the memory of the Father of his country; but we adore the wisdom of Providence, which knowing he was human, withheld from that Father those domestic inducements to selfishness, which might have absorbed the liberties of his country. Napoleon lives in the memory of the French more strongly than Washington with us. Before, therefore, the influence of this apostle of despotism could pass away, it was necessary that another bearing his name should exhaust his prestige; that the sting of the imperial adder should make the French prefer the quiet emblems of popu lar rule to the gorgeous trappings of military despotism. The city of New York alone contains twenty-five thousand Frenchmen, driven from their homes by the cruelty of the oppressor, but learning from us the great lesson of selfgovernment, and ready at a moment's warning to assist in the regeneration of their country. Every year some stray vessel brings to our hospitable shores the emaciated refugees. from the horrors of the French penal colonies in South America. When this army of martyrs shall have completed its ranks, and united with the distinguished exiles pining in England, shall pour back upon France, a vigorous, permanent Democratic government will be lastingly established; and France, conscious that her treachery to suppliant Italy was the cause of present degradation, will find, in driving the oppressor from those classic fields, an ample vent for her generous and energetic impulse. If the Count de Montalembert has kindled the torch which shall re-light the altar of freedom, he may smile at all the tortures of despotism, pushed even to extremity, in the proud consciousness that of him it will for ever be said

"Make way for liberty, he cried;

Made way for liberty, and died."

THE LOVERS.

BY JOHN RUTLEDGE FITZ-HENRI.

Оn, coming hours no heart can tell
Bring joy, or woe, or smiles, or tears,
Or they may sound the fun'ral knell
To ev'ry hope we've nursed for years,—
Or they may weave the mystic spell
Which shall undo the striving soul,
The pitcher broken at the well,

The severed cord, the shattered bowl.

A trysting spot this shady wood

Had been to them at this soft hour,
Or gazing in that spring they stood,
Or when they sat within the bower;
For they were beautiful and good,

And they had drunk deep draughts of truth, And ne'er had known a varying mood

For they'd been lovers from their youth.

Sweet years had flown since first they met,
Since first their love-lives had begun,
And ne'er a summer sun had set

Like golden sand, a day had run;

They sought these lovely bowers the same,
And left their white homes in the vale,
And o'er that verdant hill they came
To breathe again their sweet hearts' tale.

And they were beautiful and good,
And chaste and pure as they were fair,
And in that setting sun they stood,

Or wandered in his golden glare,

Or walked beneath the murmuring trees,
Or gazed into those twilight skies,
Or breathed sweet vows upon the breeze,
Or dreamt into each other's eyes.

One ev'ning fell along the sea,
The rosy sea, the dewy isles,

The winds were whisp'ring from each tree,
The waves were murmuring in their smiles.
The brightest in its own bright clime,
A stranger o'er the blue sea's foam,

I stood again and heard the chime
Of those far bells in yon high dome.

I wandered to that hill again,

And thought me of the many years-
The amber sunlight and the rain,

The smile of love, the wasted tears,

And those who smiled and those who wept,
Since my worn feet that grass had prest,
Or in the village churchyard slept

A mould'ring sleep upon its breast.

I met an old man in the eve,

A gentle child his way did guide,
I told him by his gracious leave,
I'd ask him of his Village Pride.
"Kind Sir," he said, "ah, woe betide,"
His grey beard swept him like a pard,
"These many years they side by side
Together sleep in yon churhyard."

The news was sad, the old man told-
His story o'er, he pressed me home,
His cottage-home, this grey man told—
And many a tale from o'er the foam
Of summer seas I told him there-
He listened with a smiling eye;
But still I mourned those lovers fair,

So sweet and pure that they should die.

I left this old man in the morn,

A trifling gift I vainly prest,

And said there should be some return
For rest and food to stranger guest.
He blest me sweetly as he stood
In summer air before his door,
And I have loved that old man good
Though I have never seen him more.

In wand'rings since long years have flown,
Ah, well the pilgrim's part I've bore,
A broken heart that would not moan
With restless feet from shore to shore,
The blue waves foam of many a sea,
The thunders shock, the breakers roar,
A life that would not cease to be,

And yet could live for nothing more.

Yet I have thought me oft and long,

In memory's dream have stood again,
Burst through the strong years' serried throng,
And listened to each answering strain
Of those sweet lovers 'neath the skies,
Those summer evening skies that flung
Their mantle of a thousand dyes,

Where arm in arm they wand'ring sung.

NEW YORK, Nov. 1858.

ABUSES OF VICTORY-BRITISH MORALS IN INDIA.

N exploring the annals of history, on almost every page is seen a record of the triumphs of one nation over another nation-of one race over another race. If this record is prepared by the victorious party, it is filled with exaggerations of the magnitude of its triumphs; teems with eulogy of the victors, and with detractions from the vanquished. If, on the contrary, the record emanates from the defeated party, a very different picture is drawn; then the pencil of the artist paints the character of the victors in deep crimson, and the pen of the historian draws black lines around their memory. In this manner successful brutality and force may be placed before the world in the light of heroism and patriotic achievement-sometimes even robed in the mantle of Christianitywhile an unsuccessful effort to maintain the right, and defend the innocent, is stigmatized as barbarous and infamous;—and this is history. Prejudices as deep as these, it is feared, have controlled English writers in recording the events consequent upon the war of their country with India.

The history of that war, while it does but simple justice to the bravery of Englishmen, is a sealed book to the impartial truth of what has really been enacted in that distant country by British officers and soldiers. An occasional account of the doings of the English army in India reaches us through other sources than their own, and a recital of their deeds chills the blood of the most cruel, as did the statements of the butchery by the infuriated Bengal Sepoys of foreigners who were in India at the commencement of hostilities.

The halo of glory that should have decked the brows of the heroic Havelock, Lawrence, Neill, and Nicholson, was dimmed by the blood of an hundred thousand defenceless natives in the subsequent conquests and brutalities by the

British army. The wrath and indignation of the civilized world were justly aroused when the barbarous Sepoys waded through seas of Christian blood to secure the heads of two or three missionaries whom they regarded as their enemies; but no word of reproach is heard against the British soldiery when they form a catacomb of the corpses of thirty thousand Sepoys, whom they slaughtered in cold blood, for no other cause than that one of their number was guilty of a barbarous murder; and he had been delivered to the English for execution when demanded, but this could not appease their thirst for revenge.

Were the true history of this devastating war written, many barbarous exhibitions of this kind would be recorded to the shame of British victories in India. After conquering their degraded and imbecile foes, they assume or acquire the instincts of the blood-hound, and trail them wherever they flee, until the native soil of India is saturated with innocent blood-and this brutality the proud nation of Britain calls "civilized warfare." To use their own language, they

"Through SOFT degrees

Subdued them to the peaceful and the GOOD."

If the British historian who attempts to illustrate the humanizing and christianizing influence of the war in India, by the lines just quoted, was a mere satirist endeavoring to create in the public mind the most sickening disgust for the inhumanity and heartlessness practised by the conquerors of India, he could not find two lines better adapted to his purpose. "Through soft degrees" indeed-through the cannon, sword, rifle, and the bayonet-they "subdued them to the peaceful and the good!" Such hypocritical cant was never before employed by any writer claiming respectability, in discussing a subject of such solemn importance as that attached to the extinction of a nation, who, although not far advanced in civilization, were enjoying a large share of independence and contentment, until invaded by British. rapacity, and by unscrupulous adventurers, who first sought. their wealth, afterwards their liberty, and finally, their