She's a darling wee bit of a lassie, and her fondness it saved me my life." The night and the storm fell together upon the sad town of Dundee; The half-smothered song of the tempest swept out like a sob to the sea; The voice of the treacherous storm-king, as mourning for them he had slain; O cruel and bloodthirsty tempest! your false tears are shed all in vain! * * * * Thank God that whatever the darkness that covers His creature's dim sight, He always vouchsafes some deliverance, throws some one a sweet ray of light; Thank God that His well-tempered mercy came down with the clouds from above, And saved one from out the destruction, and him by the angel of love. AGENCIES IN OUR NATIONAL PROGRESS By ALEXANDER KELLY MCCLURE, Editor, Lawyer, Statesman, Author; Editor-in-Chief of Philadelphia Times, 1873-. From an address before the literary societies of Dickinson College, June 26, 1873. See Cooper's "American Politics," published in 1883 by The Fireside Publishing Co., Philadelphia, Penn. By permission of the author. When we search for the agencies of the great epochs in our national progress, we look not to the accidents of place. Unlike all other governments, ours is guided supremely by intelligent and educated public convictions, and those who are clothed with authority are but the exponents of the popular will. Herein is the source of safety and advancement of our free institutions. On every hand, in the ranks of people, are the tireless teachers of our destiny. forefront of every struggle are to be found the Away in the masters who brave passion and prejudice and interest, in the perfection of our nationality. Our free press reaching into almost every hamlet of the land; our colleges now reared in every section; our schools with open doors to all; our churches teaching every faith, with the protection of the law; our citizens endowed with the sacred right of freedom of speech and action; our railroads spanning the continent, climbing our mountains, and stretching into our valleys; our telegraphs making every community the center of the world's daily records—these are the agencies which are omnipotent in the expression of our national purposes and duties. Thus directed and maintained, our free government has braved foreign and domestic war, and been purified and strengthened in the crucible of conflict. It has grown from a few feeble States east of the Ohio wilderness to a vast continent of commonwealths, and forty millions of population. It has made freedom as universal as its authority within its vast possessions. The laws of inequality and caste are blotted from its statutes. It reaches the golden slopes of the Pacific with its beneficence, and makes beauty and plenty in the valleys of the mountains on the sunset side of the Father of Waters. From the cool lakes of the North to the sunny gulfs of the South, and from the eastern seas to the waters that wash the lands of the pagan, a homogeneous people obey one constitution and are devoted to one country. Nor have its agencies and influences been limited to our own boundaries. The whole accessible world has felt its power and paid tribute to its excellence. Europe has been convulsed from center to circumference by the resistless throbbings of oppressed peoples for the liberty they cannot know and could not maintain. The proud Briton has imitated his wayward but resolute child, and now rules his own throne. France has sung the Marseillaise, her anthem of freedom, and waded through blood in ill-directed struggles for her disenthrallment. The scattered tribes of the Father land now worship at the altar of German unity, with a liberalized Empire. The sad song of the serf is no longer heard from the children of the Czar. Italy, dismembered and tempest-tossed through centuries, again ordains her laws in the Eternal City, under a monarch of her choice. The throne and the inspiration of freedom has unsettled the title of despotism to the Spanish scepter. The trained lightning flashes the lessons of our civilization to the home of the Pyramids; the land of the heathen has our teachers in its desolate places, and the God of Day sets not upon the boundless triumphs of our government of the people. THE POWER OF HABIT By JOHN BARTHOLOMEW GOUGH, celebrated Temperance Lecturer. Born in Sandgate, England, 1817; died at Frankford, Penn., 1886. Reprinted, by permission of the publishers, from "Platform Echoes," copyright 1887, by A. D. Worthington & Co., Hartford, Conn. 66 I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gentleman, "What river is that, sir? That, he said, "is the Niagara River." Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I, "bright, and fair, and glassy. How far off are the rapids ?" Only a mile or two,' was the reply. "Is it possible that only one mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near to the Falls?" "You will find it so, sir." 66 And so I found it; and the first sight of Niagara Falls I shall never forget. Now launch your bark on that Niagara River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful, and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the silver wake you leave behind adds to your enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim; and you set out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some one cries out from the bank, Young men, ahoy!" What is it? "The rapids are below you." 66 Ha, ha! We have heard of the rapids; but we are not such fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall up with the helm, and steer to the shore; we will set the mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don't be alarmed; there is no danger." "Young men, ahoy, there!'' us. "What is it?" "The rapids are below you!' 66 Ha, ha! We shall laugh and quaff; all things delight What care we for the future? No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we may; will catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current.' "Young men, ahoy!" 66 'What is it?" See how fast Beware! beware! The rapids are below you.' Now you see the water foaming all around. you pass that point! Up with the helm! Now turn. Pull hard! quick! quick! quick! pull for your lives; pull till the blood starts from your nostrils, and the veins stand like whip-cords upon your brow. Set the mast in the socket! Hoist the sail! Ah! ah! it is too late! Shrieking, cursing, howling, blaspheming, over they go. 66 Thousands go over the rapids every year, through the power of habit, crying all the while, When I find out that it is injuring me, I will give it up. We see sometimes, on our city streets, placards posted, 66 'Lost! Lost! Lost!" And I stop sometimes to think of the cherished treasure that is gone, the heartache at its loss, the longing for its return. On those same streets we hear sometimes, in the calm of the evening's deepening twilight, the ringing of the crier's bell, and his shrill voice, shouting, 'Child lost! Child lost!" Yes! a child lost, away from the comfort and brightness of home, gone from the father's smile and the mother's fond embrace, strayed out into the night, alone, amid its dreary, coming blackness. But the lost treasure is merely material; and the child is still in the pathway of loving humanity, still within the enfolding arms of an all-loving God. But the drunkards! Lost! lost! lost! fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, lost to friends, to families, to loved ones, to society; lost to the world, to the church; and lost, forever lost, from the circle of the redeemed that shall gather around God's throne-over the rapids, and lost. By WALT WHITMAN, Poet. Born at West Hills, Long Island, N. Y., 1819; died at Camden, N. J., 1892. This poem, as is well known, refers to Abraham Lincoln. By permission of publisher, David McKay, Philadelphia. O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rock, the prize we sought is won. The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells; For you the call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; This arm beneath your head! It is some dream there on the deck, 2 |