11. Congress protests against European Interference, 12. Scene in the Legislature of Illinois, PAGE Fraser's Magazine, 483 Saturday Review, 494 Bentley's Miscellany, 497 Saturday Review, 503 London Review, 505 Spectator, 508 Examiner, 511 516 518 518 519 521 523 13. Tone of the French Ministry alarming to Europe, Economist, 14. The Last Imperial Plan: Mexico and its Conse quences, POETRY.-The Emigrant Girl, 482. Lines, 515. The Color Sergeant, 528. The River of Time, 528. Hope, 528. SHORT ARTICLES.-Palmerston Puzzled, 482. Freezing to Death, 507. A Prophecy in Jest, 510. Medicine, 510. Chiffonnier, 515. Samaritan Pentateuch and Chronicon, 522. The Intellectual Capacity of Twins, 522. St. Cecilia, the Patroness of Music, 527. As soon as we can get the new composing-room in order, we hope to gain the time lost while making the change. NEW BOOKS. THE REBELLION RECORD: a Diary of American Events 1860-62. Edited by Frank Moore, Author of "Diary of the American Revolution." New York: G. P. Putnam. Part 27 contains portraits of General Lewis Wallace and Commander Charles Boggs, of the late "Verona." We are glad to hear that Mr. Moore has been engaged to make a collection of documents upon the Rebellion, for the Library of Congress. It will be of great value. NORTHERN INTERESTS AND SOUTHERN INDEPENDENCE: a Plea for United Action. By Charles J. Stille. Philadelphia: W. S. & A. Martien. 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. THE EMIGRANT GIRL. BY MRS. ALFRED MUNSTER. For his words were unforgotten, still she seemed their tones to hear, To each well-remembered corner she bade a last And in the dreams of night and day he breathed them in her ear, farewell, neath the eaves, His tiny nest was hidden in the shining ivy leaves, And she said, “Ah, thou wilt still be here, for years and years to come, But I must go forever from my childhood's happy home." She looked up to the mountains, the "everlasting hills," She heard the sighing of their heath, the rushing of their rills, She saw the rowan berries bend their coral clusters down, And the wild and lonely moorland stretch onward bare and brown, And tears rushed to her aching eyes, tears from the heart's deep springs, For the hills and moors and rowans were to her familiar things. She had grown up in their shadows; many a long bright summer day Had she rambled with her brothers through the glens that 'mid them lay; Well she knew the rocky hollows where the purple foxglove bloomed, And the scenting tufts of the wild thyme the brooding air perfumed; Well she knew the grassy dingles where the fairyflax grew best, And the plumelike ferns beneath the thorns that hid the linnet's nest. She gazed upon the river that rolled gleaming in the sun, And too faithfully her heart recalled the false and faithless one Who had told his love beside it, where the dark green alders grow, In the stillness of an autumn eve, now long and long ago, For his faith was hers no longer, and by that very tide Where his troth to her was plighted, dwelt he with another bride. She turned from the bright waters, for her sore heart could not brook Upon one low roof peeping through the clustered trees to look, From Fraser's Magazine. A DAY AT THE DEAD SEA. BY FRANCES POWER COBBE. age of eternity," the emblem of life and motion which Byron could adjure:→ "Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow, Such as Creation's dawn beheld thou rollest now." THE world's beauty is forever young, but the world's awe and terror are rapidly pass-But here is a sea not dowered with the iming away. The halo of mystery which once hung over a hundred hills and groves and caverns is dissipating before our eyes like a resolvable nebula in Lord Rosse's telescope. The Sphynx is no enigma now. That solemn face, blasted by the suns and storms of sixty centuries, has been admirably photographed, and we shall no doubt all place it shortly, along with other interesting characters, as a carte de visite in our albums. Dagon, the "thrice-battered god of Palestine,' " who seemed to us once so awful a personage, has been dragged out of his grave in Sennacherib's burned and buried palace, and set up like a naughty boy in a corner in the British Museum. Scylla and Charybdis, where are their terrors now? Is not Charybdis traversed, and does not Scylla echo every Monday and Thursday the puffs of the steamboats of the Messageries Impériales? The cave of Trophonius and the fountain of Ammon, Styx and Acheron, Delphic groves and Theban tombs, have we not rifled and sketched and vulgarized them all? Picnics are held, as Mr. Trollope assures us, in the valley of Jehoshaphat and the very sepulchre of St. James. Even that far-off shrine immortalized by Calderon-the terror-haunted" Purgatory" beneath the waters of— "That dim lake Where sinful souls their farewell take has it not become the scene of " patterns" to . But there is still some faint lingering shadow of the terrible and the sublime in our ideas of the Dead Sea-the accursed Asphaltites. True, we have unhappily discovered all about it-its topography, hydrography, and chemical analysis. We know that birds fly over it, and fish swim in it, and that the pillar designated as Lot's Wife (or " Mrs. Salter," as we once heard a child call that ill-fated lady) is the result of a secular abrasion of certain saline and bituminous deposits. Still, when all is said, "Mare Mortuum" is an awe-inspiring name. If there be anything which ought not to die, it is a sea-the" im mortal youth of the ever-leaping ocean, but dead-dead for three thousand years; ay, dead and damned to boot-the accursed Lake of Sodom! We confess it with shame (for it was a piece of crass ignorance), we had never constructed out of our moral consciousness, of a Dead Sea before we actually saw it with or out of any book of travels, any definite idea our eyes. It had remained one of those blessed dark corners of the imagination, wherein the terrible yet peeps out at us, as in childhood awful eyes used to do, from the deep bays of the room after dark, when we sat by our mother's knees in the red firelight before the candles were brought, and heard wood. If it had been proposed to us as a her stories of wolves and lost children in a practical excursion to visit Ogre's House, or Giant Despair's Castle, or Bluebeard's Red Chamber, we should have gone with as nearly as possible the same feelings of delight as we started for our journey on the morning of our Day at the Dead Sea." In the faint hope that in this era of tourists and readers of tourists' books there may yet survive some few as ignorant as ourselves to whom we could convey a share of our impressions of interest and pleasure, we shall indite a brief record of that little experience. "Better twenty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay," we are often tempted to say. But it must be owned there are some days in the East which it would be hard to parallel with any month in Europe, however replete with excitement and interest. At least, in our own lives, "a day in Cairo, a day at the Pyramids, a day in Jerusalem, a day at Baalbec, and this day at the Dead Sca," have had no equals, even in Athens or Rome. As we are to speak of the land where time is counted from sunset to sunset, our day must begin, like that of Eden, in the evening. Mar Saba is not a nice place to sleep at— that is to say, for people with prejudices on the subject of centipedes. The ground where the tents of pilgrims are pitched affords every possible opportunity for the study of those For my part, at least, I slept so soundly, and with such vivid dreams of far-off green woods of the west, and dear ones parted by thousands of miles, that when wakened at midnight by the howling of the wild beasts of the wilderness, it was all but impossible to recover the sense of reality, or rather to know whereon to fix it-on the natural homelike dream of the little child with her arms around my neck, sitting under the old trees, or on the weird picture before my eyes at the tent door-the wild hollow in the desolate hills, and the group of our well-armed guard of Arabs around the watch-fire; while beyond them Orion, burning in all the glory of a Syrian night, was slowly sinking behind the desert mountains of Judæa. entertaining articulata, and of course it is quite impossible in a tent to exercise anything else but hospitality towards any visitors who may choose to " drop in." True that for travellers of the nobler sex, the grand old monastery of Mar Saba opens its doors and offers the purest spiritual consolation in the shape of surpassingly excellent raki (the most unmitigated alcohol known). But for an unholy "Hajjin" (or female pilgrim) like the writer no such luck was in store. The convent of St. Saba must never be polluted by feminine Balmorals, and the society of the centipedes was quite good enough for us. It was accordingly with no small perturbation of mind that before retiring to rest, we investigated the manners and customs of those remarkable creatures. On a small bush of broom-the original Planta-genista of the most royal of kingly races-we discovered about three or four dozen of our friends, long and black, and vicious-looking in the extreme. Placing my gauntlet alongside of one of them as a measure, it appeared that the centipede was somewhat longer than the glove, or about six inches from tip to tail. All down the sides the little black legs moved in the most curious way from four or five centres of motion (ganglia, I suppose), so that he looked like a very fine black comb down which somebody slowly drew four or five fingers. Did he bite, or did he sting, and could he crawl fast, and was he not likely to establish himself for the night where we were keeping open house, or rather tent? Nay (frightful reflection), was there anything to prevent him and his congeners ensconsing themselves in our beds? We confess that it was with terrible misgivings we slept that night the sleep of people who have been eleven hours in the saddle, and burning was our indignation against asceticism in general and the prejudices of St. Saba in particular on the subject-a real full day's pilgrimage in the right diof the admission of petticoats to his monas-rection. And alas! per contra, how few of tery. The good Franciscans at Ramleh (the Arimathea of Scripture) had known better, and allotted to us a dormitory, where, however, we had some small but assiduous attendants, through whose ministrations we were (as good people say) "grievously exercised," and obliged to pass the night in researches more nearly connected with entomology than with biblical antiquities. No; Mar Saba is not a nice place to sleep at, but we did sleep in spite of the centipedes. It is strange how everything in the simple life of tents suggests the analogies of the moral life. A journey in the desert is like reading a series of parables. We are then truly "pilgrims and sojourners on earth,”— the place which has known us for one brief day will know us no more forever. We really thirst for cooling fountains, and pant under the burning sun for " the shadow of a great Rock in a weary land." The simple realities of existence, which so rarely approach us at all in the orderly and over-finished life of England, where we slide, without jolt or jar from the cradle to the grave, along the smooth rails laid down by civilization, are present once more in the wildernesses of the East. That very morning, at Mar Saba, as we watched our tents taken down, and all traces of our brief encampment passing away, to be renewed as transitorily elsewhere at night, it forced itself on my mind more clearly than ever before, how the noblest aim of life could only be "Nightly to pitch our moving tents the easily numbered days allotted to us seem actually to forward us one step thitherward! Whether it be from these associations with great realities, or from its wondrously healthy effect (making "well" a positive condition, and not, as usual, a mere negation of being "ill"), or from what other occult suitability to humanity, I know not; but decidedly the tent-life is beyond all others attractive and fascinating. At first, being sufficiently fond of the comfortable, I dreaded it greatly; but signed, and not in those of his own original choice!" It is hardly to be measured, I think, how much of the best and tenderest family feelings amongst us are due to the old after two or three nights, the spell it never fails to exercise fell on me, and I wished it could go on for months. It seems as if, at bottom of the Saxon nature, there is some unsuspected corner which always echoes joy-house, wherein all associations are centred, ously to the appeal wherein each member of the race feels pride, "Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for where the pictures of the forefathers hang any fate." Whether it be "To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new," or to "Antres vast and deserts idle," like those of Mar Saba, it is all the same. Only "let us go on-on to a new life; and let the traces of the old be swept away as rapidly as may be.” "Let the dead Past bury its dead." side by side on the walls, and their dust rests together in the vault hard by. Shame is it that such deep human feelings as these should be soiled by vulgar pride of rank or wealth, or monopolized by the rich alone, as if they were not equally the birthright of the humblest family who could possess their English cottage or Highland shelty, and who might attach to them equally all the affections which would sanctify the castle or the palace. It is not the grandeur of the house, nor the artistic merit of the family pictures, nor the splendor of the funeral monuments, which give them their power. It is the great Divine in Is all this natural and wise, or utterly wrong and foolish? I am not quite persuaded; but at any rate it is of little conse-stitution of the family which gives to the quence to decide the question, for our English climate settles the matter for us, practically, very decisively. How did Robin Hood and Maid Marian ever escape rheumatism and catarrh? move. hearth its sanctity, and to the picture and chair and tree and grave their influence over our hearts. To raise and ennoble the poor we must surely in every way possible strengthen and elevate the reverence for family ties? Our English progress is, I hope, of a more We must secure for them the real sort than that of the Arab, whose tent is power of earning by their industry homes the only thing connected with him which does which shall be really homes - not lodgingAfter four thousand years the Scheikh houses or temporary tenancies; but homes of Hebron has probably not varied an iota wherein may grow up those sentiments of from the costume, the habits, or the acquire- honest pride, of mutual solidarité (making ments of Abraham. The immobility of every- each member of the family interested in the thing in the East is like that of the boulder- honor and welfare of all the rest), of gratestones laid at intervals for landmarks across ful youth and tenderly nurtured age, which the plains, as regularly to-day as when Mo- may at last drive away the plague of pauperses cursed the man who should remove them ism from our land. Wherever this state of three thousand years ago. The tents move, things is approached, as in Cumberland, but all else is stationary. Our houses, on Switzerland, and parts of France (the departthe contrary, remain from age to age, while all ment of Seine-et-Marne, for instance), the things else are in continual change. Where moral results seem of unmixed good, whatever are now the costumes, the habits, the ideas may be the commercial consequences as regards of our ancestors, not three thousand but three the farming of the land. There are dreamers, hundred years ago? Yet we live in their whose fanaticism, springing from violent recalhomes and worship in their churches, while citration at the world's wrongs and cruelties, the Syrian's tent has moved and changed un- we cannot but in a measure honor, who would counted times in the same interval. May proceed on an opposite plan. I suppose every those "stately homes of England" stand heart open to a generous feeling, has in youth firm for many an age; and may we never ad- experienced the attraction of some communvance to that doctrine of the Yankee in Haw-istic scheme wherein labor should become unthorn's House of the Seven Gables," that it selfish, and poverty, with all its train of sins is an insolence for any man to build a house and woes, be wiped from the destinies of which should outlast his own life, and oblige man. These philanthropists would say, his son to dwell in the chambers he had de- " Leave your old houses to perish, or turn |