On the next morning the newspapers contained a notice of the accident, with this announcement: “We are happy to state, that a few days before leaving for the sea-shore, Mr. Lincoln had his life insured in the Girard Life Insurance and Trust Company, for five thousand dollars.” I was so much affected in reading this, that my hands trembled, and the paper dropped from them to the floor. Some years have elapsed since the occurrence of this sad event. Almost daily I pass a small store in a well frequented street, behind the counter of which is sometimes seen the widow of Mr. Lincoln, or a daughter who has attained the age of fourteen years. The face of the former has a sober, quiet look, but bears no evidence of distressing care. Under the advice and assistance of friends, four thousand dollars of the money received at the death of her husband, were safely invested in six per cent. securities, and with the balance, a small store was stocked with goods. The interest on four thousand dollars paid her rent, and the profits on her little business enabled her to meet the real wants of her family. How different would all have been but for this life insurance. * * * * * BUNKER-HILL AT MIDNIGHT. BY E. CURTIS HINE, U. S. N. I stand upon the sacred hill Where LIBERTY hath made her home. ’Tis midnight, all is hushed and still Where’er my footsteps roam; While towering through the air of night Yon stately pile doth rear its head, A granite flower, of giant height, Sprung from the dust of PATRIOTS dead! Methinks I hear the rustling sound Of myriad angels’ hovering wings, Who guard this famed, enchanted ground, Around which Romance clings! Like those that o’er gray Marathon Are hovering in the night’s still noon, Spirits descend and stand upon This hill when clouds obscure the moon! Beneath me sleeps the city dim, Whose dusky spires tower on high, And white-winged vessels slowly skim Yon river winding by. The wandering night-winds round me moan, And for that day of glory sigh, When Freedom’s star in splendor shone Through the torn clouds in WAR’S dark sky! Where now the men that nobly dealt A nation’s wrath upon the foe, And for their injured country felt Their cheeks indignant glow? Alas! they all have passed away, Like stars that leave the sky at morn, When in the east the king of day On couch of gilded clouds is born! And silence reigns where’er I tread, Like that which greets the passer-by In that lone city of the dead ’Neath Egypt’s brazen sky! Brave men are sleeping everywhere, Their ashes hallow every strand, And this lone hill-top has its share, On which in musing mood I stand! * * * * *