Now, men and matrons in your prime,
Children, and grandsires old,

Come listen, with soul as well as ear,
This saying whilst I unfold;

O, listen till your brain whirls round,

And your heart is sick to think,

In a Christian land all this befell;

And the name of the Fiend was-DRINK !

THE AMERICAN SAILOR.

COMMODORE STOCKTON.

What is the American sailor, that he is to be treated worse than a dog? He has been my companion for more than a quarter of a century, in calms and storms, privations, sufferings, and hunger, in peace and in war. I have lived with him, side by side, by sea and land. I have seen him on the Western Ocean, when there was no night to vail his deeds. I have seen him on the coast of Africa, surrounded by pestilential disease. I have seen him among the West India Islands, in chase of pirates. I have encamped with him on the California mountains.

I have seen him march through the enemy's country, over mountains and through rivers, with no shoes on but those of canvas, made by his own hands, and with no provisions but what he took from the enemy. And, finally, I have lain beside him on the cold ground, when ice has formed on his beard. His heart has beat close to mine. I ought to know him. I do know him; and, this day, before the assembled Senate of the republic. I stand up to speak in his behalf. I hope he will find an abler advocate. I am sure he will find such on this floor. But, nevertheless, hear me.

American sailors, as a class, have loved their country as well as any other equal number of citizens, and have done more for her in peace and in war. And what has his country done for him? You have neglected to give him even your thanks, and more, to cap the climax of his country's ingratitude, these memorialists would have him scourged. They would scourge

him for drunkenness, when they put their bottle to his mouth. They would scourge him for inattention to his duty, when injustice and wrong have made him, for an instant, discontented and sullen. Shame shame!

The American sailor, by his superior qualities as a man, has enabled you to rival in commerce the boasted mistress of the ocean. Where is the coast or harbor, in the wide world, accessible to human enterprise, to which he has not carried your flag? His berth is no sinecure, his service is no easy service. He is necessarily an isolated being. He knows no comforts of home, and wife, and children. He reaps no reward for the increase of treasure he brings to you. When on shore, he is among strangers, and friendless. When worn out, he is scarcely provided for; making men rich, he lives and dies poor. Carrying the gifts of civilization and the blessing of the gospel through the world, he is treated as an outcast from the mercies of both. But look to your history, which the world knows by heart, and you will find, in its brightest page, the glorious achievements of the American sailor. Whatever his country has done to disgrace him, and break his spirit, he has never disgraced her. He has always been ready to serve her, always has served her faithfully. He has often been weighed in the balance, and never found wanting.

REV. ROBERT COLLYER'S STIRRING REPLY TO A TOAST.

"The Saxon Grit-Which, in New England as in Old England, has made a race of men to be honored, feared and respected. It is as positive as the earth is firm."

Worn with the battle, by Stamford town,

Fighting the Norman, by Hastings Bay

Harold, the Saxon's, sun went down,

While the acorns were falling, one autumn day.
Then the Norman said: "I am lord of the land;
By tenor of conquest here I sit ;

I will rule you now with the iron hand;"

But he had not thought of the Saxon grit.

1

He took the land, and he took the men,

And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne, Made the freeman serfs by the stroke of the pen, Ate up the corn, and drank the wine,

And said to the maiden, pure and fair,

'You shall be my leman, as is most fit, Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair;"

But he had not measured the Saxon grit.

To the merry green wood went bold Robin Hood,
With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray,
Driving the arrow into the marrow

Of all the proud Normans who came in his way
Scorning the fetter, fearless and free,

Winning by valor, or foiling by wit, Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he,

This merry old rogue, with the Saxon grit.

And Kett, the tanner, whipt out his knife,

And Watt, the smith, his hammer brought down, For Ruth, the maid he loved better than life,

And by breaking a head, made a hole in the crown. From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar,

"Our life shall not be by the king's permit ; We will fight for the right, we want no more," Then the Norman found the Saxon grit.

For slow and sure as the oaks had grown
From the acorns falling that autumn day,
So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town
To a nobler stature grew alway.
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,
Standing by law and the human right,
Many times failing, never once quailing.
So the new day came out of the night,

Then rising afar in the Western sea,

A new world stood in the morn of the day, Ready to welcome the brave and the free,

Who could wrench out the heart and march away From the narrow, contracted, dear old land,

Where the poor are held by a cruel bit,

To ampler spaces for heart and hand—
And here was a chance for the Saxon grit.

Steadily steering, eagerly peering,

Trusting in God, your fathers came, Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame. Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, And made a new Moses of Saxon grit.

They whittled and waded through forest and fen,
Fearless as ever of what might befall;
Pouring out life for the nurture of men ;

In faith that by manhood the world wins all.
Inventing baked beans and no end of machines ;
Great with the rifle and great with the axe-
Sending their notions over the oceans,

To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs,

Swift to take chances that end in the dollar,
Yet open of hand when the dollar is made,
Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar,
But a little too anxious about a good trade ;
This is young Jonathan, son of old John,
Positive, peaceable, firm in the right,
Saxon men all of us, may we be one,

Steady for freedom, and strong in her might,

Then slow and sure, as the oaks have grown

From the acorns that fell on that old dim day,
So this new manhood, in city and town,

To a nobler stature will grow alway;
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,
Slow to contention, slower to quit ;

Now and then failing, but never once quailing-
Let us thank God for the Saxon grit.

EXPERIENCE WITH EUROPEAN GUIDES.

MARK TWAIN.

European guides know about enough English to tangle everything up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart,-the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would,- and if you interrupt and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration.

Think,

It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what prompts children to say "smart" things and do absurd ones, and in other ways "show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect ecstasies of admiration! He gets so that he could not by any possibility live in a soberer atmosphere.

more,

After we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any -we never admired anything,-we never showed any but impassable faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of those people savage at times, but we have never lost our serenity.