believing the true work of his life was in England. He seemed more solicitous about the condition of the English peasantry, and more ready to converse on this subject than upon any other. His fine eyes filled with tears as he explained to me the fearful ignorance and destitution among so many thousands who could never hope to turn a furrow of land which they might call their own. It was here the character of the man shone clear as day. He said there was no class in England like the tenants in America, who, if they did not at first own their land, with thrift and reasonable economy, could soon become owners in fee of as many broad acres as they could cultivate. He talked on this subject till long after midnight, deploring the fact that the English peasantry were divorced from the soil on which they lived. He named his neighbor Lord Lincolnfield's park, with twelve miles of stone fence protecting it; its owner too rich to spend the half of his income, and rich enough to buy all the land within a day's ride of him.

The question of elevating this disfranchised class, he said, was the one nearest his heart. And I did not wonder, as he explained to me that the English landholders were assessed now for their landed estate just what they were assessed in the days of William the Conqueror. As he explained the long system of outrages practiced by the oppressor at the expense of the oppressed, I did not wonder that he looked with eager gaze and longing eyes for "good news from the States." I no longer felt any wonder that the name of Richard Cobden had become almost a household word beside thousands of American firesides. I knew, too, how he had grown to feel a love for the peasant class, for whom he had labored so long, and who, for sixty years, had not advanced one step toward light or knowledge, or the possession of a just share of political power; a love, in the words of a deep-thinking and much-abused poet, as

"Tender as tears, as fair as faith, as pure

As hearts made sad and sure

At once by many sorrows and one love."

The clock struck one, when I suggested that, however delightful such a conversation was to me, he must be worn and tired with so long a sitting. He, laughingly, said no, and reminded me that when Parliament was in session it was always among the 66 wee sma' hours" when they were permitted to go to bed. He urged me to spend the remainder of the week at Durford, but I declined, because I had soon to sail westward. As he accompanied me to my room, I recall even the tone of voice in which he said, "I suppose, then, we must 'welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.'

Speaking of Louis Napoleon, he said, when he was left to himself, he could on occasions write "monumental French." While not impressed with his conversational powers, he thought he knew how to govern. The last and only political prediction I heard him make was, that unless the aristocracy of England consented to some modification of the laws regulating the tenure of lands-and while he might not live to see it, I would-I would see a revolution which would forever settle all disputes between English landlords and tenants in such a way that popular agitation would not again be invoked, for the power of the present governing class in England would be overthrown. Only a few months after this conversation, the conduct of the English Government (for, it is charged and believed, that the Ministry were responsible for it), toward Garibaldi, gave color to the supposition that the aristocracy feared the people then as they do now.

The Italian patriot was welcomed with spontaneous enthusiasm. All England took holiday, when, suddenly, the popular furore at its height, Garibaldi was quietly invited to leave England. The published reason given was, that his health would not permit further ovations. In the morning, before I left Durford, we had a conversation which I may yet give the world, but not here.

He was answering his letters as early as seven o'clock in the morning.

As his five daughters, one by one, came to the breakfast room, each one saluted him with a kiss.

An artist should paint that picture of domestic happiness and

contentment.

Here was a man rich in the recollections of a well-spent life: a generous nation, chafing under the odious yoke of privilege, could not bind about his neck, as they would gladly have done, the highest crowns of civic honor. Once offered a place in the Cabinet, he peremptorily declined it, because coalition with such a Ministry might have been regarded a defection from the people's cause.

But a confiding and grateful people had heaped wealth upon him, and hoped for him many years of usefulness and honor.

But he is dead. Shrined in the affection of the world, he yet lives in the hearts of that generation chiefly benefited by his great and self-sacrificing public service:-and posterity will lovingly take up the name of Richard Cobden, and build to his memory a monument more imperishable than marble, for his simplicity, his integrity, his nobility of soul, have made him immortal.

Some future historian writing for a world, walking, at last, the triumphant road of justice, will write above his grave

"He consecrated his best energies for a people whom he lived for and loved. He died, as he had lived, an honest soldier, and a great commander in that grand army ever fighting under freedom's flag for the liberation of Humanity."

"NO DIFFERENCE."

I.

Ir is a dreadful thing to stand and gaze

At the far hills, which this life's valley fence,
And sadly say: it makes no difference

What burdens by the way, what waste of days,
What loveless matings, and what thornful flowers,
What weariness through all the empty hours;
At worst the way is short, and though I lose
My life, in living as I would not choose,
There is an end at last, a recompense

Of rest, a folding of the tired hands

The blue hills hide from sight the better lands,
And bring forgetfulness of all of sense.

II.

Oh, better struggle against adverse fate!

My life was given me for noble use,
And though I will not any trial refuse,

I shall not by the wayside idly wait,

That some one on my meekly bending back
Severely may adjust the heavy pack.

I would not waste the time in bootless sport-
I would be happy, though the way is short.
The work my God has given me to do,

Less worthily were done, if I should dare
My soul to encumber with unwonted care-
Less sweet the rest beyond the hills of blue.

ROPEY'S THE CHAP.

DURING the year 57, when many business firms were in a precarious condition, one of the most extensive dry-goods houses in New York had in its employ as "porter" a man by the name of Ropey, an Englishman-an oddity, by the way, whom the head of the firm, who was seldom

seen in the business, loved to humor. In order not to offend the sensibilities of Ropey's relatives, if any survive, we will endeavor to convey to you, in a way as delicate as possible, what manner of man he was. Perhaps we might be considered unkind, did we minutely describe his person; but poor Ropey has been sleeping in his grave for some years, and in the unearthing let us do so gently. Thinking a few negatives less offensive in describing him, we use them. He did not stand six feet, nor was he as well proportioned and graceful as Apollo; nor did his "voice take your ear like the ring of a glass "-" silver sweet by night;" yet it might have had charms for those who delight in a mixture of snuffle and grunt.

At the time Ropey flourished, there flourished also many clerks in that establishment; the principal one, a Mr. Dotter, had the sole charge of the financial department. Now, as Ropey frequently and frankly admitted the importance of Mr. Dotter and the junior partners to the establishment to which they and he were attached, so was he unscrupulous in asserting his own, andt he length of time he had filled his situation; so that at last he came to consider himself part and parcel of the establishment, which could no more exist, and he not in it, than a watch perform its functions minus one of its wheels. You will perceive at once that Ropey's great weakness was vanity; not a small, sneaking, timid vanity, which most of us look on with contempt-but a vanity bold, boundless, and indomitable, compelling admiration. his person he was not vain-he had a soul above that; but of his abilities, he believed not only that he could do every thing, but that he could do it better than anybody else. This he always thought— this he never hesitated to say. Frequent occasions for the declaration of his opinion of himself occurred; a long phrase would have been inconvenient for the purpose, it would have been a waste of time; his sentiment was compressed into one compact sentence of three words, "Ropey's the chap."

Of

In addition to his settled notion that whatever he did was done rightly, he would have others believe that he could do no wrong. It was impossible to make him admit that he had ever made a mistake or had neglected any duty. To err might be human, but error was a sin from which Ropey always contended that Ropey was exempt.

To do justice to his character, he must speak for himself; a mere description is insufficient, without placing him in action.

One morning, Mr. Dotter-who resided some fifteen or twenty miles from New York-was not at his desk as usual. Mr. Dotter's punctuality was proverbial; and a few minutes beyond the time for the com

mencement of the day's business would cause considerable speculation as to the probable reason of his absence. The members of the firm began to show signs of uneasiness, as hour after hour passed and no Mr. Dotter came. A like circumstance had not occurred since he had held the responsible trust. What was to be done? He had the key to the safe-no books to begin business with-the number of letters by mail that morning larger than usual, most of them containing proAs envelope after envelope was opened, the appearance was discouraging in the extreme. The meeting of the liabilities each hour looked less promising. Suspension of business seemed inevitable: but where was Mr. Dotter? Mr. Warford, the head of the firm of Warford, Leppy & Co, had a key to the safe, but he, too, lived in the country some miles further than Dotter. What to do, puzzled Leppy & Co. Mr. Leppy summoned Ropey, and, in order to guard against any mistake, was precise in his directions to him.

tested paper.

"Ropey," said Mr. Leppy, "here is a note to Mr. Dotter; it is of great importance. The train starts at 11.40; lose not one moment in delivering it, and be punctual for the return train."

"That'll do, sir-note of importance--need no further instructionsRopey's the chap." Ropey's compound of snuffle and grunt we cannot write, but must be imagined; words would fail to make it intelligible.

"Go immediately, as but little time is left to catch the train; go immediately, sir."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, Ropey never needs a reminder. I tell you, Mr. Leppy, there are some people in this establishment-and some of what I call the big wheels in the machine, too-that do need reminders, and frequently, too; but beggin' your pardon, sir, for never needing a reminder, Ropey's the chap."

"Now, sir," said Mr. Leppy, "unless you go instantly with that note, I will send it by Wragg.'

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, there's nobody in this establishment can take a note like this but Ropey. 'Tisn't a common note, sir. Wragg can take a common note—anybody can take a common note; but you told me very distinctly that-now, beggin' your pardon, sir, for not allowing myself to be interrupted-you did tell me very distinctly that this is a note of great importance, and for delivering a note of great importance Ropey's the chap."

"Then go at once, sir, or you will lose the train."

"Now, beggin' your pardon, sir, I never lost a train or made a mistake in my life; and I tell you what, Mr. Leppy, I'm the only man in