himself, and also to the Pope, if it must be so. For the holy father knows his power abroad, and makes terms now, with a will of his own.
If Louis Napoleon supports him with bay-Ir needs not beauty to adorn the face, onets, he reciprocates the support with missals; if France holds down the body of Rome, Rome holds down the mind of France; and Pius the Ninth, accounting himself acquitted, declines to throw into the bargain the coronation that Louis Napoleon asks at his hands.
For us in this country, who are even now struggling with the last remains of the difficulty to secure civil instruction independently of ecclesiastical control, the view of the opposite extremity of the struggle is useful. On the Continent, Popery is gaining ground exactly as Absolutism advances; Protestantism in like manner yields by whole states-Hungary fallen, Belgium tottering, France herself no longer neutral. It would, however, be greatly to misconstrue this spectacle if we were to derive from it no more than the impulse to engage in an anti-Popery agitation. If you seek to meet Popery doctrinally and spiritually, you can only do so by rivalling its own despotic measures - by forbidding it to preach or to think after its own fashion and dictating another; by destroying, in short, that very freedom of the atmosphere in which genuine Popery cannot survive. In thorough freedom Popery becomes absolutely harmless like a mephitic gas in a high wind. In the United States, Popery cannot maintain even the nominal statistics of its hereditary population. In no tabulated statement of the religious denominations in the American Union shall find any you numbers equivalent to the indubitable heirs in blood of the Catholic immigrants. The priests of Ireland well know that fact, and hence their dread of emigration. Their flocks might become wealthier across the Atlantic, but Peter's pence are not a staple of American produce. But how is it that this tremendous spiritual engine becomes powerless on the other side of the sea? Because in the great republic there is absolute freedom for all sects, and possession of temporal authority for none. It is that privation of temporal power which leaves the ecclesiastic without power to coerce. felt even in Italy, where Sardinia has been endeavoring to establish a gradual Protestantism by withdrawing civil authority from ecclesiastics; but, wanting Protestant support, Sardinia has yielded under the threats by which Austria backed the Pope. If civil power be left in ecclesiastical hands, it will still be an object towards which Rome would work by systematic encroachments. She has almost regained in France what she is trying to regain in England; her chances of success being exactly in proportion to the restricted state of opinion and education.
Nor flexile limbs to give the motions grace. And glowed with lovelier life at every stroke, As from the shapeless block Apollo broke So glows with freshening charms the homeliest When warm affection plies the sculptor's trade. When young Jane Markland came to teach our school
So mild the mistress learning won the child, The village children loved her gentle rule; And hardest words grew easy when she smiled. But not all smiles; the teacher knew to frown And keep disorder by a whisper down ; Heavy her brows when idlers mocked her reign,
And, half by chance, her hand would touch the
So ermined judges thrill the crowd with awe By useless mace, and sword they never draw. Our curate-white his hair and warm his heart, By merit fitted for a loftier part,
But pleased and happy 'mid the flock he tends, Unmarked by bishops-rich in humbler friends, Our curate ne'er grew tired of lauding Jane, And soared at once to Ciceronian strain: "Since first," he says, " to teach our school she I scarce believe the village is the same; A neatness now pervades our cottage rooms; Our cottage walls are sweet with summer blooms; I find a book on every table spread, Where morn and eve the word of God is read; Neat prints-the fruit of gathered pence
Refinement never dreamt of long ago; The weather's self seems better than of yore; The school-boys sweep the road before the door, And then, in all she does she's so sincere, T is pity she's so very plain, my dear.”
Yes; Jane was plain; in truth, I've often heard A stranger paint her by a harsher word. For coarse she was in feature, dull her eyes, Her gait ungainly and enlarged her size; Yet ne'er came child of Eve bereft of all The charms, Eve's only dowry since the fall; Some link remains by which the bond we trace Between the loveliest and the plainest face. Tells us the ugliest is a woman still; Some one expression that, with instant thrill, White teeth had Jane, and lips that well exprest Each thought, fear, feeling of her gentle breast. One night, when winds that had been loud all day
And left the trees unmoved, while overhead Beneath the troubled moonlight died away, Large jagged clouds o'er all the blue were spread; Swiftly across the sky their squadrons passed As if for safety flying from the blast; You seemed to hear the tempest as it swept Though sound was none, and calm the village
To Jane's low casement came a stealthy tread : A voice was heard. "Are you still up?" it said.
Jane laid the iron down. "Who's here so late? What, Widow Snow! Come in." I may not wait The moon is hid; a piping gust I hear That shows too well a storm is drawing near; The boats are all returned, save only one, And that-oh, Jane! I tremble for my son; Heedless and bold he is, nor used to guide The boat in darkness to our jetty's side." Jane heard the widow and no word she spoke ; But struck the lanthorn's light and pinned her cloak;
""Tis a wild night; I hear the sea," she said, And swiftly to the shore the way she led.
Deep furrows in the sand and shook the shore. "Can you see nothing, Jane?" the widow cried. "There is no boat in motion far or wide; There's nothing to be seen but the tall crest Of the land breakers; blackness hides the rest. Stop! there was something dark, a moment seen, Now sunk in the deep trough, the seas between; Again! it is a boat! Heaven help the crew! Through all this coil I heard a wild halloo. Go, dearest widow ! to the bay below.
Knocked at some doors, her tale of grief displayed, And half the village rose to give her aid.
John Dire, the roughest, kindest man alive, Was sixty years, and owned to forty-five; A navy surgeon, thirty years afloat, The anchor button still adorned his coat ; M. D. his rank, but little squared his rules With tedious lessons learned in musty schools; Sharp and decisive was his word; his hand Had knife, pill, bolus ever at command; His language rough, adorned with words so queer
That even our curate sometimes smiled to hear; Storm-beat his cheeks, as if his days had past Howling defiance to the northern blast, Yet warm his feelings, though his words uncouth, Unchilled by age and generous as in youth.
And round the three the mourning neighbors Meantime the crowd had gathered on the strand,
Back drew the crowd. With careful hand he pressed
Jane drew the widow off, who slowly woke, The boatman's wrist, and felt within his breast; And while the leech was silent, no one spoke. To see the other sufferer next he went, And uttered various grunts that spoke content. "Bill Bosford has no watery death to dread, Give him some grog and put the dog to bed.
Hold forth the lanthorn, it their course will Unsling the main-sail of that boat; with care show;
If they hold on there may be safety yet.
Lay Snow within -" and then, with threatening air,
they come- -oh God! the boat 's He bade the crowd go- but I can't say where. Jane hurried homeward, stirred the fire, and
Loud screamed the widow and the lanthorn
With steadier fingers Jane the burden took; And raised it high in air its light to show, And, anxious hoping, waved it to and fro. On a long shoreward swell that rushed in might From the black, weltering distance into light An upturned keel she sees; with hideous roar The wave repulsed ejects it on the shore : And on the fragments, drenched, insensate, cold, Two human forms still keep their deadly hold. The lanthorn's light their features gave to view, But Hope expired to mark their pallid hue. Prone lay the widow on that fatal sand, Her dead hand closed upon her son's dead hand.
Within a garden from our street withdrawn, With twenty feet in front by way of lawn, Our Doctor's house- three-storied, roofed with slate-
Retired, yet public, keeps manorial state, A gabled stable helps its airs of pride, The surgery window decks the other side. Thither hied Jane; in language clear though fast
Summoned his aid, and shoreward quickly passed;
Before its blaze her choicest feather bed. When footsteps sounded at her garden gate She oped the door, and in was borne the weight. Oh! strange the ease that use and skill supply! 'Neath Dire's quick hand all difficulties fly; Soon on the cheek a languid color glows, Slow beats the pulse; the eyelids half unclose ; With many a muttered oath-which Heaven forgive! -
The doctor swears at last the boy will live, Puts to his lips a flask; and, with a strain, Snow lifts his eyes and gazes first on Jane. "Let the dog lie," says Dire; "here let him lie;
If you disturb the scoundrel's rest he 'll die." Then sat he down, and to the listening few Who close and closer round his arm-chair drew, Told he such tales, as filled them with affright, Of all his doings after Algier's fight; The bones he sawed, the wounds he stanched,
Then changed the theme; and next the surgeon | No more he sought his comrades on the shore, told
friends, Bids them go home; but speaks with honor due To watchful Jane, and tells her what to do. Then, muttering many curses, for display Goes homeward, shivering timbers all the way. His are no curses; even our priest declares They 're but a topsy-turvey kind of prayers; A sort of enmity that fires no lead, But volleys on its starving foes- with bread.
Jane and the widow watched the youth's repose, And helped him home when earliest morn arose. His was the farm that close and sheltered lay 'Neath the tall Downs that guard our tiny bay; A rock-strewn farm, with many a deep ravine, Where babbling runlets run their course unseen, Till 'tween split rocks they sparkle into day, Or roar in jets and noiseless glide away, Humble the home where Widow Snow abode, But picturesque and lovely from the road; For climbing creeper hid the mouldering wall, And clustered roses made amends for all; A leasehold farm, with such a term to run, It might outlast, she said, her grandson's son. By favorite names each little field was known, And save in name the fields were all her own; And scarce more pride can fill an emperor's breast,
When countless armies march at his behest, Than filled poor Widow Snow when she surveyed Her twelve fat cows beneath the elm-trees' shade, But pride- unblest with riches—is a snare; And many a grief had Widow Snow to bear. A farmer she; a pew at church her own; Yet ne'er aspired to silk or satin gown, While tradesmen's wives, even nursemaids of place,
Rustled in silk and veiled themselves in lace. But pride had heavier falls; for, as he grew, The hopes she cherished in her son were few. Loving to her he was; but idle, wild- He tired of home, and revelled while she toiled; He scorned the land that filled her heart with pride,
But cast his net; the tireless ore he plied, Mixed with the common crew, half-shared a boat, And ne'er was happy saving when afloat.
Nor scorned the home that had been dull before. When Jane walked up at evenings there was he, Kind host, to hand her countless cups of tea, To press the muffin while it yet was warm, And all the rural dainties of the farm; Nor this alone, but books he tried to read; If dark the sense Jane helped him at his need. A slate he bought, and toiled with many a fret, Through sums, and weights, and measures dry and wet.
The maid still aided when a puzzler came, And joy at her assistance drowned the shame. Once said his mother, "What a girl is Jane! How good her heart! Alas, that she's so plain!" John oped his eyes as if he scarcely heard Or strove to attain the meaning of the word. Plain ?" he exclaimed; "I know not what you
The mother archly smiled, and blushed the son. When first they saw her at the Whitefield stile, Said Widow Snow, "Just tell her of her smile." But silent sat the youth the evening through, And never hours before so swiftly flew. When Jane rose up to take her homeward way, 'John," said the mother, "has a word to say; He'll see you through the yard and past the stile; He wants to tell you, Jane, about your smile." No smile had Jane; so well her face she knew, How many its defects, its charms how few, She felt offence; her voice grew sharp and clear: "I did not fancy John was so severe." Quickly she went; abashed the young man stood, And could n't have o'erta'en her if he would.
A week passed on; John Snow was nowhere found,
They searched the village, tried each nook of ground.
A herd had seen him take the upland track, With stick in hand and bundle on his back; But none had heard him tell his journey's end, Nor on what day his coming to attend. Poor Widow Snow was all o'ercome with grief, But Jane came up once more and brought re- lief;
Whispered her hopes that he would soon return: "The post will bring a letter cease to mourn; Perhaps our curate knows- I'll go inquire- Perhaps he told his plans to Doctor Dire. I'll ask him, too; rest happy." So she went, And left the widow wretched but content.
Our curate and the doctor-generous twain- Walked up to aid the comfortings of Jane. "An idle freak," our mild-eyed curate cried; "He staid away three days last Whitsuntide." hour"He's a changed man since then," said Widow Snow,
A change came o'er his life since that dread When harsh experience showed the tempest's power.
"And hates the Whitsun ales and all their show."
"I think Heaven bless him!" thus the leech | He went to Jane, he took her willing hand; "For you," he said, "my life's great change I
began, "He's caught at last some little spark of man. No molly-coddle now with bulls and cows, And such live lumber pressing down his bows, But". here his eyes were mentioned" he 's now bore
Small comfort this; but, when some days went by,
A broken slate the widow chanced to spy, And on the fragment this short line appears, "Tell Jane she's not to marry for three years." Harsh pangs on this through Jane a minute passed,
"The man!" she said, "he mocks me to the last!''
But, in long nights of talk with Widow Snow, And tears that did not fail at times to flow, She learned what thoughts his bashfulness con- fined;
And strange, sweet fancies filled her wondering
"If John were here !" dear memories awoke, One thought possessing both, though neither spoke.
A heavy footstep sounded at the door,
The handle turned, and who stood on the floor? Toil-worn he seemed, like common sailor drest, Blue jacket, shining hat, and hairy vest; Across his neck two wooden boxes hung, These at his feet with heavy sound he flung. "You do not know me, mother?" Yes, the tone Of the loved voice revealed him all her own; And in his arms she lay !- but still his eye Was fixed on Jane who sat in silence by. She helped the widow on a chair to place, And both sat gazing in the stranger's face.
Crossed the wide seas a man before the mast- And, armed and eager, to the gold world past. There week by week I added to my store, Heaped grains on grains till I required no more, And here I'm landed on my native shore." Then with a kick he showed the boxes' weight- "Five hundred ounces is my golden freight Enough," he cried, " to crown my best design. Oh, Jane! oh, mother! what a bliss is mine!"
LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.-No. 471.-28 MAY, 1853.
SHORT ARTICLES: Punch, 513; Copper Coinage and a Decimal Coinage, 533; Anecdote of General Washington, 542; Carving of Poultry-Street Music, 548; Allan Ramsay, 574; Anecdote of a Crocodile-Speed on Railways, 576.
NEW BOOKS: 533, 537, 555, 556, 576.
ating the truth and use of these wonderful communications. Most interesting, instructive, and useful impressions are written out by the Medium while subjected to the influence of Spirits.
"THE WITCH OF ENDOR SUPERSEDED EVERY EVENING" will probably very soon be the heading of the newspaper advertisements put Whiskey, rum, gin, brandy, or hollands? forth by the "Spiritual Rappers." The folThose who wish to see a female under the lowing cool announcement of regular necro- influence of spirits have a peculiar taste; but uancy or imposture appeared last week: if they must indulge it, they had better perambulate the neighborhood of Seven Dials on SPIRITI PIRITUAL MANIFESTATIONS AND COM-a Saturday night, than go and pay their MUNICATIONS from departed friends, which money to see that which, if worth seeing, is so much gratify serious and enlightened minds, worth no more, and may be seen gratis in any are exemplified daily from 10 to 12, and from 2 disreputable part of town. to 5 o'clock, by the American Medium, MRS. R., at, &c., &c.
There is reason to believe that those who consult the Spirit Rappers do not, for the There does, to be sure, seem to be some-most part, do so in the hope of detecting the thing peculiarly shocking in practising on feelings relative to departed friends; but as the serious and enlightened minds" that are so much gratified by such sordid imposition are brainless dupes, their sensibilities are the least likely to be outraged by the heartless hoax.
trick, but with "serious" if not "enlightened minds," impressed with a belief in their professions. For the gratification of minds thus serious and enlightened, we may expect, as above hinted, to have, in a little time, performances and exhibitions of real sorcery and genuine witchcraft openly advertised amongst the public amusements; and perhaps a theatre will be established whereat an actual Zamiel will come on in Der Freischütz; apparitions of authentic fiends will ascend in Macbeth, and Dr. Faustus will positively raise the devil.
SUPERNATURAL AMUSEMENT.-Spirit-Rapping is Performed Nightly at the Pig-and-Whistle Harmonic Meeting, after each of the Songs and Glees, by Persons under the Influence of Spirits!!
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