gne" still first of the brave band, is summɔned; and ever and always a brave soldier steps from the ranks to reply, 'Dead on the field of honor!"

46

Dead on the field of honor!" This, too, is the record of thousands of unnamed men, whose influence upon other generations is associated with no personal distinction, but whose sacrifice will lend undying lustre to the nation's archives and richer capacity to the nation's life. And yet these martyrs are remembered by name. Go visit the mourning homes of the land: homes of wealth and plenty, some of them, but richer now by the consecration of sacrifice. Many are homes of toil and obscurity, from which the right hand of support has been taken, or the youthful prop. Poor and obscure; but these, the unknown fallen, have names, and riches of solemn, tender memory. And what heralding on palatial wall more glorious than the torn cap and soiled uniform that hang in those homes where the dead soldier comes no more? What aristocratic legend refers to a prouder fact than that which shall often be recited in the still summer field where he labored, and by the winter fireside where his place is vacant: "He fell in the great war for Union and for Freedom!"

Sleep, sleep in quiet grassy graves, where the symbols. that ye loved so well shall cover and spread over youby day the flowers of red, white and blue, and by night the constellated stars-while out of those graves there grows the better harvest of the nation and ɔf times to come!

THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL.

HARPERS' MAGAZINE.

ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept;

All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigilɛ

kept.

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;

But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke,

Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day,

And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay,

For the foeman held possession of that hard-won battle plain,

In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain.

Once again the night dropped round them-night so holy and so calm,

That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the

rest,

Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.

And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story

told;

How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled.

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet

Mars.

Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whis

pering low,

Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow?

Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round

As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,

Came two little maidens-sisters--with a light and hasty

tread,

And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.

And they did not pause nor falter till, witn taroboing hearts, they stood

Where the Drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude.

They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store,

And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,

For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.

But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er,

And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments

wore.

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hol

lowed out,

And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,

And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun

And then those little maidens- they were children of our foes

Laid the body of our Drummer-boy to undisturbed repose.

ADDRESS OF SERGEANT BUZFUZ IN BARDELL v. PICKWICK

DICKENS.

You have heard from my learned friend that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at £1,500.

The plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford.

Sometime before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell street; and here she placed in her front parlor-window a written placard, bearing this inscription-" Apart. ments furnished for single gentlemen. Inquire within."

I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document “Apartments furnished for single gentle. men!" Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear she had no distrust-she had no suspicion--all was confidence and reliance. "Mr. Bardell," said the

widow, "Mr. Bardell was a man of honor-Mr. Bardell was no deceiver-Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, fʊ' assistance, for comfort, for consolation-in single gentle men I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodging be let." Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lovely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlor-window. Did it remain there long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and the miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlor-window three days -three days, gentlemen-a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick-Pickwick the defendant.

And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between these parties-letters which are admitted to be in the hand-writing of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery-letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye-letters that were evi dently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first: "Garraway's, twelve o'clock,