such informing soul, then we should with perfect reason and logic affirm that as no natural process would account for the entirely different kind of soul-one capable of articulately expressing general conceptions*-so no merely natural process could account for the origin of the body informed by it-a body to which such an intellectual faculty was so essentially and intimately related. Dropping now the metaphor of immaterial spirits, it seems that the answers supposed to be given by such spirits must be the answers really given by sincere and unbiassed investigators in the combined spheres of Zoology and Anthropology. But however near to Apes may be the body of man, whatever the kind or num- THE NORTH, THE LAND OF LOVE AND SONG.t LEAVES were flying, Falling and sighing, Fading and dying, Under the maple-trees. Under the trees I heard, Was it the leaves that stirred, Voice of a fay or bird Saying to me, Singing this pitiful Song to me "Away, away, We must not stay; "It is not emotional expressions or manifestations of sensible impressions, however exhibited, which have to be accounted for, but the enunciation of distinct deliberate judgments as to the what,' 'the how,' and 'the why,' by definite articulate sounds; and for these Mr. Darwin not only does not account, but he does not adduce anything even tending to account for them." Quarterly Review," July 1871. Article, "The Descent of Man." [Reprinted in ECLECTIC for October and November, 1871.] There is a difference of opinion between our singers and our song-birds. Though the cold north is the tender nurse of domestic love and affection, some of our poets are never weary of harping upon the sunny south as "the land of love and song." Our song-birds, which are all natives of the north, are more patriotic, and perhaps more truthful. Annually they turn their backs upon the bright skies and the blue waters of the tropics, and journey thousands of miles over land and sea, in order to rear up in the forests of the north a hardy and healthy brood, and to make their native land the home of love and song. And when the chilling autumn winds, like the cold blasts of poverty, drive these natives of the north into exile, they gradually lose the power of song; and when the hour of their departure arrives, they steal away by night, and leave our shores in silence. The traveller who watches a sunrise in the tropics cannot fail to recall the litany of the woods that greets the dawn in his native land, and to be struck with the oppressive silence of the scene before him. Some solitary campanero (the bell-bird), looking like a snowflake, as it alights on the top of a lofty maro tree, may be heard ringing its silver chime, as if to summon the exile songsters to join in a matin hymn. But it calls in vain. The exiles are mute, for, like captive Judah, "how can they sing the Lord's song in a strange land ?” The writer has recently attempted to describe in "Home-spun Songs" the life and language of the backwoods. It is a more difficult task to interpret the notes of joy that announce the annual return of our tuneful emigrants to "the land of love and song." 28 NEW SERIES.--VOL. XVIII., No. 4 २ And every note For I knew 'twas the spirit That sang to me thus With the voice of a bird : "Farewell to the North, the stern cold North, Hark! winter drear It comes anear; We dare not linger long. There's a path in the air, man may not know, And a voice in the winds, man may not hear, When the winter dies, And the west wind sighs To hear the linnet's strain. In the South, the fierce, the fickle South, Though the oriole, like a sunbeam, flits With many a radiant bird Through the mangrove shade, No leafy glade By tuneful notes is stirred. Hark! through the sleeping forest rings It calls in vain for the matin hymn Home songs of spring, Or the notes of summer time? We silent seek the lonely homes Of a long-forgotten race; † Through voiceless streets our wings are heard, From its unknown source Till it dimples the ocean's face. At length the weary wanderers A whispering murmur hear, Like the pent-up moan of a mother's heart, Or the sigh of a sister dear. *Waterton, in his Wanderings in South America' (p. 117), describes in glowing terms "the celebrated campanero of the Spaniards, called dara by the Indians, and bell-bird by the English." "You hear his toll, and then a pause for a minute-then another toll, and then a pause again-and then a toll, and again a pause; then he is silent for six or eight minutes, and then another toll,-and so on. Acteon would stop in mid-chase, Maria would defer her evening song, and Orpheus himself would drop his lute, to listen to him; so sweet, so novel and romantic, is the toll of the pretty snow-white campanero." + Our migratory birds find their way as far south as the ruined cities of Yucatan. HALIFAX, NOVA Scotia. 'Tis a voice from home; 'Tis the sigh of the North we hear! Homeward, over the salt sea waves, Where the earth and the sky are ever bright, But the North whispers, 'Come To your home, sweet home,' And we fly from the sunny isles. We rest on the spars of the stately bark, And songs of the North we sing, Till the mariners weep in their dreams with joy, And the linnet's strain Steals o'er the main, And the song that they hear us sing. We have come to the North, the stern cold North, The true, the trusting, tender North, Dear land of love and song." Under the oak-trees lying, Budding leaves I see. Tassels of red Burst from the maple-tree; And the robins and linnets The song of the little birdie- We have come, we have come !" That sang to me thus R. G. HALIBURTON. -Blackwood's Magazine. SPRING FLOODS. BY IVAN TURGENIEFF. TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN FOR THE ECLECTIC BY MIS SSOPHIE MICHELL. "O happy years IT was two o'clock in the morning when he returned to his rooms. He sent away the servant who was lighting the candles, and throwing himself into an arm-chair by the fire, buried his face in his hands. Never yet had he experienced such utter weariness, morally or physically. He had spent the whole of that evening in the society of agreeable and educated people; some of the women were pretty, almost all the men were distinguished for their intellect and talents; he, himself, had spoken well, if not brilliantly; yet never had that "tædium vitæ," already experienced by the Romans-that aversion from life-taken such strong hold of him before. Had he been some years younger, he would have wept tears of anguish, lonesomeness, and irritability, for his heart was full of bitterness. A heavy gloom encircled him like a dark autumnal night, and he could find no way out of this darkness and bitterness. The only remedy for such a gloomy state of mind was sleep, but that solace he felt was denied him. He pondered slowly and bitterly over the useless turmoil of life, over the meanness and falseness of human nature. The different periods of life passed gradually before his mental vision, (he had only reach ed his fifty-second year,) and each received no mercy at his hands. In every period he perceived the same emptiness and frivolity, the same half-concealed, half-acknowledged love of flattery-which, instead even of soothing a child, would sooner cause it to cry-and then, as sudden as a snow-storm, he beheld old age approach, and with it the ever-increasing great dread of death . . . next death itself hurrying old age into the dark abyss! Well is it, if every life is played out like this! But often, sickness and great sufferings sear our life long before our earthly journey is accomplished. Poets are wont : to compare life to a troubled sea. In his fancy, the great sea of life lay stretched before him, so smooth, so stagnant and transparent, and gazing down from his imaginary small, unsteady boat, he could discern shapeless monsters lying far below in the darkness all life's trials, sicknesses, sorrows, madnesses, its poverty and its blindness. . . Looking again, he could see one of these monstrous objects dividing itself from the darkness, and, rising higher and higher, it becomes fearfully distinct. Yet another minute, and danger menaces the boat! It is past: the monster sinks gradually lower, and falls at last to the ground, where it lies moving feebly. But alas! the fatal day must surely come when that small, unsteady boat shall be upset. He raised his head, rose suddenly from his chair, walked twice up and down the room, seated himself at his writing-table, and opening one drawer after another, began hunting amongst his papers, which consisted chiefly of letters. He did not know why he did it-he was not searching for any thing-he was simply striving to escape from the thoughts which oppressed him. Unfolding several letters, (in one he found a withered flower fastened with a bit of faded ribbon,) he only shrugged his shoulders, and turning to the fire, put them aside, probably with the intention of destroying them. Hurriedly introducing his hand into each drawer, he suddenly opened his eyes wide with astonishment, and slowly drew out a small octagonal box of an old-fashioned shape, and as slowly lifted the lid. In the box, beneath a double layer of discolored paper, lay a garnet cross. For several moments he gazed perplexedly at the cross, and a low cry escaped his lips. Pity and joy were both expressed in his face. He felt like one who had suddenly met an old friend whom he had long lost sight of, whom he had fondly loved, and who now appeared before him, unexpectedly, after the lapse of years, and yet unchanged by time. He rose, and returning to the fire, seated himself again in his chair, and once more buried his face in his hands, murmuring, "Of all days, why to-day !" And many things that had happened to him in life came back to his memory. This is what he remembered. But we must first tell our readers his name. It was Dimitri Petrovitch Sanin. And these were his recollections : I. It was in the summer of 1840. Sanin had only just entered his twenty-second year, and was passing through Frankfort en route to Russia from Italy. He was a young man of small means, entirely his own master, and with but few relations. On the death of a distant relative, he found himself the possessor of several thousand rubles, and he at once determined to spend this money abroad, before he entered the government service, which, he thought, was the only career left to him in his penniless condition. Sanin carried out his intentions faithfully, and managed so dexterously that the day he arrived at Frankfort, he found he had just sufficient money to take him back to St. Petersburg. In the year 1840 there were very few railways, and tourists traveled about in diligences. Sanin had taken a seat in a diligence, but it was not to leave Frankfort until eleven o'clock at night. He had therefore several hours at his disposal until that time. Fortunately, the weather was lovely, and Sanin having dined at the celebrated hotel, the "White Swan," sauntered out to explore the town. He saw Danneker's "Ariadne," which pleased him but little; he visited the house where had lived Göthe, of whose works he had only read Werther, in a French translation; he walked along the banks of the Main, and grew sorrowful, as every real traveler should do, and at last, at six in the evening, he found himself tired and dusty in one of the principal streets of Frankfort. On one of its numerous houses, the signboard of an Italian confectioner, "Giovani Roselli," attracted his notice. He entered the shop to get himself a glass of lemonade; but in the first room, where, behind a neat little counter, were arranged on painted shelves glass jars with rusks, chocolate cakes, and sugar drops, he saw no one; a cat alone purred in a high wicker chair by the window, and on the floor, with a slanting ray of the evening sun full on it, lay a large ball of bright red wool, and close by a small basket overturned. Confused sounds were heard in the next room. nin waited awhile and then, as no one answered the bell, he called out in a loud voice, "Is no one here ?" At the same moment the door from the next room was violently thrown open, and Sanin stood struck with astonishment. II. Sa A girl of nineteen, with a mass of black curls flowing over her uncovered shoulders, had suddenly burst into the shop with outstretched arms, and seeing Sanin, rushed up to him, seized his hand, and tried to lead him back with her, saying at the same time, in a stifled voice, "Quick, quick, here, save him!" It was not from an unwillingness to obey her, but from sheer amazement, that Sanin, instead of immedately following her, stood rooted to the ground. He had never seen such beauty before. She turned to him with such despair in her voice, in her look, in the movement of her clinched hand which she held to her pale cheek, and said so earnestly, "Come, oh! come!" that he sprang to the opened door. In the room they had entered, stretched on an old-fashioned horse-hair sofa, lay a boy of about fourteen, apparently her brother, with a face as white as marble. His eyes were closed, and his dark thick hair threw a shadow over his pale forehead and finely-penciled eyebrows, and his parted blue lips showed his teeth firmly clinched. He seemed not to breathe; one hand had fallen over the sofa, while the other was thrown behind his head. The boy was lying dressed, with his necktie tightly fastened round his neck. The young girl threw herself down beside the boy. "He is dead, he is dead," she cried passionately; "a minute ago he was sitting here-speaking to me -and suddenly he fell down and has not moved since. O God! can no help be had? And my mother away! Pantaleone, Pantaleone, where is the doctor?" she added in Italian, "have you been to fetch him ?" "No, Signora, I have sent Louisa," answered a gruff voice from behind the |