came strong, though without strength; they became safe, without the ordinary means of safety. The constable's staff was the only instrument of authority amongst them for the greater part of a century, and never during the administration of Penn, or that of his proper successors, was there a quarrel or a war."

Greater than the divinity that doth hedge a king, is the divinity that encompasses the righteous man, and the righteous people. The flowers of prosperity smiled in the blessed foot-prints of William Penn. His people were unmolested and happy, while (sad but true contrast!) those of other colonies, acting upon the policy of the world, building forts, and showing themselves in arms, not after receiving provocation, but merely in the anticipation, or from the fear, of insults or danger, were harassed by perpetual alarms, and pierced by the sharp arrows of savage war.

This pattern of a Christian commonwealth never fails to arrest the admiration of all who contemplate its beauties. It drew an epigram of eulogy from the caustic pen of Voltaire, and has been fondly painted by many virtuous historians. Every ingenuous soul in our day offers his willing tribute to those celestial graces of justice and humanity, by the side of which the flinty hardness of the pilgrims of Plymouth Rock seems earthly and coarse.

Let us not confine ourselves to barren words in recognition of virtue. While we see the right, and approve it, too, let us dare to pursue it. Let us now, in this age of civilization, surrounded by Christian nations, be willing to follow the successful example of William Penn, surrounded by savages. Let us, while we recognize these transcendent ordinances of God, the law of right and the law of love-the double suns which illumine the moral universe-aspire to the true glory, and what is higher than glory, the great good of taking the lead in the disarming of the nations: Let us abandon the system of preparation for war in time of peace, as irrational, unchristian, vainly prodigal of expense, and having a direct tendency to excite the very evil against which it professes to guard. Let the enormous means thus released from iron hands, be devoted to labors of beneficence. Our battlements shall be schools, hospitals, colleges and churches; our arse

nals shall be libraries; our navy shall be peaceful ships on errands of perpetual commerce; our army shall be the teachers of youth, and the ministers of religion. This is indeed, the cheap defense of the nations. In such entrenchments what Christian soul can be touched with fear. Angels of the Lord shall throw over the land an invisible, but impenetrable panoply:

Or if virtue feeble were,

Heaven itself would stoop to her.

At the thought of such a change in policy, the imagination loses itself in the vain effort to follow the various streams of happiness, which gush forth as from a thousand hills. Then shall the naked be clothed and the hungry fed. Institutions of science and learning shall crown every hilltop; hospitals for the sick, and other retreats for the unfortunate children of the world, for all who suffer in any way, in mind, body or estate, shall nestle in every valley; while the spires of new churches shall leap exulting to the skies. The whole land shall bear witness to the change; art shall confess it in the new inspiration of the canvas and the marble; the harp of the poet shall proclaim it in a loftier rhyme. Above all, the heart of man shall bear witness to it, in the elevation of his sentiments, in the expansion of his affections, in his devotion to the highest truth, in his appreciation of true greatThe eagle of our country,-without the terror of his beak, and dropping the forceful thunderbolt from his pounces, -shall soar with the olive-branch of Peace, into untried realms of ether, nearer to the sun.

ness.

SHELLING PEAS.-C. P. CRANCH.

No, Tom, you may banter as much as you please;
But it's all the result of the shellin' them peas.
Why, I hadn't the slightest idea, do you know,
That so serious a matter would out of it grow.
I tell you what, Tom, I do feel kind o' scared.
I dreamed it, I hoped it, but never once dared
To breathe it to her. And besides, I must say
I always half fancied she fancied Jim Wray.

So I felt kind o' stuffy and proud, and took care
To be out o' the way when that feller was there
A danglin' around; for thinks I, if it's him
That Katy likes best, what's the use lookin' grim
At Katy or Jim,-for it's all up with me;
And I'd better jest let 'em alone, do you see?

But you wouldn't have thought it; that girl never keered
The snap of a pea-pod for Jimm's bushy beard.

Well, here's how it was. I was takin' some berries
Across near her garden, to leave at Aunt Mary's;
When, jest as I come to the old ellum-tree,

All alone in the shade, that June mornin', was she-
Shellin' peas-setting there on a garden settee.
I swan, she was handsomer'n ever I seen,
Like a rose all alone in a moss-work o' green.
Well, there wasn't no use; so, says I, I'll jest linger
And gaze at her here, hid behind a syringa;

But she heard me a movin', and looked a bit frightened,
So I come and stood near her. I fancied she brightened,
And seemed sort o' pleased. So I hoped she was well;
And-would she allow me to help her to shell?
For she sot with a monstrous big dish full of peas

Jest fresh from the vines, which she held on her knees.
May I help you, Miss Katy?" says I. “As you please,
Mr. Baxter," says she. "But you're busy, I guess "-
Glancin' down at my berries, and then at her dress.
"Not the least. There's no hurry. It ain't very late;
And I'd rather be here, and Aunt Mary can wait.".
So I sot down beside her; an' as nobody seen us,
I jest took the dish, and I held it between us;
And I thought to myself I must make an endeavor
To know which she likes, Jim or me, now or never!
But I couldn't say nothin'. We sot there and held
That green pile between us. She shelled, and I shelled;
And pop went the pods; and I couldn't help thinkin'
Of popping the question. A kind of a sinkin'
Come over my spirits; till at last I got out,
"Mister Wray's an admirer of yours, I've no doubt
You see him quite often." Well, sometimes. But why,
And what if I did?" "Oh, well, nothin'," says I;

66

Some folks says you're goin' to marry him, though."
Who says so?"

says she; and she flared up like tow When you throw in a match. "Well, some folks that I know." ""Taint true, sir," says she. And she snapped a big pod, Till the peas, right and left, flew all over the sod. Then I looked in her eyes, but she only looked down With a blush that she tried to chase off with a frown. "Then it's somebody else you like better," says I. "No, it ain't though," says she: and I thought she would cry.

Then I tried to say somethin': it stuck in my throat,
And all my ideas were upset and afloat.

But I said I knew somebody'd loved her so long-
Though he never had told her-with feelin's so strong
He was ready to die at her feet, if she chosed,

If she only could love him!-I hardly supposed

That she cared for him much, though. And so, Tom,-and so,-
For I thought that I saw how the matter would go,-
With my heart all a jumpin' with rapture, I found
I had taken her hand, and my arm was around
Her waist ere I knew it, and she with her head
On my shoulder,-but no, I won't tell what she said.
The birds sang above us; our secret was theirs;
The leaves whispered soft in the wandering airs.
I tell you the world was a new world to me.

I can talk of these things like a book now, you see.
But the peas? Ah, the peas in the pods were a mess
Rather bigger than those that we shelled, you may guess.
It's risky to set with a girl shellin' peas.

You may tease me now, Tom, just as much as you please.

THE OLD PROFESSOR.

The old professor taught no more,
But lingered round the college walks.
Stories of him we boys told o'er
Before the fire in evening talks.
I'll ne'er forget how he came in
To recitation, one March night,
And asked our tutor to begin,

"And let me hear these boys recite."

As we passed out we heard him say,

'Pray, leave me here awhile alone,

Here in my old place let me stay,

Just as I did in years long flown."

Our tutor smiled, and bowed assent,

Rose courteous from his high-backed chair,
And down the darkening stairs he went,
Leaving the old professor there.

From out the shadows faces seemed
To look on him in his old place,
Fresh faces that with radiance beamed-
Radiance of boyish hope and grace:

And faces that had lost their youth,
Although in years they still were young;
And faces o'er whose love and truth
The funeral anthem had been sung.

"These are my boys," he murmured then;
"My boys, as in the years long past;
Though some are angels, others men,
Still as my boys I hold them fast.
There's one don't know his lesson now,
That one of me is making fun,
And that one's cheating-ah! I see--
I see and love them every one.

"And is it, then, so long ago

This chapter in my life was told?
Did all of them thus come and go,
And have I really grown so old?
No! here are my old pains and joys,
My book once more is in my hand,
Once more I hear these very boys,
And seek their hearts to understand."

They found him there, with open book,
And eyes closed with a calm content;
The same old sweetness in his look

There used to be when fellows went
To ask him questions and to talk,
When recitations were all o'er;
We saw him in the college walk
And in his former place no more.

KENTUCKY BELLE.-CONSTANCE F. WOOLSON.

Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away-
Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay-
We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen;
Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.

Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle.
How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell-
Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her

to me

When I rode North with Conrad, away from the Tennessee.