"You will find it so, sir." And so I found it; and the first sight of Niagara 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."

"Ha! hah! 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!”

"What is it?"

"The rapids are below you!"

"Ha! hah! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. 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!"

"What is it?"

"Beware! Beware! The rapids are below you!" Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast 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 brows! Set the mast in the socket ! hoist the sail! Ah! ah! it is too late! Shrieking, cursing, howling, blaspheming, over they go.

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!"

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

BYRON.

STOP!-for thy tread is on an empire's dust!
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchered below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ?
Nor column, trophied for triumphal show ?
None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be,-
How that red rain has made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world hath gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making victory ?

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry: and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell ;-

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it ?-No ;-'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined,

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !

Arm! arm! it is! it is the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;

And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;

He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ?

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come, they

come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose !
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albin's hills

Have heard and heard too have her Saxon foes :-
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring, which instills
The stirring memory of a thousand years;

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving-if aught inanimate e'er grieves-
Over the unreturning brave-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low !

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife;
The morn the marshaling in arms; the day
Battle's magnificently stern array ;

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover-heaped and pent,
Rider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent!

TEAMSTER JIM.

ROBERT J. BURDETTE.

IT an't jest the story, parson, to tell in a crowd like this, Weth the virtuous matron a frownin' an' chidin' the gigglin'

miss,

An' the good old deacon a noddin' in time weth his patient

snores,

An' the shocked aleet of the capital stalkin' away through the doors.

But then, it's a story thet happened, an' every word of it's true,

An' sometimes we can't help talkin' of the things thet we sometimes do.

An' though good society coldly shets its doors onto "Teamster Jim,"

I'm thinkin' ther's lots worse people thet's better known than him.

I mind the day he was married, an' I danced at the weddin', too;

An' I kissed the bride, sweet Maggie-daughter of Ben McGrew.

I mind how they set up housekeepin', two young, poor, happy fools,

When Jim's only stock was a heavy truck an' four Kaintucky mules.

Well, they lived along contented with their little joys an'

cares,

An' every year a baby come, an' twicet they come in pairs; Till the house was full of children, weth their shoutin' and

playin' and squalls,

An' their singin' and laughin' and cryin' made Bedlam within its walls.

An' Jim, he seemed to like it, an' he spent all his evenin's at home.

He said it was full of music an' light, an' peace from pit to dome,

He joined the church, an' he used to pray that his heart

might be kept from sin

The stumblin'st prayin'---but heads and hearts used to bow when he'd begin.

So they lived along in that way, the same from day to day, With plenty of time for drivin' work, an' a little time for

play,

An' growin' round 'em the sweetest girls and the liveliest, manliest boys,

Till the old gray heads of the two old folks was crowned with the homeliest joys.

Eh? Come to my story? Well, that's all. They're livin' just like I said,

Only two of the girls is married, an' one of the boys is dead,