"Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?" 'No, I won't; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can't stand here all day." 66 Didn't you know that I was a minister?" he asked as he backed off. "No, nor I don't know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a dollar chromo for eighteen shillings." "But here is my card." "I don't care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!" "I will call again," he said, as he went through the gate. "It won't do any good!" she shouted after him; "we don't want no prepared food for infants-no piano music-no stuffed birds! I know the policeman on this beat, and if you come around here again, he'll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or a vagrant!" And she took unusual care to lock the door. -Detroit Free Press. FAITH AND REASON.-LIZZIE YORK CASE. Two travelers started on a tour, With trust and knowledge laden; One was a man with mighty brain, And one a gentle maiden. They joined their hands and vowed to be Companions for a season; The gentle maiden's name was Faith, The mighty man's was Reason. He sought all knowledge from the world, All matter and all mind were his, But her's was only spirit. If any stars were missed from heaven, He sought for truth above, below, He said, "This earth's a rolling ball, To do his mighty working. He sends his message 'cross the earth, All things in beauty, science, art, He tries, from earth, to forge a key THE DUMB CHILD. She is my only girl, I asked for her as some most precious thing; The shadow that time brought forth I could not see, Oh! many a soft old tune I used to sing unto that deafened ear, And hushed her brothers' laughter while she lay. 'Twas long ere I believed That this one daughter might not speak to me; Vain love was long the untiring nurse of faith, Oh! if she could but hear For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach To call me mother, in the broken speech That thrills the mother's ear! Alas! those sealed lips never may be stirred My heart it sorely tries, To see her kneel with such a reverent air To watch our lips as though our words she knew, I've watched her looking up The struggling soul would burst its binding cords, The song of bird and bee, The chorus of the breezes, streams and groves, To her; the world of sound a tuneless void; Her face is very fair; Her blue eye beautiful; of finest mold Alas! this lovely temple closed must be, Wills He the mind within Should from earth's Babel-clamor be kept free, E'en that His still, small voice and step might be DDDD Heard, at its inner shrine, Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill? Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play; Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear Thank God it is not so! And when his sons are playing merrily, By his full eye, and tones subdued and mild, Even now. How could I say she did not speak? And renders thanks to Him who left Into her soul yet open avenues For joy to enter, and for love to use! And God in love doth give To her defect a beauty of its own; And we a deeper tenderness have known Than the rich songs of heaven,- EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAND.-LAMARTINE. The examination and trial of Madame Roland were but a repetition of those charges against the Gironde, with which every harangue of the Jacobin party was filled. She was reproached with being the wife of Roland, and the friend of his accomplices. With a proud look of triumph, Madame Roland admitted her guilt in both instances; spoke with tenderness of her husband, with respect of her friends, and with dignified modesty of herself; but, borne down by the camors of the court whenever she gave vent to her indignation against her persecutors, she ceased speaking amid the threats and invectives of her hearers. The people were at that period permitted to take a fearful and leading part in the dialogue between the judges and accused; they even permitted persons on trial to address the court, or compelled their silence; the very verdict rested with them. Madame Roland heard herself sentenced to death with the air of one who saw in her condemnation merely her title to immortality. She rose, and slightly bowing to her judges, said, with a bitter and ironical smile, "I thank you for considering me worthy to share the fate of the good and great men you have murdered!" She flew down the steps of the Conciergerie with the rapid swiftness of a child about to obtain some long-desired object: the end and aim of her desires was death. As she passed along the corridor, where all the prisoners had assembled to greet her return, she looked at them smilingly, and, drawing her right hand across her throat, made a sign expressive of cutting off a head. This was her only farewell; it was tragic as her destiny, joyous as her deliverance; and well was it understood by those who saw it. Many who were incapable of weeping for their own fate shed tears of unfeigned sorrow for hers. On that day (November 10, 1793,) a greater number than usual of carts laden with victims rolled onward toward the scaffold. Madame Roland was placed in the last, beside an infirm old man, named Lamarche. She wore a white robe, as a symbol of her innocence, of which she was anxious to convince the people; her magnificent hair, black and glossy as a raven's wing, fell in thick masses almost to her knees: her complexion, purified by her long captivity, and now glowing under the influence of a sharp, frosty November day, bloomed with all the freshness of early youth. Her eyes were full of expression; her whole countenance seemed radiant with glory, while a movement between pity and contempt agitated her lips. A crowd followed them, uttering the coarsest threats and most revolting expressions. "To the guillotine! to the guillotine!" exclaimed the female part of the rabble. |