The tumult of each sacked and burning village;

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns.

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder;

The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,

The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, О man, with such discordant noises,

With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,

And jarrest the celestial harmonies ?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,

Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error,

There were no need of arsenals nor forts.

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!

And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear for ever more the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,

The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease, And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear, once more, the voice of Christ say “Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.


THE Marquise met me at the door, and with the freedom of an old acquaintance, and the rapture peculiar to the ladies of this nation, caught me by the hand and gave me a salute upon each cheek, most heartily rejoiced to see me. You would have supposed I had been some long absent friend, whom she dearly loved. She presented me to her mother and sister, who were present with her, all sitting together in her bed-room, quite en famille. One of the ladies was knitting. The Marquise herself was in a chintz gown. She is a middle-sized lady, sprightly and agreeable; and professes herself strongly attached to Americans. She supports an amiable character, is fond of her children, and very attentive to them, which is not the general character of ladies of high rank in Europe. In a few days she returned my visit, upon which we sent her a card of invitation to dine. She came; we had a large company. There is not a lady in our country who would have gone abroad to dine so little dressed; and one of our fine American ladies, who sat by me, whis

pered to me, “Good heavens! how awfully she is dressed !' I could not forbear returning the whisper, which I most sincerely despised, by replying that the lady's rank sets her above the little formalities of dress. She had on a brown Florence gown and petticoatwhich is the only silk, excepting satins, which are worn here in winter,-a plain double gauze handkerchief, a pretty cap, with a white ribbon in it, and looked

very neat. The rouge, it is true, was not so artfully laid on as upon the faces of the American ladies who were present. Whilst they were glittering with diamonds, watch-chains, girdle-buckles, &c., the Marquise was nowise ruffled by her own different appearance. A really well-bred French lady has the most ease in her manners that you can possibly conceive of. It is studied by them as an art, and they render it nature.


EARLY habits of virtue, like new clothes upon & young and comely body, sit very gracefully upon a straight and well-shaped mind, and do mightily be

come it.


A YOUNG rose in the summer time

Is beautiful to me,
And glorious the many stars

That glimmer on the sea;
But gentle words, and loving hearts,

And hands to clasp my own,
Are better than the brightest flowers,

Or stars that ever shone.

The sun may warm the grass to life,

The dew the drooping flower;
And eyes grow bright, and watch the light

Of Autumn's opening hour;
But words that breathe of tenderness,

And smiles we know are true,
Are warmer than the summer time,

And brighter than the dew.

It is not much the world can give,

With all its subtle art,
And gold and gems are not the things

To satisfy the heart;
But, oh! if those who cluster round

The altar and the hearth,
Have gentle words, and loving smiles,

How beautiful is earth.


Among the great men to whom we owe the resuscita tion of science, he deserves the foremost place; and his enthusiastic attachment to this great cause constitutes his most just and splendid title to the gratitude of posterity. He was the votary of literature. He loved it with a perfect love. He worshipped it with an almost fanatical devotion. He was the missionary who proclaimed its discoveries to distant countries,the pilgrim who travelled far and wide to collect its relics,-the hermit who retired to seclusion to meditate on its beauties,—the champion who fought its battles, -the conqueror who, in more than a metaphorical sense, led barbarism and ignorance in triumph, and received in the capitol the laurel which his magnificent victory had earned.

Nothing can be conceived more affecting or noble than that ceremony. The superb palaces and porticos, by which had rolled the ivory chariots of Marius and Cæsar, had long mouldered into dust. The laurelled fasces, the golden eagles, the shouting legions, the captives, and the pictured cities were indeed wanting to his victorious procession. The sceptre had passed away from Rome. But she still retained the mightier influence of an intellectual empire, and was now to confer the prouder reward of an intellectual triumph. To the man who had extended the dominion of her

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