can claim for his country Lacedæmonian heroism, but that more than Spartan valor and more than Roman magnificence is required of her. Go, then, ye laborers in a noble cause; gather the young Catholic and the young Protestant alike into the nursery of freedom, and teach them there that, although Religion has many and different shrines on which may be made the offering of a "broken spirit," which God will not despise; yet that their country has appointed only one altar and one sacrifice for all her sons, and that ambition and avarice must be slain on that altar, for it is consecrated to HUMANITY.

HAMILTON AND JAY.-Rev. Dr. Hawks.

It were, indeed, a bold task to venture to draw into comparison the relative merits of Jay and Hamilton, on the fame and fortunes of their country,—a bold task,—and yet, bold as it is, we feel impelled, before closing, at least to venture on opening it. They were undoubtedly, "par nobile fratrum," and yet not twin brothers,-"pares sed impares,"-like, but unlike. In patriotic attachment equal, for who would venture therein to assign to either the superiority; yet was that attachment, though equal in degree, yet far different in kind: with Hamilton it was a sentiment, with Jay a principle,-with Hamilton enthusiastic passion, with Jay duty as well as love,—with Hamilton patriotism was the paramount law, with Jay a law "sub graviori lege" (under a weightier law). Either would have gone through fire and water to do his country service, and laid down freely his life for her safety, Hamilton with the roused courage of a lion,-Jay with the calm fearlessness of a man; or rather, Hamilton's courage would have been that of the soldier,—Jay's that of the Christian. Of the latter it might be truly said,—

"Conscience made him firm,

That boon companion, who her strong breastplate
Buckles on him that fears no guilt within,

And bids him on, and fear not.'

In intellectual power, in depth, and grasp, and versatility of mind, as well as in all the splendid and brilliant parts which captivate and adorn, Hamilton was greatly, not to say immeasurably, Jay's superior. In the calm and deeper wisdom of practical duty,

in the government of others, and still more in the government of himself,-in seeing clearly the right, and following it whithersoever it led, firmly, patiently, self-deniedly, Jay was again greatly, if not immeasurably, Hamilton's superior. In statesmanlike talent, Hamilton's mind had in it more of "constructive" power

HAMILTON AND JAY.

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Jay's of " executive."-Hamilton had GENIUS, Jay had WISDOM. We would have taken Hamilton to plan a government, and Jay to carry it into execution; and, in a court of law, we would have Hamilton for our advocate, if our cause were generous, and Jay for judge, if our cause were just.

The fame of Hamilton, like his parts, we deem to shine brighter and farther than Jay's, but we are not sure that it should be so, or rather we are quite sure that it should not. For, when we come to examine and compare their relative course, and its bearing on the country and its fortunes, the reputation of Hamilton we find to go as far beyond his practical share in it, as Jay's falls short of his. Hamilton's civil official life was a brief and single, though brilliant one. Jay's numbered the years of a generation, and exhausted every department of diplomatic, civil, and judicial trust. In fidelity to their country, both were pure to their heart's core; yet was Hamilton loved, perhaps, more than trusted, and Jay trusted, perhaps, more than loved.

Such were they, we deem, in differing, if not contrasted, points of character. Their lives, too, when viewed from a distance, stand out in equally striking, but much more painful, contrast. Jay's, viewed as a whole, has in it a completeness of parts, such as a nicer critic demands for the perfection of an epic poem, with its beginning of promise, its heroic middle, and its peaceful end, and partaking, too, somewhat of the same cold stateliness,—noble, however, still and glorious, and ever pointing, as such poem does, to the stars,--" Sic itur ad astra." The life of Hamilton, on the other hand, broken and fragmentary, begun in the darkness of romantic interest, running on into the sympathy of all high passion, and at length breaking off in the midst, like some half-told tale of sorrow, amid tears and blood, even as does the theme of the tragic poet. The name of Hamilton, therefore, was a name to conjure with,--that of Jay's to swear by. Hamilton had his frailties, arising out of passion, as tragic heroes have. Jay's name was faultless, and his course passionless, as becomes the epic leader, and, in point of fact was, while living, a name at which frailty blushed, and corruption trembled.

If we ask whence, humanly speaking, came such disparity of the fate between equals, the stricter morals, the happier life, the more peaceful death, to what can we trace it, but to the healthful power of religion over the heart and conduct? Was not this, we ask, the ruling secret? Hamilton was a Christian in his youth, and a penitent Christian, we doubt not, on his dying bed; but Jay was a Christian, so far as man may judge, every day and hour of his life. He had but one rule, the gospel of Christ; in that he was nurtured,-ruled by that, through grace he lived,— resting on that, in prayer, he died.

Admitting, then, as we do, both names to be objects of our

highest sympathetic admiration, yet, with the name of Hamilton, as the master says of tragedy, the lesson is given,-" with pity and in fear." Not so with that of Jay; with him we walk fearless, as in the steps of one who was a CHRISTIAN, as well as a

PATRIOT.

DEBT.-Anon.

I sat in my room on a midnight dreary,
Counting the rain on the roof;

Hearing the roll of the wheels aweary,
And the clank of the horses' hoof.

Hearing the fall of the distant feet

That echoed along on the sleeping street,
And the hollow song of a roistering rhyme

Striking in with the clang of the midnight chime.

I sat in my room, while the gas burning low
On the dead white chamber-wall,

While, pale and haggard, and full of woe,
And strangely lank and tall,

The stony figure in silence stands

Watching the moves of my trembling hands;
Watching the drop of my weary eye,

With a dim, grim smile at my every sigh.

I gazed at this figure in solemn awe,
This spectre so gaunt and gray,
Who came not by the bolted door,
With his ghostly, shadowy way.

I saw that the rags on his shrunken form

Were dripped with wet from the midnight storm;

I saw him shrivelled with pain and cold,

And his face looked prematurely old.

With a shiver of dread in every vein,
I spoke to this man of stone;
And every word he spoke again
Were the echoes of my own.

"What dost thou here in the midnight deep,

When the world is lapped in the sweetest sleep?"

What dost THOU here?" he said again,

"When the pillow claims thy wearied brain?"

"What art thou, thing of a bloodless life,

Whose presence is death and shame;
Whose every word is the stab of a knife,
What is thy dreadful name?"

For a moment flashed his

eyes in light,

Then darkened again, as in endless night,
"Whoever shall know, shall never forget
The times when he wore the chains of Debt.

"Whoever shall once, in a thoughtless way,
Wear those golden chains for me,
Shall labor and toil for many a day
Before his limbs are free.

At first my chains are of burnished gold,
And worn in a rich and gorgeous fold;

But they grow in weight, and they grow in size,
With every speedy hour that flies.

AN ESSAY ON GATES.

"But I, with a magic all my own,

Can change the chains of gold;

I can turn them to iron, and eat the bone,

And gnaw the flesh till the heart grows old;
Till the clothes shall hang in a filthy shred,

Till the eyes shall look like the eyes of the dead;
Till the arm shall die in its palsied pain,

And the blood run cold in each icy vein.

"Who weareth my chains shall know no hope,

Shall crave no length of life;

Shall die by drug, by knife, and rope,

Or live in blood or strife."

With his golden chain the shape drew nigh;

I sprang to my feet with a shuddering cry:

There was nothing to hear but the swell of my scream,
And nothing to see but the mist of a dream.

AN ESSAY ON GATES.-Milton Goodenow.

"Blest be the man who first invented"-gates!
Front gates, I mean-the expression is not mine;
Old Sancho used it once upon a time;

And, what the shrewd and honest fellow wrote,
I, with a poet's license, sure can quote,

And claim indulgence of the kindly fates.

Now, who invented gates, is quite a mystery ;

In vain we ask the doctors, old and wise;
They slowly shake their heads and wink their eyes,
Answer our question with a solemn groan,
Advising us to let such things alone.

In vain we search the volumed leaves of history.
Thus baffled, we put on our thinking-cap,
When lo! it must have been some Yankee chap
(Dissatisfied, though blessed with richest store)
Who cried: "Tis worse than going to the wars,
To clamber fences and to crawl through bars!
Mankind, 'tis certain, wants one comfort more ;
That want will I supply; the need is great!"
He seized his jacknife, and behold-a gate!

How useful is the gate! In youthful years,
When time had laid upon our brow no care,
Nor traced its furrowed lines of sorrow there,
How oft we sought the swinging old front gate
That scarcely bent beneath our childish weight,
And there forgot our little griefs and fears!
Oh! blessed, golden years,

When we were happier on the creaking gate
Than the proud monarch in his car of state!

And through that gate, one glorious summer day,
Our brother walked in all a soldier's pride,-
We, weeping, clustered round his manly side;
Then he was gone, and we could only pray.
There was a battle down in Tennessee,

And gloriously the banner of the free

Was carried by brave men with dauntless breast,
Till, where the fight was like a raging hell,

In the front rank of all, our Charlie fell.

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And we-well, well, you know the rest,

And through that same front gate his form they bore;

Our own dear Charlie had come back once more.

How much that poor front gate does undergo!

"Tis swinging constantly, from left to right,

Banged, kicked, and cuffed, from morn till candle-light,

Nor respite from its daily task can know.

What but a poor dumb gate could stand it all?
What be so prompt to answer every call?-
Poor faithful sentinel ! so true and tried,
With luxury of rest sometimes denied!
'Tis vain to sadly groan in deep despair,
Or sound your shriekings on the startled air!

But the chief time when front gates are applied
To use (the front ones :-this can't be denied),
Is at the witching hour of eventide,

For the bold lover and his lady fair

To meet and talk about-the weather-there.

That subject through, another course he claims,
Namely, to praise and call her pretty names.
Thus is it, ere the prosy lamps are lighted
(Provided there are lamps along the street,
If not, why, never mind it, sweet!).

There vows are pledged, and mutual love is plighted;
And secrets told, not meant for common ears;
And ne'er we know how much the old gate hears!
Old folks may laugh and younger ones deride it;
What's that to me? Of course I've never tried it!
Of course when lamps went out, and hours grew late,
I've never leaned across the old front gate!
Dear old front gate! who has not known thee well?
Strong man and maiden, old and young,

Would that some power could now unseal thy tongue!
What tales of joy or sadness couldst thou tell!
How many answers soft have vanquished hate
Across the time-worn bars, dear old front gate!
Peace, fare thee well!

There is a gate that we must all pass through
When life is over and our time has fled,
And we lie sleeping with the silent dead;
When will it open, friend, for me and you?
And there's another gate, all pearls and gold,
And they that enter lay all burdens down;
They see a city glorious to behold,
Where every victor wears a starry crown;
And by the King's own hand that crown is given
At that last gate of all-the gate of Heaven!
-Western Rural.

THE GIN-FIEND.—Anon.

The Gin-Fiend cast his eyes abroad,
And looked o'er all the land,
And numbered his myriad worshippers
With his bird-like, long right hand;