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One paper I have read regarding Lord Macaulay says "he had no heart." Why, a man's books may not always speak the truth, but they speak his mind in spite of himself: and it seems to me this man's heart is beating through every page he penned. He is always in a storm of revolt and indignation against wrong, craft, tyranny. How he cheers heroic resistance; how he backs and applauds freedom struggling for its own; how he hates scoundrels, ever so victorious and successful; how he recognizes genius, though selfish villains possess it! The critic who says Macaulay had no heart, might say that Johnson had none: and two men more generous, and more loving, and more hating, and more partial, and more noble, do not live in our history. Those who knew Lord Macaulay knew how admirably tender and generous,* and affectionate he was. It was not his business to bring his family before the theatre footlights, and call for bouquets from the gallery as he wept over them.

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If any young man of letters reads this little sermon and to him, indeed, it is addressed I would say to him, "Bear Scott's words in your mind, and 'be good, my dear."" Here are two literary men gone to their account, and, laus Deo, as far as we know, it is fair, and open, and clean. Here is no need of apologies for shortcomings, or explanations of vices which would have been virtues but for unavoidable, etc. Here are two examples of men most differently gifted: each pursuing his calling; each speaking his truth as God bade him; each honest in his life; just and irreproachable in his dealings; dear to his friends; honored by his country; beloved at his fireside. It has been the fortunate lot of both to give incal

* Since the above was written, I have been informed that it has been found, on examining Lord Macaulay's papers, that he was in the habit of giving away more than a fourth part of his annual income.

6 laus Deo, praise God.

culable happiness and delight to the world, which thanks them in return with an immense kindliness, respect, affection. It may not be our chance, brother scribe, to be endowed with such merit, or rewarded with such fame. But the rewards of these men are rewards paid to our service. We may not win the bâton or epaulettes; but God give us strength to guard the honor of the flag!

AFFLICTION.

George Herbert.

WHEN first Thou didst entice to Thee my heart,

I thought the service brave:

So many joys I writ down for my part,

Besides what I might have

Out of my stock of natural delights,

Augmented with Thy Grace's perquisites.

I looked on Thy furniture so fine,

And made it fine to me;

Thy glorious household-stuff did me entwine,

And 'tice me unto Thee;

Such stars I counted mine: both heaven and earth
Paid me my wages in a world of mirth.

What pleasures could I want, whose King I served,
Where joys my fellows were?

Thus argued into hopes, my thoughts reserved
No place for grief or fear:

Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,

And made her youth and fierceness seek Thy face.

At first Thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses,

I had my

wish and way;

My days were straw'd with flow'rs and happinesses;
There was no month but May.

But with my years sorrow did twist and grow,
And made a party unawares for woe.

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Thus doth Thy power cross-bias me, not making Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here, what Thou wilt do with me

None of my books will show :

I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,
For sure then I should grow

To fruit or shade; at least some bird would trust
Her household to me, and I should be just.

Yet though Thou troublest me, I must be meek;
In weakness must be stout.

Well, I will change the service, and go seek
Some other master out.

Ah, my dear God, though I am clean forgot,
Let me not love Thee, if I love Thee not.

BEGONE, DULL CARE.

BEGONE, dull care! I prythee begone from me: Begone, dull care! thou and I shall never agree. Long time thou hast been tarrying here, And fain thou wouldst me kill;

But i' faith, dull care,

Thou never shalt have thy will.

Too much care will make a young man gray;
Too much care will turn an old man to clay.
My wife shall dance, and I will sing,

So merrily pass the day;

For I hold it is the wisest thing

To drive dull care away.

IN AN ALBUM.

James Russell Lowell.

THE misspelt scrawl, upon the wall
By some Pompeian idler traced,
In ashes packed (ironic fact!)
Lies eighteen centuries uneffaced,
While many a page of bard and sage,
Deemed once mankind's immortal gain,
Lost from Time's ark, leaves no more mark
Than a keel's furrow through the main.

O Chance and Change! our buzz's range
Is scarcely wider than a fly's;

Then let us play at fame to-day,
To-morrow be unknown and wise;
And while the fair beg locks of hair,
And autographs, and Lord knows what,
Quick! let us scratch our moment's match,
Make our brief blaze, and be forgot!

Too pressed to wait, upon her slate
Fame writes a name or two in doubt;
Scarce written, these no longer please,
And her own finger rubs them out:
It may ensue, fair girl, that you
Years hence this yellowing leaf may see,
And put to task, your memory ask
In vain, "This Lowell, who was he?"

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.

Matthew Arnold.

COME, dear children, let us away;

Down and away below!

Now my brothers call from the bay,

Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;

Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!

This way, this way!

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