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From Hatters' Gazette.
THE UMBRELLA BIRD

emy say what they will. That some other Even in this position it is not an inelegant planet (for so he presents his theory) has crest, but it is when it is fully spread, ihat been torn into fragments, millions of which its peculiar character is developed. The have in successive eras reached our earth, shafts then radiate on all sides from the their constitution varying according to the top of the head, reaching in front beyond depth of the strata of the planet-home from and below the tip of the beak, which is which they were successively torn, is a completely hidden from view. The top then thing utterly inadmissible, so long as the forms a perfect, slightly elongated dome, laws of probability are to be our guide in a beautiful shining blue color, having such matters. But that the earth herself, a point of divergence rather behind the in various past stages of her existence as centre, like that in the human head. The an intensely volcanic orb, should have ex. length of this dome from front to back is pelled immense numbers of bodies, and about five inches, the breadth four to four ihat the successive periods of meteoric and a half inches. Scarcely less curious downfall should thus come to exhibit than the “ umbrella,” as this overhanging changes corresponding to the successive plume is very appropriately named, is a stages of terrestrial stratification, seems bunch of elongated feathers that hang from reasonable enough. Nay, we may even the breast in a tuft, perfectly distinct from say that if many meteorites really are the rest of the plumage. The peculiarity proved by the evidence adduced by Tscher in this tuft is, that the feathers of which mak to have had a volcanic origin, no it is composed do not grow from the neck, theory but Dr. Ball's will account for those but from a cylindrical fleshy growth, about meteorites, at any rate, - while nothing as thick as an ordinary goosequill, and an could accord better than this theory with inch and a half long. The whole of this the results of M. Meunier's researches. curious appendage is covered with feath

ers, so that the breast tuft is wholly distinct from the feathers of the neck and breast. The entire skin of the neck is extremely loose, more so than in any other bird. The feathers of this tuft are edged

with a beautiful and resplendent blue, and THE umbrella bird is a truly remarkable lap over each other like so many scales. creature, and from the extraordinary mode The food of the umbrella bird consists in which its plumage is arranged, never chiefly of berries and various fruits, and it fails of attracting the attention of the most always rejects the hard stone of stone casual spectator. The bird is a native of fruit. As its cry is extremely loud and the islands of the South American rivers deep, the natives call the bird by a name

- being seldom if ever seen on the main which signifies a pipe.
land — Irom whence it is not unfrequently
brought by collectors, as there is always a
ready sale for its skin, either to ser
an ornament in glass cases, or as a speci-
men for a museum. In dimensions the

From The Nineteenth Century. umbrella bird equals the common crow of England, and but for the curious plume which adorns its head, and the tuft which

THE PRINCESS ALICE. hangs from its breast, might be mistaken Dead Princess, living Power, if that, which at a distance for that bird. The general

lived color of this species is rich shining black, True life, live on, and if the fatal kiss, glazed with varying tints of blue and pur. Born of true life and love, divorce thee not ple like the feathers of the magpie's tail. From earthly love and life, if what we cail Very little is known of the habits of the The spirit flash not all at once from out bird. Its crest is, perhaps, the most fully This shadow into substanc, ethen perhaps developed and beautiful of any bird known. The mellow'd murmur of the people's praise It is composed of long slender feathers, From thine own state, and all our breadth of rising from a contractile skin on the top of

realm, the head. The shafts are white, and the Where Love and Longing dress thy deeds in

light, plume glossy blue, hair-like, and curved outward at the tip. When the crest is laid Ascends to thee; and this March morn that back, the shafts form a compact white Thy soldier-brother's bridal orange-bloom mass, sloping up from the top of the head, Break thro' the yews and cypress of thy grave, and surmounted by the dense hairy plumes. And thine Imperial mother smile again,

serve as

DEDICATORY POEM

TO

sees

III.

I.

every side

II.

- May send one ray to thee ! and who can tell — Quiet, ah! quiet - wait till the point of the Tbou — England's England-loving daughter pickaxe be thro' ! thou

Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer Dying so English thou wouldst have her flag again than before Borne on thy coffin - where is he can swear Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark But that some broken gleam from our poor pioneer is no more ; earth

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner May touch thee, while remembering thee, I lay of England blew. - At thy pale feet this ballad of the deeds Of England, and her banner in the East ?

Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times,

and it chanced on a day THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW.

Soon as the blast of that underground thun

derclap echo'd away, BANNER of England, not for a season, O ban- Dark thro’ the smoke and the sulphur like so ner of Britain, hast thou

many fiends in their hell Floated in conquering battle or fapt to the Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, battle-cry!

and yell upon yell Never with mightier glory than when we had Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy rear'd thee on high

fell. Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege What have they done? where is it? Out yon. of Lucknow

der. Guard the Redan ! Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but ever we

Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Baileyraised thee anew,

gate! storm, and it ran And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on England blew.

Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily

drown'd by the tide Frail were the works that defended the hold So many thousands that if they be bold that we held with our lives

enough, who shall escape ? Women and children among us, God help Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall know them, our children and wives !

we are soldiers and men ! Hold it we might- and for fifteen days or for Ready! take aim at their leaders — their twenty at most.

masses are gapp'd with our grape “Never surrender, I charge you, but every man Backward they reel like the wave, like the die at his post !”

wave flinging forward again, Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Law- Flying and foil'd at the last by the handful rence the best of the brave :

they could not subdue ; Cold were his brow's when we kiss'd him - we And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of laid him that night in his grave.

England blew. Every man die at his post !” and there hail'd

on our houses and halls Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from Handful of men as we were, we were English their cannon-balls,

in heart and in limb, Death in our innermost chamber, and death at Strong with the strength of the race to comour slight barricade,

mand, to obey, to endure, Death while we stood with the musket, and Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison death while we stoopt to the spade,

hung but on him; Death to the dying, and wounds to the wound. Still — could we watch at all points ? we were ed, for often there fell

every day fewer and fewer. Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro’ it, | There was a whisper among us, but only a their shot and their shell,

whisper that past : Death, for their spies were among us, their “Children and wives — if the tigers leap into marksmen were told of our best,

the fold unawares So that the brute bullet broke thro' the brain Every man die at his post — and the foe may that could think for the rest;

outlive us at last Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bul- Better to fall by the hands that they love, than lets would rain at our feet

to fall into theirs !” Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels Roar upon roar in a moment two mines by the that girdled us round

enemy sprung Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our breadth of a street,

poor palisades. Death from the heights of the mosque and the Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that palace, and death in the ground!

your hand be as true ! Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, Sharp is the fire of assault, better aim'd are down ! and creep thro' the hole !

your flank fusillades Keep the revolver in hand! You can hear Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladhim the murderous mole.

ders to which they had clung,

IV.

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Twice from the ditch where they shelter we | Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over drive them with hand-grenades;

an English field, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that England blew.

would not be heal'd, V.

Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-piti.

less knife, Then on another wild morning another wild Torture and trouble in vain, — for it never

earthquake out-tore Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve Valor of delicate women who tended the hos

could save us a life, good paces or more. Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from Horror of women in travail among the dying

pital bed, the light of the sun –

and dead, One has leapt up on the breach, crying out: Grief for our perishing children, and never a

“Follow me, follow me!”. Mark him — he falls ! then another, and him Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes

moment for grief, too, and down goes he. Had they been bold enough then, who can tell Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd for

of relief, but the traitors had won ?

all that we knewBoardings and rafters and doors

-an embrasure ! make way for the gun !

Then day and night, day and night, coming

down on the still-shatter'd walls Now double-charge it with grape ! It is

Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of charged and we fire, and they run.

cannon-ballsPraise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of

face have his due ! Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought

England blew. with us, faithful and few, Fought with the bravest among us, and drove Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true what was

them, and smote them, and slew, That ever upon the topmost roof our banner Outram and Havelock breaking their way

told by the scout? in India blew.

thro' the fell mutineers!

Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again Men will forget what we suffer and not what in our ears! we do. We can fight;

All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all shout, thro’ the night

Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their conquering cheers, lying alarms.

Forth from their holes and their hidings our Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shout- women and children come out, ings and soundings to arms,

Blessing the wholesome white faces of Have. Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by lock's good fusileers, five,

Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the High, Ever the marvel among us that one should be lander wet with their tears! left alive,

Dance to the pibroch! - saved ! we are saved ! Ever the day with its traitorous death from the

- is it you? is it you? loopholes around,

Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be blessing of Heaven! laid in the ground,

"Hold it for fifteen days !” we have held it Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of for eighty-seven! cataract skies,

And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banStench of old offal decaying, and infinite tor- ner of England blew. ment of flies,

ALFRED TENNYSON.

VII.

VI.

"

TRANSITS OF MERCURY. - Prof. Holden / serviceable to the student and tɔ every one has published an “Index-Catalogue of Books who has occasion to consult the general litera. and Memoirs on the Transits of Mercury,' ture of an astronomical subject, and we hope which he had prepared to aid him in a search the American astronomer may find leisure to for records of the physical phenomena which continue them. Reference has already been have been observed at such transits. The list made in this column to his very valuable is not quite a complete one, the publications “Index-Catalogue to the Literature of Nebof observatories not being included, but there ulæ and Clusters, etc., forming No. 311 of is little inconvenience in the omission, as such the "Smithsonian Miscellaneous Collections.” observations and memoirs can be found by The publication above mentioned forms No. reference to the volumes for transit years, and 1 of " Biographical Contributions,” edited by Prof. Holden gives a list of the dates of all the Justin Winsor, librarian of Harvard Univertransits of Mercury so far observed. Cata. sity. The copy before us is republished from logues of this description must prove most the Bulletin of the library for October, 1878.

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Part V.,

.

CONTENTS. I. WILLIAM COBBETT,

Edinburgh Review, II. SARAH DE BERENGER, By Jean Ingelow,

Advance Sheets,
III. MAURITIUS,

Fraser's Magazine,
IV. THE DISTRACTED YOUNG PREACHER. By
Thomas Hardy,

New Quarterly Review,
V. THROUGH THE AGES : A LEGEND OF A
STONE AXE,

New Quarterly Review,

473 483

.

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510

POETRY. JOHN A. Dix,

450 | “YET LET ME KEEP THE OLD OBSER-
« FLOW ON, FLOW ON,
OLD OCEAN'S

VANCES,”
DAUGHTERS,

450 THROUGH THE AGES: A LEGEND OF THE VINE,

450 A STONE AXE,

450

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PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY
LITTELL & CO., BOSTON.

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Single Numbers of The LIVING AGB, 18 cents.

renown:

JOHN A. DIX.

Thought runs on thought beneath the moving STATESMAN HERO-SCHOLAR-GENTLEMAN.

finger,

I close, and yet again upon the theme I linger. WHAT was the secret of this ample life The long success which followed eighty Why are ye linked with all my deepest years?

musings, Why came to him such honor and renown?

And summon up the past?
Well may the nation ask-it, imid her tears. Yet in regrets which evermore must last,

Your freshness new infusing.
Was it great genius ? That but rarely wins
Save a poor laurel wreath beset with thorn; Ye my sad weary ways at every turn are finding,

Types of baptismal freshness ever winding, Was it a mastery of the statesman's art?

With sounds as of celestial dew, What has that brought but envy, wrath and

Or streams that come to view. scorn? Was it his scholarship, profound and deep,

Bear me, great flowing fountains, bear me still That had brought peace and joy, but not Bear me yet onward to the eternal hill

Upon your heaving breast; Was it his manner, courteous and refined,

Where I at length may rest! Which won the nation while it charmed the still would I close, my tongue in closing falters, town?

O bear me on your flowing breast, ye happy,

happy waters. Was it his courage, and that ringing phrase

REV. ISAAC WILLIAMS. Which struck the northern heart and found

it true? Or fervent piety, or, unknown, unsung, Some talent rare, some combination new?

YEt let me keep the old observances ; Men thought he had too much, as one by one

Though, stripped of their sweet meanings, All unsolicited the honors came.

they to me Perhaps they scoffed, as still the changes rung Be melancholy now as leafless trees : And titles gathered 'round one simple namę.

Yet I will keep them, fruitless though they be,

And in that arbor of cold memory But he with greater honor filled each place, Take oft my pleasure when the wind is low, Returned still better the unasked-for trust,

And winter strong, and the tired world runs Marched with a soldier's spirit to the front,

slow, To-day obeys the mandate, dust to dust. And with my soul the outer things agree.

I draw — I know it well — from a cold breast Was it humility, unselfish life,

These heartless words; and yet I can perceive A love of nature and of innocent joy,

That I can find in time some safer rest, That kept his heart at such a healthful beat,

Although my earth no more with noon be Left him the pulse and laughter of a boy?

bright:

May not this dulness be the fading eve There was no grudging envy in that mind,

Whence shall be born the clear, dark, holy He liked to help, to utter words of praise ;

night? There was no avarice in his generous hand,

BURBIDGE, Stretched not to injure, but to help, to raise.

Brave as his sword! a true Damascus blade,
Blazoned in fire – the brighter for the fray ;

THE VINE.
'Tis usage trics the temper of the steel,
Life proved thy temper, hero of to-day.

HEARKEN ! there is in old Morwenna's shrine, Evening Post.

M. E. W. S. A lonely sanctuary of the Saxon days,

Reared by the Severn sea for prayer and praise,
Amid the carved work of the roof a vine.
Its root is where the eastern sunbeams fall

First in the chancel; then along the wall
Flow on, flow on, old Ocean's daughters, Slowly it travels on, a leafy line
In every shape and form that ye are wrought With here and there a cluster, and anon
I love you, happy waters :

More and more grapes, until the growth hath Whether ye lead me back in thought

gone To boyhood's purer days,

Through arch and aisle. Hearken ! and heed Or your refreshing sounds are brought

the sign: 'Mid the polluted ways

See at the altar-side the steadfast root, Of cities, towers, and men,

Mark well the branches, count the summer O happy waters, hail to you again!

fruit; I know not how upon the theme I linger: So let a meek and faithful heart be thine, In vain I close the strain,

And gather from that tree a parable divine. I strike the chords, and still again

REV. Ř. S. HAWKER.

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