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You can whip the carpet a longer or shorter period, according to the size of your mad; it don't make any difference to the carpet; it is just as dusty and as fuzzy, and generally disagreeable after you have whipped it two hours as it was when you commenced. Then you bundle it up, with one corner dragging, and stumble into the house, and have more trouble with the stove, and fail to find any way of using the carpet stretcher while you stand on the carpet, and fail to find any place to stand off from the carpet, and you get on your knees once more, while your wife holds the saucer, and with blind confidence hands you broken tacks, crooked tacks, tacks with no points, tacks with no heads, tacks with no leathers, tacks with the biggest end at the point.

Finally the carpet is down, and the baby comes back, and the cat comes back, and the dog comes back, and your wife smiles sweetly, and says she is glad the job is off her hands.

BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN, 1800.-THOMAS CAMPBELL.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the druin beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each warrior drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

And redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

"Tis morn; but scarce yon lurid sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,

While furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Ah! few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

UNCLE REMUS'S REVIVAL HYMN.

Oh! whar shall we go w'en de great day comes,
Wid de blowin' uv de trumpets an' de bangin' uv de drums!
How many po' sinners 'll be cotched out late,

An' fine no latch to de goldin gate?

No use fer to wait 'twell to-morrer?

De sun musn't set on yo' sorrer.

Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo brier

O Lord! fetch the mo'ners up higher!

W'en de nashuns uv de earf is a stannin' all aroun',
Who's a gwine ter be choosen fer ter war de Glory crown?
Who's a gwine fer ter stan' stiff-kneed an' bol',

An' answer to dere naine at de callin' uv de roll.
You better come now ef you comin'-
Ole Satan is loose an's a bummin'-
De weels uv destrucshun is a hummin'—
Oh, come along sinner, ef you comin.'
De song uv salvation is a mighty sweet song,
An' de Pairadise win' blo' fur an' blo' strong;
An' Aberham's buzzum is saf' an' it's wide,
An' dat's de place whar de sinner orter hide.
No use ter be stoppin' an' a lookin',
Ef you fool wid Satan you'll git took in,
You'll hang on de edge an' git shook in,
Ef you keep on a stoppin' an' a lookin'.'"

De time is right now an' dis here's de place-
Let de salvashun sun shine squar' in yo' face,
Fight de battles uv de Lord, fight soon an' fight late,
An' you'll allers fine a latch on de goldin gate,
No use fer ter wait 'twell to-morrer-

De sun mus'n't set on yo' sorrer.
Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo brier--
Ax de Lord fer ter fetch you up higher.

-Atlanta Constitution.

THE PURITANS.-F. B. MACAULAY.

The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a poculiar character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being for whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on his intolerable brightness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The difference between the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when compared with the boundless interval which separated the whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and, confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and poets they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge of them.

Their palaces were houses not made with hands; their diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt: for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language-nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious interest, who had been destined, before heaven and earth were cre

ated, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven ad earth should have passed away. Events which shortsighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the harp of the prophet. He had been wrested by no common deliverer from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had risen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring God.

Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men,--the one all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion; the other proud, calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker; but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement he prayed with convulsions and groans and tears. He was half-naddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself entrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace behind them. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the ha!! of debate or in the field of battle.

THE EAGLE.-ALFRED TENNYSON.

He clasps the crag with hooked hands,
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls:
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunder-bolt he falls.

ROMANCE OF A CARPET.

Basking in peace in the warm spring sun
South Hili smiled upon Burlington.

The breath of May! and the day was fair,
And the bright motes danced in the balmy air,
And the sunlight gleamed where the restless breez
Kissed the fragrant blooms on the apple trees.
His beardless cheek with a smile he spanned
As he stood with a carriage whip in hand,
And he laughed as he doffed his bobtail coat,
And the echoing folds of the carpet smote.
And she smiled as she leaned on her busy mop,
And said she'd tell him when to stop.

So he pounded away till the dinner-bell
Gave him a little breathing spell;

But he sighed when the kitchen clock struck one,
And she said the carpet wasn't done.

But he lovingly put in his biggest licks,

And he pounded like mad till the clock struck si

And she said, in a dubious kind of way,

That she guessed he could finish it up next day.

Then all that day, and the next day, too,
That fuzz from the dirtless carpet flew,

And she'd give it a look at eventide,
And say, "Now beat on the other side."

And the new days came as the old days went,
And the landlord came for his regular rent,

And the neighbors laughed at the tireless broom.
And his face was shadowed with clouds of gloom

Till at last, one cheerless winter day,
He kicked at the carpet and slid away.

Over the fence and down the street,
Speeding away with footsteps fleet,

And never again the morning sun
Smiled upon him beating his carpet-drum.
And South Hill often said with a yawn,
Where's the carpet martyr gone?"

Years twice twenty had come and past,
And the carpet swayed in the autumn blast,

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