"A lie always needs a truth for a handle to it; else the hand would cut itself, which sought to drive it home upon another. The worst lies, therefore, are those whose blade is false, but whose handle is true." "It is not conviction of truth which does men good; it is moral consciousness of truth." "A conservative young man has wound up his life before it was unreeled. We expect old men to be conservative; but when a nation's young men are so, its funeral-bell is already rung." "Night-labor, in time, will destroy the student; for it is marrow from his own bones with which he fills his lamp." A great-hearted, eloquent, fervent, live man, full of religious emotion, of humanity and love,--no wonder he is dear to the people of America. Long may he bring instruction to the lecture associations of the North! Long may he stand in his pulpit at Brooklyn with his heavenly candle, which goeth not out at all by day, to kindle the devotion and piety of the thousands who cluster around him, and carry thence light and warmth to all the borders of the land! We should do injustice to our own feelings, did we not, in closing, add a word of hearty thanks and commendation to the Member of Mr. Beecher's Congregation to whom we are indebted for a volume that has given us so much pleasure. The selection covers a wide range of topics, and testifies at once to the good taste and the culture of the editress. Many of the finest passages were conceived and uttered in the rapid inspiration of speaking, and but for her admiring intelligence and care, the eloquence, wit, and wisdom, which are here preserved to us, would have faded into air with the last vibration of the preacher's voice. MERCEDES. Under a sultry, yellow sky, On the yellow sand I lie; The crinkled vapors smite my brain, I smoulder in a fiery pain. Above the crags the condor flies; He knows where the red gold lies, He knows where the diamonds shine;-- If I knew, would she be mine? Mercedes in her hammock swings; In her court a palm-tree flings Its slender shadow on the ground, The fountain falls with silver sound. Her lips are like this cactus cup; With my hand I crush it up; I tear its flaming leaves apart;-- Would that I could tear her heart! Last night a man was at her gate; In the hedge I lay in wait; I saw Mercedes meet him there, By the fire-flies in her hair. I waited till the break of day, Then I rose and stole away; I drove my dagger through the gate;-- Now she knows her lover's fate! * * * * * THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. EVERY MAN HIS OWN BOSWELL.