Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel keel,
And laid her on her side;

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock;

His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And they may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone;

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the waves no more.

W. Cowper.

A

WANT OF CONFIDENCE.

LITTLE Frenchman loaned a merchant five thousand dollars when "the times were good." He called at the counting-house, a few days since, in a state of agitation not easily described.

"How do you do?" inquired the merchant.

“Sick — ver sick," replied Monsieur.

"What's the matter?"

"De times is de matter."

"De times?

what disease is that?"

66 De malaide vat break all the merchants ver much." "Ah-the times, eh ?-well, they are bad, very bad, sure enough; but how do they affect you?" "Vy, Monsieur, I lose de confidance."

66 In whom?"

"In everybody."

"Not in me, I hope?"

"Pardonnez moi, Monsieur; but I do not know who to trust à présent, when all de marchants break several

times all to pieces."

"Then I presume you want your money?"

"Oui, Monsieur; I starve for want of l'argent."

"Can't you do without it?"

"No, Monsieur; I must have him."

"You must?"

"Oui, Monsieur," said the little Frenchman, turning pale with apprehension for the safety of his money. "And you can't do without it?"

"No, Monsieur; not von other leetle moment longare."

The merchant reached his bank-book, drew a check on the bank for the amount, and handed it to his visitor.

"Vat is dis, Monsieur?"

"A check for five thousand dollars, with the interest."

"Is it bon?" said the Frenchman, with amazement. "Certainly."

"Have you de l'argent in de bank?"

"Yes."

"And it is parfaitement convenient to pay de sum?"

"Undoubtedly. What astonishes you?"

"Vy, dat you have got him in dese times." "Oh, yes, and I have plenty more. I owe nothing that I cannot pay at a moment's notice."

The Frenchman was perplexed.

"Monsieur, you shall do me one leetle favor, eh?” "With all my heart."

"Vell, Monsieur, you shall keep de l'argent for me some leetle year longer."

"Why, I thought you wanted it."

"Tout au contraire. I no vant de l'argent; I want de grand confidance. Suppose you no got de money, den I vant him ver much; suppose you got him, den I no vant him at all. Vous comprenez, eh?"

After some further conference, the little Frenchman prevailed upon the merchant to retain the money, and

left the counting-house with a light heart and a countenance very different from the one he wore when he entered. His confidence was restored; and although he did not stand in need of the money, he wished to know that his property was in safe hands.

(This little sketch has a moral, which the reader can readily explain.)

IT.

GRANDFATHER'S CLOCK.

T first took its place in the old homestead about sixty years ago. Grandfather and grandmother had just been married. That was a part of their outfit. It called them to their first meal. There were the blue-edged dishes and bone-handled knives and homely fare, and an appetite sharpened on the woodpile or by the snow-shovelling. As the clock tolled. twelve of noon, the rugged pair, in home-made garments, took their position at the table, and keeping time to the rattle of knives and forks and spoons, the clock went tick-tock! tick-tock!

There were the shining tin-pans on the shelf. There were the woollen mittens on the stand. There were the unpolished rafters overhead. There was the spinning-wheel in the corner. There was the hot fire, over which the apples baked till they had sagged down, brown and hissing hot, and the saucepan on the hearth was getting up the steam, the milk just lifting the lid to look out, and sputtering with passion, until with one sudden dash it streams into the fire, making the housewife rush with holder and tongs to the rescue. The flames leaped up around the back-log,

and the kettle rattled with the steam, and jocund laughter bounded away, and the old clock looked on with benignant face, as much as to say: "Grand sport. Happy pair. Good times. Clocks sympathize. Ticktock! tick-tock!"

The old timepiece kept account of the birthday of all the children. Eighteen times it tolled the old year out, and rung the new year in, when fair Isabel was married. The clock seemed to enjoy it all, and every moment had something to say:

"I stood here when she was born. I was the only one present at the courtship. I told the young man when it was time to go, although sometimes he minded me not, and I had to speak again. I ordered the commencement of ceremonies. Good luck to Isabel, and an honest eight-day clock to bless her wherever she may go. Tick-tock! tick-tock!"

After many years, grandfather became dull of hearing and dim of sight. He could not hear the striking of the hours, but came close up and felt of the hands, and said:

"It is eight o'clock, and I must go to bed." He never rose again.

All spake in a whisper, and moved around the room on tiptoe; but there was one voice that would not be quieted. If the watchers said "Hush!" it seemed to take up a louder tone. It was the old clock in the next room. At the wedding it laughed. Now it seemed to toll. Its wheels had a melancholy creak; its hands, as they passed over the face, trembled and looked thin, like the fingers of an old man moving in a dying dream. Poor old clock!

The hand that every Saturday night for sixty years