Littell's Living Age

operation. Dryden in his translation con-
cludes:-

"Iapis first perceived the closing wound,
And first the footsteps of a god he found:
Arms, arms!' he cries, the sword and
shield prepare,

Dr. Paris long since protested against the fashion of examining and deciding upon the action of drugs by a mere mechanical investigation of their composition. The author of this oration holds his consultations with "nature, the wise physician," acting himself as the servant of nature, "nature's minis- And send the willing chief, renewed, to war. ter," to second her efforts and carry out her This is no mortal work, no cure of mine, indications. In so doing, ample scope will Nor art's effect, but done by hands divine." " be found for the exercise of the faculties, to We, of course, only deprecate a principle employ chemical aid where required, and to of undue interference, in the use of this avoid special drugging when it is not requi- quotation. The light of surgery stands out site. Dr. Ward quotes Sydenham most ap-in striking contrast to the darkness of medipositely on this point, "I often think that cine. Dr. Ward urges the necessity of relywe forget the good rule festina lente, that we ing more than we do on the restorative move more quickly than we ought to do; powers inherent in our constitutions, from and that more could be left to nature than the ignorance of which "has arisen and been we are at present in the habit of leaving to maintained among practitioners of the orher. To imagine that she always wants the thodox school, that system of polypharmacy aid of art is an error, and an unlearned one which has weakened their position in regard too. If it were so, she would have provided to remedies where they are undeniably benefor the human race less than its preservation ficial, and detracted from the credit, which demands." The quacks of former days, in has ever been justly their due, of having their bills descriptive of their nostrums, gen- been alive to the importance in the treaterally used the expression, "with God's ment of disease of modified hygienic measblessing," in the performance of a cure. ures." There is much valuable matter in These curers could lay no greater claim to this oration. Dr. Stephen Ward is not a it than Virgil's Iapis in the curing of Eneas, half-educated man; he is fully competent to who tried his skill, was very assiduous about test the value of all scientific means to be the wound, and indeed was the only visible employed in the treatment of disease; but means that relieved the hero. The poet, his common sense tells him how much may, however, assures us that it was the particu- and how much may not, be done to bring lar assistance of a deity that speeded the about its alleviation.

cles, purchasing land contiguous to the Museum, or removing some of the collections elsewhere. In many cases the objects were too much crowded together, mixed up almost indiscrimi nately, and difficult of access. Mr. Panizzi then entered into a variety of details relative to the various departments, for the purpose of showing the impossibility of providing sufficient accommodation in the present building.

THE Committee appointed to inquire how far | accommodation, diminishing the number of artiand in what way it may be desirable to find increased space for the extension and arrangement of the various collections of the British Museum, and also as to the best means of rendering them available for the promotion of science and art, met on 5 June. Mr. Panizzi, the principal librarian to the Museum, was the first witness examined. He stated that since the year 1848, various plans for increasing the accommodation had been considered. In every department, except those for books and MSS., there was a want of space. At present there was, according to the calculations which had been made, space for eight hundred thousand volumes, but he believed room could be found for one million volumes, and that the room would be sufficient for about fifty years, according to the number of volumes at present annually received. The only mode of providing additional space for the various collections, was by economizing the existing

THE antiquities of London are fast disappearing. Among the old houses in Church Court, Inner Temple Lane, Fleet Street, in course of demolition, is No. 3, the house in which Goldsmith died. A memorial inscribed with his name and the date of his birth and death has been placed over his remains in the adjoining churchyard. A bust of the poet and a tablet to his memory adorns the little vestry of the beautiful Temple Church.

From Macmillan's Magazine.
ALL'S WELL.

THE long night-watch is over; fresh and chill
Comes in the air of morn; he slumbers still.
Each hour more calm his labored breathings
grew.

"O God! may he awaken free from ill;
May this supreme repose dear life renew!"
She rose and to the casement came,
The curtain drew, and blank, gray morn
Looked pitiless on eyes grief-worn,
On the dying lamp's red, flickering flame,
And, slowly through the wavering gloom
Searching out the shaded room,
Fell on a form-the pillowed head
So motionless, supinely laid.
Oh, was it death, or trance, or sleep,
Had power his sense thus locked to keep?
She turned, that woman wan and mild;
She gazed through tears, yet hope-beguiled;
He was her son, her first-born child,-
Ah, hush! she may not weep.
Many a night, with patient eye,
Had she watched him-sight of woe!
Fever-chained, unconscious lie;
Many a day passed heavily,
Since met, in glad expectancy
Round the cheerful hearth below,
Young and old, a goodly show,

To welcome from the wondrous main,
Their wanderer home returned again.
The father's careful brow unbent,
The mother happily intent
That nothing should be left undone
To greet him best; the youngest one
In childish, bright bewilderment,
Longed, curious, to look upon
Her own, strange sailor brother sent
Afar, before she could remember;
While elder sons and daughters thought
What change in the playmate unforgotten
Time and foreign skies had wrought.
Could he be like that fair-haired boy,
With curly hair of golden hue,
And merry twinkling eye of blue,
Whose tones were musical with joy?
For he had sailed all round the world,
In China's seas our flag unfurled,
On Borneo's coast with pirates fought,
From famed spice-islands treasure brought,
Had been where the Upas grew!

But the long June day was closing fast,
And yet he did not come ;
And anxious looks and murmurs passed.

Some gazed without, sat listless some;
Down the hill-side, across the vale,
Night-mists are rising, sweeps the gale;
But naught can we see through the gloom;
When, hark! a step at the wicket-gate,
And the brothers rushed out with call and shout.
Welcome, at last, though late!
And round him hurriedly they press,
And bring him in to the warm-lit room,
To his mother's fond caress.

"But how is this? dear son, thy lips are pale; And thy brow burneth, and thy speech doth

fail.

Hath some sore sickness thus thy frame oppressed,

Or sinkest thou for want of food and rest?" "All's well-I am at home; but make my bed

soon,

For I am weary, mother, and fain would lay me down."

Even while he spake, he tottered, fell;
The heavy lid reluctantly

Shrouded the glazing, love-strained eye.
They tenderly raised him; who may tell,
What anguish theirs? That smothered cry!
They bore him up the narrow stair;
They laid him on his bed with care;
On snowy pillow,-flower-besprent
(Ah! for lighter slumber meant).
They knew some pestilential blight
Lurked in his blood with deadly might,
And they trembled for the morrow.
Thus in the smitten house that night,

All joy was changed to sorrow.

Yea, swift and near, the fever-fiend
Had dogged the mariner's homeward way.
One ocean south, one ocean north,
The ship from red Lymoon sailed forth,
But fast in her hold the dark curse lay;
In vain blew the cool west wind.
Week after week, he now, in vain,
Had breathed his pleasant native air;
For still with restless, burning brain,
He seemed to toss on a fiery main,
'Neath a sky of copper glare.
Under his window a sweetbrier grew,
And fragrance his boyhood full well knew,
In at the open lattice flung;

The thrush in his own old pear-tree sung.
Young voices from the distance borne,
Or mower's scythe at dewy morn,
Cock's shrill crowing, all around
Sweet, familiar scent or sound,
None could bring his spirit peace;
None from wandering dreams release.
He heard an angry surf still thunder,
Crashing planks beneath him sunder,
Tumults that, ever changing, never cease.

"Look, look! what glides and glitters in the brake?

Is it a panther, or green-crested snake?
Ah! cursed Malay-I see his cruel eye;
His hissing arrows pierce me? Must I lie,
Weltering in torture on this hell-hot brine;
Not one cool drop my parching throat to slake?
Jesu have mercy! what a fate is mine!"

Yet ever his mother's yearning gaze,
Saintly sad, was on him dwelling;
Could it not penetrate the haze
Of fantasy, and, frenzy-quelling
His sister came with noiseless tread,
In heart and brain, soft-healing flow?
And, bending o'er the sufferer's bed,
Lightly laid her smooth, cold palm
Upon the throbbing brow;
And with the touch a gradual calm
Stole quietly, diffusing slow
Sleep's anguish-soothing balm.
Pain's iron links, a little while

Relaxing, let his spirit rove
In vision some Atlantic isle,
Where waved the tall Areca palm;
Fresh breezes fanned, and gushing rills
Murmured, as in green English grove
They, winding, deepen from the hills.
And momentary smiled, perchance,
Dear faces thro' the shadowy trance,
His unclosed eye saw not, though near;
Dear voices reached the spell-bound ear,
His waking sense had failed to hear.
Only a little space-too soon
The fiery scourge from slumber burst,
Swept like the tyrannous typhoon,
Gathering new rage, the last the worst;
Till the pulse ebbed low, and life
Shrank wasted from the strife.
At length a dreamless stupor deep
Fell on him, liker death than sleep.
At eve the grave physician said:
"No more availeth human aid;
Nature will thus his powers restore,
Or else he sleeps to wake no more."
Alone his mother watched all night,
In silent agony of prayer.

When dimly gleamed the dawning light,
She thought, "Its ghastly, spectral stare
Makes his hue so ashen white."

But, when broadening day shone bright,
Froze to despair her shivering dread.
None who have seen that leaden mask
Over loved features grayly spread,
"Whose superscription this?" need ask.
Soft she unclosed the door, and said,
"Come," in whisper hoarse and low;
And silently they came,

One by one, the same

Who had joyous met by the hearth below,

Only three short weeks ago.

They looked, "Is it life, or death?"

Athwart, on either side, its blackness,
Sweeping the empyrean clear;
So, from the stony visage rent,
Instantaneously withdrew

The heaviness, the livid hue;
And the inward spirit shining through,
Serene, ethereal brightness lent.
His eyes unclosed; their gaze intent
No narrow, stifling limits saw,
No aspects blanched by love and awe-
Far, far on the eternal bent.

Hark! from his lips the seamen's cheer,
Sudden, deep-thrilling, did they hear,
"Land ahead!" The words of welcome rose;
Then he sank back in isolate repose.

What land? Oh, say, thou tempest-tost!
Whither hath thy worn bark drifted,
Secst thou thine own dear native coast-
Vision by strong desire uplifted—
Britain's white cliffs afar appearing;
Or art thou not, full surely, nearing
That unknown strand, that furthest shore,
Whence wanderer never saileth more?

But hush! again he speaks with steadfast tone,
"Let go the anchor." Now, the port is won.
O happy mariner! at last,

Ocean storms and perils past,

Past treacherous rock and shelving shoal,

She beckoned them in, and, with hushed breath And the ravening breakers' roll,

Standing around, they saw dismayed

That living soul already laid

The shadow of the grave beneath.

Kneeling beside his hope, his pride,
Felled in youth's prime, his sea-worn son,
Aloud the reverend father cried :

"Submissive Lord, we bow; Thy will be done;
Yet grant some token ere my child depart,
Thy love hath ever dwelt within his heart,
And through the vale of darkness safe will guide."
"Amen, amen," in faltering response sighed
Mother and children, watchers woe-begone.
Oh, mournful vigils, lingering long!
Oh, agonies of hope, that wrong
Solemn prayer for swift release,
And the soul's eternal peace!
Now holy calm, now wild desire
With sick suspense alternate tire,
Till very consciousness must cease.
Faint the reluctant hours expire;
The mind flows back; as in a dream
Trivial imaginations stream

Over the blank of grief,
Bringing no relief."

Haply some sudden sound without

A sheep-dog's bark, or schoolboy's shout,

Securely moored in haven blest,
Thy weary soul hath found its rest,
Touching now the golden strand !
Before thee lies the promised land,
To thy raptured eyes revealed
(Eyes on earth forever sealed).
Eternity's reflected splendor
Transfigureth the hollow brow
And the shattered hull must render,
Landed, the free spirit now.
Wayfarers we, on a homeless sca,
Bid thee not return, delay;

But oh! one word of parting say!

Sweet, solemn, full, those final accents fell,
Pledge of undying peace: he spake,

well."

Yea, all is well; that last adieu
Opened Paradise to view;

While, on tremulous passing sigh,
The happy spirit floated by.

O'er mourning hearts in anguish hushed,
Effluence ecstatic gushed;

They saw heaven's gates of pearl unfold
Paven courts of purest gold,

The glorious city on a height

Lost in distances of light;

"All's

Heard angelic harpings sweet,
Voices jubilant, that greet
New-comers through the floods of death;
Felt softly blow a passing breath
Celestial, the winnowings
Viewless of ethereal wings.
This could not last for mortal strain,
Transport sinking down to pain;
Yet a refulgent glimpse of heaven,
Never by cloud or storm-blast riven,
Ray from love divine, shall dwell
On all who heard that last farewell.
Sweet, faint echoes, never dying,
Of far homes immortal tell,

Where sorrows cease, and tears and sighing;
Still whispering: "All is well, is well.'

THE CITY OF EXTREMITY.

H. L.

THERE is a place, a dreadful place,
Where all things go at whirlwind's pace;
We call it, for its piteous case,
The City of Extremity!

Two millions swelter darkly there,
Beset with toil and want and care,
And many herd with black Despair,
In the City of Extremity!

Each man his neighbor screws and racks,
Each sinew pays its utmost tax,
And human nature strains and cracks,
In the City of Extremity!

Horse nature, too, as sorely worn,

Tears, chafes, and grinds, both night and morn;
O God, the sufferings dumbly borne
In the City of Extremity!

Miles off, you see the smoke arise
Of these two millions' sacrifice,
And hear the roaring agonics

Of the City of Extremity !
God kindly gave the fruitful earth
For all who draw from it their birth;
But 'tis a gift of doubtful worth

In the City of Extremity!
There labor is a deadly fight,
From which, at best, you snatch a bite-
And you may starve in thousands' sight,
In the City of Extremity!

Men hate the unchristian work they do,
And would a better course pursue,
Did fancied Fate not bind them to
The City of Extremity!

They loathe the place they do it in,
Plunged, amid dirt and smoke and din,
Polluted air, discase, and sin,

In the City of Extremity!

They fly from both when fly they can,
As neither being fit for man-
As if just Heaven had laid its ban
On the City of Extremity!

O dear-loved friends, do not forget,
The world has true and good things yet,
Though all is base and counterfeit
In the City of Extremity!

Still, still the larks at heaven's gate sing,
Still flowers beside the streamlet spring,
Unlike their ghastly blossoming

In the City of Extremity!

There healthful work and honest gain
Keep young and old in cheerful strain,
Unlike the harrowing hurricane

Of the City of Extremity!

Come forth, then from this frightful town,
And let its monstrous size die down,
Ere a new deluge come to drown
The City of Extremity!

-Chambers's Journal.

THE TWO LAMENTS.

FROM THE GERMAN.

OVER a new-filled grave a maiden tender,
Planted with tears and prayer a poplar slender,
"Grow, grow, fair tree," she said,
"Lift to the stars thy head,

Where dwells unseen my love;
Rise, ever rise above!

"Let every branch aspire,

As do my arms, mine eyes,
Till with my soul's desire,
Thy summit, mounting higher,
Be hidden in the skies.

O poplar! on this dear mound ever show
A faithful emblem of my love and woe."

Over a new-made grave a lover bending,
A willow planted, every leaf down-tending,
Droop low to weep," he said,
"Above my blue-eyed maid:
Sad tree, still earthward bow,
As doth my spirit now.

"Droop till thy verdant tresses

The hallowed cold turf sweep, Mingling their light caresses With these my fond lip presses, Where my beloved doth sleep. O willow! on this dear mound shalt thou grow, A faithful emblem of my love and woo."

-Englishwoman's Journal.

H. L.

No. 845.-11 August, 1860.

CONTENTS.

1. The Four Georges: George the First,

2. Concerning the Dignity of Dulness,

3. The Fair at Keady,

4. Ho! For the North Pole,

5. Edmond About,

National Review,

357

369

New Monthly Magazine,

374

6. Claremont, and the Princess Charlotte. Part 2, Eclectic,

7. Lady Morgan, .

8. Found at Sea,

9. Memorials of Thomas Hood,

10. Angling at Home and Abroad,

POETRY.-The Happy Valley, 322.

Dublin University Magazine, 377
Spectator,

380

383

SHORT ARTICLES.-Mammoth Cave in Missouri, 334. The Farallones, 344. Return of the Jews to Palestine, 350. Generosity of G. P. R. James, 356. Matrimonial Union of Prince Peter of Arenberg, 376. Mahomedan Funerals, 376. Dumas Robbing Garibaldi, 379. A Celtic Dictionary, 384.

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.

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