he wrote this verse, which one would think was clear enough, and terse,

"When taken,

To be well shaken."

Next morning early Bolus rose, and to the patient's houss he goes, upon his pad, who a vile trick of stumbling had; but he arrived, and gave a tap, between a single and a double rap. The servant lets him in, with dismal face, long as a cour tier's out of place,-portending some disaster. John's counLenance as rueful looked and grim, as if the apothecary had physicked him, and not his master.

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Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said. John shook his head, "Indeed!-hum!-ha!-that's very odd!-He took the draught?"-John gave a nod.-"Well? how? what then?-speak out, you dunce!" "Why then," says John, we shook him once.". -"Shook him! how? how?" friend Bolus stammered out.- "We jolted him about."

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"What! shake the patient, man!-why, that won't do." "No, sir," quoth John, "and so we gave him two. shakes! O, luckless verse! 'Twould make the patient worse!" It did so, sir, and so a third we tried."—" Well, and what then?"-"Then, sir, my master-died!”

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

LITTLE Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street;

The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is at her feet.

The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp.
The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth.
Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright,
And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night.
With the little box of matches she could not sell all day,
And the thin, thin tattered mantle the wind blows every way,
She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom,-
There are parents sitting snugly by firelight in the room;
And children with grave faces are whispering one another
Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak,
No breath of little whisperers comes warmly to her cheek,
No little arms are round her: ah me! that there should be,
With so much happiness on earth, so much of misery!
Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round,
As laden boughs in autumn fling their ripe fruits to the ground.
And the best love man can offer to the God of love, be sure,
Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on her way;
There's no one looketh out at her, there's no one bids her stay.

der home is cold and desolate; no smile, no food, no fire,
But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet,
And she curleth up beneath her, for warmth, her little feet;
And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky,
And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high.
She hears a clock strike slowly, up in a far church tower,
With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour.
And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell,
And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's twilight fell;
Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child,
Who was cradled in a manger, when winter was most wild;
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone;
And she thought the song had told he was ever with his own;
And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his,—
"How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this!"

Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now,
For the pressure at her heart, and the weight upon her brow;
But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare,
That she might look around her, and see if He were there.
The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw
It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two;
And she could see folks seated at a table richly spread,
With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread.

She could smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what they did

say,

Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned away.
She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see

Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree.
The branches were all laden with things that children prize,
Bright gifts for boy and maiden-she saw them with her eyes.
And she almost seemed to touch them, and to join the welcome
shout,

When darkness fell around her, for the little match was out.

Another, yet another, she has tried-they will not light;
Till all her little store she took, and struck with all her might:
And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare,
And she dreamed there stood a little child before her in the air.
There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear-wound in his
side,

And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands spread wide.
And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had known
Pain, hunger, cold, and sorroway, equal to her own.

And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen come with

me?"

The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim, And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's

And she folded both her thin white hands, and turned from that bright board,

And from the golden gifts, and said, "With thee, with thee, O Lord!"

The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies

On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies.

In her scant and tattered garment, with her back against the wall, She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call.

They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, "It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead."

The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin;
Men said, "It was a bitter night; would no one let her in?"
And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could

not see

How much of happiness there was after that misery.

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

"MOVE my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey-
Massa won't be with you long;
And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.
"Mournful though the ripples murmur,
As they still the story tell,
How no vessels float the banner
That I've loved so long and well,
I shall listen to their music,

Dreaming that again I see

Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop,
Sailing up the Tennessee.

"And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting
For death's last despatch to come,

If that exiled starry banner

Should come proudly sailing home,
You shall greet it, slave no longer-
Voice and hand shall both be free
That shout and point to Union colors,
On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey;
But ole darky's happy here,
Where he's tended corn and cotton
For 'ese many a long-gone year.

Over yonder Missis sleeping-
No one tends her grave like me;
Mebbe she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee.

"Pears like she was watching, Massa, If Pompey should beside him stay; Mebbe she'd remember better

How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of heaven While he lived in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling

Down the poor old dusky face, As he stepped behind his master, In his long-accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them, As they gazed on rock and tree, Pictured in the placid waters

Of the rolling Tennessee;

Master, dreaming of the battle

Where he fought by Marion's side,
When he bid the haughty Tarleton
Stoop his lordly crest of pride;
Man, remembering how yon sleeper
Once he held upon his knee,
Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
Ralph Vervair, of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers
'Mid the veteran's silvery hair;
Still the bondman, close beside him,
Stands behind the old arm-chair.
With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes, he bends to see
Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows
Glide from tree to mountain crest,

Softly creeping, aye and ever,

To the river's yielding breast.
Ha! above the foliage yonder
Something flutters wild and free!
"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!

The flag's come back to Tennessee!"

"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder,
Help me stand on foot once more,
That I may salute the colors
As they pass my cabin door.

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