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tion was a vote of 125,275 for the republican candidates, who were pledged to the election of Mr. Lincoln, 121,190 for the Douglas candidates, and 5,071 for the Lecompton candidates. Mr. Lincoln had thus a majority of more than 4,000 on the popular vote over Mr. Douglas; but the latter was elected Senator by the Legislature, in which his supporters had a majority of 8 on joint ballot. On May 1(1, 18(30, the republican National Convention met at Chicago, and on May 18, began the ballot for a candidate for president. The whole number of votes was 465—necessary to a choice, 233. On the first ballot Mr. Seward

received 173K, Mr. Lincoln 102. The nomination of Mr. Lincoln was subse

, quently made unanimous on motion of the chairman of the New York delegation.

With the great leading facts and history of Mr. Lincoijj's administration during his first term of four years, and of his re-election to that high office, the public are familiar. His assassination by wicked hands on the night of April 14, at Ford's

i theatre in Washington, are known over the civilized world. The history of his life and times will be read for ages to corne by an admiring posterity as that of a great and good man.




The Groat west window was framed and done;
How proud was its painter, Father John!
The watchings by night at the furnace-door,
The long days' pondcrings, all were o'er;
The fires were quenched, find the fluxes uiul paints,
The tracings of monarchs, and prophets, and


Were rolled and labelled, and hid nway.
And life for Friar John was all holiday;
His brushes were thrown in the nettly croft,
And so was the palette he'd used so oft.

But when he saw that shining rood
Glow like sunset seen through n wood,
There rose in his soul n wicked pride,
And his heart beat quick wilh a fuller tide,
Xor thought Friar John, as his work lie eyed,
If God in that work was glorified.

The window was a wondrous thing,
Blooming with an ctcrnnl spiing
Of jewel colors and precious dyes,
Deep and rich as the western skies
At summer sunsets, and hues of flowers
That start up purple after the showers—
The rose's crimson and iris bloom;
Sunny lustres and topaz gloom,
Such as the depths of the fon^t hide;
Lapis, sapphire for martyr's robe;
Scarlet for Herod's fk'ry pride;
Ruby for Michael's flaming sword;
Golden fplcndor for crown and globe
Of David, the chosen of the Lord;
Amethyst, emerald, peacock's ihvs,
Encircling a pale sad face,
A glory lighting it shed from skies
That .-hone like God's own dwi lling-phicc:
And nil these burned and melted so,
That there was within a kingly glow,
A pnlse of light, a life-blood flowing,
T's varied colors ever showing.

What wonder, then, that as he gazed.

As in a miiror. he saw upraised

The veil that hides the spirit-world,

And the dim curtain slowly furled,

Showing behind that crystal wall,

Fiends that danced and mocked at his full,

And monsters beaked, and fanged, find homed,

Goblins that him and his glass saints seorned,

And sneering Satan above them all.

But Friar John prayed loud and long,
And chanted many a holy song,
And read his vesper semce through,
Are and Pater not a few,
Till heaven opened, and angel and saint
Came to comfort that sinner fnint
With prayer and vigil; and now again,
With purer eye and calmer brain,
He looked, and through the colored screen
That parted earth from heaven's serene,
He saw, through flushes of rainbow dyes,
The jeweled gates of Paradise.



This was to have been my wedding-d.iy-
It was to have been, ah me!
Could it only have been this morning
I went out as the day was dawning
To take my last look at the sea!

Gaily I sauntered down to the shore,
My future seemed all so bright;
Little I thought, as I watched the hue
The rising sun or the waters threw,
I should wish I were dead ere night.

Stormy and boisterous had been the wind,
The wild waves were still at play:
What was the form that lay on the beach
Above where the longest wave couid reach,
But drenched by each dash of the spray?

A death-like chill came over my heart,
Tears came to me thick uud fust;

I stumbled over the yielding sands,

At each step groping with outstretched hands,

Till I fell by his side at last.

No need to question the garb he wears,
Upturned is the dear, dead fiiee:
My love, my husband that was to he—
You are gone then, and the cruel Sea
Has left this dead form in your place!

Slowly I raise his head to my breast—
Oh how heavily it lies!
It was bright with love but yesterday,
With love for me; but the drenching spray
Has washed the love-light from his eyes.

And I was to be his wife, to-night
His heart my pillow should be;
A bunch of seaweed has got my place,
And no smile comes to the pale cold face
As I fling the weed in the sea.

I lay my cheek to my dead love's lips,

That have kissed mine o'er and o'er;

Vainly I weary the air with cries,

For nought but the moaning Sea replies

With sad "Never more, never more."

Tem/ile Bar. K.


Thou, whose sad and darkling brow

Seems to tell of care and woe,

Dost thou pore upon the rlond

Which futurity doth shroud,

And thy trembling fancy fill

With anticipated ill?

Ask the lilies of the field

For the lessons they can yield

Lo! they neither spin nor toil,

Yet how cheerily they smile.

In such beautiful array,

Solomon, in bygone d'ny,

Deck'd in Opliir's gold and gem,

Could not equal one of them!

Hark! to Fancy's listening ear

Thus they whisper, soft and clear:

"Heaven-appointed teachers, we,

Mortal, thus would counsel thee:

Gratefully enjoy to-day,

If the sun vouchsafe his ray;

If the darkling tempest lower,

Meekly bend beneath the shower

But oh, leave to-morrow's fare

To thy Heavenly Father's care.

Does each day, upon its wing,

Its alloted burden bring?

Loud it not, liesides, with sorrow

Which belongeth to the morrow.

Strength is promised, strength is given,

When the heart by God is riven;

But foredate the hour of woe,

And alone thou lniir'Kt the blow.

One thing only claims thy care—

Seek thou first, by faith and prayer,

That all-glo»ous world above,

Scene of rigmeotisnes and love,

And whate'er thou need'st below.

He thou trustest will bestow."

Sunday Jlaytaiae.


The winter-wind blew cold

O'er the snow-fields far and near,

The sunlight on the wold

Was gleaming pale and drear.

Slowly I sally forth

Beneath th' inclement sky, And wander towards the north

In pensive reverie.

As I my way pursue

Across the leafless wood,

My sad heart takes the hue
Of nature's mournful mood.

Hark, from yon tower, the bell,
With solemn message fraught,

Rings out a funeral knell,
Like echo to my thought.

Ah, sound of sorrow keen,
Telling of vanished years,

Of days with promise green
Too soon bedimmed with tears.

Starts forth the buried past

Of chequered memory, Bright joys that could not last,

Hoj)cs that bloomed but to die.

Why weave we fondly ties

Which death so soon shall rend? Why seek in melting eyes

A bliss that ne'er shall end?

Shield we 'neath love's soft wing,
Shrine in our inmost heart,

The closer aye we cling,
The fiercer pang to part.

Thus ta with eyelids wet,
Musing, my home I sought,

A sight my vision met

Recalled my wandering thought.

Three forms before me rose,
With noiseless steps and sad,

Pressing the frozen snows,
In humble mourning clad.

No pomp of grief was there,
Or vainly mocking show,

Only the sorrow bare
Of all parade of woe.

Within a little cart,

Made for glad childhood's play, And framed with rugged art,

A little coffin lay.

One drew this lowly bier,
Herself a gentle child, —

Hung on her cheek a tear,
Yet she looked up and smiled.

With chastened grief, behind
Moved slowly mourners twain,

Soft weeping, yet resigned ;—
This was the funeral

And I had held my breath
While the sad group was near;

It seemed that life and death
Had strangely mingled here.

Many a summer day
That happy infant, dead,

Had passed in childish play,
By its fond sister led.

Still faithful to the last

That sister's hand doth prove,
E'en now she clingeth fast

To her unselfish love.

She draws along the way

That silent Jit tie one,
As though their happy play

Scarce yet were wholly done.

And I learnt lesson new

From the child's simple fuith,
How love that's pure and true,

Is stronger aye than death;

How in the gloomy day,
When all around is bare,

Love lights the dreary way,
Sees its own sunshine there;

And how the early dead

Leave no sad memory,
For One with power hath said,

"Let them coine unto Mk ;"

And from assault of sin,

From sorrow, fears, alarms,

Secure are they within
The Everlasting Arms.

Churchman's Family Magazine.

A. D.


"Light of the world! Why is there all this sadness?

What is the mystery of Thy dear love, That we so seldom taste the heavenly gladness, So slowly lift our hearts to Thee above?

"Why must we watch the rosy morning break^ing,

Yet not for tis, who in our pain do lie? Why must we part from those whom Thou art

taking? So dear, that in their death we seem to die.

'How can we pow, who never see the reaping? How can we pray, with hearts so full of sin? Blessed the souls, who safe in Thee are sleeping,

No strength of ours can hope that goal to win."

And who are ye, to raise this loud complaining

Up to the Throne, where holy angels tend, Where saints in light (God's love their lips constraining) To One Unseen their mighty anthems send!

What skill of yours can summon o'er the ocean, The gath'ring blackness, or the whisp'ring breeze?

How march the planets in their stately motion? How breathes the Spring upon the greening trees?

Jehovah's path is on the dark'ning waters: When God is silent, man indeed is blind;

Yet this His message to His sons and daughters— Me, if ye humbly seek, ye soon shall find.

For God is Light! No clouds with him are


Who in His Christ is fully reconciled. Faith in His love will soothe the heart's rebelling: Where God is Father, safe must be the child.

Ours is a pleasant world, and we should love it, Oil, far too well, if all were smooth and bright;

Because its treasures we are apt to covet,
The best we have must vanish out of sight.

We weep to-day that we may smile to-morrow;
Now we are weak, that He may make us


He drank it first, who mixed our cup of sorrow,

Soon shall we learn to sing the conqueror's song.

No sin shall sully then the robes of whiteness In which the Lord's elect shall glitter there;

No passing cloud shall dim their look of brightness, No thorns of life their bridal garment tear.

And if the thought should set your heart an aching,

"We are not yet arrived at our home: Before we find ourselves that joy partaking.

We may have many weary miles to roaui;"

"Abide in me." Redemption is the story

Of helpless sinners saved by grace divine; And all will say who wear that crown of glory, "Through God's eternal love this crown is mine."

Anthony W. Tiiobold. Sunday Magazine.


I And have they told you all? Ah yes, I sec
At last you know it—know that I must die.
Don't tremble so; but come and sit bv me.

| And hold rry hand, and be as culm Ok I.
Bend nearer, for my voice is faint and low;

I And I would tell you something ere I go.

I've known a long time now that in that heart,
Whose every beat was music to my ear,
I've held the second place. Nay, do not start;
I would but tell you—nut reproach you, dear.
You loved her first; and though witli all vour

You strove to conquer it, you love her siill.

Twas hard to bear—-to know that she whose


Had blighted all the sunshine of your life,
Could make your cheek flush and your eye grow


E'en with a word: 7 could not, though your wife.
I straggled hard to win your love; but no!
I could not win it; yet I loved you so.

The hope that lighted up my path so long
Has Bickered and died out. I could not live
Without your love; but you did me no wrong—
I could not gain what you had not to give.
Nay, weep not! I am happy now I see
You'll love my mem'ry better far than me.

The strife has been so long, the way so drear,
I feared my patience and my trust in God
Would fail: hut now I see the end so near,
Tis easier far to bow beneath the rod.
The nipht is nearly o'er; the morn is nigh:
Thank God for taking me! Dear love, good-bye!



History of Fricdrit-h IT. of Prussia, called Fredtrirk t/ie Grfal. By Thomas Carlyle. Vols. V. and VI. London:'Chapman and Hall. 1865. The concluding volumes of Mr. Carlyle's Frederick the Grtat have appeared, and a premature death Kin not now intervene to add one more melancholy example to the long list of great historical works left half-finished. Now that we can look on the work as a whole, we can see how large a scope it permitted to Mr. Cartyle's peculiar powers, how apt a subject it afforded for the application of his peculiar theories, but also how far it has foiled to let Mr. Carlyle do justice to himself. Mr. Carlyle has a knowledge of Europe in the eighteenth century which is wholly unrivaled, and the history of Frederick involves the history of Germany. France, and England, and of a large portion of French and German literature. Mr. Carlyle has a marvelous power of condensing the remit of his researches and reflections into pregnant, epigrammatic, half-ludicrous sentences or expressions; and the various persons who floated to the top of European society in the middle of the last century were exactly suited to be described in this way, having a certain limited interest for the modem world, and being neither too wise nor too good to be dashed off with a humorous epithet or two. Further, Mr. Carlyle has a passion for accuracy of detail. He loves to take the utmost fains to make his geography and his chronology right. He is not satisfied with knowing that Frederick and his army crossed a brook; he wants afao to know whether this brook had a gravelly or a muddy bottom. He is not satisfied with knowing that the brook was crossed on such a day of loch a month, bat he wants also to know what was the hour and the minute. Frederick's history offers an ample field for this sort of labor, for Frederick was continually, for near thirty years, crossing brooks, and the "glory and delight of finding ont these brooks is much increased by the dismal character of the country where they are to be discovered. A man who sets himself to describe try accurately and minutely the bogs of Bohemia may have the satisfaction of thinking that, if he rsn carry hie readers successfully through this amount of topography, he can carry them through anything. Frederick, too, presents many of the qualities which Mr. Carlyle has spent his life in thinks it warranted; and if nn objection to it crosses his mind, he lets his readers know his thoughts. On one occasion the startling question seems to huve occurred to him—"But what if there were no doggeries, or jf tncy left off yelping altogether, and the captains did exactly as they pleased, without any one approving or disapproving them; would that be altogether so desirable a state of things?" If a sovereign, or other strong person, announcing himself as a seer of facts and an accomplishcr of the decrees of Providence, were to march armies abont, and dismember kingdom.*, and in various ways trample on his neighbors, and no one objected, or resisted, or praised, or Illumed him; would not this last state of things be worse than the first? Is it for example, altogether to be regretted that Europe shrieked a little over the partition of Poland? Mr. Carlyle is obliged to own that Immunity, after all, requires its doggeries, or, in other words, that tyranny and robbery ought to receive the disapprobation of men. This opinion, wrung out of him, as it were, by his own troublesome conscience, is expressed as follows: |

trying to make the world admire. He wns very : hard-working, very despotic, with a stern purpose to which he succeeded in making other men < bend, and full of a bull-dog courage. Undoubt! cdly he was a captain of men and a captain of ini dustry, and made many millions of men fight, or | dig, or die, as he pleased. But the life of Fred'erick totally fails to give Mr. Carlyle scope for his [ power of seizing that which is pions, noble, and j good in the characters of pious, noble, and good I men. He feels this, and shows that he feels it. j He is obliged to be constantly patronizing Frederi ick, making the best of him, exclaiming and pro1 testing that,although he was a heathenish old brute, j he still fought and wrought so well that anything ! maybe forgiven him. It may, therefore, seem as if the choice of Frederick were to be regretted, and that Mr. Carlyle might have devoted to a tetter purpose the maturest years of his intellectual ! power. We do not think so. This history of l Frederick the Great appears to us quite a good 'enough work for the theory of captains of men and industry to have resulted in. It is better that the theory should be shown us once for all in its naked simplicity, and that we should not see it confused and overshadowed by the accidental virtues of a mixed character like Cromwell. Frederick affords a very fair instance of the kind of man Mr. Carlyle wishes to uphold. He was neither too bad nor too good. He worked towards ends that can not be called mean or purely selfish, and he showed unconquerable tenacity in his manner of working. To keep up the Prussian army, to crib bits of his neighbors' territory, and to improve Prussian trade and agriculture, were the sort of things which an able and resolute King of Prussia in the last century naturally felt himself called upon to do. Frederick did these things, and Mr. Carlyle praises him highly for doing them. According to Mr. Carlyle's view, he showed himself in this to be a man who saw facts, and the eternal purposes of Heaven, and who consulted the veracities. Frederick saw the fact that a very highly disciplined army like the Prussian, if well led, might give its owner a power disproportionate to the numerical strength of his force. He saw the fact that Silesia might be safely occupied, and Poland advantageously dismembered. He saw the fact that large tracts of land migh be drained, by the active Intervention of Government, which could never be drained or turned to any account by the poverty-stricken creatures who inhabited them. But then to see facts like these, though the foundation of much excellence, is not enough to make a man a hero. It is not so much his aim, as the mode in which he earned out his aims, that gives Frederick so high a place in Mr. Carlyle's estimation. He was wholly inattentive to the doggeries, and this is what makes him so dear i to his biographer. That is, he did not mind what was said or thought of him, or what misery he caused, so long as he had his own beneficent way. To do things moderately good, with a perfect indifference to the feelings of every one, is the ideal of human life which Mr. Carlyle, amid some waverings, has set himself to preach up for the last thirty years; and Frederick the Great approaches this ideal sufficiently to warrant Mr. Carlylc in choosing him as a representative man.

But Mr. Carlyle is a very honest man, and he never consciously carries his theory further thau he

"For, granting that the Nation of Poland was for centuries past an Anarchy doomed by the Eternal Laws of Heaven to die, and then of course to get gradually buried, or eaten by neighbors, were it only for sanitary reasons—it will by no means suit to declare openly on behalf of terrestrial neighbors who have taken up such an idea (({ranting it were even a just one, and a true reading of the silent but inexorably certain purposes of Heaven), that they, those volunteer terrestrial neighbors, are justified in breaking in upon the poor dying or dead carcass, and flaying and burying it, with amicable sharing of skin and shoes! If it even were certain that the wretched Polish Nation, for the last forty years hastening with especial speed towards death, did in present circumstances, with such a howling canaille of Turk Janissaries and vultures of creation busy round it, actually require prompt surgery, in the usual method, by neighbors—the neighbors shall and must do that function at their own risk. If Heaven did appoint them to it, Heaven, for certain, will at last justify them; and in the meanwhile, for a generation or two, the same Heaven (I can believe) has appointed that Earth shall pretty unanimously condemn them. The shrieks, the foam-lipped curses of mistaken mankind, in such case, are mankind's one security against over-promptitude (which is so dreadfully I possible) on the part of surgical neighbors."

It is true that at the end of this passage Mr. Carlyle relapses into assuring his "articulatespeaking friends " that the solution of the riddle is not logic, but silence. He can not quite bear to 1 let the doggeries fancy he is a convert to them; | and perhaps the doggeries may be content with the amount of adhesion to them they have got. And certainly the doggeries of this generation! need not yelp very loudly about the part which; Frederick"took in the partition. It was not his idea, but that of the C/arina; and he merely managed the matter so that the partitioning Powers should not quarrel over the spoil. Nowhere in the whole of this long work has Mr. Carlyle been more happy than in his description of the Czarina and of Poland, and nowhere more graphic

in any of the portraits he has gi^en, or of the countries and societies he has depicted. Poland is a subject after Mr. Cnrlyle's own heart. It must be owned that Poland in those days was, and for some time had Ixsen, anarchical; and "anarchies are not permitted in this world." More especially there was the Liberum Veto, "the ]xnrer of one man to stop the proceedings of the Polish Parliament, by pronouncing audibly 'Nie Po«walam,' I don't permit. Never before or since, among mortals, was so incredible a law." But there the law, however increditaWe, was "like an ever-flowing fountain of anarchy, joyful to the Polish nation." But the Poles had something else in the anarchical way quite as peculiar as the Liberum Veto. They had the right of confederation, "the brightest jewel in the cesttis of Polish liberty—right of every Polish gentleman to confederate with every other against, or for, whatsoever to them two inay seem good." No wonder Poland, with such fountains of anarchy in it, was what Mr. Carlyle calls the door-mat of Russia— the country across which she stepped, and on which she wiped her feet as she pleased when she wished to visit Europe. But the Czarina did not mean to hurt Poland very much. She only did not know what to do with it, and first gave it as a kingdom to one of her ex-lovers, and then stripped oft" some of its superfluities. Of the Czarina Mr. Carlyle speaks in kindly terms as "a grandiose creature, with considerable magnanimities, natural and acquired, with many ostentations, some really. great qualities and talents; in effect a kind of Louis-Quatorze, if the reader will reflect on that royal gentleman, and put him into petticoats in Russia, and change his improper females for improper males." And this good creature, as Mr. Carlyle believes, really wished to treat Poland in a philanthropic and handsome way which would do her credit in Europe, and to " gain glory both with the enlightened philanthropic classes and with her own proud heart by her treatment of that intricate matter." Thus roscwater is thrown over even the partition of Poland, and thns even Czarinas are rehabilitated. Not perhaps unjustly, for Nie Pozwalam is, it must be confessed, rather too anarchical for the stoutest friend of liberty; and we have no means of disputing the hypothesis that Catharine, in seizing on the most available part of Poland, really wished, not only to aggrandize herself, bnt to please Voltaire and her own improper male.

Mr. Carlyle is, as usnal, admirable in the delineation of his characters of the second class; not only of the eminences whom, like Catharine, he hits off in a sentence or two, but of those whom he describes at some length—literary eminences, for the most part, known by name to most persons who have read anything about Continental literature in the eighteenth century, but only by name or by a dim notion of their words. Mr. Carlyle fills in their vague outlines, and lets us know what the men were really like. For example, he gives the following inimitable sketch of Gellert, and we will pay our readers the compliment of supposing they know Gellert by name:

'' A modest, despondent kind of man, given to indigestions, dietetics, hypochondria: 'of neat figure and dress; nose hooked, but not too much; eyes mournfully blue and beautiful, fine open

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