what world of pure disinterestedress he had come. To him despair opened her dungeons, and plague and pestilence could summon no terrors to arrest his investigations. In his presence, crime, though girt with the iron panoply of desperation, stood amazed and rebuked. With him home was nothing, country was nothing, health was nothing, life was nothing. His first and last question was, "What is the utmost that I can do for degraded, depraved, bleeding humanity, in all her prison houses?" And what wonders did he accomplish! What astonishing changes in the whole system of prison discipline may be traced back to his disclosures and suggestions, and how many millions yet to be born will rise up and call him blessed! Away! all ye Cæsars and Napoleons, to your own dark and frightful domains of slaughter and misery! Ye can no more endure the light of such a godlike presence than the eye, already inflamed to torture by dissipation, can look the sun in the face at noonday.

189. GRANDMOTHERS.
JOHNNY'S OPINION.

Grandmothers are very nice folks;
They beat all the aunts in creation;
They let a chap do as he likes,

And don't worry about education.

I'm sure I can't see it at all,

What a poor fellow ever could do
For apples, and pennies, and cakes,
Without a grandmother or two.
Grandmothers speak softly to "ma's,"
To let a boy have a good time;
Sometimes they will whisper, 'tis true,
T'other way, when a boy wants to climb.
Grandmothers have muffins for tea,

And pies a whole row in the cellar,
And they're apt (if they know it in time)
To make chicken pies for a "feller!"

And if he is bad now and then,

And makes a great racketing noise,

They only look over their specs

And say, "Ah, these boys will be boys.

"Life is only so short at the best;

Let the children be happy to-day."

Then they look for a while at the sky,
And the hills that are far, far away.
Quite often, as twilight comes on,

Grandmothers sing hymns, very low,
To themselves as they rock by the fire,
About Heaven, and when they shall go.
And then a boy, stopping to think,
Will find a hot tear in his eye,
To know what will come at the last;
For grandmothers all have to die.

I wish they could stay here and pray,
For a boy needs their prayers every night;
Some boys more than others, I s'pose,
Such as I need a wonderful sight.

190.-ORATION OF MARK ANTONY.

SHAKSPEARE.

Friends, Romans, countrymen! lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious;
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,-
For Brutus is an honorable man,

So are they all, all honorable men,-
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Brutus say he was ambitious,

And Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,

And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see that, on the Lupercal,

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse.

Was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason!-Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

But yesterday the word of Cæsar might
Have stood against the world; now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men.
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men.

But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar;
I found it in his closet; 'tis his will.

Let but the commons hear this testament,

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,—

And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,

And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,

Unto their issue.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle; I remember

The first time ever Cæsar. put it on;

'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,

That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through;
See what a rent the envious Casca made;

Through this, the well-belovéd Brutus stabbed,
And, as he plucked his curséd steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved

If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;

For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel;
Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;

For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,

Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.

Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
Oh! now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity; these are gracious drops.

Kind souls! What, weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look ye here!
Here is himself, marred as you see by traitors.

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

They that have done this deed are honorable!
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it. They are wise and honorable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;

I am no orator, as Brutus is;

But as you all know me, a plain, blunt man,

That love my friend; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood;-I only speak right on;
I tell you that which you yourselves do know,

Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus,

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny!

191. SOWING AND REAPING.

A sparrow, perched upon a bough,
Spied a poor beetle down below,

And picked it up. Ah, spare me, spare!"
The insect prayed: but vain its prayer.

"Wretch!" cried the sparrow, "hold thy tongue,

For thou art weak, and I am strong."

A hawk beheld him, and in haste
Sharpens his beak for a repast.

He pounces plump upon him. "Oh,"

Exclaims the sparrow,

let me go!"

"Wretch!" cries the spoiler, "hold thy tongue,

For thou art weak, and I am strong."

The hawk was munching at his prey,
When a stout eagle sailed that way,

And seized him fast. "Sure, comrade, you
My life will spare,-we're of a trade!"

"Wretch !" cries the eagle, "hold thy tongue, For thou art weak, and I am strong."

A sportsman saw the eagle fly:

He shot, and brought him from the sky. The dying bird could only groan, "Tyrant, what evil have I done?"

"Wretch!" cries the sportsman, "hold thy tongue, For thou art weak, and I am strong."

'Tis thus that man to man behaves: Witness the despot and his slaves.

"Wretch!" cries the master, "hold thy tongue, For thou art weak, and I am strong."

192.-THE BRITISH OAK.

BERNARD BARTON.

Let India boast its spicy trees,
Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom
Give to each faint and languid breeze
Its rich and rare perfume.

Let Portugal and haughty Spain.
Display their orange groves;

And France exult her vines to train
Around her trim alcoves.

Old England has a tree as strong,
As stately as them all,

As worthy of a minstrel's song
In cottage and in hall.

'Tis not the yew tree, though it lends

Its greenness to the grave;

Nor willow, though it fondly bends

Its branches o'er the wave;

Nor birch, although its slender tress
Be beautifully fair,

Is graceful in its loveliness

As maiden's flowing hair.

'Tis not the poplar, though its height

May from afar be seen;

Nor beech, although its boughs be dight

With leaves of glossy green.

All these are fair, but they may fling
Their shade unsung by me;

My favorite, and the forest's king,
The British oak shall be!

Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound
Its giant branches throw