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THY WILL BE DONE.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

WE see not, know not; all our way
Is night with Thee alone is day.
From out the torrent's troubled drift,
Above the storm our prayer we lift,
Thy will be done!

The flesh may fail, the heart may faint,
But who are we to make complaint,
Or dare to plead in times like these
The weakness of our love of ease?
Thy will be done!

We take with solemn thankfulness
Our burden up, nor ask it less,
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve, or wait for thee,
Whose will be done!

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"Have you forgotten, general," the battered soldier cried,

"The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I was at your side?

Have you forgotten Johnson that fought at Lundy's Lane?

'Tis true I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again."

"Have I forgotten," said the chief; "my brave old soldier? No!

And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so;

But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old, and gray, And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day."

'But, general," cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow,

"The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors now;

They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane-our old red, white, and blue;

And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true.

"I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun

To get the range of traitors' hearts, and pick them one by one;

Your Miniè rifles, and such arms, it aint worth while to try;

I couldn't get the hang of them, but I'll keep my powder dry."

"God bless you, comrade," said the chief; "God bless your loyal heart;

But younger men are in the field, and claim to have their part;

They'll plant our sacred banner in each rebellious town,

And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down!"

"But, general," still persisting, the weeping veteran cried,

"I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide;

And some, you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least, can I;

So give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die.

"If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in command

Put me upon the rampart, with the flag-staff in my hand;

No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shells may fly;

I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!

"I'm ready, general, so you let a post to me be given,

Where Washington can see me as he looks from highest heaven,

And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne,

There stands old Billy Johnson, that fought at Lundy's Lane!"

"And when the fight is hottest, before the traitors fly,

When shell and ball are screeching and bursting in the sky,

If any shot should hit me, and lay me on my face,

My soul would go to Washington, and not to Arnold's place!"

-Independent.

No. 908.-26 October, 1861.

3. Captain John Brown,

4. Gone. By A. K. H. B.,

5. Sir B. Brodie on Homeopathy,

6. Size of Ships of War,

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

1. Madame de Krudener-Worldly, Pious, Mystic, Bentley's Miscellany, 2. Homœopathy, by Sir Benj. Brodie,

147

Fraser's Magazine,

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Saturday Review,

157 161.

Fraser's Magazine,

167

London Review,

171

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7. Bishop Wilkins' Prophetic Dreams, 8. How to Burn Powder,

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9. Discovery of a New Cod Depot, 10. The Painter and the Apparition, 11. Science and Passion,

12. England and the Southern States, 13. English Law and Justice in India, 14. The Golden Treasury,

POETRY.-Vive la France, 146. Kentucky Now, 146. Napoleon to Nono, 146. Prayer for the Union, 166. Memory of Monboddo, 166.

SHORT ARTICLES.-No Pent-up Utica, 156. A New Stimulant, 160. Philosophia Ultima, 165. Extemporaneous Speaking, 170. Ancient Cities of Phoenicia, 170. New Anæsthetic, 172. Daily Weather Maps, 172. Lucifer Matches, 180. Aich's Metal, 189. Jewish Marriages, 192.

NEW BOOKS.

REBELLION RECORD.-G. P. Putnam, New York. This work goes on every week. Here we have a number containing handsome portraits of Gen. Dix; dear Gen. Lyon; a good likeness of Gen. McClellan; Secretary Cameron, looking like Ahithophel or Burleigh; The President, solemn and firm; and the gallant young Governor of R. I., Gen. Sprague. Patriotically, we suppose, Alex. H. Stephens is done in wood; and so is P. G. T. Beauregard, late Major U.S.A.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY

LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON.

For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded free of postage.

Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume.

ANY VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers.

ANY NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value.

VIVE LA FRANCE.

A sentiment offered at the Dinner to H.I.H. the Prince Napoleon, at the Revere House, Sept. 25, 1861.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE land of sunshine and of song!
Her name your hearts divine;
To her the banquet's vows belong
Whose breasts have poured its wine;
Our trusty friend, our true ally

Through varied change and chance,-
So, fill your flashing goblets high,-
I give you, Vive la France!

Above our hosts in triple folds

The self-same colors spread, Where Valor's faithful arm upholds The blue, the white, the red; Alike each nation's glittering crest Reflects the morning's glance,Twin eagles, soaring east and west; Once more then, Vive la France!

Sister in trial! who shall count

Thy generous friendship's claim, Whose blood ran mingling in the fount That gave our land its name, Till Yorktown saw in blended line Our conquering arms advance, And victory's double garlands twine Our banners? Vive la France!

O land of heroes! in our need

One gift from heaven we crave

To stanch these wounds that vainly bleed:
The wise to lead the brave!
Call back one captain of thy past
From glory's marble trance,
Whose name shall be a bugle-blast
To rouse us! Vive la France!

Pluck Condé's baton from the trench,
Wake up stout Charles Martel,
Or find some woman's hand to clench
The sword of la Pucelle !
Give us one hour of old Turenne,-
One lift of Bayard's lance,-
Nay, call Marengo's chief again

To lead us! Vive la France !

Ah hush! our weleome guest shall hear But sounds of peace and joy;

No angry echo vex thine ear,

Fair Daughter of Savoy!

Once more! the land of arms and arts,
Of glory, grace, romance;
Her love lies warm in all our hearts;
God bless her! Vive la France!

KENTUCKY NOW. OLIVE-CROWNED but yesterday, High among the stars she stood, Deprecating, interceding! Pointing down to those who lay Dying upon field and flood

Women wailing, brothers bleeding!

Last night while her children slept,
From the land where Terror reigns,

Ruthless train-bands swept upon her. Then she woke, and groaned, and wept, Seeing on her peaceful plains

The flag of treason and dishonor! There among the stars she stands, Wearing now no olive crown

There despoiled she stands in sorrow! And the self-same shameless hands, That have torn her olive down, Will try to tear her down to-morrow! -Louisville Journal.

NAPOLEON TO NONO.

ON THE EVE OF THE REMOVAL OF THE
FRENCH ARMY FROM ROME.

HOLY Father, ere we part,
Take, oh, take my words to heart;
And if they disturb thy rest,
Think them uttered for the best.
Hear my counsel ere I go:
Shut up shop, Pio Nono!

By thy saints, whose pictures wink
While thou art on destruction's brink :
By thy priests, who in their sleeve
Deride thee, though they feign to grieve:
By thy "friends" I bid thee go,
Shut up shop, Pio Nono!

By thy brigands unconfined,
Raisers of the papal wind:
By the hate their deeds have sown
For thee, and for thy rotten throne:
By thy foes, I bid thee go,
Shut up shop, Pio Nono!

By thy want of common sense,
By thy lack of Peter's pence:
By the cropper thou wilt come
When French support is ordered home,
Away thy temporal power throw:
Shut up shop, Pio Nono!

Holy Father, when I'm gone,
Fly to England quick, alone:
Hire a cosy lodging there,

A three-pair back in Leicester Square:
There at thine case thy 'bacca blow,
And die in peace, Pio Nono!

-Punch.

From Bentley's Miscellany.
MADAME DE KRUDENER.
WOMAN OF THE WORLD, AUTHOR, PIETIST,
AND ILLUMINIST.

herself away from the horrors of a weariness that set upon her like a nightmare.

It may be imagined from this what influence such conditions of existence had upon JULIA BARONESS OF VIETINGHOFF, was the youth of Mademoiselle de Vietinghoff, born in 1766, at Riga. Her father who at especially as from her earliest years she was one period had enjoyed a high place at court, of a highly imaginative, impressionable and had withdrawn from thence, and lived like somewhat fantastic nature. Those born and a feudal baron of old at his château in Cour-bred in the tumult of great cities never have land. It requires to have seen these castles of the same susceptibilities; they are blunted, the nobility on the Baltic to understand what or they perish in the bud. A single incia sense of grandeur and of solitude might be dent of early life will serve to portray its imbibed by a child brought up in such a general tone and character. She had for place. Immense plains, only dotted here great-grandmother an elderly and august and there by some struggling colony of Ger- personage who monopolized all the respect mans, or by the miserable huts of the na- of the house, and who uttered nothing but tive peasants, stretch far away boyend the oracles. With regard to family matters she horizon around the seignorial residence, was an unquestioned authority; she had which is itself often of an imposing grandeur and extravagant proportions. Already, in the time of Catherine and of Elizabeth, the nobles began to build palaces in these arid steppes, or amid the dark pine forests.

every event that had happened for the last hundred years at her fingers' ends. Nor was she much less intimately versed in the history of her country, especially in so far as her family was concerned in it. The best point about the old lady was, that with all her pride she doted upon her children, her grandchildren, and grandchildren's children.

Nevertheless, the day came when this grand old lady was to go, like her predecessors. She had already disposed of her worldly goods. Peter had this domain, Jean Casimir the other; the capital went to Burchard, and the plate and jewels to LebrechtAntony; but she had not decided to which of her four sons she should confide her mortal remains. Jean Casimir had just erected a new family mausoleum, and he claimed the honor of possessing his mother's body; but Peter had also his family vault, and if Burchard and Lebrecht-Antony had no mausolea, they offered their own castles for a last home to their mother's relics. Tradition in these gloomy and superstitious regions will have it that the mother takes happiness with her, and where the bones lay would be the head and the support of the family.

The life of such a feudal lord was as curious within as its contrasts were great without. In the time of the Empress Annewhose husband was himself Duke of Courland-such barons had all the pride and insolence of petty tyrants; and they avoided the court of St. Petersburg, where, however haughty they might be, they were forced to bend. It was in vain that Anne and Elizabeth summoned the young nobility to court. It was not till the Princess of Anhalt Zerbst took with her the love of the fine arts and of science, intellectual life and vigor, to the court of the North, that the representatives of the great families of Courland, of Esthonia, and of Livonia, also found their way to St. Petersburg. But nothing could be more monotonous than life at the castle. You might walk ten miles without meeting a person with whom to exchange a word. The major-domo might be a perfect example of German civilization, the governess from Paris or Geneva might represent either city in miniature; still their resources were soon exhausted. Winter would bring, with sledge and skating, parties on the great frozen lakes; but a winter's evening in one of these feudal solitudes of Courland was a terrible affair. The châtelian would go to sleep over his chess or his backgammon, and the châtelaine would pretend to have instructions to give to her household, but in reality would tear Lebrecht-Antony, his wife, and daughter,

The struggle for the possession of the body, ere the soul had departed from it, became so oppressive, that in order that it might not be said that she died at Jean Casimir's because he had a new mausoleum erected, she had herself removed in a dying state, and in midwinter, in a sledge, to the house of Peter, who received her in triumph; but she had scarcely got into her bed than

managed so effectually as to get her carried sying; and to her father, who was deeply away by another sledge. But if Lebrecht imbued with the "philosophical" doctrines had proved himself sharp, Burchard was no less so, and he succeeded in ravishing the moribund old lady from his possession. Thus it was that in the depth of a Baltic winter, amid snow, ice, and wind, the fantastic sledge that bore this half-animate body was dragged about dark forests and over boundless plains, by day and by night, unable to find a resting-place.

It can be easily imagined what an effect so strange an event had upon a young and susceptible person as Julia. Alluding to it in after life, she said, "What a pity that I cannot, as this noble lady did for her race, also give my heart to humanity, especially to that portion of humanity that suffers! Would to Heaven that the poor should thus dispute the possession of my remains among themselves, that each were to wish, as being his own, to bury me near his hut! What a happy rest it would be!"

of the day, the manifestations of such pious mysticism were as disagreeable as they were unintelligible. When he would have engaged her in a discussion upon an article in the Encyclopædia, she would seek the solitudes of a cloister, and meditate there upon the imaginary charms of monastic seclusion.

She went first

But every thing has its time, and Baron de Vietinghoff had the satisfaction of seeing his daughter become one of the most frivolous women of the world, and with so peculiar a nature, she at once went to such extremes as to terrify the more sedate as to her future. She was the mere child of grace and fantasy, and yet so seductive in her waywardness, that she seemed to have the gift of bewitching all whom she approached. Her marriage with Baron de Krudener was, however, less a matter of feeling than a concession made to her parent's wishes. Her husband could not understand her, and she The father of our heroine-Baron de Viet- did not love him; hence the tie led only to inghoff-was, of all the feudal lords of his weariness and indifference. All she seemed epoch and of his country, the one who least to care for was movement. appreciated the pleasures of that system of to Venice, where her husband filled the posilife. Given to study, and to literary and tion of Russian ambassador, thence she rescientific pursuits, he might have felt the iso- turned as quickly to Paris. But she seemed lation less than others, were it not that his to be devoured by an unconquerable restinstincts as a man of the world predominated, lessness. Her father scolded in vain. She and led him to seek for gratification in even declared her lover, the singer Garat, to the metropolis of Russian predilection be without soul or intelligence. Nothing Paris. On the occasion of his first visit to seemed to satisfy her; she seemed to seek that brilliant capital, his daughter was a mere for gratification only in contradiction and child; but on the occasion of the second, trouble. She could not live, love, sin, and she was a grown-up girl. Among those repent like the rest of the world; she would who frequented his house were D'Alembert, have sold herself to Satan, but only on the Buffon, Grimm, D'Holbach, and Marmontel. condition that the archangel would have Julia, young as she was, was distinguished made it worth her while. Paris abounded by these notabilities, and her father was at that epoch in women anxious to obtain justly proud of her. Soon, however, her notoriety, no matter at what expense, but peculiar and strange instincts began to re- few went to such extremes as did Madame veal themselves, and gave much anxiety to de Krudener. Her greatest annoyance was her parent. She became discontented and that joy and grief, love and hatred, glory melancholy, wished to return to the soli- and humiliation, should be allotted to her tudes of the North, had dreams and visions, only in common with others. One evening at first at intervals, and then so frequently she was told that Madame de Genlis was the that her father tried what change of scene first person who had attained, perfection on would do, and took her to Germany, to the harp in Paris, and that it had given her Switzerland, and to the south of France. much celebrity. "It appears to me," she But the peculiar idiosyncrasy of her charac- observed, "that it is sufficient to make one's ter remained unchanged; she would set upon self ridiculous in France to become celea rock, or wander alone at undue hours in brated. As to that, I also will learn the some romantic solitude, weeping or prophe- harp." She did not learn the harp, but she

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