intelligible even to each other. Yet out of this mixe and, as you say, despicable mass he forged a thunderbolt and hurled it at what? At the proudest blood in Europe, the Spaniard, and sent him home conquered; at the most warlike blood in Europe, the French, and put thera under his feet; at the pluckiest blood in Europe, the English, and they sulked home to Jamaica. Now, if Cromwell was a general, this man was at least a soldier.

Now, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, go back with me to the commencement of the century, and select what statesman you please. Let him be either American or European; let him have a brain the result of six generations of culture; let him have the ripest training of university routine; let him add to it the better education of practical life; crown his temples with the silver locks of seventy years, and show me the man of Saxon lineage for whom his most sanguine admirer will wreathe laurel rich as embittered foes have placed on the brow of this negro-rare military skill, profound knowledge of human nature, content to blot out all party distinctions and trust a State to the blood of its sons-anticipating Sir Robert Peel fifty years, and taking his station by the side of Roger Williams, before any Englishman or American had won the right; and yet this is the record which the history of rival States makes up for this inspired black of St. Domingo.

Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go to Hayti, and stand on the fifty thousand graves of the best soldiers France ever had, and ask them what they think of the negro's sword.

I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon made his way to empire over broken oaths and through a sea of blood. This man never broke his word. I would call him Cromwell, but Cromwell was only a soldier, and the State he founded went down with him into his grave. would call him Washington, but the great Virginian held slaves. This man risked his empire rather than permit the slave-trade in the humblest village in his dominions.

You think me a fanatic, for you read history not with your eyes but with your prejudices. But fifty years

hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse of history will put Phocion for the Greek, Brutus for the Roman, Hampden for England, Lafayette for France, choose Washington as the bright consummate flower of our earlier civilization, then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, vill write in the clear blue, above them all, the name of he soldier, the statesman, the martyr, TOUSSAINT L'OVERTURE.

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

THE PREACHER'S VACATION.

The old man went to meeting, for the day was bright and fair,

Tho' his step was slow and tottering and 'twas hard to travel there;

But he hungered for the gospel, so he trudged the weary

way

On the road so rough and dusty, 'neath the sun's hot burning ray.

By-and-by he reached the building, to his soul a holy place;

Then he paused, and wiped the sweat drops from off his wrinkled face.

But he looked around bewildered, for the old bell did not

toll,

And the doors were shut and bolted, and he did not see a soul.

So he leaned upon his pilgrim-staff, and said, "What does it mean?"

And he looked this and that way, till it seemed to him a dream.

He had walked the dusty highway (and he breathed a heavy sigh)

Just to go once more to meeting ere the summons came to die.

Soon he saw a little notice tacked on the meeting door, So he limped along to read it, and he read it o'er and

o'er;

Then he wiped his dusty glasses, and he read it o'er again,

"Till his limbs began to tremble, and his eyes were full of pain.

As the old man read the notice, how it made his spirit burn!

"Pastor absent on vacation,-church is closed till his return."

Then he staggered slowly backward, and sat him down to think,

For his soul was stirred within him 'till he thought his heart would sink.

So he moved along and wondered; to himself soliloquized

"I have lived 'till almost eighty, and was never so sur

prised,

As I read that oddest notice stuck on the meetin'-door: • Pastor absent on vacation '-never heard the like be

fore!

"Why, when I first joined the meetin', very many years

ago,

Preachers traveled on the circuit, in the heat and through the snow;

If they got their clothes and vittals ('twas but little cash

they got),

They said nothing 'bout vacation, but were happy in their lot.

"Would the farmer leave his cattle, or the shepherd leave his sheep?

Who would give them care or shelter, or provide them food to eat?

So it strikes me very sing'lar, when a man of holy hands Thinks he needs to have vacation, and forsakes his tender lambs.

"Did St. Paul git such a notion? Did a Wesley or a

Knox?

Did they in the heat of summer turn from their needy

flocks?

Did they shut up their meetin',--just to go and lounge about?

Why, surely then, if thus they did, Satan would raise a

shout.

"Do the taverns close their doors, just to take a little rest?

Why, 'twould be the height of nonsense, for their trade would be distrest.

Did you ever know it happen, or hear anybody tellSatan absent on vacation,—and closed the doors of hell?

"And shall preachers of the gospel pack their trunks and go away,

Leaving saints and dying sinners to get along as best they may?

Are the souls of saints and sinners valued less than selling

beer?

Or do preachers tire quicker than the rest of mortals

here?

"Why it is I cannot answer; but my feelings they are stirred;

Here I've dragged my tottering footsteps to hear the gospel word;

But the preacher is a travelin' and the meetin'-house is closed;

I confess it's very trying,-hard indeed to keep com

posed.

"Tell me, when I tread the vailey, and go up the shinin'

height,

Will I hear no angels singin',-will I see no gleamin'

light?

Will the golden harps be silent? Will I meet no wel come there?

Why, the thought is most distressin', 'twould be more than I could bear.

"Tell me, when I reach the city over on the other shore Will I find a little notice tacked upon the golden door Telling me, 'mid dreadful silence, writ in words that cut and burn

'Jesus absent on vacation,-Heaven closed till his return?'"

THE METHODIST.

WE'VE ALWAYS BEEN PROVIDED FOR. [In reciting, sing the italicised words.]

"GOOD wife, what are you singing for? You know we've lost the hay.

And what we'll do with horse and kye is more than I

can say;

While like as not, with storm and rain, we'll lose both corn and wheat."

She looked up with a pleasant face, and answered low and sweet:

"There is a Heart, there is a Hand, we feel but cannot

see;

We've always been provided for, and we shall always be.”

He turned around with a sudden gloom. She said: "Love, be at rest,

You cut the grass, worked soon and late, you did your very best.

That was your work; you've naught at all to do with

wind and rain,

And do not doubt but you will reap rich fields of golden

grain :

For there's a Heart, and there's a Hand, we feel, but canno

see:

We've always been provided for, and we shall always be”