marked, the boy, playing about what afterwards became historic ground, was inspired by some unseen power to become the "Poet of the Revolution," as he has been styled.

Three years have passed away, and Philip has been booked for the opening term in the Penolopen Latin School, conducted by the Reverend Alexander Mitchell, for a preparatory course in college.

The boy is on his way for the last time to the residence of his tutor, having spent a short vacation at home. Changes are always sad, even when most desired; and as he trudges along, with his favorite Horace under his arm, the merry whistle at times takes a somewhat sadder strain,- for are not joyous natures ever the most capable of the deeper sentiments? He pauses on a slight eminence; the whistle dies upon his lips, and a dreamy look comes over his face. There are moments in the lives of most of us-I might say portions of seconds -in which the misty veil of the future is raised; and down the vista of years our mental vision has barely time to travel, and rest upon some object, when the veil is dropped again, and we are conscious only of an isolated impression, concerning which we would fain know more. Let us, too, look beyond the veil and read the secrets of the future.

Where the road forks, not far from the old Monmouth meeting-house stands a war-horse; and on it leans a person of majestic mien dressed as a soldier, none such, however, as Philip had ever seen before. Anxiously he looks down the road, as if awaiting some one. A soldier on horseback rides up, and, throwing himself from his horse, makes a military salute, as if to a superior, and imparts some information of a seemingly unpleasant nature. The officer quickly throws himself into the saddle,

marked, the boy, playing about what afterwards became historic ground, was inspired by some unseen power to become the "Poet of the Revolution," as he has been styled.

Three years have passed away, and Philip has been booked for the opening term in the Penolopen Latin School, conducted by the Reverend Alexander Mitchell, for a preparatory course in college.

The boy is on his way for the last time to the residence of his tutor, having spent a short vacation at home. Changes are always sad, even when most desired; and as he trudges along, with his favorite Horace under his arm, the merry whistle at times takes a somewhat sadder strain, - for are not joyous natures ever the most capable of the deeper sentiments? He pauses on a slight eminence; the whistle dies upon his lips, and a dreamy look comes over his face. There are moments in the lives of most of us-I might say portions of seconds -in which the misty veil of the future is raised; and down the vista of years our mental vision has barely time to travel, and rest upon some object, when the veil is dropped again, and we are conscious only of an isolated impression, concerning which we would fain know more. Let us, too, look beyond the veil and read the secrets of the future.

Where the road forks, not far from the old Monmouth meeting-house stands a war-horse; and on it leans a person of majestic mien dressed as a soldier, -none such, however, as Philip had ever seen before. Anxiously he looks down the road, as if awaiting some one. A soldier on horseback rides up, and, throwing himself from his horse, makes a military salute, as if to a superior, and imparts some information of a seemingly unpleasant nature. The officer quickly throws himself into the saddle,