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Volume 4 (1859-1860) (600 pages)
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Page: of 600
MY HOME.—DRAWING THE LONG BOW. 217
stance, the depositor himself sometimes
is little inclined to name the particular
place where his dust is coming from, being, perhaps, jealous of opposition, especially if the gold beofa superior quality.
MY HOME.
BY G. T. SPROAT.
Mine is not a hall of marble,
Built by some proud lord of old,
Glittering in the gorgeous sunlight
With barbaric gems and gold;
Where the crimson rays are flashing
On the tesselated floors,
And the festal song is pealing
Through the lofty corridors.
"Tis a cottage in a valley,
With broad meadows girt around;
Nestling in the elm trees’ shadow,
And with trailing roses crowned.
There, in spring, the blue-eyed violets
Early rising burst the sod;
There look up the summer lilies,
Smiling in the face of God.
There, all day, three white-winged angels
Through that dwelling gently rove,
Ever whispering, ever singing
Words of comfort—words of love.
Oh! with these, my home is lovelier
Than the palaces of Kings;
All my cup o’erflows with blessings,
And my heart leaps up and sings.
Beautiful the morning shineth
On me with these angels there,
And the gentle evening closeth
With its anthem and it prayer.
And aholy calm comes o’er me,
And a blessing falls on me;
‘Tis reflected all around me,
On each flower, and bird, and tree.
Love, and Joy, and Peace—these angels
Ever there upon me wait,
Dwelling with me and my loved ones,
In our lowly cottage gate.
Oh! with these, I am rich past telling;
All I ask is freely given—
Heaven is with me here already—
All beyond me, too, is heaven.
DRAWING THE LONG BOW.
A Naval Reminiscence. *
BY ROLLING STONE.
Frew who have read Capt. Marryat’s
“Peter Simple,” but will recollect Capt.
Kearney, the lying commander of one of
ithe ships which Peter served in,—the audacious falshoods which he had been in
the habit of telling, until by a sort of
idiosynerasy, he in a manner believed
them himself—his wonderfully inconsistent habit of constantly inculcating the
necessity of truth upon the minds of his
juniors, and his final death with the
same moral advice given to those around
him, and then with his last breath uttering possibly his very greatest lie.
The characters in Marryat’s nautical
novels are almost all taken from life, and
the leading ones are many of them recognizable by officers in the naval service
of Great Britain; that of Captain Kearney
is understood by the naval service generally, or at least by a number of officers
of old standing, to be a somewhat exaggerated expese of a well known and gallant officer, whose conduct in all other
respects was most exemplary, and who
was one of the highest ornaments of his
profession.
It is singular that although the career
of the late Sir John R— of Arctic notoriety, afforded ample material for the narration of extraordinary adventures, and
that with the strictest adherence to fact,
yet that world known man, had imbibed
a habit of exaggeration and even of inventing fictions which militated much against
his interests; and which indeed was probably the cause of his being laid on the
shelf by his government, instead of being
employed on those further voyages of discovery which were afterwards projected.
A statement of some of these really
wonderful vicissitudes that he experienced in his earlier life may be interesting.