knowledge of history from the school district library. He was seized with a desire of learning Latin; and while the iron was heating, with his book secured in the chimney where the page could meet his eye, he conned the declensions and acquired the rudiments of that great language, and in the evenings of one winter he read Virgil, that masterpiece of Latin poetry. From Latin he passed to Greek, then to the modern languages, and finally back again to the oriental tongues. And thus, with no aid but his own right hand, and with no teacher but his untiring mind, he has acquired a knowledge of upwards of fifty of the leading languages of the earth, and has earned a world-wide reputation as the "Learned Blacksmith." I have seen, in the Antiquarian Hall, in Worcester, Massachusetts, writing done by him in fiftytwo languages. When a scholar at the preparatory school, just commencing my classical education, I used frequently to meet him upon the streets of that city, and I never gazed upon that massive front, but with the veneration of a worshipper.

Need I mention in this connection a name which has become a household word, the cherished and honored name of Franklin? Thrown upon the mercies of the world while yet a boy, with no opportunities for school education, it is like listening to a fairy tale to read the simple narrative of his life as he tells it himself. We are carried along with magic interest, as the panorama of his years passes by. We see him enter the printing office as an apprentice-the wearisome days and sleepless nights at his books. We accompany the youth as he leaves his native city, on that then perilous voyage from Boston to Philadelphia, wandering from his home a stranger, without friends, except such as by his intelligence and kindness he never failed to make. We behold

him an awkward boy, wandering up the streets of a strange city, with his three rolls of bread. This was indeed the day of small things, but he did not despise it. He is deluded across the ocean by the false promises of a knavish governor. He teaches the London printers temperance by his example, and philosophy with his tongue. He becomes the proprietor of a printing establishment, and edits a newspaper; nor is he now ashamed of labor, for he carries the paper from the warehouse to the office upon a wheelbarrow, pushing it with his own hands. He becomes a master spirit in literature, and penetrates the intricacies of science. Step by step he steadily mounts the heights of fame. It was no flashing meteoric light that dashes athwart the heavens, which he sent forth in the domain of thought, but the warm, steady, genial rays of the summer's sun. When the colonies became involved in trouble with the parent country, and storms and darkness seemed gathering in the political heavens, the intelligence of America pointed to the humble and self-taught Franklin as their safest counselor, and we find him at the bar of the British House of Lords, pleading for the interests of those weak and struggling colonies, the objects of his affection, and advising an infatuated ministry not to proceed to violence against his American brethren. He joins hands with the Father of his Country, and those other patriots, in making and securing the adoption of a constitution for the independent United States. In his age he goes, the venerable man with white locks and thoughtful brow, to represent a sovereign nation at the court of France, there to mingle with the wise men and philosophers of that land of letters, and to stand in presence of Louis XVI., the proudest monarch of his age.-SAMUEL P. BATES.

My Sweet land of liberty,

country, 't is of thee,

Of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrim's pride,
From every mountain side
Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee-
Land of the noble free-
Thy name-I love;

I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills
Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet freedom's song:

Let mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break-
The sound prolong.

Our fathers' God, to thee,

Author of liberty,

To thee we sing:

Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light,

Protect us by thy might,

Great God, our King.

REV. SAMUEL F. SMITH, D.D.

THE DAGGER SCENE.

MACBETH, Act II., Scene I.

S this a dagger which I see before me,

Is

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch
thee:-

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible

To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.

Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before,-There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs

Thus to mine eyes.-Now o'er the one-half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep: witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, toward his design
Moves like a ghost.-Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.-Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

I

go,
and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell

That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE LITTLE HATCHET STORY.

AND so, smiling, we went on.

"Well, one day, George's father-"

"George who?" asked Clarence.

"George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father—”

"Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest.

"George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One day George Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a-"

"Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted, with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, but we did n't. We know how to talk to chiidren. So we went on:

"George Washington. His-”

"Who gave him the little hatchet?"
"His father. And his father-"
"Whose father?"

"George Washington's."

"Oh!"

"Yes, George Washington. And his father told