"No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contesting the point.

666

'Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam.

"That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller.

'Not a bit on it," said Sam: "she'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'."

"Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that; and I wish your Mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?"

"That's the difficulty," said Sam; I don't know what to sign it."

"Sign it-Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

"Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with your own name."

Sign it Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller; it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell."

"The wery thing," said Sam. "I could end with a werse: what do you think?"

"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule."

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter,—

"Your love-sick
Pickwick."

Charles Dickens.

THE LOVED AND LOST.

"The loved and lost!" Why do we call them lost?
Because we miss them from our onward road.
God's unseen angel o'er our pathway crossed,
Looked on us all, and, loving them the most,
Straightway relieved them from life's weary load.

They are not lost; they are within the door

That shuts out loss and every hurtful thing,— With angels bright, and loved ones gone before, In the Redeemer's presence evermore,

And God himself, their Lord, Judge, and King.

And this we call a loss! O selfish sorrow

Of selfish hearts! O we of little faith!
Let us look round, some argument to borrow,
Why we in patience should await the morrow
That surely must succeed the night of death.

Aye, look upon this dreary, desert path,

The thorns and thistles wheresoe'er we turn; What trials and what tears, what wrongs and wrath, What struggles and what strife the journey hath! They have escaped from these; and lo! we mourn.

Ask the poor sailor, when the wreck is done,
Who, with his treasure, strove the shore to reach,
While with the raging waves he battled on,
Was it not joy, where every joy seemed gone,
To see his loved ones landed on the beach?

A poor wayfarer, leading by the hand

A little child, had halted by the well

To wash from off her feet the clinging sand,
And tell the tired boy of that bright land

Where, this long journey past, they longed to dwell;

When lo! the Lord, who many mansions had,
Drew near, and looked upon the suffering twain;
Then, pitying, spake, "Give me the little lad;
In strength renewed, and glorious beauty clad,
I'll bring him with me when I come again."

Did she make answer, selfishly and wrong,

Nay, but the woes I feel he too must share?"
Or, rather, bursting into grateful song,
She went her way rejoicing, and made strong
To struggle, since he was freed from care!

We will do likewise; Death hath made no breach
In love and sympathy, in hope and trust;
No outward sign or sound our ears can reach,
But there's an inward, spiritual speech

That greets us still, though mortal tongues be dust.

It bids us do the work that they laid down,

Tako up the song where they broke off the strain; So journeying, till we reach the heavenly town, Where are laid up our treasure and our crown, And our lost loved ones will be found again.

THE LAST JOURNEY.

Slowly, with measured tread,
Onward we bear the dead
To his lone home;

Short grows the homeward road;
On with your mortal load!
O, grave! we come.

Yet, yet,-ah! hasten not
Past each remembered spot
Where he hath been,-
Where late he walked in glee,
These from henceforth to be
Never more seen.

Rest ye; set down the bier!
One he loved dwelleth here;
Let the dead lie

A moment that door beside,
Wont to fly open wide
Ere he drew nigh.

Hearken! he speaketh yet!
"O, friend! wilt thou forget
(Friend, more than brother!)
How hand in hand we've gone,
Heart with heart linked in one,--
All to each other?

"O, friend! I go from thee,
Where the worm feasteth free,

Darkly to dwell;

Giv'st thou no parting kiss?
Friend! is it come to this ?
O, friend, farewell!"

REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE.

Ill does it become me, O Senators of Rome,―ill does it become Regulus, after having so often stood in this venerable assembly clothed with the supreme dignity of the Republic, to stand before you a captive,-the captive of Carthage. Though outwardly I am free, though no fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh,—yet the heaviest of chains, the pledge of a Roman Consul,makes me the bondsman of the Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them, in the event of the failure of this, their embassy. My life is at their mercy. My honor is my own;--a possession which no reverse of fortune can jeopard; a flame which imprisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, death cannot extinguish.

Of the train of disasters which followed close on the unexampled successes of our arms,-of the bitter fate which swept off the flower of our soldiery, and consigned me, your General, wounded and senseless, to Carthaginian keeping, I will not speak. For five years, a rigorous captivity has been my portion. For five years, the society of family and friends, the dear amenities of home, the sense of freedom, and the sight of country, have been to me a recollection and a dream,-no more. But during that period Rome has retrieved her defeats. She has recovered under Metellus what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She has taken unnumbered prisoners. She has struck terror into the hearts of the Carthaginians, who have now sent me hither with their ambassadors, to sue for peace, and to propose that, in exchange for me, your former Consul, a thousand common prisoners of war shall be given up. You have heard the ambassadors. Their intimations of some unimaginable horror, I know not what, impending over myself, should I fail to induce you to accept their terms, have strongly moved your sympathies in my behalf. Another appeal, which I would you might have been spared, has lent force to their suit. A wife and children, threatened with widowhood and orphanage, weeping and despairing, have knelt at your feet on the very threshold of the Senatechamber-Conscript Fathers! shall not Regulus be