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No. 1514. - June 14, 1873.
S From Beginning, ? Vol. CXVII.
Oliphant, author of “Salem Chapel," " The
Part V., . . . . . . . Graphic, . . . .
OF LANGUAGE. By Prof. Max Müller. First
Lecture, . . . . . . . Fraser's Magazine, . . IV. The Two BrothERS. A Tale by MM. Erck
mann-Chatrian, authors of “The Conscript,”
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POETRY. HOME-SPUN SONGS,
| DYING HYMN. By Alice Cary, . Waiting for You, Jock,
• 642 | REST. By Christina G. Rossetti, . Afeared of a Gall, . . . . 642 |
. 686 . 690 . 700 . 702
. 642 . 704
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Yet Sall says, “Why, she's such a dear, BY SAMUEL SLICK, JUNR.
She's just the one for you."
Oh, darn it all! —afeared of a gall,
And me just six feet two!
Though she ain't any size, while I'm
I'm nowhere when she speaks to me,
She makes me feel so sinall. For my heart it is jaded,
My face grows red; my tongue gets hitched,
The cussed thing won't go;
It riles me, 'cause it makes her think
I'm most tarnation slow.
And though folks say she's sweet on me, As soon as the day's done,
I guess it can't be true.
Oh, darn it all!- afeared of a gall,
And me just six feet two!
My sakes! just 'spose if what the folks While here I am pining,
Is saying should be so!
Go, cousin Jane, and speak to her, . Waiting for you;
Find out and let me know;
Tell her the galls should court the men,
For isn't this leap year?
That's why I'm kinder bashful like,
Awaiting for her here.
And should she hear I'm scared of her,
You'll swear it can't be true.
Oh, darn it all! — afeared of a gall,
And me just six feet two!
Waiting for you;
Waiting for you!
Earth with its dark and dreadful ills
Recedes and fades away.
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills,
Ye gates of Death, give way!
My soul is full of whispered song;
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are all alive with light.
The while my pulses faintly beat,
My faith doth so abound,
I feel grow firm beneath my feet
The green, immortal ground.
That faith to me a courage gives
Towards the grave to go; Her voice is sweet as the whipporwill's
I know that my Redeemer lives,
That I shall live I know.
The palace walls I almost see
Where dwells my Lord and King; • Sister Sall don't like this word. Says it's only fit
O grave, where is thy victory? for stockings, and suchlike. But it can't be helped.
O Death, where is thy sting? The country folks are great at darning. They will “darn," and that's all about it. - S. S. Jr.
From Blackwood's Magazine. I the journey feels like, and yet we are asTWO ACTS OF SELF-DEVOTION. sured that where we see him now standThere is little need to explain at any ing we shall one day stand ourselves : no length why death-scenes, so sad to wit-wonder, then, that we watch his every ness, are so interesting to read of. The movement. That last march admits, fact is at any rate well known, and has properly speaking, of no rehearsals ; if ill been abundantly traded on by second-rate executed it cannot be recommenced with poets and novelists. Their favourite plan a view to its better performance ; and so of introducing us to an innocent young we like to rehearse it in imagination, and victim whose chief use Cif rather tedious feel a strange excitement in studying our in life) is to beguile us of our tears on a part beforehand. sentimental death-bed, has been often No writer of fiction gratifies this desire justly censured. This device, too, defeats with sounder judgment than Shakespeare. its own end; for a thing which has scarce- Grave, manly, yet full of human pity, his ly lived cannot with any propriety of lan-death-scenes arouse no maudlin sensibilguage be said to die. But when we are ity ; they instruct while they affect us. reading the description of a statesman's In them we study the emotions called demeanour on the scaffold, or of a warrior forth by death's approach in very various breathing his last on a hardly-conquered characters -- the dull and common-place field, the added interest with which we man and the genius -- the unusually guilty view the close of that career which we and the singularly good. We mark how, have been surveying throughout its pro- as the great teacher draws near him, the gress, is perfectly legitimate. Nor can| | rude and thoughtless Hotspur becomes historian or biographer engrave their suddenly enlightened; how Hamlet's overwords at any time more deeply on our weighted mind is cleared of its perpleximemories than when they are placing be- ties by his touch. Who can read many fore us a man who is about (as Plutarch of Shakespeare's finest passages without says*) to flee from that altar of Life which being reminded of his own words — has ceased to afford him protection, in The setting sun, and music at the close, order to seek shelter at the more awful As the last taste of sweets is sweetest last inner shrine of Death. This interest we Writ in remembrance, more than things long do right to extend to similar passages in past? great works of fiction, whether prose or And yet there is one omission in Shakeverse, because they are as true to the facts speare's death-scenes which, when we of nature as history and biography, - come to think of it, strikes us as hard to often far truer. Thus most men could account for. None of his plays represooner forget the stirring fights of the sents to us the noblest death of all the Iliad than the death of Hector, the gar-free-will offering of a life on the altar of dens of Armida than the baptism of the faith, home, or country. His plays abound dying Clorinda. For a death scene, not with fair types of maiden modesty and sentimentally tricked out with affected grace; but he neither emulates Euripiprettinesses, but truthfully and powerfully des by making one of his young girls stand painted, stirs in us that sense of the sub-forth, timid yet resolute, to die for her lime which belongs to the terrible when fatherland, nor yet does he lead the way not near enough to alarm ; it awakens in which Calderon and Massinger were to reverential pity in our breasts ; above all, follow, by picturing a virgin's readiness it makes its appeal to one of man's strong- to die for her God. Shakespeare's wives est desires, his insatiable curiosity about are models, many of them, of submissive the unknown. As we read we pursue with and loving devotion to their husbands; our eyes a traveller along that road where but there is among them no Alcestis who every footprint points forward ; we know ransoms her lord's life with her own. that he cannot turn back to tell us what Lady Macbeth by her fierce and unscru
pulous courage, Hamlet by the task of * Life of Demosthenes.
I vengeance imposed upon him, recall to