launched on that river, thence to navigate | mood, but the best poetry in its total effect is the Lake Nyassa to its northern end, near cheerful and encouraging. Even when it treats which the disaster is said to have occurred. of sorrow, of pain, of death, it is sympathetic, If the sad story be true, and Livingstone but not despondent and gloomy. The very has really been killed, the news will doubt-production of the exceptional sad poem indiless have spread along the shores of the lake, or great line of traffic of the country. Again, his instruments, note-books, guns, &c. the relics of his expedition-will have found their way as articles of barter among the natives. In the absence of such signs, and in the event of the exploring party finding no proofs whatever of his death, why, then I shall firmly believe that the man who was appointed her Majesty's consul to all the chiefs in the interior of South Africa is still carrying out his great mission.

POETRY.Poetry, as we believe, preserves and purifies language, cultivates good taste, helps memory, fills the mind with fair images and high, unselfish thoughts; wondrously increases our perception and enjoyment of natural beauty, relieves the pain of our usual lack or poverty of expression, shaping and bringing within compass multifarious thoughts and feelings, otherwise inexpressible. But the boon of boons, including all the rest, is the general enlargement, elevation, emancipation of the soul. Poetry universalizes. In its last result it is never despondent, but inspired with the loftiest joy and courage. It begins in the glad sense of universal beauty, and when it bestows the same glad sense upon its hearers, its result is accomplished. Here and there you find a short poem, exceptional, expressing a despondent

cates a degree of victory over the sadness. The
"Iliad," treating much of war, wounds, and
violent death, is animated and exhilarating
throughout; of Dante's great poem, the first
part is most read, for its fierce picturesqueness
and dreadful fascination, but the second is an
ascending symphony of hope and faith, and the
third part a hymn of heavenly rapture. Chau-
cer is cheerful as the green landscape after a
spring shower; Spenser full of rich vivacity
multifarious world of movement and interest;
and bold adventure; Shakespeare's book a
nothing did Goethe so much abhor, in life and
in literature, as despondency, discouragement.
The poet, when he is most himself, rises to a
high and serene view. He will not exhibit
grief, misery, horror, in isolated sharpness, and
for the mere sensational effect; these must lose
their harsh and painful prominence, and fall
into place in a large and noble circle of ideas.
The merely painful always marks as inferior
and doctrinal poetry are also inferior, so far as
the work in which it is found. Didactic poetry
they are narrowed not merely by human but by
particular limitations, concerned too much
with certain people, opinions, circumstances,
with the temporary and accidental. In the
pure mountain air which blows over the realm
of true poetry no mental epidemic can exist,
or if it rises thither it melts away; fever of
partisanship, itch of personality, opthalmia of
dogmatism, lie below with fog upon the marsh-
of his time; usually it affects him far too
Yet the poet escapes not the influence
much. He is apt to fall into sudden timidity
in the midst of his boldest enterprises, apt to
yield to the pressure of the hour. Also his
delicate senses persuade him to luxury and
sloth. His experience of the stupidity and the
selfishness which have possession of so many
human beings goads him sometimes into one
or another form of cynicism. He may some
times write below his own dignity and that of
his art. But, remember, if he puts any evil
(here is not meant by evil what this person or
that person may object to, put contradiction of
his own better self, treason to humanity)-if
he puts any wickedness into his poetry, it is so
much the less poetry. So far, it suffers loss
of value and of rank. The external facts, too,
and incidents connected with composition and
publication are often ugly, nauseous, and warp-
ing. The ideal, the typical poet, has all but
superhuman power of vision and of speech.
But in the actual, every poet is very limited
and imperfect. Even the great poets are
faulty, full of faults and short-comings. Each,
limited already in his genius, is also limited
from without, and does not do even as well as
he might. On every side a dull and perverse
world of persons and circumstances presses in
upon his work. Fraser's Maagzine.

"As much

ANTIPHONAL CHANTING.-The Rev. George Venables, Vicar of Friezland, writing to the Churchman on this subject, says: attention is now given to Church congregation a method which I once introduced into a tional singing and chanting, allow me to menchurch for promoting good antiphonal chanting. It might be introduced in singing hymns also, if desirable. The plan is simply that of dividing the congregation, as nearly as practicable, into two equal portions, one-half chanting the first verse, the other half the second verse, and so throughout. The effect is excellent. A nice spirit of singing seems to be engendered by it, as a not improper feeling of emulation arises, by which the two great companies (Nehemiah xiii. 31, 40, 43) rival one another in their endeavour to 'sing unto the Lord, and to make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation.' The idea was original on my part when I began it, but most of your readers will know that it is the ancient method of chanting. My conviction is that this arrangement does much to promote that thorough and hearty congregational singing and chanting which all our offices recognise, and which we ought to encourage."

GENERAL CHANGARNIER has just broken | put on foot an army equal in point of numhis long silence on political affairs, dating bers to the largest that could by possibility from his arrest at the time of the coup be brought against her; and such an atd'état, and has written an essay in the last tempt would even be more ruinous and number of the Revue des Deux Mondes on absurd with us. - London Review, 20 April. the reorganization of the army. His judg ment is not favourable to the Government scheme; at the same time, he disclaims any intention of systematic opposition, and admits that after the battle of Sadowa there was a pretext for making some kind of alteration. That battle, by the way, he describes, with the characteristic jealousy of Frenchmen at the military successes of other nations, as 66 one of the greatest disasters in the history of France." The General does not care much about rifled cannon and modern arms of precision; he denies that the Prussian needle-gun was the main cause of the Prussian success last summer; yet he grants that France must not be behind other nations in these matters, and that, if soldiers even fancy that they are worse armed than their opponents, they are pretty sure to follow their leaders with distrust. He has no faith in the Prussian landwehr system, and asserts that the Prussian army, in the campaign with Austria, being composed to a great extent of raw troops suddenly taken from sedentary occupations, could not have supported the fatigue of a long war, and that, even as it was, they filled the hospitals with sick, and studded the roads with loiterers. With reference to the French army, Changarnier is in favour of a comparatively small, but thoroughly disciplined, force of professional soldiers, and is strongly opposed to the formation of a large reserve of imperfectly drilled amateurs. One of the most important principles he lays down, however, is that, after a certain point, mere numbers are useless, or even mischievous. "No doubt," he argues, "if 3,000 men are pitted against 5,000, the odds are very great in favour of the larger force. But when you come to 60,000 against 100,000, the chances change considerably, and the higher the numbers go, the less important it is that an army should be equally matched. The larger an army, the more difficult it is to handle, and there is a point, soon reached, at which it cannot be handled to any good purpose at all." It cannot be doubted that such is the case; and the gallant General's words should be borne in mind by those alarmists in this country who would have us maintain an enormous standing army because the Con

tinental Powers think fit to do the same.
Changarnier denounces as ruinous and ab-
surd any attempt on the part of France to

BAMBOOS FOR PAPER. -The considerable trade which is now carried on between the West Indies and America in bamboos for the manufacture of paper is new to that part of the world, but the Chinese have long applied the bamboo to the same purpose. The article is only second in importance, says the Morning Star, to tea as exports from Foo chow. The young shoots are used for food in Shanghai and Ningpo, and during the autumn provide freight for several steamers. It is manufactured also into paper, of which an immense quantity is sent to Che-foo and Tien-tsin, the trade being carried on upon a smaller scale with Ningpo, Shanghai, and Woochang. Our paper-makers are always grumbling about the supply of ragsdon't they try bamboo?

why

THE Rev. Francis Trench communicates to Notes and Queries an anecdote of David Hume, which he says he found in the "Memoirs of James, Earl of Claremont " (edition 1810): "He once professed hinself the admirer of a young, most beautiful, and accomplished lady at Turin, who only laughed at his passion. One day he addressed her in the usual commonplace strain, that he was abîmé, anéanti.

Oh! pour anéanti,' replied the lady, ce n'est en effet qu'une opération très-naturelle de votre systême."

A BIRD'S SONG IN THE NIGHT.

BY JULIE LANARD.

I WAKE up in the night and heard
The soft, sad music of a bird,
A dropping, gurgling little note,
That seemed to fall from out his throat
Half boldly and half timidly,
As if he felt it strange that he
Alone in all the world should be,
And felt its great immensity.

Again the music low and clear

But the still depths of th' unreturning past
Have buried more than blessings, nor alone
Grief and regret blend with the wild waves'

moan

Infinite yet not hopeless. In its vast

And healing waters kindly Time hath cast
Sorrows and sins, where in th' eternal tide
Heaves the full heart of God, and we confide,
Not comfortless, to Him the First and Last,
The secrets of our being. - Lo! the face
Of ocean, kissed by the descending breeze,
Breaks into smiles, and long-lost melodies
Vibrate from earth to heaven, and a fresh
grace,

Charmed with its strain my listening ear; The far-off isles shine in the golden space.
New-born of hope, lies on the breathing seas-

It made no echo in the air,

It only stirred the silence there;
Then softly, gently sank to rest,
As if he hid it in his breast;

And only night and I had heard
The sweet song of the dreaming bird.

Macmillan's Magazine.

-Transcript.

But as a ship, when all the winds are gone,
Hangs idly in mid ocean, so the soul
Helplessly drifting hears the waters roll,
While in the heaven the breeze of hope dies
down,

And memory darkens round, and from the lone
Vast sea dim shapes arise, and shadowy fears
Cling like damp mists, and the long track of
years

(Where once the brightness of the morning
shone)

Lies strewn with wrecks of that rich argosy
With which the bark sailed freighted to explore
The unknown deep, and distant gleaming
shore, -

Keen, soaring hopes and aspirations high,
Pure thoughts, and sunny fancies, and the

store

Of priceless gems from God's own treasury.

A HARMLESS fellow, wasting useless days,
Am I: I love my comfort and my leisure:
Let those who wish them, toil for gold and
praise;

To me this Summer day brings more of
pleasure.

So, here upon the grass I lie at ease,

While solemn voices from the Past are call-
ing,

Mingled with rustling whispers in the trees,
And pleasant sounds of water idly falling.

There was a time when I had higher aims

Than thus to be among the flowers, and lis

ten

To lisping birds, or watch the sunset's flames

On the broad river's surface glow and glisten.

There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought
To make a name, a home, a bright exist-

No. 1201. Fourth Series, No. 62. 8 June, 1867.

SHORT ARTICLES: Jasper, 638. Fanny Fern's Literary Success, 650. Golden Hair, 672.

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MODERN INQUIRIES: Classical, Professional, and Miscellaneous. By Jacob Bigelow, M.D. Little, Brown, & Co., Boston. [It is rather out of our walk to give an opinion on medical subjects; but Dr. Bigelow is so far above the pedantry of his profession, that his grand Common Sense is intelligible and interesting to everybody who has that faculty. We accidentally took up his book on Self-Limiting Diseases, some years ago, (it is included in this volume), and did not lay it down till we had read the whole work, which must have exercised great influence upon the profession. And so with his article on The Limits of Education, which begins this volume, and which should be read by all Presidents of Colleges, and by all who have sons to send to them. Busy as we are we shall read the whole volume.]

AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE. A Tale of Love, Selfishness, and Retribution. T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia.

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PEACE.

Is this the Peace of God, this strange sweet

calm ?

The weary day is at its zenith still,

Yet 'tis as if, beside some cool clear rill, Through shadowy stillness rose an evening psalm,

And all the noise of life were hushed away, And tranquil gladness reigned with gently soothing sway.

It was not so just now. I turned aside
With aching head, and heart most sorely
bowed:

Around me crowd;

ONE bid me turn aside,

Saying He had a message I could hear
Best in some quiet place; but as I went
I heard the busy voices of the world,
And, listening to them, answered in my pride
That I had ears for both, and was intent
On keeping all my old companions near.

He called me once again,

Pleading that He had precious things to say,
Which He desired that I should understand;

cares and griefs in crushing Things which He might not tell to other men.
I said, that if I were too long away,

While inly rose the sense, in swelling tide,
Of weakness, insufficiency, and sin,

And fear, and gloom, and doubt in mighty
flood rolled in.

I could not join my company, and then
Should lose my place of honour in the land.

He told me I was ill;

That rushing flood I had no strength to That He this time had chosen for His call

meet,

Nor power to flee; my present, future, past,
My self, my sorrow, and my sin I cast
In utter helplessness at Jesu's feet;
Then bent me to the storm, if such His will.
He saw the winds and waves, and whispered,
"Peace, be still!"

Because He saw my labour was too much,
And that I greatly needed to be still.
I answered, I was strong enough for all
That I had planned that morning to fulfil;
And so again shook off His gentle touch.

And yet I suffered sore:

And there was calm. O Saviour, I have My eyes were dim with weeping all the night;

A heavy burden preyed upon my mind;
I dared not look on the long way before;
I dared not look on the dark way behind :
Glad morning could not bring my spirit light;
The way of hope and peace I could not find.

I am grown wiser now,

And sadder, with the knowledge of my loss
Of all the holy words I might have learned,
Of counsels whose sweet comfort would not
cease.

Oh, if, alone with Him, I had but turned,
Had bowed in meekness 'neath the bitter Cross,
And found it change to blessing and to peace!

For still, at intervals, I hear His voice;
I hear His footsteps coming to my door
Sound sweeter than the music of the day.
Enter, O Lord! Oh! speak to me once more,
And I will list each word that Thou canst say
As humbly as a child, and will rejoice.

- Sunday Magazine.