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WE MEET UPON THE LEVEL AND WE PART UPON THE SQUARE.

WE meet upon the level, and we part upon the squareWhat words of precious meaning those words Masonic are!

Come, let us contemplate them-they are worthy of a thought

In the very soul of Masonry those precious words are wrought.

We meet upon the level, though from every station comeThe rich man from his mansion, and the poor man from his home;

For the one must leave his heritage outside the Mason's

door,

While the other finds his best respect upon the checkered floor.

We part upon the square, for the world must have its due; We mingle with the multitude-a faithful band, and true; But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green, And we long, upon the level, to renew the happy scene.

There's a world where all are equal-we are journeying toward it fast,

We shall meet upon the level there when the gates of Death are past,

We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be there

To try the blocks we offer with his own unerring square.

We shall meet upon the level there, but never thence

depart;

There's a Mansion-'tis all ready for each faithful, trusting heart

There's a Mansion and a welcome, and a multitude is

there

Who have met upon the level, and been tried upon the

square.

Let us meet upon the level, then, while laboring patient

here

Let us meet and let us labor, though the labor be severe;
Already, in the Western sky, the signs bid us prepare
To gather up our working tools, and part upon the square,

Hands round, ye faithful Masons, in the bright, fraternal chain !

We part upon the square below to meet in Heaven again. O! what words of precious meaning those words Masonic

are

We meet upon the level, and we part upon the square.

LORD DUNDREARY ON "PWOVERBS.”

A fellah once told me that another fellah wrote a book before he was born—I mean before the first fellah was born (of course the fellah who wrote it must have been born, else, how could he have written it ?)—that is, a long time ago-to pwove that a whole lot of pwoverbs and things that fellahs are in the habit of quoting were all nonsense.

I should vewy much like to get that book. I-I think if I could get it at one of those spherical-no—globular— no, that's not the word-circle-circular-yes, that's it— circulating libwawies (I knew it was something that went round)—I think if I could just borrow that book from a circulating libwawy-I'd—yes, upon my word now-I'd twy and wead it. A doothed good sort of book that, I'm sure. I-I always did hate pwoverbs. In the first place they, they're so howwibly confusing-I-I always mix 'em up together-somehow, when I twy to weckomember them. And besides, if evewy fellah was to wegulate his life by a lot of pwoverbs, what-what a beathly sort of uncomfortable life he would lead!

I remoleckt-I mean remember-when I was quite a little fellah-in pinafores-and liked wasbewwy jam and—and a lot of howwid things for tea-there was a sort of collection of illustwated pwoverbs hanging up in our nursery at home. They belonged to our old nurse-Sarah-I think-and she had 'em fwamed and glazed. "Poor Richard's," I think she called 'em--and she used to say-poor dear-that if evewy fellah attended to evewything Poor Richard wote, that he'd get vewy wich, and l-live and die-happy ever after. However-it-it's vewy clear to me that he couldn't have attended to them—himself, else, how did the fellah come to be called Poor Richard? I-I hate a fellah that pweaches what he doesn't pwactice. Of courth, if what he said was twue, and he'd stuck to it-he-he'd have been calledRich Richard-Stop a minute-how's that? Rich Richard? Why that would have been too rich. Pwaps that's the reason he pweferred being Poor. How vewy wich!

But, as I was saying, these picture pwoverbs were all hung up in our nursery, and a more uncomfortable set of makthims-you never wead. For instance, there was one vewy nonthensical pwoverb which says:

'A B-BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSII." Th-the man who invented that pwoverb must have been a b-born idiot. How the dooth can he t-tell the welative v-value of poultry in that pwomithcuous manner? Suppothe I've got a wobbing wed-bweast in my hand-(I nearly had the other morning-but he flew away-confound him!)-well-suppothe the two birds in the bush are a bwace of partwidges-you-you don't mean to t-tell me that that wobbin wed-bweast would fetch as m-much as a bwace of partwidges? Abthurd! P-poor Richard can't gammon me in that sort of way.

LOOK ALOFT.-J. Lawrence.

IN the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail-
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart-
"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows, like clouds, are arrayed,
"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the Sun that is never to set.

Should they who are nearest and dearest thy heart-
Thy friends and companions-in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And, O! when Death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,

In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, LOOK ALOFT," and depart.
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THE MODERN CAIN.-E. Evans Edwards.

"Am I my brother's keeper ?"

Long ago
When first the human heart-strings felt the touch
Of Death's cold fingers-when upon the earth
Shroudless and coffinless Death's first born lay,
Slain by the hand of violence, the wail
Of human grief arose :-" My son, my son!
Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;
A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief
Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow:
Awake, and bless her with thy wonted smile."

In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke. His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled A voice pursued him to the wilderness. "Where is thy brother, Cain ?”

"Am I my brother's keeper ?”

O, black impiety that seeks to shun
The dire responsibility of sin—

That cries with the ever warning voice :
"Be still-away, the crime is not my own-
My brother lived-is dead, when, where,
Or how, it matters not, but he is dead.
Why judge the living for the dead one's fall ?”

"Am I my brother's keeper ?”

Cain, Cain,
Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood
Cries up to heaven against thee: every stone
Will find a tongue to curse thee, and the winds,
Will ever wail this question in thy ear:

"Where is thy brother?" Every sight and sound
Will mind thee of the lost.

I saw a man
Deal Death unto his brother. Drop by drop
The poison was distilled for cursed gold;
And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death,
Invisible to that poor, trembling slave.

He seized the cup, he drank the poison down,
Rushed forth into the streets-home had he none-,
Staggered and fell and miserably died.

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l'hey buried him-ah! little recks it where
His bloated form was given to the worms.
No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot;
No mourner sorrowing at evening came,

To pray by that unhallowed mound; no hand
Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest.
Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew
Above that sunken grave, and men forgot
Who slept there.

Once had he friends,

A happy home was his, and love was his.
His MARY loved him, and around him played
His smiling children. O, a dream of joy
Were those unclouded years, and, more than all,
He had an interest in the world above.
The big "Old Bible" lay upon the stand,
And he was wont to read its sacred page
And then to pray: "Our Father, bless the poor
And save the tempted from the tempter's art;
Save us from sin and let us ever be

United in thy love, and may we meet,

When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."

Thus prayed he-thus lived he-years passed,

And o'er the sunshine of that happy home,

A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt
Fell from that cloud. The towering tree
Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke,
And laid its coronal of glory low.

A happy home was ruined; want and woe
Played with his children, and the joy of youth
Left their sweet faces no more to return.
His MARY'S face grew pale and paler still,
Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul
Went out through those blue portals. MARY died
And yet he wept not. At the demon's call
He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl,
And when they buried her from sight, he sank
In drunken stupor by her new made grave!
His friend was gone-he never had another,
And the world shrank from him, all save one,
And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs
And bade him drink, forget his God, and die!

He died!

Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now!
Lives he still-if dead, still where is he?
Where? In heaven? Go read the sacred page:
"No drunkard ever shall inherit there."

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