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Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;
In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke. His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled A voice pursued him to the wilderness : " Where is thy brother, Cain ?"
O black impiety! that seeks to shun
“Am I my brother's keeper ?"
I saw a man
He seized the cup, he drank the poison down,
Once had he friends,
His Mary's face grew pale and paler still,
Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now?
“Am I my brother's keeper ?'' Ah, man! A deeper mark is on your brow Than that of Cain. Accursèd was the name Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul Was ripe for Heaven ; thrice accursèd he Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.
E. EVANS EDWARDS. MY MULE.
TOWN a mule. It is the first mule I ever had, and 1 will be the last one. My mind is my mule.
I suppose many other people have mules of the same kind. I notice that in every phrenological picture-chart of the human head the mule has the top place among the hieroglyphics.
A mule, according to the prevalent opinion, does not regulate his movements strictly according to the will of his owner. The mule's business hours do not always correspond to those of his driver, and some inconvenience is often occasioned thereby to both parties. I think Mark Twain slanders the mule, and yet we must allow that the mule is troublesome at times.
Sometimes when I am most anxious that my mule shall go, he deliberately stands still. I try to spur him forward, but he refuses to budge. I have seen men in the pulpit and on the rostrum very much in the plight of the driver of a rebellious mule. They stormed, they hammered, but they could not get under way. I would rather be the gazing-stock on Broadway, hammering and clubbing a stubborn mule, than to stand before an audience in a vain attempt to force my mind into action when it doesn't want to go. I have tried it.
I have tried patting and coaxing, and I have tried jerking and spurring. Now, I make a desperate effort. I summon all my strength ; I determine that my mind shall go. It does move as though it would go. It makes a few wild plunges, and away I go on a flight of imagination that I think must give me a fair start. I begin an ambitious sentence. Forward I am carried with a rush. I am going-going. I am not just sure where I am going .-I add one word after another, and suddenly—the mule stops. But down comes whip and spur, and with a bound I am off into another bold, emphatic sentence-yip-yip—
“Now it goes, now it goes,—
Now it stands still." The mule has stopped, and I get off very ungracefully. My mule is troublesome in another way. He gets started, goes like a whirlwind or tempest, and refuses to stop at my bidding.
Bed-time comes. I go to bed. I want to sleep. Whoa! whoa !--but on the mule goes and I can't get off. I shift from side to side. I determinedly resolve to think about nothing. I lie very still, I almost stop breathing, but it does not stop the thinking. I might as well try to stop the circulation of the blood by a mandate of the will. I am astride the mule, and the mule is going on the jump.
I pull back with all my might, but it avails nothing. Through the city, through the country, here and there and everywhere I am carried, in spite of my protesting that I don't want to go, till the mule is exhausted-I was exhausted long ago—and down he tumbles, and I drop into uneasy slumber in the scary dreamland just where the mule stops with me.
Again, mules are often seen, especially in pictures, with their heels at an angle of elevation which intimates that it is best to keep at a respectful distance. In other words, mules sometimes kick. This is the case especially when people take unbecoming liberties with their heels. My mental mule has heels, and it is difficult sometimes to keep them from flying in the faces of people that tempt them.
When some self-conceited creature, with an air of selfimportance that is almost unbearable, solemnly and majestically begs leave to inform you that you are seriously mistaken in some unimportant little opinion which you