The velvet cap he always wore,
Whene'er he thumped the pulpit cushion,
Loomed like a beacon from the shore
To warn us sinners from perdition.

The best of men a cross must bear
So providence or fate contrives it;
Of private griefs he had his share,
And some that were not quite so private.
He might conceal the smouldering fire
Of mental or domestic trial,
But troubles with the wrangling choir
Were patent as their own bass-viol.

Of course, there was among his charge
One busy, meddling, ancient maiden,
Who, like a fire-ship, roamed at large,
With furtive store of scandal laden.
She scattered brands of discord free,
She slandered and annoyed the parson,
Till all agreed she ought to be

Indicted for constructive arson.

On Wednesday night he always made
To us a quiet pastoral visit:
So when the bell his touch betrayed,
My mother never asked, 'Who is it?'
But wheeling out the easy-chair,
With its inviting arms of leather,
She laid his pipe, with thoughtful care,
And steel tobacco-box together.

Those genial times were mellow ripe,
When folk were not inclined to bicker,
If ministers enjoyed a pipe,

And sipped a social glass of liquor:
So while his cheerful features glowed,
And smoke-wreaths circled to the ceiling,
His talk in streams of wisdom flowed,
Like waters from a fount of feeling.

We loved the man, revered him too
As who did not that ever knew him?
His piety and kindness drew,
With cords of love, all classes to him.
His praise by men need not be lipped
To make our sorrowing hearts beat faster,
For memory holds a secret crypt

Wherein is shrined the sainted PASTOR.

A DAY IN THE DEAD-LETTER OFFICE.

BY FRANCIS COPCUTT.

SHE lay in her coffin there so beautiful, so calm, so holy, that it seemed as if she were uttering a silent prayer to her FATHER in heaven, and would open her eyes at its close. Blessed are the dead that die in the LORD, for they rest from their labors,' said the grave man who was speaking in subdued tones to the mourners, and no one could look upon that fair form, from which the spiritual essence had gone on its measureless journey toward the mercy-seat, without faith that she at least had found faith. She had uttered no complaint during her few months' illness, and when her coming doom was gently announced by him who had ministered to her spiritual welfare from her childhood, she only said, 'It is well, and when the parting came, she pressed her mother's hand, moved her lips slightly as her little brother's face was held for a moment near her own, and in utter weariness of life, turned her head on her pillow, died, and made no sign, but there was the impress of a holy one left upon her face, as her spirit returned to God who gave it.

'O most merciful and ever-blessed REDEEMER,' said the minister, as he too looked toward the heavens, and as the mourners bent their heads reverently, a little boy of some four or five summers came into the room, and looking wistfully around, approached the satin and flower-decked couch where his sister was so calmly sleeping. Reaching with both his little hands to the side of the coffin, he drew himself up so that he could see his sister's face, and in an earnest but almost inaudible voice whispered: 'Mary! Mary! But Mary was too far off to hear him, too preoccupied in her new home to answer. He sank quietly to the floor, then taking up a flower which had fallen with him from the coffin, he rose, drew himself up again with a convulsive effort, held by one hand as he dropped the flower on her lips, and again whispered, 'Mary!' but the same eloquent answer was returned. Loosening his hold, he stood for a few moments trembling at the side of the coffin; the prayer for the dead and the dying went on; again he drew himself up, but this time uttered no sound, only reached out a little hand and touched her cold face; in that touch he seemed to receive a revelation of death, for uttering a shrill, sharp scream, he fell to the floor senseless. Taking him up, we carried him from the crowd of mourners, some of whom having seen what occurred, were weeping; others who had not, were frightened at what seemed for a moment a voice from the coffin itself.

In a chamber, alone and apart, sat the fair girl's mother, her hair all too soon mixed with white; snow in the summer months, it had fallen upon her head as she watched by the death-bed of her child. We placed the little boy in her arms, and, as she pressed him to her heart she pointed to an open and crushed letter lying on the floor at her side. Her face was haggard, there were no tears in her eyes, and she rocked to-and-fro with the movement with which despair sometimes tries to cheat the moment of some part of its bitterness. 'Read! read! it came from the Dead-Letter Office, contained a trinket, and therefore was saved, the others are all destroyed: it has killed her.'

I took up the crushed letter, smoothed it out and read. Affection warm as the sun which draws the cactus-flower to life, sentiments noble, holy, warm, such as love draws from a good man, but alas! misdirected, as all the others probably were. In that week's bill of mortality the fair girl made one of the fifty-nine cases of consumption, but she died of a dead-letter. And he came back in all the fulness of life, in the fulness of a manhood which love had made noble, and found for his embracing - a new-made grave.

WHEN we were a youngster, and apotheosised by the first laying on of jacket and pants, when imagination was beginning to quarry blocks of fancy granite to build castles with, and life was uncovering her lens to give us a peep here and there into her wondrous panorama, we were sojourning at a neighboring town with a family whose head was post-master of the place. We soon had the range of the postoffice in consequence, and became a pet with the clerks, not to say a small butt, too, for them to sharpen their wits upon. One day one of the most solemn-looking of the set, but one who could hardly open his mouth to speak without making the others laugh, for which I thought them very wicked, was closing and locking a bag whose sides were distended to the utmost with crammed-in material of some kind; a fat, rotund aldermanic post-bag. We asked:

'What is that?'

'Dead letters,' said the solemn clerk lugubriously. 'Dead letters! How came they to die?'

'Some from neglect, some because they could n't find their way home, some died because the girls refused them.'

Refused! I had heard our people talk about a man's being sick, because he was refused, and here were letters killed by it.

'Are they very dead?'

'Yes, dead as a 'subject' after he 's 'biled' and his bones hung together with wires.'

I did not understand that, nor why the clerks should laugh so.

'Where are they going?'

'To Washington.'

'To be buried?'

'Yes, they have a big grave-yard there, and the President reads the funeral service over the poor things.'

For years afterward it was a vivid picture in our imagination, the crowd, the grave, and the President as large again as other men, a sort of demi-god, reading the funeral service over the dead, while curious head-stones dotted the ground, setting forth the causes why the poor letters were lying there. As we grew up, and these absurd notions faded, they left in their place a strong curiosity to see this noted foolscap Golgotha, and now when our fair young friend had yielded up her life, and had been tragically dead-lettered into eternity, we determined, on our first visit to Washington, to explore this mysterious place, if we could obtain any friend at court to guide us through the shades.

'WAITER, take away this Chateaux Margaux of '1828,' ('figures' evidently do 'lie' sometimes,) and bring a julep. Tell James to make it, and that it is for us.'

Ah! a master-piece of bar-room art, gratifying as the first kiss of her thou lovest most, or a sudden rise in stocks when one is a heavy holder. Cold as the bergs which overlook the 'open sea, where the north pole bids defiance to the nations' daring; sparkling as the eyes which open to the sunlight of the bridal morning. Oldest of antique nectars, dating thy mysterious birth far away in the hidden past, where facts become mythic, and great men are transformed into gods or demi-gods, hail!

'Not known ten years ago!, some tyros assert. Why, America was in swaddling-clothes, nay, unknown, long centuries after it was a joy forever. Not known ten years ago? To us its antique flavor adds an aroma to its aroma and gilds refined gold. Why, Circe, a pet maid of honor to Mrs. Neptune, a daughter of the Sun and Miss Perse, is known to have used it long before many of our antiquities were dreamed of or created. Hear Milton make his hero eloquent:

'AND first behold this cordial julep here,

Which flames and dances in his crystal bounds,
With spirits and balm and fragrant syrups mixed;
Not that Nepanthes (sherry cobbler, probably)
Which the wife of PHANES

In Egypt gave to Jove-born HELENA
Is of such power to stir up joy as this -
To life so friendly, and so cool to thirst.'