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on the life-blood of wasted principalities,—& customhouse on the bank of every river, a fortress on every frontier hill, a pirate lurking in the recesses of every bay, --or whether they shall coutinue to constitute a federal republic, the most extensive, the most powerful, the most prosperous in the long line of ages.

No one can read the Farewell Address without feeling that this was the thought and this the care which lay nearest and heaviest upon that noble heart; and ifwhich Heaven forbid—the day shall ever arrive when his parting counsels on that head shall be forgotten, ou that day, come it soon or come it late, it may as mournfully, as truly be said that Washington has lived in vain. Then the vessels as they ascend and descend the Potomac may toll their bells with new significance as they pass Mount Vernon; they will strike the requiem of constitutional liberty for us,-for all nations.

But it cannot, shall not be; this great woe to our beloved country, this catastrophe for the cause of national freedom, this grievous calamity for the whole civilized world, it cannot, shall not be. “No, by the glorious 19th of April, 1775; no, by the precious blood of Bunker Hill, of Princeton, of Saratoga, of King's Mountain, of Yorktown; no, by the undying spirit of '76; no, by the sacred dust enshrined at Mount Vernon; no, by the dear, immortal memory of Washington,—that sorrow and shame shall never be.

A great and venerated character like that of Washington, which commands the respect of an entire population, however divided on other questions, is not an isolated fact in History to be regarded with barren admiration,-it is a dispensation of Providence for good. It was well said by Mr. Jefferson in 1792, writing to Washington to dissuade him from declining a renomination,

North and to i Washinå him as ou hang to

* North and Scuth will hang together while they have you to hang to.” Washington in the flesh is taken from us; we shall never behold him as our fathers did; but his memory remains, and I say, let us hang to his memory. Let us make a national festival and holiday of his birthday; and ever, as the 22d of February returns, let us remember that, while with these solemn and joyous rites of observance we celebrate the great anniversary, our fellow-citizens on the Hudson, on the Potomac, from the Southern plains to the Western lakes, are engaged in the same offices of gratitude and love.

Nor we, nor they alone ;-beyond the Ohio, beyond the Mississippi, along that stupendous trail of immigration from East to West, which, bursting into States as it moves westward, is already treading the Western prairies, swarming through the portals of the Rocky Mountains and winding down their slopes, the name and the memory of Washington on that gracious night will travel with the silver queen of heaven through sixty degrees of longitude, nor part company with her till she walks in her brightness through the golden gate of California, and passes serenely on to hold midnight court with her Australian stars. There, and there only, in barbarous archipelagoes, as yet untrodden by civilized man, the name of Washington is unknown; and there, too, when they swarm with enlightened millions, new honors shall be paid with ours to his memory. E. EVERETT.

MWAS on Lake Erie’s broad expanse,

1 One bright midsummer day,
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
Swept proudly on her way.

Bright faces clustered on the deck,

Or, leaning o'er the side,
Watched carelessly the feathery form,

That flecked the rippling tide.
Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,

That smiling bends serene,
Could dream that danger, awful, vast,

Impended o'er the scene-
Could dream that ere an hour had sped,

That frame of sturdy oak
Would sink beneath the lake's blue waven,

Blackened with fire and smoke?
A seaman sought the captain's side,

A moment whispered low;
The captain's swarthy face grew pale,

He hurried down below.
Alas, too late! Though quick and sharp

And clear his orders came, No human efforts could avail

To quench th' insidious flame.
The bad news quickly reached the deck,

It sped from lip to lip,
And ghastly faces everywhere

Looked from the doomed ship.
“Is there no hope-no chance of life ?»

A hundred lips implore; “But one,” the captain made reply,

“To run the ship on shore.” A sailor, whose heroic soul

That hour should yet reveal,-
By name John Maynard, eastern bom,

Stood calmly at the wheel.

“ Head her south-east !” the captain shouts,

Above the smothered roar, “Head her south-east without delay!

Make for the nearest shore !"

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,

Or clouds his dauntless eye,
As in a sailor's measured tone

His voice responds, “Ay, Ay!"
Three hundred souls,—the steamer's freight,-.

Crowd forward, wild with fear,
While at the stern the dreadful flames

Above the deck appear.
John Maynard watched the nearing flames,

But still, with steady hand
He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly

He steered the ship to land.
“John Maynard,” with an anxious voice,

The captain cries once more,
“Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,

And we will reach the shore.”
Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart

Responded firmly, still
Unawed, though face to face with death,

“With God's good help I will!"

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The flames approach with giant strides,

They scorch his hands and brow; One arm disabled seeks his side,

Ah, he is conquered now!
But no, his teeth are firmly set,

He crushes down the pain,-
His knee upon the stanchion pressed,

He guides the ship again.

One moment yet! one moment yet!

Brave heart, thy task is o'er!
The pebbles grate beneath the keel, .

The steamer touches shore.
Three hundred grateful voices rise,

In praise to God, that He
Hath saved them from the fearful fire,

And from th’ingulfing sea.
But where is he, that helmsman bold?

The captain saw him reel-
His nerveless hands released their task,
• He sunk beside the wheel.
The waves received his lifeless corpse,

Blackened with smoke and fire.
God rest him! Hero never had

A nobler funeral pyre!

THE OLD YANKEE FARMER. W AL, Mr. Brown, how's things goin' on with y'there

V daown below? I s'pose Boston don't look much as 't did fifty year ago. I was tellin'-I was tellin' Miss Pillsbury t'other day, ef she felt smart enough, we'd take a little jant daown and look round a little. But she's got the rumatiz so like all possest, she can't stir raound much. She's e'en a most discouraged sometimes; but I tell her I guess it'll all wear off arter a spell, ha! ha! ha! I doant git raound much myself. I'm a gittin' suthin' inter years—but I tell 'em I'm better'n half the young folks naow.

Folks doant live now-a-days as they used ter when I was a boy. Why, they've all got the indigeestion, or

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