THE EMIGRANT'S FAMILY. One of the strongest peculiarities-indeed, I may say passions of the Irish, is their devoted fondness - for their offspring. A curious illustration of this occurred to me on my recent journey through the Northern lakes. It happened to be what sailors call very dirty weather, finished up by a tremendous gale, which obliged us to seek a shelter at a lump of aboriginal barrenness, called Manitou Island, where we were obliged to remain five days. There were a few deck passengers-between five and six hundred; and inasmuch as they had only provided themselves with barely sufficient for the average time, provisions became alarmingly scarce, and no possibility of a supply. To be sure, there was one venerable ox-a sort of semi-petrifaction, an organic remnant-a poor attenuated, hornless, sightless, bovine patriarch, who obligingly yielded up his small residue of existence for our benefit. Indeed, it was quite a mercy that we arrived to relieve him from a painful state of suspense; for so old and powerless was he, that if his last breadth had not been extracted, he certainly would not have drawn it by himself Well, as you may suppose, there was considerable consternation on board. Short-very short allowance was adopted to meet the contingency, and the poor deck passengers had a terrible time of it. Amongst the latter was an Irish emigrant, with his wife and three beautiful children, the eldest about seven years, all without the smallest subsistence, except what the charity of their fellow passengers could afford them; and as they were scantily supplied, it can readily be imagined how miserably off was the poor family. However, it so happened that the beauty and intelligence of the children attracted the attention of one of our lady passengers, who had them occasionally brought into the cabin, and their hunger appeased. Gleesome, bright eyed little creatures they were, scrupulously clean, despite the poverty of their parents, all life and happiness, and in blissful ignorance of the destitution by which they were surrounded.

Is it support thim, sir?" he replied. "Lord bless ye, I never supported thim. They git supported some how or another; they've niver bin hungry yit-when they are it'll be time enough to grumble."

Irish all over, thought I-to-day has enough to do, let to-morrow look out for itself.

"Well then," I resumed, with a determined plunge, "would it be a relief to you to part from them?" I had mistaken my mode of attack. He started, turned pale, and with a wild glare in his eyes, lite. rally screamed out:

A relief! God be good to uz, what d'ye mean? A relief? would it be a relief d'ye think, to have the hand chopped from me body; or the heart tore out of me breast?"

"You don't understand us," interposed my philan"Should one be enabled to thropic companion. place your child in ease and comfort, would you interfere with its well-doing?"

The tact of woman! She had touched the chord of paternal solicitude; the poor fellow was silent, twisted his head about and looked al bewildered. The struggle between a father's love and his child's interest was evident and affecting. At last he said: "God bless ye me lady, and all that thinks of the poor! Heaven knows I'd be glad to betther the child; it is'nt in regard to myself, but-had'nt I better go and speak to Mary; she's the mother of the child, and t'would be onreasonable to be givin' away her children afore her face and she not know nothing of the mather."

Away with you then," said I, "and bring back word as soon as possible." In about an hour he returned, but with eyes red and swollen; and features pale from excitement and agitation.

"6 Well," inquired I, what success?"

Bedad 'twas a hard struggle, sir," said he, "but it's for the child's good, and Heaven give us strength to bear it.”

"

Very good, and which is it to be?"

Why, sir, I've been spakin' to Mary, and she One day delighted with her proteges, the lady hap-thinks as Nora here is the ouldest she won't miss pened to say, half jestingly, "I wonder would this the mother so much, and if ye'll jist let her take a poor man part with one of those little darlings? I partin' kiss she'd give her to yez wid a blessin." So my poor fellow took his children away, to look should like to adopt it." "I don't know," said I; "suppose we make the at one of them for the last time. It was not long ere he returned, but when he did he was leading the inquiry."

The man was sent for, and the delicate business second oldest. thus opened.

"How's this?" said I, have you changed your

My good friend," said the lady, "you are very mind?" poor, are you not?"

His answer was peculiarly Irish: poor! my lady," said he. "Be the powers of pewther! if there's a poorer man nor myself troublin' the world, God pity both of us, for we'd be about aquail.”

"Then you must find it difficult to support your children," said I, making a long jump towards our object.

"Not exactly changed me mind, sir," he replied, but I've changed the crather. You see sir, I've been spakin' to Mary, and whin it come to the ind, be goxey! she could'nt part with Norah, at all; they've got use to aich other's ways; but here's little Biddy-she's purtier far if she'll do as well." "It's all the same," said I, «let Biddy remain."

May Heaven be yer guardian !” cried he, snatch

ing her up in his arms, and giving her one long and hearty kiss. God be kind to thim that's kind to you, and thim that offers you hurt or harm, may their sowl niver sec St. Pether!" So the bereaved father rushed away, and all that night the child remained with us; but early the next morning my friend Pat reappeared, and this time he had his youngest child, a mere baby, snugly cuddled up in

his arms.

What's the matter now?" said I.

THE WATER DRINKER'S SONG.

O! water for me! Bright water for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!
It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain,
It maketh the faint one strong again;
It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea,
All freshness like infant purity;

O water, bright water for me, for me!
Give wine, give wine to the debauchee !
Fill to the brim! Fill, fill to the brim!
Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim,
For I, like the flowers, drink naught but dew,
And my hand is steady and my eye is true.

Why, thin, sir," said he, with an expression of the most comic anxiety, "axin yer honor's pardon | for bein' so wake-hearted, whin begin to think of Biddy's eyes-look at thim, they're the image of her mother's beda l-I could'nt let her go; but here's little Paudeen-he won't be much trouble to any one, for if he takes after his mother, he'll have the brightest eye and the softest heart on the top of creation; and if he takes after his father, he'll have | And wine for the tremulous debauchee! a purty hard fist on a broad pair of shoulders to push his way through the world. Take him, sir, and gi' me Biddy."

"Just as you like," said I, having pretty good guess how matters would eventuate. So he took away his pet Biddy, and handed us the little toddling urchin. This chirping little vagabond won't be long with us thought I. Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed ere Pat rushed into the cabin, and seizing little Paudeen in his arms, he turned to me, and with large tears bubbling in his eyes, cried:

"Look at him sir-jist look at him--it's the youngest. Ye would'nt have the heart to keep him from uz. The long and short of it is, I've been spakin to Mary. I did'nt like to let Biddy go; but be me sowl, neither could live half a day without little Paudeen. No, sir; no, we can bear the bitterness of poverty, but we can't part from our children, unless it's the will of Providence to take them from

uz."

A FUNERAL.

BY HENRY ALFORD.

Slowly and softly let the music go

As ye wind upwards to the gray church tower;
Check the shrill hautboy, let the pipe breathe low-
Tread lightly on the path-side daisy flower;
For she ye carry was a gentle bud,
Loved by the unsunn'd drops of silver dew;
Her voice was like the whisper of the wood
In prime of even, when the stars are few.
Lay her all gently in the flowerful mould,
Weep with her one brief hour, then turn away,—
Go to hope's prison--and from out the cold
And solitary gratings many a day

Look forth: 'tis said the world is growing old--
And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play.

water, bright water's a mine of wealth, And the ores it yields are vigor and health; So water, pure water, for me, for me!

Fill again to the brim again to the brim!
For water strengtheneth life and limb;
To the days of the aged it addeth length,
To the might of the mighty it addeth strength;
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight,
'Tis like quaffing a goblet of morning light;
So, water, I will drink naught but thee,
Thou parent of health and energy!

When over the hills, like a gladsome bride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
And, leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers,
O cheerly then my voice is heard,
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who flingeth abroad his matins loud,
As he freshens his wing in the cold gray cloud.
But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew,
Drowsily flying and waving anew

Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea-
How gently, O! sleep, fall thy poppies on me!
For I drink water, pure, cold and bright,
And my dreams are of Heaven the livelong night;
So hurrah for thee, water! hurrah! hurrah!
Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribband and star!

His words seem'd oracles

That pierced their bosoms; and each man would turn
And gaze in wonder on his neighbour's face
That with the like dumb wonder answer'd him :
Then some would weep, some shout, some, deeper
touch'd,

Keep down the cry with motion of their hands,
In fear but to have lost a syllable.

The evening came, yet there the people stood,
As if 'twere noon, and they the marble sea,
Sleeping without a wave. You could have heard
The beating of your pulses while he spoke.

GEORGE CROLY.

But something in me bids me not to go;
And I am one, thou knowest, who, unmoved
By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed
And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul
Whispers of warning to the inner ear.
Moreover, as I know that God brings round
His purposes in ways undreamed by us,
And makes the wicked but his instruments
To hasten on their swift and sudden fall,
I see the beauty of his providence
In the King's order: blind, he will not let
His doom part from him, but must bid it stay
As 't were a cricket, whose enlivening chirp
He loved to hear beneath his very hearth.
Why should we fly? Nay, why not rather stay
And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls,
Not, as of old the walls of Thebes were built,
By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be,
With the more potent music of our swords?
Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea
Claim more God's care than all of England here?
No when He moves his arm, it is to aid
Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed,
As some are ever when the destiny

Of man takes one stride onward nearer home.
Believe it, 't is the mass of men He loves;
And, where there is most sorrow and most want,
Where the high heart of man is trodden down
The most, 't is not because He hides his face
From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate :
Not so there most is He, for there is He
Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad
Are not so near his heart as they who dare
Frankly to face her when she faces them,

And cling around the soul, as the sky clings
Round the mute earth, forever beautiful,
And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth
More all-embracingly divine and clear:
Get but the truth once uttered, and 't is like
A star newborn, that drops into its place,
And which, once circling in its placid round,
Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.

What should we do in that small colony
Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose
Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair,
Than the great chance of setting England free?
Not there, amid the stormy wilderness,

Should we learn wisdom; or, if learned, what room
To put it into act,-else worse than naught?
We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour
Upon this huge and ever-vexed sea

Of human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck
Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream,
Than in a cycle of New England sloth,
Broke only by some petty Indian war,
Or quarrel for a letter, more or less,

In some hard word, which, spelt in either way,
Not their most learned clerks can understand.
New times demand new measures and new men ;
The world advances, and in time outgrows
The laws that in our fathers' day were best;
And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme
Will be shaped out by wiser men than we,
Made wiser by the steady growth of truth.
We cannot bring Utopia at once;
But better, almost, be at work in sin,
Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep.

On their own threshold, where their souls are strong No man is born into the world, whose work

To grapple with and throw her; as I once,

Being yet a boy, did throw this puny king,

Who now has grown so dotard as to deem

That he can wrestle with an angry realm,
And throw the brawned Antaeus of men's rights.
No, Hampden! they have half-way conquered Fate
Who go half-way to meet her,-as will I.
Freedom hath yet a work for me to do;
So speaks that inward voice which never yet
Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on
To noble deeds for country and mankind.
And, for success, I ask no more than this,-
To bear unflinching witness to the truth.
All true, whole men succeed; for what is worth
Success's name, unless it be the thought,
The inward surety, to have carried out
A noble purpose to a noble end,
Although it be the gallows or the block?
'T is only Falsehood that doth ever need
These outward shows of gain to bolster her.
Be it we prove the weaker with our swords;
Truth only needs to be for once spoke out,
And there's such music in her, such strange rhythm,
As make men's memories her joyous slaves,

Is not born with him; there is always work,
And tools to work withal, for those who will;
And blessed are the horny hands of toil!
The busy world shoves angrily aside
The man who stands with arms akimbo set,
Until occasion tells him what to do;
And he who waits to have his task marked out
Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.
Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds:
Reason and Government, like two broad seas,
Yearn for each other with outstretched arms
Across this narrow isthmus of the throne,
And roll their white surf higher every day.
One age moves onward, and the next builds up
Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood
The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild,
Rearing from out the forests they had felled
The goodly framework of a fairer state;
The builder's trowel and the settler's axe
Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand;
Ours is the harder task, yet not the less
Shall we receive the blessing for our toil
From the choice spirits of the aftertime.
The field lies wide before us, where to reap