her. You,
as far as you are concerned, in exactly the same manner draw two lines,
one on a plane, the other on a sphere; one line will be straight, the
other curved. So does every truth, even, make a different mark on
different minds. This is one reason that I hate most maxims, they never
accommodate themselves to circumstances or individuals. The maxim that
would make one man a careful economist, would make another a miser. 'One
man's meat is another man's poison;' one man's truth is another man's
falsehood.

But how many mistaken ideas have been embodied in maxims--fossilized, I
may say! It would have been better to let them die the natural death of
falsehood, and they might have sprung up in new forms of truth--truth
that never dies. What a vitality it has--a vitality that can not be
dried out by time, nor crushed out by violence. You know how in old
mummy-cases have been found grains of wheat, which, being sown, sprang
up, and bore a harvest like that which waved in the breeze on the banks
of the Nile. You know how God's truth--all truth is God's truth--was
shut up in that old mummy-case, the monastery, and how, when found by
one Luther, and sown broadcast, it sprang up, and now there is hardly an
island, or a river's bank, on which it has not fallen and does not bear
abundant fruit. The 'heel of despotism' could not crush out its life;
ages hence it will be said of it: 'It still lives.'

And still lives, yours,

MOLLY O'MOLLY.

'THAT LAST DITCH.'

Many reasons have been assigned for the _Chivalry's_ determining to die
in that last ditch. One William Shakspeare puts into the mouth of
Enobarbus, in _Antony and Cleopatra_, the best reason we have yet seen.
'Tis thus:

'I will go seek
Some ditch wherein to die: THE FOUL BEST FITS
MY LATTER PART OF LIFE.'

HOPEFUL TACKETT--HIS MARK.

BY RICHARD WOLCOTT, 'TENTH ILLINOIS.'

'An' the Star-Spangle' Banger in triump' shall wave
O! the lan dov the free-e-e, an' the ho mov the brave.'

Thus sang Hopeful Tackett, as he sat on his little bench in the little
shop of Herr Kordwaener, the village shoemaker. Thus he sang, not
artistically, but with much fervor and unction, keeping time with his
hammer, as he hammered away at an immense 'stoga.' And as he sang, the
prophetic words rose upon the air, and were wafted, together with an
odor of new leather and paste-pot, out of the window, and fell upon the
ear of a ra