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“Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called ?"

“No, I won't; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can't stand here all day.”

* Didn't you know that I was a minister ?” he asked as he backed off.

No, nor I don't know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a dollar chromo for eighteen shillings."

“But here is my card."

“I don't care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open I will have to fing a flower-pot at you!”

“I will call again,” he said, as he went through the gate.

“It won't do any good!” she shouted after him;“we don't want no prepared food for infants-no piano music-no stuffed birds! I know the policeman on this beat, and if you come around here again, he'll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or a vagrant!” And she took unusual care to lock the door.

- Detroit Free Press.


Two travelers started on a tour,

With trust and knowledge laden;
One was a man with mighty brain,

And one a gentle maiden.
They joined their hands and vowed to be

Companions for a season ;
The gentle maiden's name was Faith,

The mighty man's was Reason.
He sought all knowledge from the world,

And every world anear it;
All matter and all mind were his,

But her's was only spirit.
If any stars were missed from heaven,

His telescope could find them;
But while he only found the stars,

She found the God behind them.
He sought for truth above, below,

All hidden things revealing;
She only sought it woman-wise,

And found it in her feeling.

He said, “This earth's a rolling ball,

And so doth science prove it;"
He but discovered that it moves,

She found the springs that move it.
He reads with geologic eye

The record of the ages;
Unfolding strata, he translates

Earth's wonder-written pages.
He digs around a mountain base,

And measures it with plummet;
She leaps it with a single bound,

And stands upon the summit.
He brings to light the hidden force

In Nature's labyrinths lurking,
And binds it to his onward car

To do his mighty working.
He sends his message 'cross the earth,

And down where sea gems glisten;
She sendeth hers to God himself,

Who bends his ear to listen.
All things in beauty, science, art,

In common they inherit;
But he has only clasped the form,

While she has clasped the spirit.
God's wall infinite now looms up

Before Faith and her lover;
But while he tries to scale its heights,

She has gone safely over.
He tries, from earth, to forge a key

To ope the gate of heaven;
That key is in the maiden's heart,

And back its bolts are driven.
They part. Without her all is dark,

His knowledge vain and hollow;
For Faith has entered in with God,

Where Reason may not follow.


She is my only girl,
I asked for her as some most precious thing;
For all unfinished was love's jeweled ring,

Till set with this soft pearl.
The shadow that time brought forth I could not see,
How pure, how perfect seemed the gift to me!

Oh! many a soft old tune
I used to sing unto that deafened ear,
And suffered not the slightest footstep near,

Lest she might wake too soon;
And hushed her brothers' laughter while she lay.
Ah, needless care! I might have let them play.

'Twas long ere I believed That this one daughter might not speak to me; Waited and watched--God knows how patiently!

How willingly deceived!
Vain love was long the untiring nurse of faith,
And tended hope until it starved to death.

Oh! if she could but hear
For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach
To call me mother, in the broken speech

That thrills the mother's ear!
Alas! those sealed lips never may be stirred
To the deep music of that holy word.

My heart it sorely tries,
To see her kneel with such a reverent air
Beside her brothers at their evening prayer;

Or lift those earnest eyes
To watch our lips as though our words she knew,
Then move her own, as she were speaking, too.

I've watched her looking up
To the bright wonder of a sunset sky,
With such a depth of meaning in her eye,

That I could almost hope
The struggling soul would burst its binding cords,
And the long-pent-up thoughts flow forth in words,

The song of bird and bee,
The chorus of the breezes, streams and groves,
All the grand music to which Nature moves,

Are wasted melody
To her; the world of sound a tuneless void;
While even silence hath its charm destroyed.

Her face is very fair;
Her blue eye beautiful; of finest mold
The soft white brow, o'er which, in waves of gold

Ripples her shining hair.
Alas! this lovely temple closed must be,
For He who made it keeps the master key.

Wills He the mind within
Should from earth's Babel-clamor be kept free,
E'en that His still, small voice and step might be


Heard, at its inner shrine,
Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill?
Then should I grieve? O murmuring heart, be still!

She seems to have a sense
Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play;
She hath a pleasant sinile, a gentle way,

Whose voiceless eloquence
Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear
That even her father would not care for her.

Thank God it is not so!
And when his sons are playing merrily,
She comes and leans her head upon his knee.

Oh, at such times, I know,
By his full eye, and tones subdued and mild,
How his heart yearns over his silent child.

Not of all gifts bereft,
Even now. How could I say she did not speak?
What real language lights her eye and cheek

And renders thanks to Him who left
Into her soul yet open avenues
For joy to enter, and for love to use!

And God in love doth give
To her defect a beauty of its own;
And we a deeper tenderness have known

Through that for which we grieve.
Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear,
Yea, and my voice shall fill it-but not here.

When that new sense is given
What rapture will its first experience be-
That never woke to meaner melody

Than the rich songs of heaven,-
To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round,
While angels teach the ecstasies of sound!


The examination and trial of Madame Roland were but a repetition of those charges against the Gironde, with which every harangue of the Jacobin party was filled. She was reproached with being the wife of Roland, and the friend of his accomplices. With a proud look of triumph, Madame Roland admitted her guilt in both instances ; spoke with ten. derness of her husband, with respect of her friends, and with dignified modesty of herself; but, borne down by the camors of the court whenever she gave vent to her indignation against her persecutors, she ceased speaking amid the threats and invectives of her hearers. The people were at that period permitted to take a fearful and leading part in the dialogue between the judges and accused; they even permitted persons on trial to address the court, or compelled their silence; the very verdict rested with them.

Madame Roland heard herself sentenced to death with the air of one who saw in her condemnation merely her title to immortality. She rose, and slightly bowing to her judges, said, with a bitter and ironical smile, “I thank you for considering me worthy to share the fate of the good and great men you have murdered !” She flew down the steps of the Conciergerie with the rapid swiftness of a child about to obtain some long-desired object: the end and aim of her de. sires was death. As she passed along the corridor, where all the prisoners had assembled to greet her return, she looked at them smilingly, and, drawing her right hand across her throat, made a sign expressive of cutting off a head. This was her only farewell; it was tragic as her destiny, joyous as her deliverance; and well was it understood by those who saw it. Many who were incapable of weeping for their own fate shed tears of unfeigned sorrow for hers.

On that day (November 10, 1793,) a greater number than usual of carts laden with victims rolled onward toward the scaffold. Madame Roland was placed in the last, beside an infirm old man, named Lamarche. She wore a white robe, as a symbol of her innocence, of which she was anxious to convince the people ; her magnificent hair, black and glossy as a raven's wing, fell in thick masses almost to her knees: her complexion, purified by her long captivity, and now glowing under the influence of a sharp, frosty November day, bloomed with all the freshness of early youth. Her eyes were full of expression; her whole countenance seemed radiant with glory, while a movement between pity and contempt agitated her lips. A crowd followed them, uttering the coarsest threats and most revolting expressions. “To the guillotine! to the guillotine!” exclaimed the female part of the rabble.

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