Our life was but a battle and a march; And, like the wind's blast, never-resting, homeless, We stormed across the war convulsed earth.' soiled and sinful. They resemble those convents | of the state and age, and could say with Wallenstein' on the river Rhine, which have been changed to taverns; from whose chambers the pious inmates have long departed, and in whose cloisters the footsteps of travellers have effaced the images of buried saints, and whose walls are written over with ribaldry and the names of strangers, and resound no more with holy hymns, but with revelry and loud voices. Both town and country have their dangers, said the Baron; and therefore, wherever the scholar lives, he must never forget his high vocation. Other artists give themselves up wholly to the study of their art. It becomes with them almost religion. For the most part, and in their youth, at least, they dwell in lands, where the whole atmosphere of the soul is beauty; laden with it as the air may be with vapor, till their very nature is saturated with the genius of their art. Such, for example, is the artist's life in Italy. I agree with you, exclaimed Flemming; and such should be the Poet's everywhere; for he has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world,—and the glories of a modern one, his Apollo and Transfiguration. He must neither forget nor undervalue his vocation; but thank God that he is a poet; and everywhere be true to himself, and to the vision and the faculty divine' he feels within him. But, at any rate, a city life is most eventful, continued the Baron. The men who make, or take, the lives of poets and scholars, always complain that these lives are barren of incidents. Hardly a literary biography begins without some such apology, unwisely made. I confess, however, that it is not made without some show of truth; if, by incidents, we mean only those startling events, which suddenly turn aside the stream of Time, and change the world's history in an hour. There is certainly a uniformity, pleasing or unpleasing, in literary life, which for the most part makes to-day seem twin-born with yesterday. But if, by incidents, you mean events in the history of the human mind, (and why not?) noiseless events, that do not scar the forehead of the world as battles do, yet change it not the less, then surely the lives of literary men are most eventful. The complaint and the apology are both foolish. I do not see why a successful book is not as great an event as a successful campaign; only different in kind, and not easily compared. Indeed, interrupted Flemming, in no sense is the complaint strictly true, though at times apparently so. Events enough there are, were they all set down. A life, that is worth writing at all, is worth writing minutely. Besides, all literary men have not lived in silence and solitude;-not all in stillness, not all in shadow. For many have lived in troubled times, in the rude and adverse fortunes Of such examples history has recorded many; Dante, Cervantes, Byron, and others; men of iron; men who have dared to breast the strong breath of public opinion, and, like spectre-ships, come sailing right against the wind. Others have been puffed out by the first adverse wind that blew; disgraced and sorrowful, because they could not please others. Truly the tears live in an onion, that should water such a sorrow.' Had they been men, they would have made these disappointments their best friends, and learned from them the needful lesson of self-reliance. To confess the truth, added the Baron, the lives of literary men, with their hopes and disappointments, and quarrels and calamities, present a melancholy picture of man's strength and weakness. On that very account the scholar can make them profitable for encouragement,-consolation,— warning. And after all, continued Flemming, perhaps the greatest lesson, which the lives of literary men teach us, is told in a single word; Wait!-Every man must patiently bide his time. He must wait. More particularly in lands, like my native land, where the pulse of life beats with such feverish and impatient throbs, is the lesson needful. Our national character wants the dignity of repose. We seem to live in the midst of a battle,-there is such a din,— such a hurrying to and fro. In the streets of a crowded city it is difficult to walk slowly. You feel the rushing of the crowd, and rush with it onward. In the press of our life it is difficult to be calm. In this stress of wind and tide, all professions seem to drag their anchors, and are swept out into the main. The voices of the Present say, Come! But the voices of the Past say, Wait! With calm and solemn footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushing torrent up stream, and pushes back the hurrying waters. With no less calm and solemn footsteps. nor less certainly, does a great mind bear up against public opinion, and push back its hurrying stream. Therefore should every man wait;-should bide his time. Not in listless idleness,-not in useless pastime,-not in querulous dejection; but in constant steady, cheerful endeavours, always willing and fulfilling, and accomplishing his task, that, when the occasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion. And if it never comes, what matters it? What matters it to the world whether I, or you, or another man did such a deed, or wrote such a book, sobeit the deed and book were well done! It is the past of an indiscreet and troublesome ambition, to care too much about fame,-about what the world says of us. To be always looking into the faces of others for approval;-to be always anxious for the effect At the fireside of the great, hospitable sun, to-morrow, not before;-they must sit in wet garments until then. In the South of what we do and say; to be always shouting to hear the echo of our own voices! If you look about you, you will see men, who are wearing life away in feverish anxiety of fame, and the last we shall In all climates Spring is beautiful. ever hear of them will be the funeral bell, that tolls it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself. them to their early graves! Unhappy men, and un- The birds begin to sing;-they utter a few rapturous successful! because their purpose is, not to accom- notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent plish well their task, but to clutch the trick and woods. Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, fantasy of fame'; and they go to their graves with make holiday in the neighbouring marshes. They, purposes unaccomplished and wishes unfulfilled. | too, belong to the orchestra of Nature; whose vast Better for them, and for the world in their example, theatre is again opened, though the doors have been had they known how to wait! Believe me, the talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well; and doing well whatever you do, without a thought of fame. If it come at all, it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after. And, moreover, there will be no misgivings, no disappointment,-no hasty, fever-plants and trees; and the blood through the veins of ish, exhausting excitement. SPRING IN HEIDELBERG. It was a sweet carol, which the Rhodian children sang of old in Spring, bearing in their hands, from door to door, a swallow, as herald of the season; "The Swallow is come! The Swallow is come! O fair are the seasons, and light And her bosom snowy white." A pretty carol, too, is that, which the Hungarian boys, on the islands of the Danube, sing to the returning stork in Spring; "Stork! Stork! poor Stork! But what child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, where Spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the East-wind nailed to the mast! Yet even here, and in the stormy month of March even, there are bright, warm mornings, when we open our windows to inhale the balmy air. The pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the whirring sound of wings. Old flies crawl out of the cracks, to sun themselves; and think it is summer. They die in their conceit; and so do our hearts within us, when the cold sea-breath comes from the eastern sea; and again, "The driving hail so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost, like cobwebs. This is the prelude, which announces the rising of the broad green curtain. Already the grass shoots forth. The waters leap with thrilling pulse through the veins of the earth; the sap through the veins of the man. What a thrill of delight in spring-time! What a joy in being and moving! Men are at work in gardens; and in the air there is an odor of the fresh earth. The leaf-buds begin to swell and blush. The white blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs like snow-flakes; and ere long our nextdoor neighbours will be completely hidden from us by the dense green foliage. The May-flowers open their soft blue eyes. Children are let loose in the fields and gardens. They hold butter-cups under each others' chins, to see if they love butter. And the little girls adorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions; pull out the yellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the down from the leafless stalk, to find out if their mothers want them at home. And at night so cloudless and so still. Not a voice of living thing,-not a whisper of leaf or waving bough,-not a breath of wind,-not a sound upon the earth nor in the air! And overhead bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innumerable stars, like the inverted bell of some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing fragrance. Or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and rain; but clouds that melt and fall in showers. One does not wish to sleep: but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of the dropping rain. MAN'S DESTINY. Just observe what a glorious thing human life is, when seen in this light; and how glorious man's Upon the window beats with icy flail." destiny. I am; thou art; he is! seems but a schoolThe red-flowering maple is first in blossom, its boy's conjugation. But therein lies a great mystery. beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fortnight before These words are significant of much. We behold the leaves. The moose-wood follows, with rose- all round about us one vast union, in which no man colored buds and leaves; and the dog-wood, robed can labor for himself without laboring at the same in the white of its own pure blossoms. Then comes time for all others; a glimpse of truth, which by the the sudden rain-storm; and the birds fly to and fro, universal harmony of things becomes an inward and shriek. Where do they hide themselves in such benediction, and lifts the soul mightily upward. storms? at what firesides dry their feathery cloaks? | Still more so, when a man regards himself as a ne cessary member of this union. The feeling of our dignity and our power grows strong, when we say to ourselves; My being is not objectless and in vain ; I am a necessary link in the great chain, which, from the full developement of consciousness in the first man, reaches forward into eternity. All the great, and wise, and good among mankind, all the benefactors of the human race, whose names I read in the world's history, and the still greater number of those, whose good deeds have outlived their names, all those have labored for me. I have entered into their harvest. I walk the green earth, which they inhabited. I tread in their footsteps, from which blessings grow. I can undertake the sublime task, which they once undertook, the task of making our common brotherhood wiser and happier. I can build forward, where they were forced to leave off; and bring nearer to perfection the great edifice which they left uncompleted. And at length I, too, must leave it, and go hence. O, this is the sublimest thought of all! I can never finish the noble task; therefore, so sure as this task is my destiny, I can never cease to work, and consequently never cease to be. What men call death cannot break off this task, which is never ending; consequently no period is set to my being, and I am eternal. I lift my head boldly to the threatening mountain-peaks, and to the roaring cataract, and to the storm-clouds swimming in the fire-sea overhead and say; I am eternal, and defy your power! Break, break over me! and thou Earth, and thou Heaven, mingle in the wild tumult! and ye Elements foam and rage, and destroy this atom of dust,-this body, which I call mine! My will alone, with its fixed purpose, shall hover brave and triumphant over the ruins of the universe; for I have comprehended my destiny; and it is more durable than ye! It is eternal; and I, who recognise it, I likewise am eternal! Far from our ranks be that timid sentiment of Erasmus, "Peaceful error is better than boisterous truth." That was the shrinking sensitiveness of a secluded student, whom the rough sounds of free discussion had never hardened into manly vigor, and hopeful quiet trust in the power of truth. Better, far better, the heroic advice of old Bancreldt, free. dom's martyr, "Peace, if possible, but truth at any rate."-WENDELL PHILLIPS. They are indeed long shadows, and their evening sunshine lies cold upon the earth; but they all point toward the morning.-JEAN PAUL. It is ever to the injury of essentials, that the mind of man is preoccupied with secondary matter. How often was I not forced in bitterness of heart to say, I must tread the wine-press alone?' THE YANKEE GIRL. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. She sings by her wheel, at that low cottage-door, Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door- skin; Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, But thou art too lovely and precious a gem Oh, come to my home, where my servants shall all awe, And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law." Oh, could ye have seen her-that pride of our girls— "Go back, haughty Southron! thy treasures of gold raves, Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over slaves! Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel, THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. The ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat remarkable event in the history of Puritan intolerance. Two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who had been himself imprisoned, and deprived of all his property, for having entertained two Quakers at his house, were fined 10 pounds each for non-attendance at church-which they were unable to pay. The case being represented to the general court at Boston, that body, in obedience to the suggestions of its ghostly advisers, and conscience-keepers, issued an order, which may still be seen on the court records, bearing the signature of Edward Rawson, Secretary, by which the treasurer of the County was fully empowered to sell the said persons to any of the English nation at Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines." An attempt was made to carry this barbarous order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies.-Vide Sewall's History, pp. 225-6. G. Bishop. To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, From the scoffer and the cruel he hath plucked the spoil away, Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set his handmaid free! Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison-bars, Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by; All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there-the shrinking and the shame; Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed? "Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet, "" Why sit'st thou here Cassandra ?-Bethink thee with what mirth "Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken, No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of Autumn the youthful hunters braid. O! weak, deluded maiden!-by crazy fancies led, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; "Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine, "And what a fate awaits thee ?-a sadly toiling slave, Oh! ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison shackles fell, Bless the Lord for all his mercies!-for the peace and love I felt, Slow broke the grey cold morning; again the sunshine fell, At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast, And doubt and fear fell on me; shame burned upon my cheek; Then the dreary shadows scattered like a cloud in morning breeze, And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these: "Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall, Trust still His loving kindness whose power is over all." We paused at length, where at my feet the sun-lit waters broke And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold, And poisoning with his evil words, the ruler's ready ear, I cried "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek, |