SELECTIONS.

I.

EVERETT'S VINDICATION OF AMERICA,-1863.

In the factories of Europe there is machinery of American invention or improvement; in their observatories, telescopes of American construction, and apparatus of American invention for recording the celestial phenomena. America contests with Europe the introduction into actual use of the electric telegraph, and her mode of operating it is adopted throughout the French empire. American authors in almost every department are found on the shelves of European libraries. It is true no American Homer, Virgil, Dante, Copernicus, Shakespeare, Bacon, Milton, Newton, has risen on the world. These mighty geniuses seem to be exceptions in the history of the human mind. Favorable circumstances do not produce them, nor does the absence of favorable circumstances prevent their appearance. Homer rose in the dawn of Greek culture, Virgil flourished in the court of Augustus, Dante ushered in the birth of the new European civilization, Copernicus was reared in a Polish cloister, Shakespeare was trained in the green room of the theatre, Milton was formed while the elements of English thought and life were fermenting towards a great political and moral revolution, Newton under the profligacy of the restoration. Ages may elapse before any country will produce a man like these, as two centuries have passed since the last mentioned of them were born. But if it is really a matter of reproach to the United States, that in the comparatively short period of their existence as a people, they have not added another name to the illustrious list (which is equally true of all the other nations of the earth,)

94

95 they may proudly boast of one example of life and character, one career of disinterested service, one model of public virtue, the type of human excellence, of which all the countries and all the ages may be searched in vain for the parallel. I need not -on this day I need not-speak the peerless name. It is stamped on your hearts, it glistens in your eyes, it is written on every page of your history, on the battle-fields of the Revolution, on the monuments of your fathers, on the portals of your Capitols. It is heard in every breeze that whispers over the fields of independent America. And he was all our own. grew upon the soil of America; he was nurtured at her bosom. She loved and trusted him in his youth; she honored and revered him in his age; and though she did not wait for death to canonize his name, his precious memory, with each succeeding year, has sunk more deeply into the hearts of his countrymen.

He

I I.

THE TEMPERANCE DRINK.

Water! heavenIt was the drink of

Water! oh, bright, beautiful water for me. gifted, earth-blessing, flower-loving water! Adam in the purity of his Eden home—it mirrored back the beauty of Eve in her unblushing toilet-it awakens to life again the crushed and fading flower-it cools, oh, how gratefully! the parched tongue of the feverish invalid-it falls down to us in pleasant showers from its home in the glittering stars-it descends to us in feathery storms of snow-it smiles in shining dew-drops at the glad birth of morning-it clusters in great teardrops at night over the graves of those we love-its name is wreathed in strange, bright colors by the sunset cloud—its name is breathed by the dying soldier, far away on the torrid field of battle-it paints old forts and turrets, from a gorgeous easel, on your winter window-it clings upon the branches of trees in frost-work of delicate beauty-it dwells in the icicle-it lives in the mountain glacier-it forms the vapory ground-work upon which God paints the rainbow--it gushes in pearly streams from

the gentle hillside-it makes glad the sunny vales—it murmurs cheerful songs in the ear of the humble cottager-it answers back the smiles of happy children-it kisses the pure cheek of the water lily-it wanders like a vein of molten silver away, away to the distant sea-oh, bright, beautiful, health-inspiring, heart-gladdening water! Everywhere around us dwelleth thy meek presence-twin angel sister of all that is good and precious here in the wild forest-on the grassy plain-slumbering in the bosom of the lonely mountain-sailing with viewless wings through the humid air-floating over us in curtains of more than regal splendor-home of the healing angel when his wings bend to the woes of this fallen world.

I've wandered to the village, | Tom; I've sat beneath the tree,
Upon the school house play-ground, which sheltered you and me;
But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know,
That played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago.

The grass was just as green, Tom, | bare-footed boys at play
Were sporting just as we did then, with spirits just as gay;
But "Master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding place just twenty years ago.

The school house has altered some-the benches are replaced
By new ones, very like the same our pen-knives had defaced;
But the same old bricks are in the wall-the bell swings to and fro,
Its music just the same, dear Tom, 't was twenty years ago.

The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same old tree;
I do forget the name just now-you've played the same with me-
On that same spot, 't was played with knives, by throwing so and so;
The leader had a task to do-there twenty years ago.

The river's running just as still, the willows on its side

Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide;

97

But the grape-vine swing is ruined now. where once we played the beau,
And swung our sweet-hearts | "pretty girls" | just twenty years ago.

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech
Is very low-'twas once so high, that we could almost reach;
And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, | I startled so,
To see how much I've changed | since twenty years ago.

Near by the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name,
Your sweet-heart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same;
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 't was dying sure but slow,
Just as that one, whose name you cut, | died twenty years ago.

My lids have long been dry, Tom, | but tears came in my eyes,
I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties;
I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strew
Upon the graves of those we loved | some twenty years ago.

Some are in the church-yard laid-some sleep beneath the sea;
But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me ;
And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go,
I hope they'll lay us where we played just twenty years ago.

IV.

ENGLAND AGAINST WAR.

H. W. BEECHER,-1863.-LONDON.

I hear a loud protest against war. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Chairman, there is a small band in our country and in yours -I wish their number were quadrupled-who have borne a solemn and painful testimony against all wars, under all circumstances; and although I differ with them on the subject of defensive warfare, yet when men that rebuked their own land, and all lands, now rebuke us, though I can not accept their judgment, I bow with profound respect to their consistency. But excepting them I regard this British horror of the American war as something wonderful. Why, it is a phenomenon in itself! On what shore has not the prow of your ships dashed? What land is there with a name and a people where your banner has not led your soldiers? And when the great resurrec

tion reveille shall sound, it will muster British soldiers from every clime and people under the whole heaven. Ah! but it is said this is a war against your own blood. How long is it since you poured soldiers into Canada, and let all your yards work night and day to avenge the taking of two men out of the Trent? Old England shocked at a war of principle! She gained her glories in such a war. Old England ashamed of a war of principle! Her national ensign symbolizes her history-the cross in a field of blood. And will you tell us who inherit your blood, your ideas, and your pluck-that we must not fight? The child must heed the parents until the parents get old and tell the child not to do the thing that in early life they whipped him for not doing. And then the child says, father and mother are getting too old;

they had better be taken away from their present home and come to live with us. Perhaps you think there is coal enough. Perhaps you think the stock is not quite run out yet; but whenever England comes to that state that she does not go to war for principle, she had better emigrate, and we will get room for her.

V.

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.

W. C. BRYANT.

Come, let us plant the apple-tree!

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;

Wide let its hollow bed be made;

There gently lay the roots, and there

Sift the dark mould with kindly care,

And press it o'er them tenderly,

As, round the sleeping infant's feet,
We softly fold the cradle-sheet:
So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in the apple-tree?

Buds, which the breath of summer days

Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;

Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast