snug home, where you might live in peace and keep respectable. But no, you must associate with low characters, and go to stripping yourself naked and jumping into a ring to get your nose blooded and your head swelled and your body hammered to a jelly; and all for what? Why, for a championship! It's ridiculous. What good'll it do you if you are champion? Why don't you try to be honest and decent, and let prize-fighting alone?"

"This is the most extraordinary conversation I ever listened to," said Mr. Striker. "You evidently take me for a-"

"I take you for Joe Striker; and if you keep on, I'll take you to jail," said the sheriff, with emphasis. "Now, you tell me who's got those stakes and who's your trainer, and I'll put an end to the whole thing."

"You seem to imagine that I am a pugilist," said Mr. Striker. "Let me inform you, sir, that I am a clergyman."

"Joe," said the sheriff, shaking his head, "It's too bad for you to lie that way-too bad, indeed."

"But I am a clergyman, sir,-pastor of the church of St. Sepulchre. Look! here is a letter in my pocket addressed to me."

"You don't really mean to say that you're a preacher named Joseph Striker?" exclaimed the sheriff, looking scared.

"Certainly I am. Come up stairs and I'll show you a barrelful of my sermons."

"Well, if this don't beat Nebuchadnezzar!" said the sheriff. "This is awful! Why, I mistook you for Joe Striker, the prize-fighter! I don't know how I ever— a preacher! What a fool I've made of myself! I don't know how to apologize; but if you want to kick me down the front steps, just kick away; I'll bear it like an angel."

Then the sheriff withdrew unkicked, and Mr. Striker went up stairs to finish his Sunday sermon. The sheriff talked of resigning, but he continues to hold on.

SPEAK GENTLY.-DAVID BATES.

This beautiful, and well known poem, was originally published in Philadelphia in 1845. The author died, January, 1870.

Speak gently! it is better far

To rule by love than fear.

Speak gently-let no harsh words mar
The good we might do here.

Speak gently! Love doth whisper low
The vows that true hearts bind;
And gently friendship's accents flow;
Affection's voice is kind.

Speak gently to the little child;
Its love be sure to gain;
Teach it in accents soft and mild-
It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young, for they
Will have enough to bear;

Pass through this life as best they may
'Tis full of anxious care!

Speak gently to the aged one,
Grieve not the care-worn heart,
The sands of life are nearly run,
Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor;
Let no harsh tone be heard;
They have enough they must endure
Without an unkind word!

Speak gently to the erring-know
How frail are all! how vain!
Perchance unkindness made them so,
Oh! win them back again.

Speak gently-He who gave his life
To bend man's stubborn will,
When elements were in fierce strife,
Said to them-" Peace, be still."

Speak gently! 'tis a little thing
Dropped in the heart's deep well;
The good, the joy, which it may bring,
Eternity shall tell.

"IF IT WAS NOT FOR THE DRINK." A. L. WESTCOMBE.

"Tis close upon the midnight chimes,

The fire is burning low,

My eyes are blinded so with tears

I cannot see to sew;

I'm faint and hungry, and I fain
Would eat a crust of bread,
But I must leave it till the morn,
The children must be fed.
I sent them early to their bed,
Their hunger to forget,

And stole to see them as they slept,
But still their cheeks were wet.
I little thought, five years ago,
That we to this should sink-
And we might all be happy still,
If it was not for the drink.

We have but rags upon us now,
Our clothes are all in pawn,
And one by one the things I loved,
For rent and food are gone.

There's nothing but my shadow now

Across the empty space

Where our old clock stood, year after year,
With its round and cheery face.

I used to like to hear it tick,

And to see the hour draw on
That brought my Joe again to me
When his day's work was done.
But when I hear his footstep now
My heart begins to sink;

Yet he would be so kind and good
If it was not for the drink.

I'm thankful that your mother's lot
Can never rest on you,

My Lizzie with the flaxen curls,
And eyes so large and blue.

There seemed no bitterness in death,

As I stood beside your grave,

For the Heavenly Shepherd had stooped down, The weakest lamb to save.

You'll never cry again, my child,

With hunger or with cold,

For the sound of weeping is not heard

In the city all of gold.

Yet still I miss your little face,

And the tears fall as I think
I might have had you with me still,
If there had not been the drink.

Oh! sometimes when I'm sitting here
I wish that I were dead,
And resting in the quiet grave
My weary heart and head;
But then again I look around
On Johnnie and on Kate,

And call the wish back as I think
Of what would be their fate,
Without my hands to wash and mend,
Without my hands to strive

To earn a little bit of bread
To keep us just alive.

For it's very, very seldom now,
That I hear Joe's wages chink;
But he would bring them all to me,
If it was not for the drink.

Ah me! it is a bitter grief

To feel one's love and trust

Have leaned upon a broken reed,
And built upon the dust!

This bruise is sore-but oh! my heart
Is sorer still to know,

And try to hide, whose hand it was

That gave the cruel blow.

For the drink has got that hold on Joe,
That he can't tell wrong from right;

He's dark and sullen in the morn,
But he's worse, far worse, at night.
And wicked words he often says,
That make me start and shrink-
But they would never pass his lips,
If it was not for the drink.

I feel ashamed to go to church,
Though a comfort it would be,
For the folk would think I came to beg,
If they my rags should see,

"Tis very long since I have had

A gown that was not old,

And my bonnet has been soaked with rain,
And my Sunday shawl is sold;

And so I have to stay at home,

And silently to pray

That God would pity my poor Joe,

And take his sin away,
While he sits sleeping heavily

Without the power to think;

Yet he would think, and he would pray,
If it was not for the drink.

It makes me mad to see the man
Who sells that curse, go by

With his glittering rings and chain of gold,

Holding his head so high.

'Tis hard to see his wife and girls

In silks and satins shine,

And to know the money that they spend
Should some of it be mine.

And I'm ready oftentimes to wish

That all the drink could be,

With those that make and those that sell,

Flung down into the sea;

For almost all the country's woe

And crime would with them sink,

And men might have the chance for good,
If it was not for the drink.

WASHINGTON.-DANIEL WEBSTER.

Delivered at the laying of the corner stone of the new wing of the Capitol a Washington, July 4, 1851.

Washington! Methinks I see his venerable form now before me. He is dignified and grave; but concern and anxiety seem to soften the lineaments of his countenance. The government over which he presides is yet in the crisis of experiment. Not free from troubles at home, he sees the world in commotion and arms all around him. He sees that imposing foreign powers are half disposed to try the strength of the recently established American government. Mighty thoughts, mingled with fears as