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Power, depend upon such Taxation as shall cient to pay current expenses, including Inpay the Interest and other expenses of the terest, would this year make our National government. It is desirable, and seems al- Credit strong enough to bear any strain most necessary, that such a Tariff as will which the possible pressure of Europe may yield the greatest revenue (and to be altered make necessary. In 1888 our population only to correct mistakes on this point) should will be seventy millions, and the Budget may be considered as fixed for twenty-five years. then safely be put on a Peace establishThis settled policy, added to such Direct ment. Taxation as would make the revenue suffi
E. LITTELL. Living Age Office, Boston, 6 Feb. 1862.
SINKING-FUND AND NATIONAL CURRENCY.
ESTIMATED GROWTH IN 25 YEARS. THE present Bank-note Currency is estimated to exceed 200 millions. Mint Drafts would gradually supplant it, and increase as the growing business of the country should require.
Suppose that by 1863 there should be a circulation of Mint Drafts, over and above the amount brought in for payment, of 20 millions, thus leaving that amount of gold uncalled for, and that it would be safe to invest in U. S. Stocks 10 millions thereof. Invest then, 10 millions,
10 1864 Interest on 10 millions 7-10 millions, which invest with 103-10 more 11 1865 21 1 1-2
12 1866 33 2 1-2
13 1867 46 3
14 1868 60 4
15 1869 75 5
16 1870 91 6
17 1871 108 7
18 1872 126 9
11 1873 146 10
21 1874 167
23 1875 190 13
24 1876 214 15
26 1877 240 17
28 1878 268 19
30 1879 298 21
32 1880 330 23
11 1881 364 25
36 1882 400
28 1883 439 30
41 1884 480 33
11 1885 524 37
48 1886 572 40
51 1887 623 43
54 1888 677 47
58 So the amount of U. S. Stocks absorbed would be 735 millions ; of which 452 millions
s is Interest, and 283 millions Principal. The outstanding Mint Drafts being under 300 millions at the end of the 25 years; which is, as it ought 10 be, much less in proportion than the corporation paper now is.
I am not strong to bear
This sudden blast of scorching breath, The seasons weave their ancient dance,
Which blossoms hope in black despair, The restless ocean ebbs and flows,
And life in death;
“My God, thy will be done." Still up the breezy western slopes
I thought, but yesterday, The reaper girls, like apples brown,
My will was one with God's dear will ; Bend singing to their gleeful toil,
And that it would be sweet to say And sweep the golden harvest down:
Whatever ill Still, where the slanting sunlight gilds
My happy state should smite upon, The boles of cedar and of pine,
Thy will, my God, be done." Chants the lone blackbird from the brake
But I was weak and wrong, With melancholy voice divine :
Both weak of soul and wrong of heart; Still all about the mossy tracks
And Pride alone in me was strong, Hums at his darg the woodward bee;
With cunning art Still fitfully the corn-crake's note
To cheat me in the golden sun, Comes to me from the upland lea:
To say, “God's will be done.” Still round the forest bower she loved,
O shadow, drear and cold, The woodbine trails its rich festoons ; That frights me out of foolish pride; The slumbrous poppies burst and fall
flood ! that through my bosom rolled Beneath the silent autumn moons.
Its billowy tide!
I said, till ye your power made known, Still round her lattice, perched aloof,
“God's will, not mine, be done." In sunny shade of thatched eaver, The jasmine clings, with yearning pale,
Now, faint and sore afraid, And withers in its shroud of leaves :
Under my cross-heavy and rnde
My idols in the ashes laid, Still ronnd the old familiar porch
Like ashes strewed ; Her cherished roses blush and peer,
The holy words my pale lips shunAnd fill the sunny air with balm,
"O God, thy will be done.” And strew their petals year by year.
Pity my woes, O God ! Nor here within, one touch of change!
And touch my will with thy warm breath ; The footstool-the embroidered chair
Put in my trembling hand thy rod, The books—the arras on the wall
That quickens death ; The harp-the music, -all are there.
That my dead faith may feel thy sun, No touch of change! I close my eyes
And say, “ Thy will be done !" It cannot be she comes no more!
January 1, 1862
W. C. R.
N. Y. Examiner. I hear the rustling of her dress;
I hear her footstep on the floor.
ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation
Against thy strength,
Do what thou canst for alteration :
For hearts of truest metal
Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.
Who loves a mistress of such quality,
He soon hath found
Affection's ground Storm-driven along a thorn-set way,
Beyond time, place, and all mortality. While blood-drops start
To hearts that cannot vary, From every pore, as I drag on
Absence is Presence, Time doth tarry, * Thy will, O God, be done.”
By absence this good means I gain,
That I can catch her,
Where none can watch her,
In some close corner of my brain :
There I embrace and kiss her ;
And so I both enjoy and miss her.
POETRY.-Drinking Songs, 530. Universal Prayer, 530. The Origin of Language, 576. Retrospection, 576.
SHORT ARTICLES.-World's Fair, 549. Name for the United States, 563.
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DRINKING SONGS. Mr. Haskell : Under the Wine, on the jaded stomach falls
The leech prescribes-and nature calls
For Santacruzian flip.
'Twas mala praxis, from the first; As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet
And now no power can save-
Death comes, at last, to quench his thirst, So through life's desert springing sweet,
Deep in the drunkard's grave.
Then once again, before we part,
My empty glass shall ring-
And he who has the warmest heart 'Tis Nature's law that wine should flow
Shall first be drunk on sling.
My empty glass shall ring;
[From "The Martyrdom of Kelavane. A But gray-haired sages think
Poem.” London, 1861. — Kelavane was It means, Be moderate in your meat,
Georgian princess, who was martyred for Chris And partly live to drink ; For baser tribes the rivers flow
tianity by the Persians in 1624.] That know not wine or song :
The sweet solemnities of simple prayer
That blessed mystery of daily life!
The earth hath unseen altars everywhere,
To pacify with love the world of strifo.
Of children to their Father, all night long; To have written anything for the benefit of cry for help goes up the silent sky, mankind, and especially of the rising generation, A cry that love transforms into a song. must remain among the hæc dim meminisse juvabit of the writer. I therefore send you a humble The tempest roars, but cannot ring it down ; imitation, making up in grave, every-day truth,
The thunder stills it not; the ocean wild whatever it may lack, in Bachanalian fiction.
May howl up through the heavens, it cannot
drown DRINKING SONG.
The simplest prayer that's breathed by a
child. As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet,
Men walk among the ancient yromises, The reckless drunkard goes,
And know that God is on Mount Horeb still, He cannot keep upon his feet,
Although no prophet sees him face to face, And tumbles on his nose.
Although no more he thunders from the hill. Wine wears its welcome out, ere longSays he, the time has come,
The silence of the desert still is his ; To change this trash for something strong,
The pilgrimage of sorrow, his dread hand And wet my lips with rum.
Doth guide through all the weary wilderness, Then once again, before we part,
Betwixt old Egypt and the promised land. My empty glass shall ring;
The mother mourning by the bed of death, And he that has the warmest heart
The childless widow, and the orphan lone. Shall first be drunk on sling.
Cry all, “O Father!” and the ear of faith
Receives its answer from the eternal throne. They say we were not born to cat,
And still the cry goes up the silent night; And gray-haired tipplers think
From out the trouble goes a prayer for peace; We spend too much for butcher's meat,
And from the darkness goes a cry for light; And not enough for drink.
And from captivity for sweet release; Water may suit the grov'ling soul
And from repentant lips, with pleading hoarse, Unused to wine and song
Rise hope's faint accents, broken with dismay;
A cry for that sweet peace it threw away.
Oh, heartfelt prayers have more than angels'
wings; Shall first be drunk on sling.
And bruised souls there be, and men forlorn, Who sit all night and cry aloud with kings,
Who lay aside their golden crowns, and mourn About our path, about our bed,
In one community of humble hearts, When care and sorrow come,
O'er all the earth where faithful men have trod, There's nothing for an aching head
In that grand unity which faith imparts, And bursting heart like rum.
The mystery of one broad life in God.
From The Quarterly Review. that Miss Knight intended her so-called AuAutobiography of Miss Cornelia Knight, tobiography for publication, though her ed
Lady-Companion to the Princess Charlotte itor, Mr. Kaye, gives reasons for thinking of Wales : with Extracts from her Jour- she did ; and, at all events, she did not benals and Anecdote-Books. Two vols. tray, or enable others to betray, the confiLondon, 1861.
dences made to her in correspondence, by More than twenty years ago the world keeping and docketing private letters. Nor was scandalized by the appearance of the are her remains satirical in style, nor very
Diary Illustrative of the Times of George liberal in their revelations. Miss Knight the Fourth,” which made public such strange had the character in her generation of being revelations respecting the court-history of an extremely cautious person, and her cauthe Regency. The book was condemned by tion exhibits itself curiously enough in these public opinion, with an universal and right- volumes ; for while at one time she notes eous expression of disgust. The compiler, down, in the most tranquil and matter-offor the sake of earning a little money, had fact way, circumstances which any one who poured profusely out all the scandal hoarded was interested in the personages concerned in volumes of ill-natured note-books, and in would forget if they could, or commit at all numbers of confidential and careless letters, events to their memory alone, she seems at deeply affecting the character of some and other times embarrassed by the delicacy of the memory of many more, and in especial her own secrets, and chronicles them with that of a benefactress. But it would prob- much apparatus of mystery. She reminds ably have been dismissed with more of con- us, occasionally, of that poor comrade of tempt than of hostile notice, had it not also Thistlewood the traitor who wrote down deeply affronted two classes of readers, usu- some political sentiments in prison to please ally opposed to each other--those who a fancier of autographs, but could not rethought conservative principles engaged in frain, through habit, from designating Sidthe defence of the character of George IV., mouth and Castlereagh by initials and of which singular sect there were still a few dashes, though he was going to be hanged living in 1838; and those, more powerful next morning. But the general impression in that day, who had more or less committed produced by the present diarist is only a themselves by their advocacy of the unfortu- trifle less painful than that left by her prenate Queen Caroline. Twenty years more decessor. She is constantly imputing, often have pretty nearly disposed of both these by such quiet insinuation as is not readily classes, and indeed of all who take any in- detected, low or crooked motives to almost terest in the intrigues of Carlton House, and every person concerned in the Princess CharWarwick House, and Connaught Place, ex- lotte's affairs. Traits of the worst descripcept as matters of historical gossip, or who tion are recorded with such dispassionate care for the accurate distribution of posthu- tranquillity, that it is only on reflection and mous contempt between the unhappy couple second reading that we become conscious whose sordid quarrels were once affairs of how very base, and even shocking, are the State, and puzzled the wits and almost broke conduct or sentiments thus calmly ascribed. the hearts of statesmen who had nerve to It is therefore one of those books of scandal confront Europe in arms. It is therefore of which it is impossible not to regret the with comparative indifference that we find publication ; such as do but cause unnecesthe favorite tattle of our grandmothers once sary annoyance, if not to the living, to those more revived by the publication of these who cherish the memories of their dead, relics of Miss Cornelia Knight, or Ellis Cor- while they add absolutely nothing to our nelia Knight, as she signs herself; lady- knowledge of any fraction of history worth companion, as she ought to have been styled knowing. But as such books will always -under-governess as people would persist continue to be published while money is an in styling her—to the Princess Charlotte object with “families into whose hands they during the eventful years of her life 1813 have got,” and will certainly be read when and 1814. Not that we would commit the published (Miss Knight has already reached gross injustice of comparing Miss Knight to a third edition), we must content ourselves the diarist in question. We cannot believe with entering this, our conventional protest,