Strength to his hours of manly toil! 
     Peace to his starlit dreams! 
     Who loves alike the furrowed soil,
     The music-haunted streams!

     Sweet smiles to keep forever bright
     The sunshine on his lips,
     And faith, that sees the ring of light
     Round Nature’s last eclipse!

—­One of our boarders has been talking in such strong language that I am almost afraid to report it.  However, as he seems to be really honest and is so very sincere in his local prejudices, I don’t believe anybody will be very angry with him.

It is here, Sir! right here!—­said the little deformed gentleman,—­in this old new city of Boston,—­this remote provincial corner of a provincial nation, that the Battle of the Standard is fighting, and was fighting before we were born, and will be fighting when we are dead and gone,—­please God!  The battle goes on everywhere throughout civilization; but here, here, here is the broad white flag flying which proclaims, first of all, peace and good-will to men, and, next to that, the absolute, unconditional spiritual liberty of each individual immortal soul!  The three-hilled city against the seven-hilled city!  That is it, Sir,—­nothing less than that; and if you know what that means, I don’t think you’ll ask for anything more.  I swear to you, Sir, I believe that these two centres of civilization are just exactly the two points that close the circuit in the battery of our planetary intelligence!  And I believe there are spiritual eyes looking out from Uranus and unseen Neptune,—­ay, Sir, from the systems of Sirius and Arcturus and Aldebaran, and as far as that faint stain of sprinkled worlds confluent in the distance that we call the nebula of Orion,—­looking on, Sir, with what organs I know not, to see which are going to melt in that fiery fusion, the accidents and hindrances of humanity or man himself, Sir,—­the stupendous abortion, the illustrious failure that he is, if the three-hilled city does not ride down and trample out the seven-hilled city!

—­Steam ’s up!—­said the young man John, so called, in a low tone.  —­Three hundred and sixty-five tons to the square inch.  Let him blow her off, or he’ll bu’st his b’iler.

The divinity-student took it calmly, only whispering that he thought there was a little confusion of images between a galvanic battery and a charge of cavalry.

But the Koh-i-noor—­the gentleman, you remember, with a very large diamond in his shirt-front laughed his scornful laugh, and made as if to speak.

Sail in, Metropolis!—­said that same young man John, by name.  And then, in a lower lane, not meaning to be heard,—­Now, then, Ma’am Allen!