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AT NIGHT.
"Dtino? You do but jest!

You smile in the dark, I know!
Sorely I should know best
How the quick pulses go.
Lav your hand on my cheek:

feel, though you see not, the red.
Why, in another week,
I shall have left my bed!

"It was being so long alone—-
So sick of the world's vain strife,

Uncared for, and unknown,

That supped the springs of life!

Ton have given a world of love:
Nay, soften that anxious brow;

Is not our God above'

Ho will not summon me now.

"The summer is coming fast;

I can scent the rich perfume Of the lilac by the door,

And the delicate apple-bloom. Where shall our year be spent?

I long for the hills of Spain— Wo will go to Rome, for Lent,

Then back to our home again.

"O, what is this sudden pang? Is it growing darker, Will? Heavily goes iny heart,—

It is almost standing still 1 Raise mo—I cannot breathe— Pray for me, love," she said. "Father, into T/iy hands!"

And my young wife was dead.

—Once a Week.

THE UNFINISHED POEM. Take it, reader—idly passing

This, like hundred other lines; Take it, critic, great at classing

Subtle genius' well-known sign. But, O reader! bo thoa dumb; Critic, let no keen wit come; For the hand that wrote or blurred Will not write another word, And trfe soul you scorn or prize Now than angels is more wise.

Take it, heart of man or woman,

This unfinished, broken strain,

Whether it be poor and common,

Or the noblest work of brain;
Let that reverent heart sole sit
Here in judgment over it,
Tenderly, as you could read
(Any one of any creed,
Any churchyard walking by)
"Sacred to'the memory."

Wholly sacred: even as lingers

Final word, or light glance cast, Or last clusp of life-warm fingers

That wo knew not was the last; Wholly gacrcd—as we lay, The day after funeral day, Their dear relics, great or small, Who need nothing, yet have all— All the best of us, that lies 111 I with them in Paradise;

All our highest aspirations,
And our closest love of loves:

Our most silent resignations,
Our best work that man approves;

Yet which jealously we keep

In our mute soul's deepest deep.

So of this imperfect song

Let no echoes here prolong;

For the singer's voice is known

In the heaven of heavens alone.

—All the Year Round.

THE RIVER PATH.

BY JOHN O. WHITTIER.

[The following new and beautiful poem, from our ever-welcome contributor, will be recognized by those who have ever been near his cottage, as a Picture of a Sunset on the Banks of the Merrimac.]—Ed. Independent.

No bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew.
We felt the falling of the dew;
For, from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.

But on the river's furthest side
Wo saw the hill-tops glorified,—

A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom:
With them the sunset's rosy bloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod
Wo gazed upon those hills of God,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun.
Wo spake not, but our thought was one.
We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before;

And stilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal car;

Sudden our pathway turned from night;
The hills swung open to the light:
Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
A long, slant splendor downward flowed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold;
And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side 1

"So," prayed we, " when our feet draw ne«r The river, dark with mortal fear,

And the night comcth chill with dew,
O, Father!—let thy light break through 1
So let the hills of doubt divide,
So bridge with faith the sunless tide!
So let the eyes that fail on earth
On thy eternal hills look forth;
And in thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below I"

Indfjtendtat.

FLORA.

"Thet've gone to meet me." Well, we must

have crossed

Each other on the road, so I have lost
Instead of gaining time, and quite in vain
I roused myself to catch the earlier train.
I must have patience; he will soon bo here—
My dear old father—more than ever dear
After these weary years; and she—but no,
Such thoughts will" make the flight of time more

slow.

This dear old garden! I nm glad to be
Once more within it. I remember she
Was queen of this fair realm, with watchful care
Tending each flower; herself by far more fair
Than all her subject lilies; sweeter too
Than any rosebud wet with evening dew.

I see I cannot drive these thonghts away,

But now I feel less vexed by the delay.

This charming, tranquil scene has soothing

power—

The rich perfume of many a fragrant flower,
Wafted upon the sweet, fresh English air,
The linnet singing its leafy lair,
The babbling moat, the busy hum of bees
Hovering around those limes (the dear old trees !)
This lovely spot so full of calm and peace,
Have stilled my longings, bid my fever cease.

It must have been a dream. I thought I lay
In the Hall garden, far—so far away;
But now I nm awake, and up I spring,
Roused by n sergeant, who has come to bring
Tidings which stir my blood. "To horse! to

horse!"

I shout; the bugle sounds, our scanty force
Is quickly in the saddle. Off we ride,
As hunters dash from English covert side.
But ours is fiercer game. Ah ! there they go
Our swarthy-visagcd, snowy-turbnned foe!
Hark I 'tis a cry for help !' 'Tis she 1 'tis she!
The fair young bride of my best friend; and he
Lies dead,—but we'll avenge his death or die.
"Revenge and rescue 1 Charge I " I hoarsely

cry,

And, glancing back, I see each trooper's brow
Dark with a frown. There is no flinching now;
Though ten to one outnumbered by the foe,
'Tis a wild race to strike the earliest blow.
All I we have reached them 1 Through their

ranks we dash With speed unchecked; pistols and carbines

flash,

And keen-edged sabres, bright no longer, wave,
As on we press their prisoner to save.
Too late 1 too late! A random, fatal blow
Has reached her breast—alas! 'tis better so.

Though wo are few, the rebels take to flight,
And we pursue, feeling a grim delight

At dealing death among the craven rout;
But, wild with ragennd shame, one turns about.
And o'er his head his sabre keen uproars,
Upon my arm it fulls—a gleam of light,

0 God! great God! through flesh and bone it

shears, I reel, I drop, and all is dark as night.

*****
Once more I gain my senses. Where am I?
Upon a noble vessel s deck I lie,
Feeble and maimed I seek old England's shore,
For I can take my sword in hand no more.
Down at my empty sleeve I cast my eye,
And then with little real success I try
To find some consolation for the loss
In thinking of that priceless, simple cross—
"Reward of Valor. She is sure to prire
The toy; but what a sight to meet her eyes.

Is my brain fevered still? Mcthinks the scene
Suddenly changes; for the tender green
Of all arovnd, the cooler sky above,
And gentle breeze, soft as the voice of love.
Tell of another clime—of England—home.
More dear to me since I began to roam.
A garden, quaint and old, aronnd extends,
Filled with sweet flowers, my old, familiar

friends,

Not gorgeous, as their Eastern compeers are,
But to my home-sick spirit dearer for.

1 still am gazing, when a joyful cry
Falls on my car and makes the vision fly.
I start, I wnko, but to a scene as fair,
The very same indeed—oh joy! for there
My cousin Flora stands with all her charms.

"Flora! Dear Flora!" breathlessly I call; "My love! my life!"—Ah! she is in my arms

My arm, I mean, but this repays for nil. —Rational Magazine. Asok.

WHERE THE GREENWOODS GROW. On, let me roam where the greenwoods grow, Where the primrose springs and the blue-bells

blow, Where the shades of eve through the forest

creep,

And the pearly dews on the flow'rcts sleep.
I love to roam when the golden gleam
Of evening plays with the crystal stream;
And muse while the zephyrs sadly sigh,
As the darkling hour of night draws nigh.

Oh, let me roam where the greenwood grows,

While the stars come forth as the sunshine goei,

For n joy npsprings in every flower.

To cheer the gloom of the gloaming hoar.

And for lonely ones, at the close of day,

A joy is lienrd in the dulcet lay

Of the wild-birds' song, so soft and low,

In the shaded dells where the greenwoods grow.

National Alagazine.

No. 851.—22 September, 1860.

Contents.

FAQS.

1. Alexis de Tocqueville, ..... Fraser's Magazine, 707

2. Memoirs of Bishop Hurd, .... Examiner, 711

3. Moral Conquests—Napoleon HI., . . . Saturday Review, 714

4. Works of Roger Bacon, .... Examiner, 716

5. Under Chloroform, Cornhill Magazine, 720

6. Curiosities of Natural History, . . . Examiner, 724

7. Great Deserts of North America, . . . Spectator, 726

8. An Old Man's Memories, .... National Magazine, 731

9. Hill's Travels in Peru and Mexico, . . . Examiner, 738

10. The Celestial Railroad, ..... Nathaniel Hawthorne, 740

11. Politics as a Profession—Governor Banks, . N. Y. Evening Post, 748

12. The Dust in a Sunbeam, .... Once a Week, 750

13. The Mausoleum Marbles, Chambers's Journal, 754

14. Turkish Shops and Shopkeepers, . . . All the Year Hound, 759

15. Panama Hats London Illustrated News, 766

Poetry.—Ode to Garibaldi, 706. The Country Church, 706. Shakspeare's Women, 768. The Golden Year, 768.

Short Articles.—Bumptious and Gumption, 719. England at the close of the American War, 723. Dinner Etiquette, 723. Napoleon I. on the Divinity of Christ, 725. Etymologies, 730, 737, 739, 753, 758. Neapolitan Courage, 730. Mr. Bronte, 747. Miss Warner, 747. Holding up the Hand, 749. Spiriting Away, 753. Mottoes of Regiments, 758. The Dry Rot in Men, 758. High Life below Stairs, 765. The Fruit of the Forbidden Tree Poisonous, 765. J. G. Lockhart on Dr. Maginn, 767.

NEW BOOKS.

The Wild Sports Of India: with Remarks on tho Breeding and Hearing of Horses, and the formation of Light and Irregular Cavalry, By Captain Henry Shakespeare, Commandant Nagporo Irregular Force. Ticknor and Fields, Boston.

tt'in; Eioiith Commandhsnt. By Cuarlcs Reade. Ticknor and Fields, Boston.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY

LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON.

For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the PuWishfrs, the Lmso Age Till be punctually forWVded free of postage.

Complete set* of the First Scries, in thirty-Fix volumes, and of the Second .-: n, •. in twenty volume*, handsomely bound, packed la neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cltiea, free of expense of freight, are for salt ftt two dollars a volume. »

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Ant Numbeb may be had for 13 cento; and It b well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete mnj broken roluniea they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value.

ODE TO GARIBALDI. .

Whence comes that mighty sound, Awakening underground The buried victims of oppression's rod; And rising to the sky. Swells in rich harmony With the bright elioir that fronts the throne of

God;

Till heaven gives back to eartli again, la fuller tones, the animating strain'

Louder and louder still, From valley and from hill, Rings the glad shout, delighting nature's ear; I for long, with bitter smart,

Tlie mother's tender heart Had bled with anguish for her children dear, Who, crushed and helpless in their living tomb, Struggle for second birth within her laboring womb.

Again, and still again,

O'er the exulting main,
Meeting the half-stifled cry of misery

From tyranny's dark cells,

The sacred anthem swells, To that wild summons making glad reply— "We come, the sous of Freedom come to save, To bind the tyrant, and let loose the slave 1"

Upon his throne a thing,

Misnamed by men a King,
Heard the lamcntings with inhuman glee;

While round about him stood.

Disguised in stole and hood,
Monsters in human shape more vile than he,
A hellish crew in sacred vesture drest,
The vermin of the State, the Church's pest.

But when sweet Freedom's song

Burst on the godless throng, Their fiendish joy was turned to coward hate;

And like untempered clay,

Crumbled in swift decay
The shatter'd fragments of their rotten state;
As when of old the city's bulwarks fell,
At the loud shout of God-led Israel.

Now swiftly o'er the sea

The sons of liberty— A chosen band on Heaven's own errand sent—

Steer for that lovely strand

That girds tho fettered land, In their great cause and leader confident; For Garibaldi led them to the fight. The generous champion of the people's right.

As when the morning light

Scares tho foul things of night Back to their native homes and kindred gloom;

So from the patriot's eye

The tyrant's minions fly,
Like guilty spirits nt tho crack of doom I
While banished hope returns with joyous mien,
And smiling Nature lightens all the scene.

O Freedom's truest son!
Bravely thy work was done!
And every Heart that melts for human woo

Shall bless thy gallant name,

And glory in thy fame,

More glorious than kings and emperors know. Thy noble deeds shall time and change defy, When thrones and crowns in dark oblivion lie! —National Magazine,

THE COUNTRY CHURCH.
The blue of the forget-me-not

Is blossoming in the sky,
The gentian-flower's most inner heart

Hath not so deep a dye;
'Tis purest sapphire liquefied,
That glows in glory and in pride.

The young leaves on the elder rods
Shine with a thin soft gold;

The cock, the farmyard sultan,
Struts in the sunshine bold,

Transparent crimson all his crest,

lied brazen plumes upon his breast.

A sabbath stillness fills the air:

The very larks aloft,
Scaling the white rose-puffs of cloud,

Are singing hushed and soft;
With pious meditation, feed
The tranquil cows in the green mead.

Patient and blind, with Samson strength,
- The village church doth stand,
The hearse-plume yew its only kith

In all this English land,
The warder for long centuries
Of these poor country crofts and leas.

The rainbow glass hns gone to dust,

The dial's lightning-rent,
The weathercock upon the roof

Is crazed and tempest-bent;
The weather-beaten tower stands there,
Rapt in its long nnccasing prayer.

A curious latticing of shade

Under tlic windows falls
A flickering of tho yew-tree's gloom.

Wavering on mouldy walls.
You hear the blackbirds in the calm,
Between the pauses of the psalm.

The sunshine on the battered tombs

Sheds benedictions—smiles,
That passing, bless tho children there

Sitting along the aisles;
While swallows underneath the eaves
Chatter about the coming leaves.

Tho vicar for a moment stops—

Tho thrushes in tho laurels
Break in upon tho half-read hymn

With snatches of their carols;
The sparrow on the window-sill
Chirps with much love, but little skill.

On Sundays, how brave faces crowd

As the old bell tolls in!
Glossy their hair, happy their eyes.

Rich crimson brown their skin— Pulling their forelocks down, they go, What time the organ 'gins to blow. -Chambers'* Journal. W. T.

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Life in this sublunary world derives its chief value from its use alone; and contemplated in this aspect of tho great English moralist, there are few men in any country whose career was more precious, and whose existence was more valuable, in a public sense, than that of Alexis de Tocquevillc, j who expired on the 16th of April last, at Hycres, on the shores of tho Mediterranean, in the fifty-fourth year of his age. He had; been for a considerable while suffering from the progress of an insidious disease, but it was only within the last five or six months that hia friends unwillingly and mournfully' renounced all hope of his ultimate recovery.

M. de Tocqueville was the son of the Baron de Tocqueville, a member of the Council' General of the Oise, and President of the Agricultural Society of Compiegne. His father, a man of literary tastes, had distinguished himself as a statistician, economist, and administrator during the Empire and the Restoration, and had published at Compiegne more than one work connected with the moral ] and social economy of the Department of the Oisc, in which he resided. In the earlier days of the Empire, amidst the triumphs of Marcngo and the coronation of Milan, young Alexis was born, and ere he could lisp the words Papa or AJaman, the battle of Austerlitz was gained, and the Austrians and Russians pursued, fcpec dans les reins, by the victorious French. For a period of full seven years the astonishing military successes of the Emperor of the French continued, and when young de Tocquevillc had reached the age of reason, though the military prospects of his country were not so bright as in 1805 (the year of his birth), yet, still his country showed a bold front against coalesced Europe. In those days every young man in Franco was a soldier. No sooner did the boy of seven or eight escape from the hands of his Ixmne, than he was clad in the uniform of some military school or college, and drilled and disciplined as though tho main, tho only business of life were to fight battles and maintain sieges. Seven or eight years of this Lard and merciless system had, witli all its compensations of glory, somewhat dissatisfied France; and when the Russian campaign was fairly entered on in 1812, fathers of families became more and more desponding, and less hopeful of the result. France had then to maintain an aggressive war not only in Russia and Germany, but in Spain and Portugal, at a season, too, when the national instincts of all these hostile nations seemed roused to frenzy against the aggressor. The evil days at length came, in 1814 and: 1815,

when the tide of invasion was to be turned back on France herself— when she was to find picquets of Cossacks encamped in the Champs Elysees and strange uniforms glittering in the streets of Paris.

Alexis do Tocqueville was old enough to remember these events, which produced a deep impression on his young mind. His fii-st serious studies were made under the -;ovcrnment of Louis XVIII., a restored king, himself a man of letters and a philosopher, and a liberal also, in a certain sense. A member of a family who had served the Bourbons, the father of young De Tocqueville witnessed the extinction of the Empire without any very poignant regrets. Like all intelligent and moderate men in France, the Baron de Tocqueville had seen the resources and wealth of France wasted in a fruitless attempt at universal dominion, and he was rejoiced to find that, at length, there was the hope of his countrymen enjoying a moderate and well-balanced representative government. With the return of peace, liberal and serious studies were resumed by the youth of France. Classical, historical, and economical prelections resumed their place in the general system of a liberal education, and were conjointly cultivated with tho exact sciences, the objects of <i too exclusive devotion during the time of the first Napoleon. Under this better and more civil system, Alexis cle Tocqueville was brought up. He was instructed in the literature of Greece and Rome, as well as in that of England; and history and political economy occupied a large share of his attention. In almost all the eighty-six departments of Franco there are a number of places connected with the magistracy which enjoy a high consideration. In the ancient monarchy of France, as well as under the restored Bourbons, the magistrature served to temper the severity of absolute power, and by its calmness and dignity formed a species of bulwark between the crown and the people. The names of L'Hospital, of Mold, of Harlay, of D'Agucssau, of Seguicr, and Malesherbcs (from whom, on the mother's side, Dc Tocqueville descended) are associated with this order, and linked with memories most honorable to France. Tho family of Dc Tocqneville had, in past times, illustrated the gown, and under these circumstances it was not astonishing that the father of Alexis de Tocqueville should educate him for the law. lie received all tho varied instruction which could be supplied by the best professors, and was admitted a member of the French bar in 1825. In the following year of 1826 he was named Juge (TInstruction at Versailles. The functions of the Juge dInstruct ion in France relate principally to crimes and punishments, to the col

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