We believe that our nation has been born, in the providence of God, to

the magnificent mission of developing the democratic idea, of the rule

of the people--the idea that every man is a king, and that humanity

itself is royal because made in the image of God. The nation is now

vindicating that mission before the world. In the success of it all the

great ideas that cheer on our poor humanity in its toiling

march--liberty, justice, political order--confirmed and made sure by a

government organized for the purpose of securing and maintaining them,

are bound up; and--with that mission those ideas, as organized powers,

must live or die.

HINTS TO THE AMERICAN FARMER.

It does not so much signify what a man does for a livelihood, provided

he does it well. The people must sooner or later learn this catholic

doctrine, or one element of republicanism will never be knit into our

character. The doing it well is the essential point, whether one builds

a ship or writes a poem. Does the American farmer do his work well? And,

if not, wherewith shall he be advised, persuaded, encouraged, and taught

to do better or the best?

It is estimated that three fourths of the people of the United States

are agriculturists, and nearly all the rest laborers of some sort

dependent upon them. Every economist knows that the interests of

agriculture, manufactures, and commerce are one and indivisible. He who

by word or deed helps one, helps all, and thereby moves civilization

onward one step at least. Before our Government takes hold of the

condition of agriculture in the United States as a state measure, and

even after it comes up to the hour when we shall have a Secretary of

Agriculture, Manufactures, and Commerce in the cabinet, after the manner

of France, Italy, and Prussia, the farmer himself, individually, must

work some important and radical changes in his social and industrial

polity, and prepare himself for the generous assistance of a wise and

beneficent Government.

The farmer supports every other material interest. Standing upon the

primary strata of civilization, he bears on his broad hands and stout

shoulders the 'weight of mightiest monarchies.' Daniel Webster calls him

'the founder of civilization.'

Is it at all necessary that the spring in the hills should be cool,

clear, and pure, and wind its way over a granitic soil, through green

meadows, beneath the shading forest, into a sandy basin, to form a

beautiful lake in a retired, rural retreat? If so, is it at all

necessary that the moral virtues of the founders of society should be

duly educated, cultured into the soul, leaving the impress on generation

after generation, of honor, of order, of manliness, of thrift? The

condition of the farmers is the postulate by which the sagacious

economist will foretell the future prosperity of the nation they

represent. This is what the American farmer should have presented to him

from every stand-point. It is lamentable that this vocation should be so

sadly represented by the most of those who are engaged in it.

This occupation of farming is the noblest work which can engage the

attention of man. Off of his farm, whether it be large or small, the

farmer, by diligent and intelligent cultivation, can gather whatever he

or the world needs; what the world needs for its manufactures and

commerce; what he needs for his personal comfort, pleasure, or the

gratification of his natural tastes;--the two crops which furnish the

daily bread to the material and spiritual nature of man;--the green

fields, than which nothing is more beautiful; the sweet song of birds,

their gay plumage, their happy conferences, their winged life, making

melodious the woods and fields; the sky, ever above us, ever changing,

grand at morning, magnificent at evening, hanging like a gracious

benediction over us; the flowers, ever opening their petals to the sun,

turning their beauty on the air, to delight, instruct, and bless

mankind;--indulging his taste for art, in the plan of his farm and

buildings, their claims to architectural skill; in the planting of his

fruit and ornamental trees, 'in groves, in lines, in copses;' in the

form and make of his fishponds, shady walks, grottos, or rural seats for

quiet resort for study, comfort, pleasure, or rest.

The ancients paid great attention to the cultivation of the earth. Many

of the best men of Greece were agriculturists. Mind was given to it, and

great progress was made in the improvement of implements; in the method

of cultivation, and in the additional yield of their farms. The Romans

continued for a long period to improve on the state of agriculture as

they received it from the Grecians, until the political condition of

their country destroyed all freedom and independence of action and

thought. The best and greatest men of all ages and countries, statesmen,

scholars, kings, and presidents, have loved it, followed it, and labored

for its advancement. Do noble minds stoop to ignoble vocations, and

become identified with them? This nation, not yet a century old, can

boast, as among the statesmen-farmers, of Washington, Adams, Jefferson,

Patrick Henry, Franklin, Jackson, Calhoun, Clay, and Webster, and many

others, the least of whose greatness of character was not that they

loved nature, or knew the charm of agricultural pursuits. The occupation

has become sanctified by their devotion to it.

We all know the sympathy and love of the late lamented Prince Albert for

the vocation of farming, and the liberality with which, on his model

farm, experiments were verified which in any manner might contribute to

the interests of the farmer. He even entered the lists for the prize for

the best stock at the yearly exhibitions of the Royal Agricultural

Society. There is something very suggestive of nobility in this vocation

of farming, when the brightest intellects of the nation bow in homage to

the strength of mother earth, and seek by severe thought, study, and

experiment, to assist a further yield of her kindly fruits, or persuade

her to bestow a portion of her bounties, so long withheld, upon the

wooing husbandman. It marks agriculture as the first and highest calling

for the development in the highest degree of the nation and of mankind.

Every man may have his plot of ground, in the cultivation and adornment

of which he may realize the pleasure which accompanies the calling of

amateur farmer, horticulturist, or florist, in which he is in constant

communication with nature and her beauty. 'In it there is no corruption,

but rather goodness.'

How kindly nature seems to have dealt with some of the old farmers who

even now tread the broad earth, beloved and reverenced by all who know

them! What simplicity and purity of speech; what honesty of manner; what

kind dispositions; what charity of judgment; what tenderness of heart;

what nobility of soul seem to have concentrated in each one of them!

They are the gifts of nature, gathered, developed, interpreted,

personified in man. They are our aristocracy. From them through

generation after generation shall flow the pure blood of the best men in

republican America. Ages hence, the children who enjoy the privileges of

this republic, and endeavor to trace their lineage through history to

find the fountain of their present American stock, will as surely meet

with no unpleasant encounter, nor be compelled to forego the search from

fear of mortification, as they trace their family line through long

generations of intelligent American farmers. Superficial 'Young America'

and 'our best society' may smirk, snicker, sneer, and live on, slaves to

fashion and the whims of Mrs. Grundy, in their fancied secure social

position for all time. But ere long the balance of man's better

judgment, the best society of great men, and representatives for history

of a great people, will weigh in opposite scales the artificialities,

the formalities, the selfishness of popular social circles, against the

honesty, the naturalness, the simplicity, the worth of the practical

lovers of nature; and the result shall be the inscription upon the wall

which made their prototypes of old tremble, reflecting upon them also

its ghostly and terrific glare. Were it not for the infusion almost

constantly going on, from the country, of fresh blood into the veins of

the diseased body politic in our largest cities, destruction, disgrace,

and financial ruin would early mark the spot where once flourished a

proud and sinful people.

In farming, man has to do with nature. Out of doors he spends the

greater portion of his life. His intelligent eye takes in the beautiful

objects of land and sky, sea and mountain; his refined ear, by practice

and cultivation, delights in the exquisite harmony of the birds, the

music of the wind, the murmuring of the sea, the sighing amid the

forests;--the beauty of the flowers, springing in the utmost profusion

at his feet--peeping at early spring from beneath the lately fallen

snow, an earnest that life yet remains under the clods of apparently

exhausted nature--their continued offerings through the long and sultry

days of summer; the trees putting on their rich and glowing robes at

autumn, ripening for their restoration to the bosom which gave them life

and which yielded them to us for a season, clothing all the hills,

valleys, and mountains with the gorgeous colors from 'nature's royal

laboratory.' Who can say this beauty and this pleasure are for nought?

The intelligence which observes and loves these sights hesitates not,

nor can it be deterred from reflecting upon their Source. The farmer,

turning the sod with the plough, and dropping the grain into the newly

turned furrow, expects life amid the decay of the clod. The favorable

sunshine and shower, the gentle dews and heat of summer bring forth,

after a partial decay of the seed, the blade, the ear, and after that

the full corn in the ear. The perfume of the newly turned earth

exhilarates and refreshes the spirits of the laborer and what appears

the hardest work becomes a welcome task. Toil here has its immediate

recompense. Always peaceful, always contented and cheerful, always kind,

there is no want of companions whose presence is delightful and never

burdensome. The oriole, the swallow, the sparrow, the cawing crow, the

chipmuck, or the squirrel will not desert him. He can always rely upon

their presence while engaged in the necessary preparation for the

harvest. The flowers are with him, and the perfume from the blossoms in

the fields and orchard will fall like incense upon his receptive spirit.

His thoughts will turn involuntarily to the Origin of all Good, from

which have come to him, in so great abundance, the favorable conditions

for happiness and peace.

Contemplating in silence and alone, away from the distractions of busy

life in cities, the disappointments of politics, and the petty

disturbances and quarrels of a more crowded existence, his thoughts

become pure, holy, and sacred.

The tree grows slowly but surely beside his door, under whose shadows he

has rested at the close of the summer's day, and, with his family about

him, reflected upon his finished labors, and planned the work for

to-morrow. The wonderful power of the Creator, and the matchless

argument for His existence, as displayed in the beauty of the heavens,

are spread before him. Its presence is a blessing to him. This tree, a

century ago the tiny seed of the beautiful elm, which floated perhaps on

some zephyr, or, tossed by some summer gale, dropped noiselessly into

its cradle at this door--fortune favored its growth, and protected it

from the injuries of chance or intent. It patiently grew and spread its

hospitable arms, as if to embrace the surrounding neighborhood, and is

now a protection and safeguard, a blessing and a continued promise of

the watchfulness and care of the Father. This honest, grateful, simple

soul has learned from it the beauty of a patient spirit. It has been

always to him the generous companion of his weary moments, never failing

to return at spring the beauty so ruthlessly torn at autumn; rendering

to his just soul the contentment of the well-doer in this world's works,

yet still progressing, growing, and enlarging in its sphere of

usefulness and trust.

The regularity in the procession of the seasons, the dependence and

faith inculcated by their never-failing return of the bounties asked of

them for his proper observance of their demands, have rendered order a

controlling power with him, and punctuality has become a virtue.

The large independence of the concerns of men has not made him

autocratic in manner, nor indifferent to progress in the condition of

mankind. Faithful to the duties of the good citizen, and to himself, he

has not forgotten his moral duties toward the social polity, and neither

state, nor church, nor school, nor family, but feels the influence of

his tender care. Health has been always with him and on his side.

Cleanliness is throughout his household, and scrupulous care of the

manners, neatness, and thrift which make a good farmer's home so

cheerful, is his.

Such is the intelligent, patient, thorough cultivator of the soil. Is

there not a nobility of nature in it, far surpassing that which the

false standard of society gives to man? What profession, business, or

vocation of any sort engaged in by man, carries in its legitimate course

these joys, this peacefulness, this hope? Here are not the anxieties,

nor perplexities, nor fears, nor losses attendant upon the occupations

in the more crowded haunts of business. Plenty fills his garners;

happiness attends his footsteps; peace crowns his life.

We would that this good soul might truly represent every farmer on our

soil. We are compelled to acknowledge the shortcomings of this class of

persons, upon whom so much depends, and, by showing in which direction

their prominent faults lie, endeavor to persuade them to accept a better

standing in the social state, where they are so much needed.

A man shows in his daily acts the early education of his home. The

impressions there made upon him in his young and growing life are

proverbially deep and abiding. The circumstances which develop the

character of the good farmer in one town, are the circumstances which

develop the good farmer wheresoever he may be; but the circumstances

which make so many of our farmers at this day, coarse in speech, vulgar

in manners, untidy in dress and in the arrangement of their farms and

their habitations, ignorant, thoughtless, thriftless, indifferent,

wasteful, lazy, are not arbitrary circumstances, but pliant and

yielding, willing instruments, in the hands of good workmen, to raise,

elevate, and instruct all who can be brought within their influence.

The agriculturist who combines with his knowledge and skill in farming a

refined taste for the simple elegancies which may form a part and parcel

of every well-ordered homestead, will often grieve at the neglect,

indolence, and ignorance, shown by the too sad condition of many of our

so-called American farms.

The farmhouse of this waste place we call a farm, is located as near as

possible to the dusty highway which passes through the country.

Unpainted, or unwhitewashed, without a front fence, without shade trees

or flowers near it, or by it, it stands like a grim and sombre sentinel,

guarding a harsh and lonely existence, at once a prophecy and a warning.

There is no home feeling in it. Everything connected with the internal

movements or the external management of the place is in full view: the

woodpile with its chips scattered about over a radius of fifty yards; a

number of old, castaway, and condemned vehicles lie where they were left

after their last use; mounds of rubbish and old brushwood, weeds, soiled

clothing, farming tools, and implements of husbandry, are here and

there, uncared for, unnoticed, and neglected. The poultry, pigs, and

cattle he possesses, wander about the door, at once front and rear, or,

unobstructed by any serviceable fence, trespass upon the newly planted

field or unmown meadows, getting such living as fortune places in their

way. The barn may be without doors, the barnyard without a gate or bars,

and in full view from every passer by. The sty and the house drain--in

fact, every necessary out-building--is in plain sight to the public, on

the sunny side of the house, or as near the front of it as is possible

for circumstances to permit. The airs of summer and of autumn come to

the delighted senses of the residents 'impregnated with the incense' of

these sweet surroundings, which, like Gray's unseen flower, are not

destined

'To waste their sweetness on the desert air.'

And who are the delighted occupants of this charming spot? The external

appearance and condition of things too sadly betray their character. The

man is coarse and vulgar in speech and in manners; untidy, careless, and

uncleanly in person and dress; ignorant, lazy, and perhaps intemperate,

with no thought beyond the gratification of his bodily wants and

desires. Slang words and obscene are his daily vocabulary; selfishness

his best-developed trait, and want the only incentive for his labor. His

partner is like unto him, or worse, either by nature or association.

Without taste, modesty, good sense, or natural refinement, she

accompanies her dear Silas in his round of life, sympathizing in his

lowness, his common feeling, and his common complaints--slatternly in

her dress, rude in speech, coarse in manner, slovenly in her household

duties. These two creatures, with their children, too often call

themselves farmers, agriculturists, or tillers of the soil. The poet

Cowper well describes them in his poem representing 'the country boors'

gathered together at tithing time at the residence of their country

parson.

These thriftless people complain that they can make no money on their

farms, and but barely a living; and for the very good reason that the

man or woman who attempts to carry on a farm in this way through the

year deserves no money or profit, nor barely a living from such a method

of work.

He was born here. The new soil, at the time his father purchased it,

gave him a living, and a good one, too; but this heir to the ancestral

acres unfortunately married the slatternly daughter of a loafing

neighbor, and their conservatism will not allow them to vary from the

track of cultivation so well worn by his father, and forbids his

learning any other methods, or accepting any new ideas from any source,

though they may be sustained in the practical advantage gained thereby

by the most successful farmers in his town, and may be learned any time

from the Weekly agricultural gazette published at the capital of his

State.

Book farming he scouts. The books upon agriculture, which every good

farmer should read and study, and prove, will cost him perhaps ten

dollars. By them his farm shall become his pride, his support, his

wealth. But this dull man cannot, or will not, learn that in the

dreaminess of his humdrum life, passed for thirty years or more upon his

farm, capital, industry, science, thought, and study have been at work,

and everything has been done, thus far, which can be done to make the

earth more gladsome, and the hearts of the children of men more thankful

to the Giver and Bestower of all our blessings. Away, then, with this

cant, prejudice, and sneering about 'book farming.' As well cry out

against book geography, or book philosophy, or book history, or book

law. Chemistry, botany, entomology, and pomology unite the results of

their researches in their various directions, and, while seeking

apparently different ends, yet converge toward the grand centre of a

systematic and scientific agriculture.

This laggard has not yet learned that it is his business and duty to

cultivate the earth, and not exhaust it; to get two blades of grass this

year where but one blade grew before; to gather thirty bushels of corn

from the acre which produced but twenty bushels last year; to shear

three pounds of wool off the sheep which five years ago gave but two

pounds, and so on. He thinks to see how near the agricultural wind he

can move and his sails not shake, or with how little labor he can carry

his farm through the year and not starve. The poverty of the whole

establishment, man and wife, and children, and stock, their

uncleanliness and unhealthfulness, are but the just results of such a

mode of living. They have their deserts. 'Ye cannot gather grapes of

thorns, nor figs of thistles.'

This illustration may seem exaggerated, the example too extreme. We

would that its semblance could not be seen in all wide America.

What power, what influences, or what teachings will work the change in

the habits of life of those who thus pretend to cultivate the earth?

What shall bring them to a clearer realization of their position, their

duties, their opportunities, their prospects? This lethargy of

ignorance, indifference, and laziness must be shaken off and laid aside

in the immediate future, by study and education, by active interest and

participation in every discovery or invention which benefits

agriculture; by the exercise of sound judgment in the choice of stock or

crops for the farm; by economy in the disposition of everything

available upon the estate which may be brought into profitable employ;

by thrift in every operation which concerns the success of the vocation

as tillers of the soil, and by temperance and frugality in the habits

and character of the family living. 'Concentrate your labor, not

scatter it; estimate duly the superior profit of a little farm well

tilled, over a great farm half cultivated and half manured, overrun with

weeds, and scourged with exhausting crops: so we shall fill our barns,

double the winter fodder for our cattle and sheep, by the products of

these waste meadows. Thus shall our cultivation become like that of

England, more systematic, scientific, and exact.'

An Englishman belies one of the best traits of his national character if

he denies himself all participation in rural life. It is a part of

greatness to seek a gratification of this innate longing for 'the

pursuit which is most conducive to virtue and happiness.' Edmund Burke,

the patriotic and most philosophical statesman of England, writing to a

friend in 1798, says:

'I have just made a push, with all I could collect of my own and

the aid of my friends, to cast a little root in the country. I have

purchased about six hundred acres of land in Buckinghamshire, about

twenty-four miles from London. It is a place exceedingly pleasant,

and I propose, God willing, to become a farmer in good earnest.'

Great skill, ingenuity, and success in cattle breeding, and in drainage,

have resulted, in England, from a long series of experiments, extending

through many years; and great and wonderful progress in the discovery

and analysis of soils and manures. The scientific men of France and

Germany have also added much to this invaluable information of how to

get more bread and meat from the earth, and do much, in their researches

in the direction of pomology and entomology, to increase the

agricultural knowledge of the world. America gladly tenders her most

gracious homage to these devoted men, and hastens to add her leaf to the

chaplet which binds their brow. It is to their persistent efforts, to

their unshaken faith, that 'agriculture has become elevated to the

dignity of a science.'

This vocation of farming in good earnest, with success and profit, is

not fun, but downright work. It is work, but no more persistent,

constant, studious, or thoughtful than that which is demanded by any of

the other callings in life, none of which has or can have such

delightful compensations as this. Careful experiments should be made in

chemistry, analyzing thereby each germ, plant, flower, and fruit into

its component parts; analyzing the soil of our farms, and learning

thereby its various wants, its value, and what crop it will best

support, and of which it will give the largest yield; teaching us what

manures are the most valuable, how prepared, and how to be used for the

greatest profit. Botany and entomology can unite their labors and

discover the germs and development of our grasses, and the insects which

feed upon and destroy them; ornithology will teach us the habits of

birds, and their value to us as protectors of our gardens and fields;

and pomology will instruct us in the culture of fruit. Thus shall

science and philosophy enlarge their duties and help the farmer in his

devotion to his noble work. The public press shall herald far and wide

each new discovery, each new suggestion, and the results of each new

experiment, not in the technical language of the schools, but clothed in

the simplest vernacular, which alone can make such study valuable to

practical men.

Heretofore too much attention has been paid to the 'bread-producing

capacity' of our country, to the neglect of its as necessary

'meat-producing capacity.' Hence much of our best bread-producing soil

is becoming exhausted. The old tenants are leaving their once fertile

fields, now poor in soil yielding comparatively nothing, and are

emigrating to the West, beyond the banks of the Mississippi and Missouri

rivers, trusting that the natural richness of the 'new hunting grounds'

they seek and find is inexhaustible. This policy has made barren most

of the State of Virginia, and has begun to tell sadly, in the diminished

crops, upon the farming districts of Ohio, Indiana, and the other near

Western States.

To be the successful introducer in a new country of a new and improved

breed of cattle, requires capital, sound judgment, study, and patient

toil. Much must be considered with reference to the peculiarities of the

soil and climate, and of the animals, with regard to the object for

which they are needed, whether the dairy, the plough, or the shambles.

Happily, America is not without men whose wealth, intelligence, tastes,

and sagacity have enabled them to perceive our present wants in this

respect, and who have assisted in preparing for them. The great wealth

of these gentlemen has been well expended in the outlay and risk

attending the extensive and valuable importations of the best breeding

cattle and sheep which they have made into this country from time to

time from England and the continent of Europe. We are already reaping

the advantages of the presence of the valuable animals embraced in these

numerous importations. Scattered as they are throughout the country,

infusing the best blood of Europe's choicest stock into our 'natives,'

they so improve our cattle and sheep as to raise them to the highest

degree of excellence and value. It is a circumstance of which every

American may be proud, that Mr. Thorne has been so successful in

breeding, from his imported stock, cattle which he has sent to England,

and which have there borne off the prize as the best breeders in the

world.

There are no indigenous breeds of either cattle or sheep in this

country. The only animals of the bovine race found here when this

continent was discovered were the buffalo and the musk ox. The 'natives'

are a heterogenous mixture of various breeds, introduced from time to

time for different purposes, and allowed to cross and recross, breed

in-and-in, and mingle as chance or convenience dictated. The cattle and

sheep were procured at different times from the continent of Europe,

from England, and the Spanish West Indies, to supply the present wants

of labor and food. The first cattle brought here are said to have been

introduced by Columbus. The Spaniards afterward brought over others,

from whence no doubt sprang the wild cattle of Texas and California.

About the year 1553, the Portuguese took cattle to Newfoundland, of

which, however, no traces now remain; and in the year 1600, Norman

cattle were brought into Canada. In the year 1611, Sir Thomas Gates

brought from Devonshire and Hertfordshire one hundred head of cattle

into Jamestown; and thirteen years later, Thomas Winslow imported a bull

and three heifers into Massachusetts. Thus was begun the importation of

cattle for service and food into this country, which has continued to

this day, not always, however, with the just discrimination as to the

geographical and climatic peculiarities of the different animals which

was and is necessary for the highest success of the movement. Happily,

the various agricultural societies and publications, contributed to and

supported by our most intelligent farmers, are diffusing wider and

wider, each year, more scientific and thorough notions upon this subject

of breeding, among our agricultural citizens. An admirable and carefully

written article upon 'Select Breeds of Cattle and their Adaptation to

the United States,' appeared in the United States Patent Office Report

for 1861, to which we would call our readers' attention. It should be

studied by every person interested in the economical prosperity of our

country. It conveys, in a simple and perspicuous style, the results of

the various experiments in breeding, in both England and America, which

latterly have become so judicious and accurate as to be now almost based

upon principle. Hereafter there will be no apology, but that of

stupidity and ignorance, for the farmers who neglect the most obvious

rules of success in their occupation. The idea, now become well known,

must become a fact with them, and they must raise no more poor horses or

cattle or sheep, because it costs no more to raise good ones, which are

much more profitable either for the dairy, for service, or for meat.

'Animals are to be looked upon as machines for converting herbage into

money,' says Daniel Webster. 'The great fact to be considered is, how

can we manage our farms so as to produce the largest crops, and still

keep up the condition of our land, and, if possible, place it in course

of gradual improvement? The success must depend in a great degree upon

the animals raised and supported on the farm.'

It is auspicious for our country that the interest in sheep raising is

becoming wider and deeper. 'The value of wool imported into the United

States, in 1861 was nearly five millions of dollars. The value of

imported manufactured woollen goods was more than twenty-eight millions

of dollars, less by nearly ten millions of dollars than the importations

of 1860. Taking the last three years as a basis of calculation, we have

had an annual importation of from thirty-five to forty-five millions of

pounds of manufactured and unmanufactured wool, being the product of

thirteen millions of sheep.' The annual increase of population in the

United States requires the wool from more than three million sheep.

There is an annual deficiency of wool of from forty to fifty millions of

pounds, so there need be no fear of glutting the market by our own

production. The investigation might be extended much further. It remains

for the farmers and legislators to see to it that we receive no

detriment by the long continuance of this home demand without the home

supply. The instrument is in their own hands.

Our farmers must teach their children the potential influence of

kindness to dumb animals and to birds. By it they will conquer what of

viciousness, ugliness, or wildness is often the character of their

beasts of burden; and they will find, by the almost total eradication of

the destructive flies and insects which are the scourge of their crops,

the value of the lives of birds and toads to their farms. Setting aside

for the present the consideration of the moral virtues which are thus

inculcated, and which are so consistent with a proper devotion to this

'benign art of peace,' we mention a few facts which carry the argument

for their worth in themselves.

The birds and toads devour insects, worms, and grubs, and wherever they

are absent, grubs, worms, and insects are greatly multiplied, and the

crops suffer. The harvests of France, in 1861, suffered so by the

ravages of the insects which it is the function of certain birds to

destroy, that the subject attracted the notice of the Government, and a

commission was appointed to inquire into the matter and report what

legislation was expedient. The commission had the aid of the experience

of the best naturalists of France, M. St. Hilaire, M. Prevost, and

others. Their preliminary report gives three classifications of birds:

First, those which live exclusively upon insects and grubs; second,

those which live partly upon grubs and partly upon grain, doing some

damage, but providing an abundant compensation; third, the birds of

prey, which are excepted from the category of benefactors, and are

pronounced to be noxious, inasmuch as they live mostly upon the smaller

birds. If the arrangements of nature were left wholly undisturbed, the

result would be a wholesome equilibrium of destruction. The birds would

kill so many insects that the insects could not kill too many plants.

One class is a match for the other. A certain insect was found to lay

two thousand eggs, but a single tomtit was found to eat two hundred

thousand eggs a year. A swallow devours about five hundred insects a

day, eggs and all. A sparrow's nest in the city of Paris was found to

contain seven hundred pairs of the upper wings of cockchafers. It is

easy to see what an excess of insect life is produced when a

counterpoise like this is withdrawn; and the statistics collected show

clearly to what an extent the balance of nature has been disturbed. Thus

the value of wheat destroyed in a single season, in one department of

the east of France, by the _cicidomigie_, has been estimated at eight

hundred thousand dollars.

The cause of this is very soon told. The French eat the birds. The

commissioners, in their report, present some curious statistics

respecting the extent to which the destruction of birds in France has of

late been carried. They state 'that there are great numbers of

professional huntsmen, who are accustomed to kill from one hundred to

two hundred birds daily; a single child has been known to come home at

night with one hundred birds' eggs; and it is also calculated and

reported that the number of birds' eggs destroyed annually in France is

between eighty millions and one hundred millions. The result is that the

small birds in that country are actually dying out; some species have

already disappeared, while others are rapidly diminishing.' These facts

contain valuable suggestions to our own countrymen. In this instance, as

in many such like, observation is a better and more profitable master

than experience.

Our farmers can increase the value of their estates, and bring pleasure

and peace to their homes, by more special attention to the outward

adornment of their dwellings; by cultivating a garden, planting orchards

of the best selected fruit, and trees for shade, shelter, and ornament,

about their farms and along the adjoining highway. He who plants a tree,

thereby gives hostages to life, but he who cuts one down needlessly, is

a Vandal, and deserves the execration of every honest man for all time.

Learn not to value the bearded elm, 'the murmuring pines and the

hemlocks,' the stalwart oak, or the beautiful maple, by cubic measure,

but by the 'height of the great argument' they force upon us by their

presence, their beauty, and their power. Plant for to-day, and for your

children; plant 'for another age,' and thereby do 'a good office' to the

coming generations of men. No man but is better for living in the

presence of great trees. In one of those most delightful volumes of the

_Spectator_, we find a paper, written by the pure and noble Joseph

Addison, in which are well told the pleasures and profits of planting:

'It must,' he says, 'be confessed that this is none of those turbulent

pleasures which are apt to gratify a man in the heats of youth; but if

it be not so tumultuous, it is more lasting. Nothing can be more

delightful than to entertain ourselves with prospects of our own making,

and to walk under those shades which our own industry has raised.

Amusements of this nature compose the mind, and lay at rest all those

passions which are uneasy to the soul of man, besides that they

naturally engender good thoughts, and dispose us to laudable

contemplations.'

What charming associations linger about the homes of the great men of

our history, whose tastes led them into the country! The grand old trees

at 'Monticello,' at 'Ashland,' at 'Fort Hill,' at the 'Hermitage,' at

'Sunnyside,' at Cooperstown, at Marshfield, at Mount Vernon, seem to

take upon themselves somewhat of 'the voice of the old hospitality'

which graced their presence in the days that are passed; and the visitor

now wanders with emotions of awe and sadness, in paths by copses and

groves and streams, in those quiet retreats of nature, planted and

preserved by the noble souls which loved them so wisely and so well.

Place the dwelling at a distance from the road, and in the position, if

possible, from whence the best view of the whole farm can be obtained,

mindful also of the charms which nature has spread before you, of

mountain, or hill, or plain, or river, or sea. Plant the orchard on a

slope toward the south, and not too far away. The barn and yard and

outbuildings should be behind the house, or far enough away to protect

the inmates from any annoyance therefrom. Let the approach to the house

be by a long avenue, bordered by majestic trees, planted by your own

hands. The lawn or garden should be well cared for in front. The

buildings should be painted or whitewashed, and over the house may

clamber and beautify it the woodbine, the jessamine, the honeysuckle, or

the rose. What attachments to the homestead shall thus inweave

themselves about the hearts of those whose interests and life are cast

with it--and still more, of those who go forth from it, by taste,

inclination, or bias, into the more bustling centres of competition and

trade!

The garden should receive a careful and generous attention from the

female portion of the household. Says Lord Bacon: 'God Almighty first

planted a garden; and indeed it is the purest of human pleasures. It is

the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man; without which buildings

and palaces are but gross handyworks; and a man shall ever see that when

ages grow to civility and elegance, men come to build stately sooner

than to garden finely; as if gardening were the greater perfection. I do

hold it in the royal ordering of gardens, there ought to be gardens for

all the months in the year; in which severally things of beauty may be

there in season.'

Following Lord Bacon's advice, let there be such a plan and arrangement

of it, that it shall always be attractive, and yield a continual round

of beauty through the year. Thus planted, the garden 'will inspire the

purest and most refined pleasures, and cannot fail to promote every good

affection.'

With all the advantages which the discoveries of natural science offer

to the farmer of this century, it will little avail his successors

unless he strives to educate his children. It is a very mistaken and

lamentable notion--now, alas! too prevalent--that a liberal education is

necessary alone to those who intend to enter upon a professional life.

May the time be not far distant when farming may become a profession

which takes its rank with the rest, if it does not lead them, in the

public opinion. It was first supposed, very singularly, that the clergy

ought only to be favored with an education in science and the classics;

afterward the legal profession arose to sufficient dignity for it; and

finally the physician, the guardian of our health, the student and

philosopher of our bodies, arose to his noble position in the affairs of

this life; while the agriculturist, the supporter of all we have or wish

for here, the basis of our very civilization, is pushed aside or

forgotten, and the demand upon him for the best culture of the earth

altogether neglected. We have to congratulate ourselves that our

Government has left it with each State by itself, whether, by the

non-acceptance of its gift of public land as foundations for

agricultural colleges, they will longer forego the opportunity of giving

our young farmers a thorough scientific agricultural education. Until

such a system of study can be arranged, let the farmers themselves

commence the work of self-education. Agricultural societies and farmers'

clubs, in which are gathered together the best farmers of the States,

offer the best opportunity for intercommunication, thorough discussion

and observation, and dissemination of all new discoveries, facts, or

theories which may be made beneficial to all. These are the only means

by which farmers can compare opinions and found sound judgments for

their future labors. What would be the financial condition of the other

great economical interests, if merchants and owners never consulted

together, nor marked the course and policy for their mutual guidance?

The best agricultural papers and magazines which favor each farmer's

peculiar interest, whether of stock, or fruit, or dairy, or grain,

should be subscribed for and read, and preserved for future reference.

Our best farmers can do a great deal, by contributing facts of their own

knowledge, to raise the standard and worth of such periodicals. It only

needs the feeling of personal interest in this matter to procure for

each farmer whatever books are necessary to a perfect understanding of

his special work. They must soon learn that the education of their

children is the best investment they can make of the value of their

services.

They should be taught, by example, by reading, and observation, the

general success in life of those who plant and water and reap; and the

general failure of those who attempt to gain an early or a late fortune

in money by entering the marts of more active and more crowded

competition. Most men fail to make the fortunes which the dreams of

youth placed before them in such brilliant colors. In the present

condition of the various professions, except farming, they only succeed

whom fortune favors by special mental gifts or special personal

friendships.

The peace, quiet, and contentment of a cheerful home; the charms of

nature, free, unobstructed, lovely; the generous bestowal of an

'unostentatious hospitality;' the patient spirit of him who waits upon

the accustomed return of the seasons; the attachment, the joy and

pleasure of looking upon the broad acres, the shaded walks, the

beautiful landscape, planted, improved, and protected by his own hand;

the herds of favorite cattle and sheep which love his coming, the kindly

tones of his voice, the gentle stroke of his hand; the respect paid by

friends and neighbors to the venerable man who waits only the

termination of a virtuous life; the faith in 'the sacred covenant, that

while the earth remaineth, sunshine and shower, summer and winter,

seed-time and harvest shall not fail,' are his who lives through long

years devoted to this, rightly followed, noblest of all

occupations--farming.

'He that goeth forth in humility, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless

come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.'

APHORISMS.

NO. IV.

Innovations in religion are very commonly deprecated; but there is one

in practice which might very safely be attempted, i.e., to _obey_ the

gospel. This has been seldom done, even among those that bear the

Christian name. How few, even among the members of churches, do really

mould their lives from day to day by the teachings of our Lord and his

disciples!

This same thought may be presented in another form. Let us remark, then,

that while the true teachings of religion are found in the Bible, yet a

new edition of them seems wanted, viz., the actual obedience of those

that adopt them as their creed and rule of life. To make these doctrines

manifest in the lives of any considerable number among men, would give

them a power such as they have rarely had.

We have had a great many translations of the Holy Scriptures; the best

of all would be their translation into the daily practice of Christian

people.

THE WILD AZALEA.

A MEMORY OF THE HIGHLANDS.

Up on the hills where the young trees grow,

Looking down on the fields below--

Long-leaved chestnuts and maples low;

Up where lingereth late the sun,

When the soft spring day is nearly done,

Dying away in the west;

Up where the poplar's silver stem

Bends by the marsh's grass-fringed hem,

By the soft May wind caressed;

Up where the long, slim shadows fall

From the scarlet oak and the pepperidge tall,

Where the birds and the squirrels tirelessly call,

Where in autumn the flowers of the gentian blue

Look up with their eyes so dark and true,

Up into the hazy sky,

Dreaming away as the red leaves drop,

And the acorn falls from its deep brown cup,

And the yellow leaves float by;

Up where the violets, white and blue,

Bloom in sunshine and the dew,

Tenderly living their still life through,

Where the deep-cut leaves of the liverwort grow,

And the great white flowers of the dogwood blow

Over the pale anemones;--

Cometh a perfume spicily shed

From the wild Azalea's full-wreathed head

Lifted among the trees.

There where the sun-flecked shadows lie,

Quivering light as the breeze laughs by,

And the leaves all dance 'neath the soft spring sky;

Blossoming bright when the twigs grow green,

And the sunlight falls with a tenderer sheen

Than comes with the summer noon,

Blossoming bright where the laurel gleams,

Lifting its sculptured flowers to the beams

Of the warm, glad sun of June.

And so it smiles to itself all day,

Where it stands alone by the mountain way,

Hearing the merry young leaves at play;

And soft on the stones its smile is cast,

And it laughs with the wind as it saunters past,

The fresh, young wind of May:

And happily thus it lives its life

Till the woods with sounds of summer are rife,

When it silently passes away.

And once again to the hills we go,

When the sun shines warm on the fields below

Where the midsummer lilies are all aglow,

When shadows are thicker, and scarcely the breeze

Stirs a leaf on the gleaming poplar trees,

And low are the streamlet's tones;

For the bright Azalea we look in vain,

And long for its smile to gladden again

Our hearts and the old gray stones.

A PAIR OF STOCKINGS.

FROM THE ARMY.

Kate was sitting by the window. I was sitting beside her. It may be well

to state here that Kate was a young lady, and that I am a young

gentleman. Kate had large, lustrous dark eyes, which just then were

covered with fringed, drooping eyelashes. She had braids of dark hair

wreathed around her head, a soft pink color in her cheeks, and a rosebud

mouth, womanly, fresh, and lovely. Kate was clad in a pink muslin dress,

with a tiny white ruffle around her white throat. She was armed with

four steely needles, which were so many bright arrows that pierced my

heart through and through. Over her fingers glided a small blue thread,

which proceeded from the ball of yarn I held in my hand.

Kate was knitting a stocking, and surely, irrevocably she was taking me

captive; already I felt myself entangled by those small threads.

We were the inmates of a boarding house. Kate was a new boarder. I had

known her but a few weeks.

The evening was warm, and I took up a palm-leaf fan, and fanned her. She

thanked me. I looked at her white hands, gliding in and out under the

blue yarn; there were no rings on those fingers. I thought how nicely

one would look upon that ring finger--a tiny gold circlet, with two

hearts joined upon it, and on the inside two names written--hers and

mine. Then I thought of Kate as my wife, always clad in a pink muslin

dress, always with her hair in just such glossy braids, and knitting

stockings to the end of time.

'Kate shall be my wife,' I said to myself, in rash pride, as I fanned

her more energetically. I did not know that the way to a woman's heart

was more intricate than a labyrinth; but I had the clue in the blue yarn

which I held in my hand. I little knew what I undertook. Kate was shy as

a wild deer, timid as a fawn, with an atmosphere of reserve about her

which one could not well break through.

'For whom are you knitting those stockings, Miss Kate?' I asked.

'For a soldier, Mr. Armstrong,' she replied, her eye kindling with

patriotism.

'If I will be one of the Home Guards, and stay and take care of you,

will you knit me a pair?'

'Never. I feel abundantly able to take care of myself. I wish you would

enlist, Mr. Armstrong. When you do, I will knit you a pair.'

'It would be almost worth the sacrifice,' I replied.

'Sacrifice! Would you sacrifice yourself for a pair of stockings? Have

you not patriotism enough to offer yourself upon the altar of your

country? If I were a man, I would enlist in a moment, though I had ten

thousand a year, and a wife and seven children.'

I will confess to you, gentle reader, that I was not such a craven as I

appeared. The fires of patriotism were smouldering in my bosom, and I

needed only a spark from Kate's hand to light them into life and action.

Kate rose and left the room, her cheek glowing with spirit, and I sat

and fanned the chair where she had sat, for a few moments. It was too

bad to break up the delicious _tete-a-tete_ so soon.

I lingered in the parlor after the gas was lighted, but she did not

come. I put on my hat, and went out. I would enlist. I had meant to do

so all along. I had managed my business in reference to it--the only

drawback was the thought of Kate. How pleasant it would be to remind her

of her promise, and ask her for the stockings and herself with them!

Visions of tender partings and interesting letters floated around me at

the thought.

There was a meeting in Tremont Temple in aid of recruiting. Flags hung

drooping from the ceiling, bands of music were in attendance in the

galleries, and distinguished and eloquent speakers occupied the

platform. I do not think their eloquence had much to do with my action,

for I had resolved beforehand. I went forward at the close of the

meeting, and signed my name to the roll as a Massachusetts volunteer. A

pair of hands in the gallery began the thunder of applause that greeted

the act. I looked up; Kate was there, clapping enthusiastically. But who

was that tall fellow in uniform by her side, with a tremendous mustache,

and eyes which flashed brighter than her own? He, then, was the soldier

for whom she was knitting the stockings. The rest of the meeting was a

blank to me.

I watched, and followed them to the door of the boarding house. I hid

myself behind a lamp post, as they paused on the steps. She turned

toward him, her face all aglow with feeling.

'Good by, Frank. Take good care of yourself. I'm glad to have you

enlist, but so sorry to lose you,' and tears trembled in her eyes.

'Good by, Kate, darling; and after the war is over, I will come home and

take care of my bird,' and he turned away.

'Stop Frank!'

'Well, birdie?'

'Those are not fit words to dismiss a soldier with. Here, I'll give you

a watchword. Think of it, Frank:

"Never give up! though the grapeshot may rattle

Or the thick thunder cloud over you burst,

Stand like a rock! in the storm or the battle,

Little shall harm you, though doing their worst!"

'Brave words, Kate. You deserve a kiss for them.' It was given. I turned

away in desperation, and walked onward, not caring where I went.

Policemen watched me, but the lateness of the hour made no difference to

me. I could have walked all night. At length I came to a bridge. The

moon was shining upon the rippling water. It looked cold and dark,

except where the ripples were. There would be a plunge, and then the

water would flow on over my head. Why not? I did not know I had loved

her with such devotion. It was all over now. She belonged to another. My

foot was on the rail. I thought then of the name I had signed to the

roll. 'No, Jacob Armstrong, you have no right to take the life which

you have given to your country.' I turned away toward my boarding place,

full of bitterness and despair. A tiny glove was on the stairs. I picked

it up and pressed it passionately to my lips, and cursed myself for the

act as I threw it down again.

The days that followed were weary enough. I made arrangements for my

departure with all possible speed. I avoided Kate, and was cold and

haughty in my salutations. I am very dignified naturally. I can be an

iceberg in human shape when I wish. One evening I went into the parlor

before tea, and took up a newspaper. Kate came in. I put on my dignity,

and tried to be interested in politics, though I could think of nothing

but the dainty figure opposite, and the gleaming needles in her hands. I

struggled with the passionate, bitter feelings that rose at the sight of

her, and was calm and cold.

'I am glad you have enlisted, Mr. Armstrong, she said.

'Thank you,' I replied stiffly.

'I suppose you are very busy making preparations?'

'Very.'

'And you are going soon?'

'I hope so.'

Kate left the room. I wished she was back again a thousand times. How

kind and shy she looked. If there was a gleam of hope--that tall fellow

in uniform--no, she might stay away forever. And yet my heart gave a

great leap as she appeared again.

'I want to show you a photograph, Mr. Armstrong,' she said, blushing and

smiling. I took it. It was the officer in uniform, with the tremendous

mustache and flashing eyes.

'It is my brother Frank. Does he look like me?'

I started as if I had been shot.

'Miss Kate, I want to take a walk now, and I should like some company.

Will you go with me?'

'Hadn't we better have tea first?' she said, smiling. 'The bell has just

rung.'

I do not know how that tea passed off, whether we had jumbles or

muffins, whether I drank tea or cold water; but I knew that opposite me

sat Kate, radiant in pink muslin, and when the interminable tea was

over, we were going to take a walk together. I was thinking what I

should say. I am generally a sociable and genial man, and it seems to me

that on this particular evening I was assaulted with a storm of

questions and remarks.

'Don't you think so, Mr. Armstrong?' asked the lady on my right, the

lady on my left, and the gentleman in black at the end of the table. I

aimed monosyllables at them promiscuously, and have at present no means

of knowing whether they fitted the questions and remarks or not.

In the midst of a mental speech, I was vigorously assaulted by Mary, the

table girl, and, looking about me in surprise, I caught a glimpse of the

boardinghouse cat just disappearing through the door:

'And sure, Mr. Armstrong, yer must be blind. The blow was intended for

the cat, and she had her paw in yer plate.'

Perhaps you do not know how pleasant it is to take a walk with a little

gloved hand resting upon your arm, little feet keeping step with yours,

and a soft voice chiming in with everything you say. I was happy on that

particular night. We walked on the Common. The stars shone, and the long

branches of the old elms swayed to and fro in the moonlight, as we

passed under them. It was just the time and place that I liked.

'Miss Kate,' I began, 'in a few days I shall be far away from home and

friends, amid danger and death, fighting the battles of my country. I

have known you but a short time; but that time has been long enough to

show me that I love you with my whole soul. I offer my hand and heart to

you. May I not hope that you will sometimes think of the soldier--that

I may carry your heart with me?'

'I think you may hope,' she replied, gently; 'but this is very sudden. I

will give you a final answer to-morrow morning.'

When we got home, we went into the dining room, and I helped her to a

glass of ice water, and hoped she would linger there a moment; but she

was shy, and bade me a kind good night. I didn't know till the next

morning what she was about the rest of the evening; when she met me on

the stairs, placed a small parcel in my hands, saying:

'My answer, Mr. Armstrong,' and was off like a fawn.

I opened it, and saw the stockings, blue, and warm and soft. A note was

stitched in the toe of one of them:

MY DEAR FRIEND: I said I was knitting the stockings for a soldier.

I began them, with a patriotic impulse, for no one in particular. I

finished them last night, and knit loving thoughts of you in with

every stitch, I have always liked you, but I do not think I should

have given you my hand if you had not enlisted. I love you, but I

love my country more. I give you the stockings. When you wear them,

I hope you will sometimes think of her who fashioned them, and who

gives herself to you with them. Yours, KATE.

I reverently folded the tiny note, after having committed it to memory,

and repeated its contents to myself all the way to my office, beginning

with 'Mr. Armstrong,' and ending with 'Yours, Kate.' I was in a state of

extreme beatification. Kate was mine, noble girl! She loved me, and yet

was willing to give me up for her country's cause. And I began to repeat

the note to myself again, when, on a crossing, I was accosted by a

biped, commonly known as a small boy:

'Mister, yer stocking is sticking out of yer pocket.'

I turned calmly around, and addressed him:

'Boy, I glory in those stockings. I am willing that the universe should

behold them. My destiny is interwoven with them. Every stitch is

instinct with life and love.'

'Don't see it, mister! Glory, hallelujah!' and he ended his speech by

making an exclamation point of himself, by standing on his head--a very

bad practice for small boys. I advise all precocious youngsters, who may

read this article, to avoid such positions.

We broke camp, and started off in high spirits. I paraded through the

streets with a bouquet of rosebuds on my bayonet. I found a note among

them afterward, more fragrant than they.

When our regiment left Boston, it went from Battery Wharf. I went on

board the Merrimac. Kate could not pass the lines, and stationed herself

in a vessel opposite, where we could look at each other. I aimed a

rosebud at her; it fell into the green water, and floated away. The

second and third were more successful. She pressed one to her lips and

threw it back again; the other she kept. Afterward, with the practical

forethought which forms a part of her character, she bought out an apple

woman, and stormed me with apples. The vessel left the wharf, and I

looked back with eyes fast growing dim, and watched the figure on the

dock, bravely waving her white handkerchief as long as I could see.

Well, it is hard for a man to leave home and friends, and all that he

holds dear; but I do not regret it, though I have to rough it now. I am

writing now beside a bivouac made of poles and cornstalks. My desk is a

rude bench. I have just finished my dinner of salt junk and potatoes. On

my feet is that pair of stockings. Profanity and almost every vice

abounds; there are temptations all around me, but pure lips have

promised to pray for me, and I feel that I shall be shielded and

guarded, and kept uncontaminated, true to my 'north star,' which shines

so brightly to me--true to my country and my God.

LITERARY NOTICES.

SORDELLO, STRAFFORD, CHRISTMAS EVE, AND EASTER DAY. By ROBERT

BROWNING. Boston: Ticknor & Fields.

The contents of this volume, though now first presented to the American

public, are not the latest of the author's writings. It completes,

however, Messrs. Ticknor & Fields' reprint of his poetical works. His

growing popularity calls for the present publication. We would fain

number ourselves among the admirers of the husband of Elizabeth Barrett;

the man loved by this truly great poetess, to whom she addressed the

refined and imaginative tenderness of the 'Portuguese Sonnets?' of whom

she writes:

'Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate,' which, if cut deep down the

middle, shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.'

Before the man so loved and honored, we repeat, we would fain bow in

reverence. But it may not be; we cannot receive him as a _true_ poet--as

in any poetic quality the peer of his matchless wife. We hear much of

his subtile psychology--we deem it psychological unintelligibility. His

rhythm is rough and unmusical, his style harsh and inverted, his imagery

cold, his invective bitter, and his verbiage immense. His illustrations

are sometimes coarse, his comparisons diminish rather than increase the

importance of the ideas to which they are applied. His pages are

frequently as chaotic as those of Wagner's music; leaf after leaf may be

turned over in the despairing search for a single crystallized idea.

Fiery sparks, flying meteors, inchoate masses of nebulous matter are

around us, but no glass in our possession can resolve them into ordered

orbs of thought and beauty. If a man have anything to say, why not say

it in clear, terse, vigorous English, or why use worlds of vigorous

words to say nothing. Some years ago, one of Browning's books was sent

for review to Douglas Jerrold, who was then just recovering from an

attack of brain fever: after reading it for some time, and finding that

he failed to arrive at any clear idea of the meaning of its lines, he

began to fear that his brain was again becoming confused, and, handing

it to his wife with a request that she would look over it in his

absence, went out to drive. Returning in the evening, his first question

was: 'Well, my dear, what do you think of Browning's poem?' 'Bother the

gibberish,' was her indignant reply, 'I can't understand a word of it.'

'Thank God,' exclaimed Jerrold, clapping his hands to his head

triumphantly, 'then I am not actually insane.'

DALETH; OR, THE HOMESTEAD OF THE NATIONS. Egypt Illustrated. By

EDWARD L. CLARK. Boston: Ticknor & Fields.

A book produced without regard to expense, and of great beauty. Paper

and print are excellent. Its illustrations are nearly one hundred in

number. It has both woodcuts and chromo-lithographs exquisitely

rendered, reproducing the modern scenery and antiquities of Egypt from

photographs or authentic sources. Mr. Clark writes well, has travelled

through the land of the Nile, and tries to bring before the minds of his

readers vivid pictures of primeval times, for which Egypt presents such

peculiar and valuable materials. Our writer is a scholar as well as a

traveller, and has added to his personal experience considerable

research into the authorities from whom many of his facts are derived.

He is also an enthusiast, and somewhat of an artist, and gives us

glowing pictures of the strange old land of the Pharaohs. He says:

'Daleth, the ancient Hebrew letter ([Hebrew: **-j]), signifies a door.

From whatever country we look back along the pathway of the arts and

sciences, in the dim distance tower the mighty gateways of Egypt--the

homestead of the nations--beneath which the rites of religion and the

blessings of civilization have passed out into the world; and with

grateful respect we confess that on the banks of the Nile stands the

true Daleth of the Nations.' This idea forms the clew to the whole book,

and from hence is derived its title, Daleth. We heartily recommend it to

our readers. It merits attention. We quote the last sentence of the

short preface: 'That these fragments of the past may reflect for the

reader the sunshine they have gathered in three thousand years, is the

earnest wish of the author.'

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES, SONGS, SERVICES, AND SPEECHES OF PRIVATE

MILES O'REILLY (47th Regiment, New York Volunteers). "The Post of

Honor is the Private's Station." With Illustrations by Mullen. From

the authentic records of the New York _Herald_. New York: Carleton,

publisher, 413 Broadway.

This book had established its reputation before it was issued in book

form; and will be widely circulated. Our soldiers and sailors, our

politicians of all parties will read it. It is evidently from the pen of

one familiar with the varied phases of American life and the public

service. Many of its songs are full of genuine humor. 'Sambo's Right to

be Kilt' is excellent. 'The Review: A Picture of our Veterans,' is full

of pathos. 'Miles' is familiar with Admiral DuPont and the monitors in

front of Charleston, and is equally at home in Tammany Hall and

Democratic Conventions. The publisher describes himself as unable to

supply the rapid demand for the book. It is witty, satirical, and

humorous; though we occasionally wish for somewhat more refinement.

ELIZA WOODSON; OR, THE EARLY DAYS OF ONE OF THE WORLD'S WORKERS. A

Story of American Life. A. J. Davis & Co., 274 Canal street, New

York.

We cannot tell our readers, with any degree of certainty, whether the

tale before us is truth or fiction. It seems to be the simple history of

an uneventful life, a record rather of the growth of character than an

attempt to create the fictitious or tragical. If true it has the

interest of fiction; if fictitious, it has the merit of concealing art

and closely imitating nature. It contains the inner-life history of a

deserted and much-abused little girl, from childhood to maturity. It is

detailed, moral, conscientious, and interesting.

BABBLE BROOK SONGS. By J. H. MCNAUGHTON. Boston: Oliver Ditson &

Co.

A volume of original songs and poems. That it comes from the University

Press is sufficient guarantee of its superb typography. Of these lyrics

we prefer 'Without the Children.'

RUBINA. New York: James G. Gregory, 46 Walker street.

A close and detailed picture of New England life and character. The poor

young orphans have a dismal time of it among their hard and coarse

relatives. The sterner forms of Puritanism are well depicted. The scene

at the funeral of poor Demis, with its harrowing and denunciatory sermon

over the corpse of the innocent girl, is powerful and true. The

character of the 'help,' Debby, is drawn from life, and is admirably

conceived and sustained. The book is, however, melancholy and

monotonous. So many young and generous hearts beating themselves forever

against the sharp stones of the baldest utilitarianism; so many bright

minds drifting into despair in the surrounding chaos of obstinate,

stolid, and perverse ignorance! It is a sadder book than 'The Mill on

the Floss,' of which it reminds us. How the aspiring and imaginative

must suffer in an atmosphere so cold and blighting!

COUNSEL AND COMFORT: Spoken from a City Pulpit. By the Author of

'The Recreations of a Country Parson.' Boston: Ticknor & Fields.

1864.

A book truly of good counsel and cheerful comfort. The strong

personality of the writer sometimes interferes with the expansiveness of

his views, as for instance in the discussion on pulpits; but it may

perhaps be to that very strength of personality that we owe the force

and directness of the lessons he so encouragingly inculcates.

A WOMAN'S RANSOM. by FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBINSON, Author of

'Grandmother's Money,' 'Under the Spell,' 'Wild Flower,' 'Slaves of

the Ring,' 'The House of Life,' etc. Boston: Published by T. O. H.

P. Burnham. New York: H. Dexter Hamilton & Co., Oliver S. Felt.

This work is published from advance sheets purchased from the English

publisher. It is an excellent novel, full of incident and interest. The

plot is artistic, and fascinates the reader to the end. The element of

mystery is skilfully managed, increasing until the final _denoument_,

which is original and unexpected. We commend it to the attention of the

lovers of fascinating fiction.

INDUSTRIAL BIOGRAPHY: IRON WORKERS AND TOOL MAKERS. By SAMUEL

SMILES, Author of 'Self-Help,' 'Brief Biographies,' and 'Life of

George Stephenson.' 'The true Epic of our time, is not _Arms_ but,

_Tools_ and _Man_--an infinitely wider kind of Epic.' Boston:

Ticknor & Fields.

This book may be considered as a continuation of the Series of Memoirs

of Industrial Men introduced in Mr. Smiles's 'Lives of Engineers.' The

author says that 'while commemorating the names of those who have

striven--to elevate man above the material and mechanical, the labors of

the important industrial class, to whom society owes so much of its

comfort and well-being, are also entitled to consideration. Without

derogating from the biographic claims of those who minister to intellect

and taste, those who minister to utility need not be overlooked.'

Surely the object of this book is a good one. The mechanic should

receive his meed of appreciation. Our constructive heroes should not be

forgotten, for the heroism of inventive labor has its own romance, and

its results aid greatly the cause of human advancement. Most of the

information embodied in this volume has heretofore existed only in the

memories of the eminent mechanical engineers from whom it has been

collected. Facts are here placed on record which would, in the ordinary

course of things, have passed into oblivion. All honor to the brave,

patient, ingenious, and inventive mechanic!

THE WIFE'S SECRET. By MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, Author of 'The Rejected

Wife,' 'Fashion and Famine,' 'Tho Old Homestead,' 'Mary Derwent,'

etc., etc. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 306 Chestnut

street.

MRS. STEPHENS has considerable ability in the construction of her plots

and their gradual development. Her stories are always interesting. The

wife's secret is well kept, and the _denoument_ admirably managed. The

fatal want of moral courage, the suffering caused by mental weakness,

the strength of love, the sustaining power of intellect, are portrayed

with ability in the book before us. The moral is unexceptionable

throughout.

THE VEIL PARTLY LIFTED, AND JESUS BECOMING VISIBLE. By W. H.

FURNESS, Author of 'Remarks on the Four Gospels,' 'Jesus and His

Biographers,' 'A History of Jesus,' and 'Thoughts on the Life and

Character of Jesus of Nazareth.' Boston: Ticknor & Fields. For sale

by D. Appleton & Co., New York.

Investigations into the life and character of Christ Jesus are

everywhere multiplying around us. Attempts to account for the marvels of

His glorious Being on a simply natural plane are made in apparent good

faith, and with considerable ability. Mr. Furness approaches his subject

with reverence: he has studied the man, Jesus, with his heart. The human

phases of His marvellous character are elaborated with skill and

patience. He regards Christianity as a 'natural product, a product

realized, not against, or aside from, but in the established order of

things; that were we competent to pronounce upon the purposes of the

Infinite Mind, which we are not, we might say that, so far from His

being out of the course of nature, nature culminated in Christ, and

that, of all that exists, He is the one being profoundly human,

preeminently natural.' In the dove which descended at His baptism, Mr.

Furness 'discovers the presence of a common dove divested of its

ordinary appearance, and transfigured by a rapt imagination into a sign

and messenger from heaven.' He says 'there is no intrinsic impossibility

in supposing that Jesus was naturally possessed of an unprecedented

power of will, by which the extraordinary effects attributed to him were

produced.' 'The bloody sweat is an evident fiction--how could blood have

been distinguished in the dark?' He pronounces the story of 'the wise

men from the east an evident fable.' Mr. Furness puts no faith in the

miraculous conception, but believes in the resurrection. He says: 'Bound

by irresistible evidence to believe that Jesus was again alive on that

memorable morning, I believe it will hereafter appear that He came to

life through the extraordinary _force of will_ with which He was

endowed, and by which He healed the sick and raised the dead; or, in

other words, that consciousness returned to Him by an action of the

mind, in itself no more inscrutable in this case than it is in our

daily waking from sleep.'

We deem that there is more difficulty in admitting that Christ rose from

the dead by _extraordinary force of will_, than in admitting the truth

of the record that He was the only Son of the Father, with full power

over life and death. We thank Mr. Furness for the skilful manner in

which he has brought to light the infinite tenderness and divine

self-forgetfulness of the Redeemer, but we cannot think he has succeeded

in lifting the veil of mystery which surrounds the birth, miracles,

crucifixion, resurrection, and atonement of the Redeemer. Meantime let

Christians who accept revelation in its integrity, throw no stumbling

blocks in the way of earnest and candid inquirers, such as Mr. Furness.

Is it not true that, dazzled by the _Divine_, we have been too little

touched by the exquisite, compassionate, faithful, and child-like

_human_ character of our Master? Truth seeks the light, and it cannot

fall too fully on the perfect; every ray serving but to reveal some new

perfection. Let those of fuller faith rejoice in the beauties forever

developing in the character of the Holy Victim. Let them patiently pray

that those who love Him as an elder brother, may gaze upon His majesty

until they see in Him the risen God.

We have found this book interesting and suggestive. It is disgraced by

none of the flippant and irreverent sentimentalism which characterizes

M. Renan.

Contents: 'Wherein the Teaching of Jesus was New;' 'How the Truth of the

History is made to appear;' 'His Knowledge of Human Nature;' 'His

Wonder-working Power;' 'His Child-likeness;' 'The Naturalness of His

Teaching;' 'The Naturalness of certain Fables found in His History;'

'The Genesis of the Gospels.'

THE CAMPANER THAL, and Other Writings. From the German of JEAN PAUL

FRIEDRICH RICHTER. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. For sale by D.

Appleton & Co., New York.

The "other writings" in the work before us are: Life of Quintus Fixlein,

Schmelzle's Journey to Flaetz, Analects from Richter, and Miscellaneous

Pieces. The Life of Quintus Fixlein and Schmelzle's Journey to Flaetz are

both translated by that ardent admirer of Richter's genius, Thomas

Carlyle; a sufficient guarantee that the spirit and beauty of the

original are fully rendered. The Analects are translated by the

brilliant writer, Thomas de Quincey.

Richter died while engaged, under recent and almost total blindness, in

enlarging and remodelling the Campaner Thal, or Discourses on the

Immortality of the Soul. 'The unfinished manuscript was borne upon his

coffin to the burial vault; and Klopstock's hymn, _Auferstehen wirst

du!_ 'Thou shalt arise, my soul!' can seldom have been sung with more

appropriate application than over the grave of Jean Paul.'

The works of Jean Paul require no praise from the hands of the reviewer;

his name is a true 'open sesame' to all hearts. Not to know him argues

one's self unknown. Some of his finest passages are to be found in the

Campaner Thal. It was written from his heart, and embodies his

conviction of immortality. How tender its imagery, how rich its

consoling suggestions, how all-embracing its arabesques, how original

its structure! That its author should grow in favor with our people,

would be a convincing proof of their own progress. So many different

powers unite in him, that he has been well styled by his own people 'The

only.' The vigor and rough strength of the man, with the delicacy and

tenderness of the woman; glowing imagination with wondrous stores of

erudition; fancy with exactness; the most loving heart with the keenest

insight into the foibles of his fellows; the wit of a Swift with the

romance of a Rousseau--but why attempt to describe the indescribable, to

give portraits of the Proteus who changes as we gaze upon him?

Meanwhile, we heartily commend Jean Paul to the notice of our readers,

and thank the publishers who are placing his great works within the

reach of those who cannot read him in the original.

THE WIND HARP, and Other Poems. By ELLEN CLEMENTINE HOWARTH.

Philadelphia: Willis P. Hazard.

If we have been correctly informed, the author of this book is an Irish

woman living in Trenton, N. Y., whose husband is a laboring man, and,

like herself, in humble circumstances. She has quite a large family,

lives in a small tenement, and is obliged to labor daily for a

subsistence for herself and family. When she came to this country from

Ireland, she could scarcely write a grammatical sentence; and all the

information of history and the classics which she has, she has derived

from such books as have accidentally fallen in her hands. She is

extremely modest and retiring, and does not seem to be at all conscious

of the genius with which she is endowed. Mrs. Howarth possesses the

poetical talent of the Irish race. Her rhythm is musical, flowing, and

pure; her thoughts gentle and womanly; her diction refined; her form

good; her powers of imitation great. What she wants now is more

self-reliance, that she may write from the inner life of her own

experience. Her poems lack originality. Let her not fear to dip her pen

in her own heart, and sing to us the joys and sorrows of the poor. Burns

were a better study for her than Moore; the Corn Law rhymer than Poe.

With her talents and the cultivation she has acquired, her familiarity

with the hopes, fears, and realities of a life of labor will give her

great advantages as the poetess of the faithful, suffering poor.

BOOKS RECEIVED TOO LATE FOR REVIEW.

LYRICS OF A DAY; OR, NEWSPAPER POETRY. By a Volunteer of the U. S.

Service. New York: Carleton, publisher, 413 Broadway.

RED-TAPE AND PIGEON-HOLE GENERALS: as Seen from the Ranks during a

Campaign in the Army of the Potomac. By a Citizen Soldier.

'We must be brief when traitors brave the field.'

New York: Carleton, publisher, 413 Broadway.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER AND JEAN INGELOW.

Extremes ever meet, and our age, which is preeminently occupied with

physical science and material comfort and aggrandizement, is also

eminently productive in good poetry. There should be no antithesis

between the words _physical science_ and _poetry_. The secrets of the

Universe, the ways of God's working, are surely the highest poetry; but

the greater number of scientists have willed a divorce between the

material and the spiritual, and decry that very imaginative faculty

which, in the case of Kepler, bore such wonderful fruits for science.

Facts are very well, and induction is also well, but science requires

the aid of the creative and divining imagination to order the details

and draw thence the broader and higher generalizations. Let us hope that

the good common sense of the in-coming half-century will annul the

divorce, and again unite on a solid basis spheres that should never have

been so far sundered.

Meantime, we cannot but remark the number of good poems meeting us on

every hand, not only from writers known to fame, but also from the

living tombs of obscure country newspapers. We know it is the fashion to

deride such productions, and sneer at the 'would-be poets.' Let critics

speak the truth fearlessly, but let them never prefer the glitter of a

self-glorifying search for faults to the more amiable but less piquant

occupation of discovering solid thought, earnest feeling, and poetic

fancy. It is well to discourage insipidity, impudent pretension, and

every species of affectation; but critics are, like authors, fallible,

and not unfrequently present glaring examples of the very faults they

condemn. In any case where the knife is needed, let it be used firmly

but gently, that, while the patient bleeds, he may feel the wound has

been inflicted by no unloving, cynical hand, but was really intended for

his ultimate good. Let the instrument be finely tempered, and neither

coarse nor rough. We can all recall a few cases where a rude treatment

has effected a cure, but only by draining the life blood of the victim,

or by turning every better human feeling into bitterness and corroding

gall. Words of blame intended to fall upon the hearts of the young, or

of the old, should always be spoken kindly, for we can never know how

deeply they may penetrate, what tender schemes for widowed mother,

aspiring brother, portionless sister, or starving wife and children they

may shatter. The public is a pretty keen judge, and will in most cases

drop works devoid of the immortal elements of genius. The critic may

point the way, but he need add no unnecessary stab to a downfall sure

and bitter.

This digression, however, has no bearing upon the honored names heading

this table, as both now have become 'household words' in our midst. Both

are acknowledged as _real poets_, but how different are they in style,

and mode of thought! Jean Ingelow, as the more brilliant, is the more

general favorite, Adelaide Procter having as yet scarcely received her

due meed of praise. Miss Ingelow exhibits an exuberant fancy, a

luxurious wealth of diction, and a generally fine poetic sense of form;

her thoughts are sound, and their dress new and glittering; but the

volume we have read is one to please the fancy and gratify the intellect

rather than touch the heart. The style is occasionally obscure and the

thought difficult to follow. Of course one can always find a meaning,

but one is not always sure of interpreting according to the author's

intentions. This quality, found largely in the school of Robert

Browning, is one to be guarded against. Mrs. Browning sometimes deals in

such involutions, but her style is so evidently an essential part of

herself, that we rarely think of affectation in connection with it. It

is pleasanter to dream our own dreams, than to follow any author into a

tangled maze, whence we, and not he, must furnish the clew for egress.

The 'Songs of Seven' and 'The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire'

are truly fine poems, to us the most complete and sustained in the

entire collection. In 'Requiescat in Pace,' we are carried so far away

from the actualities of life that we scarcely care whether the lover be

dead or living. As in a fairy tale, we read for the sake of curiosity,

admiring sundry touches here and there, but feeling nothing. Miss

Ingelow's rhythm is good, and her language musical.

The style of Adelaide Procter is singularly lucid and direct; she has

but little command of poetic ornament, and we rarely think of her choice

of words. _Pathos_, and _a close, keen representation of human

experience_, are her distinguishing characteristics. She is a poet to

read when the soul is wrung, and longs for the solace of communion with

a noble, tender, sympathetic human heart. The very absence of ornament

brings the thoughts and feelings nearer to our needs. Her poems are

evidently pictures of real human souls, and not poetic imaginings of

what human beings might feel under such and such circumstances. There

are many of Miss Procter's tales and shorter poems which bring tears to

the eyes of all who have really lived and sorrowed, and the more we read

them, the more do they come home to us. We feel as if we could take

their author into our heart of hearts, and make all the world love her

as do we. With her, brilliancy of imagery and description are replaced

by a sententiousness and concentration of expression that suddenly

strike home some truth perhaps well known, but little dwelt on. For

instance, in 'A Legend of Provence,' we find:

'Kind hearts are here; yet would the tenderest one

Have limits to its mercy: God has none.

And man's forgiveness may be true and sweet,

But yet he stoops to give it. More complete

Is Love that lays forgiveness at thy feet,

And pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven

Means _crowned_, not _vanquished_, when it says, 'Forgiven!''

Again, in 'The Present:'

'Noble things the great Past promised,

Holy dreams, both strange and new;

But the Present shall fulfil them,

What he promised she shall do.

* * * * *

'She is wise with all his wisdom,

Living on his grave she stands,

On her brow she bears his laurels,

And _his harvest in her hands_.'

'Links with Heaven' is a continued series of tender, original thoughts,

expressed in the same terse and striking, but simple manner. 'Homeless,'

'Treasures,' 'Incompleteness,' 'Light and Shade,' are, among the smaller

poems, fine specimens of her distinguishing merits; while of the

longer, 'Three Evenings in a Life,' 'Philip and Mildred,' and 'Homeward

Bound' cannot fall to charm all who love to read a real page from the

experience of humanity.

Both Jean Ingelow and Adelaide Procter are thoroughly penetrated by

profound religious convictions, the faith and charity of the latter

being especially vivid and pervading. The one has a preponderance of the

beautiful gift of a rich fancy, while to the other was given in greater

degree the power of the penetrative and sympathetic imagination. The

one, as we read, recalls to us a glittering heap of precious, shining

jewels; the other, the first cluster of spring violets, wreaths of

virginal lilies and midsummer roses, growths of cypress sound to the

core, rosemary, sage, and all healing herbs, branches of scarlet maple

leaves, and lovely wayside gentians, adorned by the hand of the Great

Artist, and blue as heaven itself.

But a little while ago, the Angel, Death, 'who comes in love and pity,

and, to save our treasures, claims them all,' bore away her pure soul

along the 'misty pathway' to everlasting peace and joy.

L.D.P.

* * * * *

Loyal Women of America, this will greet you in the midst of the great

Metropolitan Fair, and we congratulate you upon the success of the heavy

work you have undertaken and accomplished! When God was manifest to men,

he came to work for others, and you are treading in the highest path

when you follow in the footsteps of the Master. Claim and perform your

natural _duties_, show yourselves capable of self-abnegation, evince

your determination to support the cause of justice, to be loyal to the

humane principles of our Constitution--and all the _rights_ which you

may postulate, will be conceded you. This war in which you have suffered

so much, made so many sacrifices, has developed your energies, shown

your capabilities, revealed your noble hearts, and convinced the world

that woman is the strong and vigorous _helpmate_, and not the weak, if

beautiful, _toy_ of man. The Government looks to you as its best aid,

for moral sanction is its living soul; it looks to you for higher life,

for, unless the heart of love is the throbbing life-pulse of Government,

it sinks into a dull, lethargic mechanism. Far above the din of faction,

the red tape of cabinets, the rivalry of generals, the strife of

politicians, shines the resolve, and pulses the determination of woman,

that _mankind shall be free_. For this, the dusky nation bless her as

she moves; the frighted mother torn from her child, the maiden sold to

shame, call upon her to deliver them from infamy and the devouring

hunger of a robbed mother's heart. The wronged children of Ham arise and

call her 'Blessed.'

But it is with the men of her own race, that woman is weaving the golden

web of priceless sympathies. Woven of her tenderness, it sparkles with

man's deathless gratitude. The soldier feels her gracious being in every

throb of his true heart. Her love and care are forever around him. In

his lonely night watches, his long marches, his wearisome details of

duty, his absence from home, his countless deprivations, he thinks of

the women of his country, and is proud that he may be their defender.

This thought stimulates him on the field of battle, and nerves his arm

to deeds of glory. And when he falls, he falls into the arms which

spread everywhere around him. The Sanitary Commission is her

representative. She sends it to him to breathe of her in his hour of

pain. Through it she watches o'er him as he lies low and bleeding on the

dreadful field, surrounded by the dead and dying; she sends her

ambulances there to bear him to shelter and comfort; her surgeons stanch

the noble blood, remove the shattered limbs, quench the stifling thirst,

working with a tenderness sucked in with the mother's milk. In the

hospital, in her own gentle person, she soothes his restless hours,

watches o'er his sleepless couch, dresses his mangled limbs, bears him

up with her own faith, giving her strength to aid his weakness, she

leads him back to life, or, if death must come, up to God. American

Women, live up to the holy duties now demanded of you, and your rights

will all be conceded, higher, holier, deeper, broader, more vital than

any for which you have yet asked or hoped. The esteem and veneration of

the very men who have scorned you for your love of luxury, laughed at

you for your ridiculous aping of foreign aristocracy, jeered at you for

your love of glitter, your thirst for wealth, your frivolity and folly,

and despised you for your arrogance and heartlessness--are already

yours. Contempt for you has passed away forever. Let the dead past bury

its dead. American women solve the riddle of woman's destiny. Vast is

her field and heritage: all who suffer belong to her. Her heart is the

strength of love and charity; her mind, justice and the rights of all

who bear the human form; her soul, God's temple among men, in which

dwell the angels of Purity, Sacrifice, and Devotion. Love to God and man

is her creed, self-abnegation her crown, faith her oriflamme, strength

her gift, life her guerdon, and immortality her portion.

American Women, we place a soldier's song before you:

A SOLDIER'S PSALM OF WOMAN.

BY LIEUT. RICHARD REALF.

Down all the shining lapse of days

That grow and grow forever

In truer love and better praise

Of the Almighty Giver--

Whatever God-like impulses

Have blossomed in the human,

The most divine and fair of these

Sprang from the soul of woman.

Her heart it is preserves the flower

Of sacrificial duty,

Which, blown across the blackest hour,

Transfigures it to beauty;

Her hands that streak these solemn years

With vivifying graces,

And crown the foreheads of our fears

With light from higher places.

O wives and mothers, sanctified

By holy consecrations,

Turning our weariness aside

With blessed ministrations!

O maidens, in whose dewy eyes

Perennial comforts glitter,

Untangling War's dark mysteries

And making sweet the bitter;--

In desolate paths, on dangerous posts,

By places which, to-morrow,

Shall be unto these bannered hosts

Aceldemas of sorrow,

We hear the sound of helping feet,

We feel your soft caressings;

And all our life starts up to greet

Your lovingness with blessings!

On cots of pain, on beds of woe,

Where stricken heroes languish,

Wan faces smile and sick hearts grow

Triumphant over anguish;

While souls that starve in lonely gloom

Flush green with odorous praises,

And all the lowly pallets bloom

With Gratitude's white daisies.

O lips that from our wounds have sucked

The fever and the burning!

O tender fingers that have plucked

The madness from our mourning!

O hearts that beat so loyal-true

For soothing and for saving--

God send your own hopes back to you,

Crowned with immortal having!

Thank God!--O Love! whereby we know

Beyond our little seeing,

And feel serene compassions flow

Around the ache of being;--

Lo! clear o'er all the pain and dread

Of our most sore affliction,

The shining wings of Peace are spread

In brooding benediction!

* * * * *

We have been requested by the author of 'Hannah Thurston,' an article in

our April number, to correct a typographical error (the omission of the

word _all_) in said article. The mutilated sentence originally read: "I

cannot think that marriage is essential to, or even best for, the

happiness of _all_ women."

ED. CON