FRANCE TO ITALY. ITALIANS, you but waste your breath,

The right you cry for stands no chance; You raise the shout of “Rome or Death!"

And “Death !” is the reply of France. Yes, death, my friends, for I am strong;

France is resolved to have her way; Her will is law which, right or wrong, The weak must perish

or obey. Your claim of Rome I must refuse,

For I don't want you to become Too independent, and I choose

To keep you underneath my thumb. But deatl's a boon I wont deny,

If you desire to bite the dust, Bravo, then, the might of France, and die;

If die you will, then die you must. My Bourbons I dethroned, 'tis true;

But therefore cherish not the hope, That I shall ever suffer you

To do the like, and doff the Pope. His power it suits me to maintain,

My cannons guard the Papal chair ;
You pray for liberty in vain :

Attempt to win it if you dare.
The Eldest Daughter of the Church,

Must needs defend her parent's Head,
And keep the Pontiff on his perch,

Although upon your necks he tread. Creeds may by her bo turned to sport,

Or dogmas carelessly ignored ;
But France must Popery support

As an Idea, with the sword.
To suppliants what I did not grant

Claimants from me shall never wring; To stern demand of course I can't

Think of conceding such a thing. Honor forbids me to concede,

To menace, what is justly due; Then how you striko for Rome, take heed :

Death is your portion if you do. A generous nation am I not?

Of progress don't I lead the van ? Befriend the struggling patriot?

And vindicate the Rights of Man ?
Ah, yes ! but I must domineer,

So cannot call my forces home.
Then Death to every Volunteer
So bold as to advance on Rome!


Ere on the bosom of the Lord,

He found an everlasting dwelling.
The field, ploughed by the courser's hoof,

Speaks of the charge, the flight, the rally ;
While broken spear and helm of proof

Gleam, like the Prophet's vision valley. The tree, scathed not by lightning's blast,

But shivered where the cannon rattled, Shall tell, while history shall last,

How fiercely legions here have battled. The tall grass rustles-Stranger, hush!

Here, let no thoughtless word be spoken. Ay turn-shame not the tear to brush

Here courage sleeps, here hearts were broken! One thought of mother, far away,

Or some fair form half rose before him, A's stretched beside this grave he lay,

While Death waved his dark pinion o'er him. The Bible, from his breast half drawn,

Falls from his cold and stiffening fingers, He lifts his eyes-he faints ! he's gone

No! the imprisoned spirit lingers. As swelling on the evening breeze

Come the wild bugle's lofty numbers, Ringing high victory through the trees,

Lulling him to eternal slumbers. Sept. 17, 1862.


- Transcript.

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" Quis enim virtutem amplectitur ipsam, Præmia si tollas?”

Lord Palmerston on Thursday, An excellent motto! My lord, 'tis your own; Too fond of the popular breath you have grown. The shout of the crowd is your music, my lord, And you'd perhaps “ embrace virtue

to gain that reward. If for suffrage-extension men's wishes were

warm, You would doubtless go in for immediate Re

form: But Bright is not England; you know it, my

lord, So wherefore waste time without hope of reward? As Italy's popular, Italy gets A very high place on the list of your pets. Your “moral support" is not much to afford, And you gladly divide Garibaldi's reward. Poor Gladstone is hissed by the popular voice, Though your policy leaves him no shadow of

choice. You laugh at the thought of retrenchment, my

lord, And, though Income-tax plagues us, you get

THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 'Tis but a green and silent mound

A rude board bears his regiment's number, Where 'mid his fallen focs around,

The soldier rests in dreamless slumber. No sister here, hath left the rose;

No weeping mother kneels in blessing ! Here the neglected wild-flower grows,

And cold winds are the mound caressing. Yet plumage shorn and broken sword

Téll that the battle hero was swelling,

your reward.

As aged as Nestor, as boastful as Hector,
You never will now say virtutem amplector.
So we only can hope your successor, my lord,
May care rather less for so poor a reward.
- Press.


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From The Saturday Review. and fragments, associated with sight or sound

or scent—but eluding all pursuit, all attempt THERE are few things that show more the at investigation. We just know that there difference between man and man in points is more in our past than our memory reports not easily got at, than how they conduct such to us, but practically they are gone. To how a private matter as keeping a journal. The many does not any sudden question of our practice itself is simple enough, but the pur- doings and surroundings ten, or fifteen, or poses for which it is undertaken, and the mode even five years ago, fill us with a painful in which it is carried out, show the odd con- sense of loss of having parted from ourtrasts—the entire variance in aim and view selves ? A gathering indistinctness man—that may exist under much outward con- tles over what once engaged our time and formity. Something that must be done daily, interest. A chain is broken, and links are and that a task of no absolute necessity, even missing, which should at a touch have taken if it occupy but three or at most five minutes us back to place and scene -recalled to us of every day, is a burden on time and method our fellow-actors in them - brought back which we suspect the majority of men are thoughts, words, and doings in their first not equal to. Everybody at some time of distinctness and reality—and,wanting which, his life begins a journal; but because it ex- all is dull, misty, disconnected, or at best acts a certain punctuality, and because the partially remembered. We are impressed trouble promises no immediate return, and with a sense of self-desertion and neglect, as because, too, people get tired of the seem- though we bad not appreciated life, its pleasing monotony of life,—and the mere bare ures, its associations, as we ought. All perevents of most lives have a way of looking sons recollect what has once deeply and vevery monotonous when written down,-it is, hemently stirred the feelings; and every We believe, seldom persisted in. No one thing and person associated with such occaunderstands the value of such a record till sions will always stand out in strong relief. it is too late to make it what it might be. Something brands particular days and moWe do not suppose there exists a chronicle ments into the most treacherous memory, of the daily doings of a life from childhood into something which is more part of ourto old age, yet we can imagine nothing more selves than memory seems to be. But where interesting and valuable to the man who has this passionate sentiment, whether of grief kept it; and who would not be glad—if it or joy, is missing, as we know'it is to all could be referred to without too keen a self- persons for long tracts of time, we cannot reprouch-of a close and exact memorial of tell. Our inner tablets are too often blurred, his life and actions, and of the influences and have to be deciphered carefully and with brought to bear on them by the progress of very uncertain results. events ?

We are drawing an extreme case, perAre we right in surmising that, by many haps; and there are minds so orderly, and persons, whole tracts of life are forgotten- memories so retentive, that our picture will lost, never to be recovered? If we are mis- convey to them no meaning. But in so far taken, it is only another proof of those inner as it is true, it is an argument for keeping a differences of mental constitution of which record of daily events, however seemingly we have spoken. We suspect, however, that monotonous and trivial--and even the more it is no unusual thing for men to be sepa- so if they present no salient points. For rated from certain stages of their life~from when our days pass in comfort and ease, unevents that happened after they had begun marked by strong excitements, the ingratito reason and to think, and in which they tude of forgetfulness most naturally slips actively shared—by a thick veil of uncon- in; yet what pleasant glimpses will a few sciousness. It may not be utter oblivion lines, containing our comings and goings, perhaps. The memory of them may lie hid and certain familiar names, open out to us, in some corner of the brain of which we have if their definiteness furnishes the key that · lost the key; we may even approach very alone is wanting to bring back a distinct picnear their whereabouts at odd times. Now ture of a past stage of life! And how much and then, they may give a faint intimation of does the most condensed chronicle convey their existence by intangible hints--in dreams) to us when we are fairly separated from it




forever! What sentiment, and even dig- touching interest when read years after. nity, time throws on the persons and influ- The most homely doings are imbued with a ences which we see now so nearly affected certain poetry when we can do them no us, though we scarcely knew it at the time! longer. Facts external to ourselves are inThe record of the most uneventful life falls vested with an historic value as telling us of naturally into chapters, and has its epochs social or of the world's changes. and marked periods of time which stand out But the obvious use, to assist the memquite separate when we can survey the whole ory, or rather to construct an external artiin distinct groups and distances. Nothing ficial memory, is only one out of many reain it is really unimportant unless we were sons for keeping a diary. Diaries kept with wilful triflers, in which case no elaborate this view rarely, if ever, see the light, and formula of confession and self-accusation ought never to see it. All journals that are need teach us a sterner lesson than this brief published have some other object. There epitome of a frivolous existence.

are of course the journals avowedly public, Addison gives a journal, studiously with such as Raikes' Diarythe work and legacy out incident, of a useless insignificant lifem to posterity of an apparently idle life-which a model of thousands of lives then and now. aim at being current history and in which It has always struck us as a strong argument personal matters would be out of place. for journal keeping, though this use of his There is the mixed personal and public satire was not contemplated by the satirist. journal, as Madame D'Arblay's who could What a distinct picture of a state of society, not probably have lived through the cruel and of an individual growing out of that so- dulness of her court life but for taking posciety, does this week of inanities give! Gos- terity into her confidence, and pouring into sip turns into history under our eyes. We what proved not unwilling or unsympathizrealize the sleepy quiet existence when men ing ears the indignities and annoyances inwere content not to think, and clung to au- ficted on her by the old German Duenna. thority—the early hours, the pipe, the coffee- There is no real freedom, no absolute unhouse, the sparse ablutions, the antiquated dress, possible in such compositions, but the costume and cuisine, the knee-strings, the graceful negligée allows an attitude towards shoe-buckle, the wig, cane and tobacco-box, self very congenial to some minds-a sort of the marrow-bone and oxcheek, the corned simpering modesty and flirting humbleness beef, plums, and suet, and Mother Cob's of tone, and a bridled license towards others, mild, and the purl to recover lost appetite. midway between caution and outbreakWe have the walk in the fields, then possi- saying more than might be spoken, but with ble to London citizens. We have the slow a reticence of expression which only faintly progress of news, kept languidly exciting by reveals the unwritten sentiment, yet hoping uncertainty, and all the pros and cons about to excite as much indignant sympathy in the the Grand Vizier, and what Rumor said, and reader as the most unmeasured vituperation. what Mr. Nisby thought, and our hero's There are other journals which seem to act vacillations of dull awe and interest as either the purpose of the child's battered dolla got the ascendant now disturbed dreams mere vent for passion and sore feeling. The when both authorities agree that he is stran- fair page receives all the bitterness, irritagled—now the cheerful vision, “ dreamt that tion, or malevolence which may not find any I drank small beer with the Grand Vizier," other outlet. It is like declaiming to dead because Mr. Nisby did not believe it-now walls. Thoughts are recorded, words are Rumor giving it as her opinion that he was written down, something is done, and the both strangled and beheaded – ending our relief of a scene is secured at no expense suspense at the week's end with the ulti- either to credit or position. It is something matum, “ Grand Vizier certainly dead,” in this spirit that Mrs. Thrale writes of her which would have reached us in three min- old friends in her journal at the time of her utes, and summed up all we knew or cared second marriage. One of the most curious about the matter. It is an image of the life, diaries on record is that consisting of twentypublic and private of the time—as no jour- seven folio volumes from which Mr. Tom nal which tells events can help being in its Taylor constructed the autobiography of degree. The dryest details have a certain Haydon the painter. It is a work to make

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one believe in Mr. Wilkie Collins' diaries as ers mainly know how journals are kept, embodied in his tales, where the people, all of and are instructed in their use; and it is them, spend every alternate waking half-hour here we learn that external differences befor years together, either in vehement, in- tween man and man are often merely faint tense scheming and action, or in writing their shadows of the inner differences which sepschemes and actions down in their journal arate spirit from spirit, in spite of the great -rushing from action to pen, and laying family likeness that runs through us all. down the pen to return to action, with a We beg, in what we say, to distinguish ensee-saw perseverance which we we tirely between self-examination as instituted should not have thought probable or natural by conscience and subject to an external law, but for Haydon's twenty-seven volumes. and religious journals kept not to record He paints and writes, and writes and paints, events, but to register states of feeling. Let much on the same plan; and pours out any one to whom the practice is new sit down hopes and fears, and imperiously invokes to describe himself to himself, and he will high Heaven to make him a painter, at the find it is only the outside he can reach. conception and progress of every picture, in There is something which we feel defies lana way to make the heart bleed when we see guage--which we can only approach by an what an intensity of feeling and ambition amount of study and a pursuit into motives went to the covering of those ugly and huge which issues in a treatise on the understandstretches of canvas where never a man of ing; we are driven from the private to the all his groups stands on his legs. However, general, and landed in metaphysics. We the sad moral of wasted hopes and energies find we have to withdraw from ourself and is not against journal-keeping, even on a stand outside before we can say anything ingigantic scale, but against painting enor-telligible. We are disposed to think that in mous historical pictures without knowledge reading, after an interval, any attempt of or skill, indeed with no qualification but this kind, it is not the real old self that we faith in the will. The journal is a firstrate see, but the state of mind then aimed at. one, though the pictures which constitute its We do not recognize ourself in the person main theme are bad ; and a good journal of drawn. It might pass with a stranger, but a busy life, or rather such a selection of it we know better. We cannot perhaps atas Mr. Taylor has made, is a gift to the tempt a counter-portrait, but we feel this world as good, in its way, as a fine pic- does nothing to represent that intricate, conture.

tradictory, complicated, mysterious being, Most people drawn in any way to the use one's self — mean and poor meaner and of the pen bave been tempted to an ambi- poorer than we can find courage to prove tious effort at journal-keeping in early youth. ourself by example, yet with gleams of someThis is really the impulse of composition. thing higher and better than we fancy other If young people have not a story in their people would ever guess, with something to brains, they turn their thoughts inward ; excuse (as it seems to ourselves) our worst the mysteries of being begin to perplex and basest acts. In fact, our identity bethem, and they sit down fairly to face and comes a question as we muse upon the study self. The notion is natural enough. shadow our pen of the past conjures up. Whom or what should we understand so well Are we the same that wrote this confession as ourself, which we can look into and pon- twenty years ago ? Are we responsible, or der upon any time we choose ? So there is are we not ? We have to sweep away these written a page of life-history with a good cobwebs before we can frankly own deal of solemnity, and a mighty strain, which selves, or take upon our present consciousends in the discovery of a mistake, and the ness the debts and responsibilities of our perception that self is not a more easy thing past. to understand than other people; or proba- We are then driven to the conclusion that, bly it ends in weariness of the maze in which strictly for our own use, these records would the young

student finds himself. But there be without value-would miss their aim as are many people—who never make this dis- being fallacious and superficial. We cannot covery-who persevere in the practice all present a picture of our state of mind at any their days, and through whom ordinary read- I given time which we can honestly call full

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and accurate. We may say things of our-, tween parting with his betrothed and leav-n self that are true, but we cannot read them ing his country forever.' afterwards without a running comment After all, it is a point on which one perchanging or modifying their bearing. And son has no right to prescribe for another. the constant use that these self-portraits are It is possibly a mere case of sympathy, and put to, as well as the extreme vagueness there may be high uses in religious biograwhich characterizes the self-accusation, even phies to those who can appreciate them. while clothing itself in the strongest lan- The journal valuable to everybody, however, guage, excuses us in thinking that in the is the simplest possible record of a man's majority of cases self-teaching has not been own doings, and the dates, that clear up

his the only, perhaps not even the main object. past and arrange it in accurate distances. There is often apparent a deliberate inten- Perhaps, as a fact, the most uneventful lives tion of utilizing the exercise. The thoughts are those most frequently thus noted down. of other readers comes in with influential It is something to do, and gives significance force, dictating a formula, and the journal to what is felt an unimportant career. Lord then only becomes a recognized form of dog- Bacon remarks, “ It is a strange thing that matic teaching, and—as based on the fallacy in sea voyages, where there is nothing to be that others are admitted into an inner pri- seen but sea and sky, men should make diavacy and retirement where they were never ries; but in land-travel, wherein much is to dreamt of-surely not the most useful form. be observed, for the most part they omit it.” Whenever we see that there was actually no The truth is, it is only in novels that the zeal thought or apprehension of other eyes to keep a record increases with the compliwhenever the scrupulous conscience commits cation of business. After a busy day or itself unreservedly to paper-we experience week, our journal is a decided bore ; but we something of the shame of real intruders, need not say the more active and stirring the and feel we are where we ought not to be- life we note down, at some cost, it may be as in the case of some of Froude's curious of our ease, the more valuable, and even satself-torturing confessions, or where Henry isfactory-though satisfaction is by no means Martin reproaches himself for having sat the thing to be aimed at or expected — will silent, and said nothing to the coachman it be in the retrospect, and when we have about his soul, in the few miles' drive be- floated into still waters again.


THE BANDIT AND THE RED Boots.-The | and then cause it to be torn off by the feet. chief of a very desperate gang of banditti who This species of torture the banditti are said to had amassed considerable wealth was taken by practise, as an act of revenge: in the same a soldier and conducted to the governor of the manner, the Americans scalp the heads of their province at Ekalerinoslaf. Great reward had enemies. With this terrible threat, he made been offered for the person of this man, and it bis escape, and no further inquiry was made was supposed he would, of course, be immedi- after him, on the part of the police. The unately knouted. To the astonishment of the sol- daunted soldier, finding the little confidence that dier who had been the means of his apprehen- could be placed in his commander determined sion, a few days only had elapsed when he re- to take the, administration of justice into his ceived a visit from the robber. He had been own hands, and once more adventured in purable to bribe the governor sufficiently to procure suit of the robber, whose flight had spread terhis release, in consequence whereof he bad been ror through the country. After an undertaking liberated from confinement. You have caught full of danger, he found him in one of the little me," said he, addressing the soldier, “this time; subterranean huts in the midst of the Steppes. but before you set out upon another expedition Entering this place with pistols in his hand, in search of me, I will accommodate you with You promised me,” said he, “a pair of red a pair of red boots for the journey.'' Boots boots ; I am come to be measured for them!made of red leather are commonly worn in tho With these words, he discharged one of his Ukraine : but to give a man a pair of red boots, pistols, and killing the robber on the spot, reaccording to the saying of the Tartars, is to turned to his quarters. Clarke's Travels, vol. 1, cut the skin round the upper part of his legs, p. 594.


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