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We care not what they “demand” in res- and darkened in the mire of this world that olutions, nor what helpless trash they pro- shall one day shine very brightly in its heavclaim on the housetops. We do not believe enly setting. They also suggest the thought in their power to attain so much as an armis- that men in the position of workhouse chaptice for two years to come. If an armistice, lains may do a world of good and be great indeed, were offered, and the invading troops comforters to suffering souls who are let out were withdrawn, of course we should not ob- of life by that grimmest door of death, the ject to it, and good use could be made of it. pauper's grave. Blessings be upon all who

But, mark well, yearmistice mongers ! Dur- in this way are true to the Master's word ! ing that suspension of hostilities all negotia- Several of the pieces in this little book may tions must be between government and gov- fairly claim a place in collections of hymns, ernment. Our lines should be more strictly as the following characteristic specimen will guarded than ever. No negotiations or fra- show :ternization of parties by public meetings or

“ My lot on earth is poor and mean, private conferences; no bargaining with the

My circumstances sad indeed ;
calm voice of reason ; no secret pocketing of

But Jesus cheers the dreary scene :
Wall's 66 Common Christianity.

He meets me in my greatest need.
But armistice there will be none, and we “ He smiles on me though some may turn,
are glad of it. Our sovereign independence He pities failings none can see ;

He welcomes me, whoe'er may spurn:
is already won and paid for with treasures of

How kind my Jesus is to me!
brave blood. It shall not be sold. by pedlers,
to be built into a Yankee platform.

“ He comforts and he succors me ;

He teaches me to look above,

Beyond this life and its rough sea,
From The Athenæum.

To yonder land of rest and love.
Songs in the Night. A Collection of verses

“ He hushes all my passions still,
by the late Grace Dickinson. Wertheim

He makes the storm become a calm, & Co.

Brings sweet submission to his will,

And holds me with his mighty arm.
THESE are songs in the night in sad verity!

“ He makes the curse a blessing prove ;
sung by a poor bed-ridden woman in a union

He turns my sorrow into joy ; workhouse. The description of the circum He teaches this hard heart to love, stances under which they were sung is touch

And make His praises my employ. ing indeed-one of those pathetic facts of life “He turns my darkness into light, which beat the best fictions of literature. He makes this earth become a heaven; Grace Dickinson became an inmate of the Gives inward peace ʼmidst outward fright: Halifax workhouse in consequence of being

All glory to His name be given.” in a deeline; and it was there she wrote this The piety is better than the poetry—such collection of verse. At first she jotted her is often the case with hymns; and, apart from thoughts down on a slate-later she was un- the literary estimate, the little book deserved able to do this; but curiously enough she had publication for the facts which it contains. learnt the deaf and dumb alphabet on pur- There must be many kind hearts that will be pose to converse with a poor deaf and dumb touched by the story to put forth a helping workhouse companion, and when she could hand; for it appears that when poor Grace not sit up in bed to hold her pencil, she dic- Dickinson fell worn out at the workhousetated her verses to her mute amanuensis. door she had with her a burden of two chilBooks have been composed under many sin- dren. These she had toiled hard for during gular conditions, but these we look upon as eighteen months of widowhood, and failed at among the most singular and interesting. last. These are still living in the workbouse. The chaplain of the Halifax union workhouse The book is printed in their behalf; and vouches for the verses being a genuine ex- the dying mother would undoubtedly have pression of the writer's religious feelings, and thought her verses had won ample fame if as such they give us one more proof that she had known that they would be of service many and many a jewel of God gets trampled to her little ones, as we trust they may be.

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BY LUCY LARCOM.

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

“OUT IN THE COLD." TAE poplar drops beside the way Its tasselled plumes of silver-gray ;

What is the threat! " Leave her out in the cold ?" The chestnut pouts its great brown buds, impa- Loyal New England, too loyally bold : tient for the laggard May.

Hater of treason !-ah, that is her crime;

Lover of freedom, too true for her time.
The honeysuckles lace the wall ;
The hyacinths grow fair and tall;

Out in the cold ? oh, she chooses the place, And mellow sun and pleasant wind and odorous Rather than share in a sheltered disgrace, bees are over all.

Rather than sit at a cannibal feast,

Rather than mate with the blood-reeking beast. Down-looking in this snow-white bud, How distant seems the war's red flood !

Leave out New England ? and what will she do, How far remote the streaming wounds, the sick. Stormy-browed sisters, forsaken by you? ening scent of human blood !

Sit on her Rock, her desertion to weep?

Or, like a Sappho, plunge thence in the deep ? For Nature does not recognize This strife that rends the earth and skies ;

No; our New England can put on no airs ; No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of clover- Nothing will change the calm look that she wears heads and daisy-eyes.

Life's a rough lesson, she learned from the first,

Up into wisdom through poverty nursed.
She holds her even way the same,

Not more distinct on his tables of stone
Though navies sink or cities flame;
A snow-drop is a snow-drop still, despite the na- Than is engraven in letters of light

Was the grand writing to Moses made known, tion's joy or shame.

On her foundations the One Law of Right. When blood her grassy altar wets,

She is a Christian ; she smothers her ire, She sends the pitying violets

Trims up the candle, and stirs the home fire, To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover Thinking and working and waiting the day it with soft regrets.

When her wild sisters shall leave their mad play. O crocuses with rain-wet eyes !

Out in the cold, where the free winds are blowing, O tender-lipped anemones !

Out in the cold, where the strong oaks are growWhat do ye know of agony and death and blood ing, won victories?

Guards she all growths that are living and great ;

Growths to rebuild every tottering State. No shudder breaks your sunshine trance,

Though near you rolls, with slow advance, “ Notions” worth heeding to shape she has Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the an wrought, guish-laden ambulance.

Lifted and fixed on the granite of thought ;

What she has done may the wide world behold ; Yonder a white encampment hums; What she is doing, too, out in the cold.

The clash of martial music comes ; And now your startled stems are all'a-tremble Out in the cold ! she is glad to be there, with the jar of drums.

Breathing the northwind, the clear healthful air,

Saved from the hurricane passions that rend Whether it lessen or increase,

Hearts that once named her a sister and friend. Or whether trumpets shout or cease,

There she will stay while they bluster and foam, Still deep within your tranquil hearts the happy Planning their comfort when they shall come home, bees are murmuring “ Peace !”

Building the Union an adamant wall, O flowers ! the soul that faints or grieves

Freedom-cemented, that never can fall. New comfort from your lips receives ; Freedom, dear-bought with the blood of her sons; Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in See the red current ! right nobly it runs ! your healing leaves.

Life of her life is not too much to give

For the dear nation she taught how to live. Help us to trust, still on and on, That this dark night will soon be gone,

Vainly they shout to you, sturdy Northwest ; And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red Tis her own heart that beats warm in your breast; trouble of the dawn

Sisters in nature as well as in name,

Sisters in loyalty, true to that claim.
Dawn of a broader, whiter day
Than ever blessed us with its ray-

Freedom your breath is,O broad-shouldered North! A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and Out of the South land, from Slavery's fen,

Turn from the subtle miasma gone forth wrong shall fade away.

Battening demons, but poisoning men. Then shall our nation break its bands, Still on your Rock, my New England, sit sure, And, silencing the envious lands,

Keeping the air for the great country pure. Stand in the searching light unshamed, with There you the "wayward ones yet shall enfold; spotless robe, and clean, white hands. There they will come to you out in the cold. -Atlantic Monthly.

-Taunton Gazette.

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POETRY.–Little Charley, 98. The Sunken City, 98. May, 98. Archery at Sydenham, 143. The Stagnant Pool, 143. Crinoliniana, 144. Spring, 144.

Short ARTICLES.—The Sunday Question, 123. Phoebus Apollo's Complaint, 131. Mr. Buckle as a Talker, 134. The Great Stone Book of Nature, 142. Novel Mode of Lighting a Church, 142.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LIT TELL, SON & CO., BOSTON.

For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded free of postage.

Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume.

Any volume may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers.

ANY NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to come plete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value.

LITTLE CHARLEY.

THE SUNKEN CITY. O SUNSHINE, making golden spots

By day it lies hidden and lurks beneath Upon the carpet at my feet,

The ripples that laugh with light ; The shadows of the coming flowers ;

But calmly and clearly and coldly as death, The phantoms of forget-me-nots

It glooms into shape by night, And roses red and sweet !

When none but the awful heavens and me
How can ye seem so full of joy,

Can look on the City that's sunk in the Sea.
And we so sad at heart, and sore ?
Angel of Death, again thy wings

Many a castle I built in the air ;
Are folded at our door!

Towers that gleamed in the sun ;
Spires that soared so stately and fair

They touched heaven every one,
We can but yearn through length of days, Lie under the waters that mournfully
For something lost we fancied ours ;

Closed over the City that's sunk in the Sea.
We'll miss the darling when the Spring
Has touched the world to flowers.

Many fine houses, but never a home;
For thou wast like that dainty month,

Windows, and no live face ! Which streams the violet at its feet ;

Doors set wide where no beating hearts come ; Thy life was slips of golden sun,

No voice is heard in the place :
And silver tear-drops braided sweet,

It sleeps in the arms of Eternity-
And thou wast light, and thou wast shade The silent City that's sunk in the Sea.
And thine were sweet, capricious ways ;
Now lost in purple languors, now

There the face of my dead love lies,

Embalmed in the bitterest tears ; No bird in ripe-red Summer days

No breath on the lips ! no smile in the eyes, Were half so wild as thou !

Though you watched for years and years ;

And the dear drowned eyes never close from me,
O little Presence! Everywhere

Looking up from the City that's sunk in the Sea.
We find some touching trace of thee !
A pencil mark upon the wall

Two of the bonniest Birds of God
That “naughty hands” made thoughtlessly;

That ever warmed human heart And broken toys around the house,

For a nest, till they fluttered their wings abroad, Where he has left them they have lain,

Lie there in their chambers apart,Waiting for little busy hands

Dead ! yet pleading most piteously That will not come again,

In the lonesome City that's sunk in the Sea. Will never come again,

And oh, the brave ventures there lying in wreck,

Dark on that shore of the Lost ! Within the shrouded room below

Gone down, with every hope on deck, He lies a-cold ; and yet we know

When all-sail for a glorious coast. It is not Charley there ;

And the waves go sparkling splendidly
It is not Charley cold and white,

Over the City that's sunk in the Sea.
It is the robe that in his flight
He gently laid aside.

Then I look from my City that's sunk in the Sea,
Our darling hath not died !

To that Star-Chamber overhead ; O rare pale lip! O clouded eyes

And torturingly they question mem O violet eyes grown dim !

66 What of this world of the dead Ah, well this little lock of hair

That lies out of sight, and how will it be
Is all of him.

With the City and thee, when there's no more
Is all of him that we can keep,
For loving kisses, and the thought

-All the Year Round.
Of him and death may teach us more
Than all our life hath taught !
God walking over starry spheres,

MAY.
Doth clasp his tiny hand,

THE wet leaves flap, the sad boughs sway ; And leads him through a fall of tears,

The Spring is dead, and her child MayInto the Mystic Land !

May, who fed the nestling bird

May, who sang at every wordAngel of Death! We question not

May, who turned the dew to wine

May, who bade the sun to shine-
Who asks of Heaven, “ Why doth it rain?”
Angel, we bless thee, for thy kiss

May, who gave us skies of blue-
Hath hushed the lips of Pain !

May, who brought the cuckoo toom
No, “Wherefore?' or " To what good end?” May, who gave the sunbeams power-
Shall out of doubt and anguish creep

May, who sent the hawthorn flower
Into our thoughts ; we bow our heads.

May, who buds with soft rain fed“He giveth his beloved sleep!”

May, the Spring's dear child, is dead.
T. B. Aldrich.

-Chambers's Journal.

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From The New Monthly Magazine. odiles and the boas are masters of the river ; THE PRIMEVAL FORESTS OF THE the jaguar, the peccari, the dante, and the AMAZONS.*

monkeys traverse the forest without fear and The boundless forest district which, in the without danger : there they dwell as in an torrid zone of South America, connects the ancient inheritance.” In fact, just as, georiver basins of the Orinoco and the Amazon logically speaking, the earth in the epoch of is, undoubtedly, one of the wonders of the the growth of arboreal ferns in temperate cliworld. This region deserves, according to mates, the reign of huge and paradoxical amDe Humboldt, to be called a Primeval, or

phibia, and the possible predominance of a hot Virgin Forest, in the strictest sense of the

and humid atmosphere, charged with carbonio word. If every wild forest, densely covered acid, was not prepared for man, so the great with trees, on which man has never laid his prirneval forests of tropical America are in destroying hand, is to be regarded as a prim

the present day in the same condition, in a itive forest, then,

argues

that
great natural-

certain sense, and, as yet, the habitation of ist, the phenomenon is common to many parts

the predecessor of man only—the monkeyboth of the temperate and the frigid zones ;

except where clearances are effected. if, however, this character consists in its im

“ This aspect of animated nature, in which penetrability, primitive forests belong exclu- man is nothing,” Humboldt goes on to resively to tropical regions. (“ Views of Na- mark,“ has something in it strange and sad. ture,” Bobn’s ed., p. 193.)

To this we reconcile ourselves with difficulty This is the view entertained of a primeval

on the ocean, and amid the sands of Africa ; forest by one of the great authorities on the though in these scenes, where nothing recalls subject —one who, of all old investigators,

to mind our fields, our woods, and our streams, Bonpland, Martius, Poppig, and the Schom- we are less astonished at the vast solitude burgs, and before the time of Wallace and through which we pass. Here, in a fertile Bates, had spent the longest period of time country adorned with eternal verdure, we in primeval forests in the interior of a great

seek in vain the traces of the power of man; continent. Although we prefer to use the we seem to be transported into a world difterm in its simplest and accepted sense, of a

ferent from that which gave us birth. These forest with which man's toil has had noth-impressions are so much the more powerful, ing to do, we may add, that in Humboldt's in proportion as they are of longer duration. somewhat arbitrary definition as to its « im- A soldier, who had spent his whole life in penetrability,” that this is by no means, as is the missions of the Upper Oroonoko (as De often erroneously supposed in Europe, always Humboldt spells the name of the river), slept occasioned by the interlaced climbing lianas, with us on the bank of the river. He was an or creeping plants, for these often constitute intelligent man, who, during a calm and sebut a very small portion of the underwood. rene night, pressed me with questions on the The chief obstacles are the shrub-like plants, magnitude of the stars, on the inhabitants of which fill up every space between the trees the moon, on a thousand subjects of which I in a zone where all vegetable forms have a

was as ignorant as himself. Being unable by tendency to become arborescent.

my answers to satisfy his curiosity, he said In these great primeval forests man is not. to me, in a tirm tone : «With respect to men, “ In the interior of part of the new conti- I believe there are no more above than you nent,” Humboldt says, in another work,“ we

would have found if you had gone by land almost accustom ourselves to regard men as

from Javita to Cassiquaire. I think I see in not being essential to the order of nature. the stars, as here, a plain covered with grass, The earth is loaded with plants, and nothing

and a forest traversed by a river.' In citing impedes their development. An immense these words, I paint the impression produced layer of free mould manifests the uninter- by the monotonous aspect of those solitary rupted action of organic powers. The croc

regions."

There is more in it, though, than appeared * The Naturalist on the River Amazons : a Rec- at the moment even to the philosophic Humord of Adventures, Habits of Animals, Sketches of boldt. It is the deeply humiliating sense in Brazilian and Indian Life, and Aspects of Nature under the Equator, during Eleven Years of Travel. man that the primeval forest is not yet preBy Henry Walter Bates. Two Vols. John Murray. pared to be his abode, that, except in the

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