traordinary age. Freed from the chains of ancient thought and superstition, man has begun to win the most extraordinary victories in the domain of science. One by one he has dispelled the doubts of the ancient world. Nothing is too difficult for his hand to attempt-no region too remote-no place too sacred for his daring eye to penetrate. He has robbed the earth of her secrets and sought to solve the mysteries of the heavens! He has secured and chained to his service the elemental forces of nature-he has made the fire his steed-the winds his ministers-the seas his pathwaythe lightning his messenger. He has descended into the bowels of the earth, and walked in safety on the bottom of the sea. He has raised his head above the clouds, and made the impalpable air his resting-place. He has tried to analyze the stars, count the constellations, and weigh the sun. He has advanced with such astounding speed that, breathless, we have reached a moment when it seems as if distance had been annihilated, time made as naught, the invisible seen, the inaudible heard, the unspeakable spoken, the intangible felt, the impossible accomplished. And already we knock at the door of a new century which promises to be infinitely brighter and more enlightened and happier than this. But in all this blaze of light which illuminates the present and casts its reflection into the distant recesses of the past, there is not a single ray that shoots into the future. Not one step have we taken toward the solution of the mystery of life. That remains to-day as dark and unfathomable as it was ten thousand years ago.

We know that we are more fortunate than our fathers. We believe that our children shall be happier than we. We know that this century is more enlightened than the last. We believe that the time to come will be better and more glorious than this. We think, we believe, we hope, but we do not know. Across that threshold we may not pass; behind that vail we may not penetrate. Into that country it may not be for us to go. It may be vouchsafed to us to behold it, wonderingly, from afar, but never to enter in. It matters not. The age in which we live is but a link in the endless and eternal chain. Our lives are like the sands upon the shore; our voices like the breath of this summer breeze

that stirs the leaf for a moment and is forgotten. Whence we have come and whither we shall go, not one of us can tell. And the last survivor of this mighty multitude shall stay but a little while.

But in the impenetrable To Be, the endless generations are advancing to take our places as we fall. For them as for us shall the earth roll on and the seasons come and go, the snowflakes fall, the flowers bloom, aud the harvests be gathered in. For them as for us shall the sun, like the life of man, rise out of darkness in the morning and sink into darkness in the night. For them as for us shall the years march by in the sublime procession of the ages. And here, in this place of sacrifice, in this vale of humiliation, in this valley of the shadow of that Death, out of which the life of America arose, regenerate and free, let us believe with an abiding faith that, to them, Union will seem as dear and Liberty as sweet and Progress as glorious as they were to our fathers and are to you and me, and that the institutions which have made us happy, preserved by the virtue of our children, shall bless the remotest generations of the time to come. And unto Him who holds in the hollow of His hand the fate of nations, and yet marks the sparrow's fall, let us lift up our hearts this day, and into His eternal care commend ourselves, our children, and our country.

CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS.*
IRWIN RUSSELL.

When merry Christmas-day is done,
And Christmas-night is just begun ;
While clouds in slow procession drift
To wish the moon-man Christmas gift,"
Yet linger overhead, to know

What causes all the stir below;

At Uncle Johnny Booker's ball

The darkies hold high carnival.

From all the country-side they throng,

With laughter, shouts, and scraps of song-
Their whole deportment plainly showing

That to "the frolic" they are going.

*This humorous sketch makes a capital reading when given in full, or either

of the sub-headings can be recited separately.

Some take the path with shoes in hand,
To traverse muddy bottom-land;
Aristocrats their steeds bestride--
Four on a mule, behold them ride!
And ten great oxen draw apace
The wagon from "de oder place,"
With forty guests, whose conversation
Betokens glad anticipation.

Not so with him who drives: old Jim
Is sagely solemn, hard and grim,
And frolics have no joys for him.
He seldom speaks, but to condemn―
Or utter some wise apothegm-

Or else, some crabbed thought pursuing,
Talk to his team, as now he's doing:

Come up heah, Star! Yee-bawee!
You alluz is a-laggin'-

Mus' be you think I's dead,

And dis de huss you's draggin'-
You's mos' too lazy to draw yo' bref,
Let 'lone drawin' de waggin.

Dis team-quit bel'rin, sah!
De ladies don't submit 'at-

Dis team-you ol' fool ox,

You heah me tell you quit 'at?
Dis team's des like de 'Nited States;
Dat's what I's tryin' to git at!

De people rides behind

De pollytishners haulin'— Sh'u'd be a well-bruk ox,

To foller dat ar callin'

An' sometimes nuffin won't do dem stcers,
But what dey mus' be stallin'!

Woo bahgh! Buck-kannon! Yes, sah,
Sometimes dey will be stickin';

An' den, fus thing dey knows,

Dey takes a rale good lickin'—
De folks gits down: an' den watch out
For hommerin' an' kickin'.

Dey blows upon dey hands,

Den flings'em wid de nails up,
Jumps up an' cracks dey heels,
An' pruzntly day sails up,

An' makes dem oxen hump deysef,
By twistin' all dey tails up!

YYYY

In this our age of printer's ink,

'Tis books that show us how to think-
The rule reversed, and set at naught,
That held that books were born of thought;
We form our minds by pedants' rules;
And all we know, is from the schools;
And when we work, or when we play,
We do it in an ordered way-

And Nature's self pronounce a ban on,
Whene'er she dares transgress a canon.
Untrammeled thus, the simple race is,
That "works the craps" on cotton-places!
Original in act and thought,

Because unlearnéd and untaught,
Observe them at their Christmas party.
How unrestrained their mirth-how hearty!

How many things they say and do,

That never would occur to you!

See Brudder Brown-whose saving grace
Would sanctify a quarter-race-
Out on the crowded floor advance,
To "beg a blessin' on dis dance."

A BLESSING ON THE DANCE.

O Mahsr! let dis gath'rin' fin' a blessin' in yo' sight!
Don't jedge us hard for what we does-you knows it's Chris-
mus night;

An' all de balunce ob de yeah, we does as right's we kin—
Ef dancin's wrong--oh, Mahsr! let de time excuse de sin!
We labors in de vineya'd-workin' hard, an' workin' true—
Now, shorely you won't notus, ef we eats a grape or two,
An' takes a leetle holiday--a leetle restin'-spell-
Bekase, nex' week, we'll start in fresh, an' labor twicet as well.
Remember, Mahsr-min' dis, now-de sinfulness ob sin
Is pendin' 'pon de sperret what we goes an' does it in:
An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' sing;
A-feelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing.

It seems to me-indeed it do-I mebbe mout be wrong-
That people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes along;
Des dance bekase dey's happy-like de birds hops in de trees:
De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de blowin' ob de breeze.

We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet king; We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing; But cordin' to de gif's we has we does de bes' we knowsAn' folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flow'r bekase it aint de rose.

You bless us, please sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to night;
Kase den we'll need de blessin' more'n ef we's doin' right;
An' let de blessin' stay wid us, untell we comes to die,
An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!

Yes, tell dem preshis anjuls we 's a-gwine to jine 'em soon :
Our voices we's a-trainin' for to sing de glory tune;
We's ready when you wants us, an' it aint no matter when-
O Mahsr! call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home! Amen.

The rev'rend man is scarcely through,
When all the noise begins anew,

And with such force assaults the ears,
That through the din one hardly hears
Old Fiddling Josey "sound his Ă”—
Correct the pitch-begin to play--
Stop, satisfied-then, with the bow,
Rap out the signal dancers know:

Git yo' pardners, fust kwattilion!

Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high;
Tune is: "Oh! dat water-million!
Gwine to git to home bime-bye."
S'lute yo' pardners!-scrape perlitely-
Don't be bumpin' gin de res'-
Balance all!-now, step out rightly;
Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'.
Fo'wa'd foah!-whoop up, niggers!
Back ag'in!-don't be so slow—
Swing cornahs!-min' de figgers:
When I hollers, den yo' go.
Top ladies cross ober!

Hol' on, till I takes a dram--
Gemmen solo!-yes, I's sober-
Kaint say how de fiddle am—
Hands around!-hol' up yo' faces,
Don't be lookin' at yo' feet!
Swing yo' pardners to yo' places!

Dat's de way-dat 's hard to beat.

Sides fo'w'd!-when you's ready-
Make a bow as low's you kin!
Swing acrost wid opp'site lady!

Now we'll let you swap ag'in:

Ladies change!--shet up dat talkin':
Do yo' talkin' arter while-

Right an' lef'!-don't want no walkin'

Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style!