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IS IT NOTHING TO YOU?*

Is it nothing to you, O Christians,

As ye sit around the board,
Where the feast is spread before you,

And the rich-hued wine is poured,
That a mighty spirit of evil

Dwells in that bright wine's flow,
That pleasure floats on the surface,

But danger is hiding below?
Is it nothing to you, though that spirit

Walks to and fro through the land,
Scattering the seeds of mischief

Broadcast on every hand?
Those seeds are yielding a harvest

Of poverty, death, and woe,
Of ignorance, crime, and madness,

And you are helping to sow!
Yes ; still does the wily tempter

Whisper his oft-told lie
Into the ears of his victims,
“ Ye shall not certainly die!
Ye may drink; for look at the righteous,

Do they not drink of it too?
And the listeners fall as they listen--

And is this nothing to you?
Ye have the gift of knowledge,

Ye are standing fast in your strength;
But that which is now your servant

May be your tyrant at length.
For art has lost its cunning,

And learning ceased to shine,
And the light of religion been darkened,

Before that spirit of wine.
Will you teach your children's voices

To utter the Šaviour's prayer,
“ Lead us not into temptation,"

And then, lead, and leave them there?
The path is slippery and treacherous,

Which they see you safely pursue;
But they may follow, and perish-

And is this nothing to you?
There are thousands struggling before you

In the dark and fearful wave * This poem is printed on tinted paper and circulated as a tract of appeal anong he sturdy Scotch. We are indebted to MARGARET E. PARKER, of Dundee, Scotapir, for forwarding it.

Which hurries them on to destruction

Will you stretch out no hand to save? Will you turn from the wife's wild anguish,

From the cry of the children, too, And say from your place of safety,

That this is nothing to you? But if, with a generous effort,

A rope to their aid you send,
That help will be unavailing,

If you hold not the other end.
Would you draw the perishing drunkard

Back to the shore of hope,
Yourselves must give him courage,

And yourselves must hold the rope. Ye are called with a holy calling,

The lights of the world to be, To lift up the lamp of the gospel,

That others the path may see ;
But if you bear it onwards,

Leading the feeble astray
Till they sink in hidden pitfalls,

What will your Master say?
Is it nothing to you, O Christians,

By the blood of Christ redeemed,
That through you the name of Jesus

Is by the heathen blasphemed; Because along with the gospel,

Your poison-draught ye bring, And ruin them, soul and body,

With that accursed thing? Arise in your Master's honor,

And cleanse your hands from the stain, And let not the shadow of darkness

On that name of light remain. Away with each false pleasure,

Which makes your lamps burn dim! He gave His life for your ransom;

Will you give up nothing for Him?
Up, Christians, up and be doing!

Rise from your base repose :
If you take not the part of your Saviour,

You take the part of His foes.
Fling the bondage of evil custom,

And the fetters of self aside, Nor destroy, with your strength and knowledge,

The souls for whom Jesus died.

ART THOU LIVING YET?-JAMES G. CLARK.

Is there no grand, immortal sphere

Beyond this realm of broken ties, To fill the wants that mock us here,

And dry the tears from weeping eyes ; Where winter melts in endless spring,

And June stands near with deathless flowers; Where we may hear the dear ones sing

Who loved us in this world of ours ? I ask, and lo! my cheeks are wet

With tears for one I cannot see; Oh, mother, art thou living yet,

And dost thou still remember me?
I feel thy kisses o'er me thrill,

Thou unseen angel of my life;
I hear thy hymns around me trill

An undertone to care and strife;
Thy tender eyes upon mne shine,

Ås from a being glorified,
Till I am thine and thou art mine,

And I forget that thou hast died;
I almost lose each vain regret

In visions of a life to be;
But, mother, art thou living yet,

And dost thou still remember me?
The springtimes bloom, the summers fade,

The winters blow along iny way;
But over every light or shade

Thy memory lives by night and day; It soothes to sleep my wildest pain,

Like some sweet song that cannot die, And, like the murmur of the main,

Grows deeper when the storm is nigh. I know the brightest stars that set

Return to bless the yearning sea;
But, mother, art thou living yet,

And dost thou still remember me?
I sometimes think thy soul comes back

From o'er the dark and silent stream,
Where last we watched thy shining track,

To those green hills of which we dream; Thy loving arms around me twine,

My cheeks blooin younger in thy breath, Till thou art mine and I am thine,

Without a thought of pain or death;

And yet, at times, my eyes are wet

With tears for her I cannot see-
Oh! mother, art thou living yet,

And dost thou still remember me?

JOSIAH AND FAMILY AT THE CENTENNIAL.

EMMA M. JOHNSTON. While going the rounds of the great Exhibition, lately, we found the passage-way suddenly blocked by a family cavalcade. There was the father, bald and beaming, and averaging two hundred and eighty in weight. He wore a blue coat, gray pants, and a green neck-tie. He carried the family umbrella under his arm, and frequently removed his white hat to mop his forehead with a bright bandanna. His partner was equal to him in size, and similar in style of dress. In regular family order six children followed them; and were supplied from time to time with ginger-bread by the mother, who carried it in straw paper in her right hand.

“Well, mother," puffed the head of the family, “this is astonishin', now, ain't it? I never saw nuthin' like it before. Most played out, mother, eh? John Henry, take the basket from mother. What's this ? (stopping before the piece of worsted-work entitled “The Battle of Langside.") My grashus! that chap looks delicate, nuw.

That beats your samples all to nuthin' mother. I 'spect Maria Jane 'll do somethin' rale handsome, like that, with her needle, when she's growed up."

Here the youngest child set up a lively howl at being trodden on, and the entire family, with umbrella, baskets, satchels, and ginger-bread stopped to find out who the guilty party was.

"You ought to 'a minded her better, Selina," said the mother. “There, give her an orange to suck, out o' that littlest bag."

We next came across this interesting family in Horticultural Hall, trying to spell out the names of plants, and showing general disgust that such a fuss was made over bits of flowers.

“It's jest throwin' away money to come and see these 'ere things, when we've got jest as good in our own garden

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at home. Abe Lincoln, don't you pinch your little sister Sallie agin, or I'll thump you where we stand, as sure as I'm your livin' mother. Josiah,” (to her husband) “let's go an' see somethin' better than this."

Josiah agreed, but just at that moment they met their friends, the Browns, and there were general exclamations and salutations.

“Well, neighbor Brown," said our fat friend,“ this is--this is somethin' big now, ain't it?”

Brown agreed that it was.

“ Its the first Centennial that me and Lother and the children's ever seen,” continued Josiah. “They had one over to Squabtown, last year, but none on us got to it, owin' to our little Abe Lincoln there havin' the scarlet fever so amazin' smart we thought we was goin' to lose him.”

The family, their numbers swelled by the addition of the Brown tribe, moved on to the Art Gallery, whither we followed, intent on fun. “The Banquet Scene,” from Macbeth, caused a panic among our fat friend's six children, and Brown's six children, owing to the ghost. Twelve young voices were raised in unearthly cries at the sight of it.

“Maria Jane, you hush up! You know it ain't a rale, livin' ghost. What's the use o' settin' the young un's to whoopin' like that?" exclaimed her father; while the head of the Brown family administered a smart rap on the skull of each of his offsprings.

“Josiah, come right away from that picture and fetch the children with you. There's a woman in it that ain't got any frock on.

It's a shame!” Josiah meekly obeyed his wife. The great American eagle, which had served in the late war, was an object of enthusiastic interest to the entire party. And the way that bird looked at them and listened to their comments, was something rich. In particular he fixed his eyes upon a fat, flaxen-haired child of our friend Josiah's as though imagining what the taste of such a creature would be.

“We ain't seen the Japanese, yet,” said Josiah. And forth with they marched to the department occupied by Japan.

Josiah seemed possessed with a feeling that the Japanese in attendance on their goods were capable of understanding

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