Alas! that pillar'd pile! how, as I gaz'd Upon the blacken'd shafts, did I recall The sculptur'd marble there, whose brow was rais'd So like a god's, within that shadowy hall! Immortal HAMILTON!--though crumbled deep In the red chaos of that billowy night, It needs no chisel's memory to keep Thy spirit's nobler outline vast and bright! No Time--no element can mar the fame, Gather'd, like fadeless sunlight, round thy spotless name! COURTSHIP. By Wm. L. McClintock. After my sleighride, last winter, and the slippery trick I was served by Patty Bean, nobody would suspect me of hankering after the women again in a hurry. To hear me curse and swear and rail out against the whole feminine gender, you would have taken it for granted that I should never so much as look at one again, to all eternity--O, but I was wicked. "Darn and blast their eyes"--says I.--"Blame their skins--torment their hearts and darn them to darnation." Finally I took an oath and swore that if I ever meddled or had any dealings with them again (in the sparking line I mean) I wish I might be hung and choked. But swearing off from women, and then going into a meeting house chock full of gals, all shining and glistening in their Sunday clothes and clean faces, is like swearing off from liquor and going into a grog shop. It's all smoke. I held out and kept firm to my oath for three whole Sundays. Forenoons, a'ternoons and intermissions complete. On the fourth, there were strong symptoms of a change of weather. A chap, about my size was seen on the way to the meeting house, with a new patent hat on; his head hung by the ears upon a shirt collar; his cravat had a pudding in it and branched out in front, into a double bow knot. He carried a straight back and a stiff neck, as a man ought to, when he has his best clothes on; and every time he spit, he sprung his body forward, like a jack-knife, in order to shoot clear of the ruffles. Squire Jones' pew is next but two to mine; and when I stand up to prayers and take my coat tail under my arm, and turn my back to the minister, I naturally look right straight at Sally Jones. Now Sally has got a face not to be grinned at, in a fog. Indeed, as regards beauty, some folks think she can pull an even yoke with Patty Bean. For my part, I think there is not much boot between them. Any how, they are so nigh matched that they have hated and despised each other, like rank poison, ever since they were school-girls. Squire Jones had got his evening fire on, and set himself down to reading the great bible, when he heard a rap at his door. "Walk in.--Well, John, how der do? Git out, Pompey."--"Pretty well, I thank ye, Squire, and how do _you_ do?"--"Why, so as to be crawling--ye ugly beast, will ye hold yer yop--haul up a chair and set down, John."