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Farewell! thy like again we may not know;
Farewell! to die untainted was thy lot;
Farewell-farewell! Although we are below,
And thou in heaven, thou shalt not be forgot.

"MOTHER, dear mother, please hand me a drink," exclaimed a beautiful little girl, as she lay in the agony of pain upon her dyingcouch, gasping and gasping for breath; and she, that afflicted one, who had watched over and kept midnight vigil through many an anxious eve around that bed of suffering, lifted-ay, lifted tremulously-to the parched and fevered lips of her only child, that by which her burning thirst could be quenched. "Thank you kindly, dear mother. Now please close the curtains, that I may be refreshed by a little sleep; for I inwardly feel that my stay on earth will be very short. But, mother, do take some rest yourself. I shall not die to-night; therefore you need not watch me so intensely. Kiss me again, and then again, and again, for 'good night;' and when the morning sun shines for the last time in my window, take your accustomed seat at my bedside."

Behold, in fancy behold the doting parent impress on the sweet and snow-like lips of her dying child, that pure and holy kiss of love which mothers alone can feel. And now she retireth to her own chamber. But could she close her eyes in the consciousness that her only child, ere many suns illuminated this inferior world, would be enclosed within the final resting-place of mortality, the tomb of childhood and of age?

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The sufferer! Nay, not thus, for the little girl is calmly resigned, and no groans escape those lips. She hath been early taught to look beyond the nothingness of earth, and well knoweth, as she gasps for breath in the feebleness of the dying hour, that angelic spirits are calling her HOME, and that the portals of heaven have opened at their bidding.

And on such a death-bed there can be no suffering, no regrets while gliding awaypassing, I should say, most beautifully into eternity. In Holy Writ there is a sweet and charming expression in regard to little children, which impresses the cultivated mind with the idea, that

"Of such is the kingdom of heaven."

One by one have the countless lights of night glided thus singly from this fallen and inferior world, and become lost to the eye of mortality; and the moon, having alike accomplished her evening task, has hied to rest in placid loveliness and tranquil beauty, cloudless and in splendor. Oh! now 'tis morn! 'tis morn! See! see! yon bright and golden harbinger of day in triumph ascends the blue and clear and sparkling sky, and the gentle air comes refreshingly through the open casement, freighted richly with the savory odors of the balmy spring, and that meek child, icy cold and snow-like pale, lies on her couch ASLEEP. The girl is dead!

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit,
Throned above;

Souls like thine with GOD inherit
Life and love!

And thus, O Heavenly Father, do we return unto THEE, to whom it properly belongs, the spirit of childhood, in all the purity, in all the grandeur of its primitive state. Oh! 'tis sweet, 'tis more than sweet, to send it back to heaven ere the heart has

grown familiar with the paths of sin, and when the first warm sunbeam of spring sown, to garner up its bitter fruits. looks into your secluded dell, the pale violet and the white snowdrop shall bloom over your resting-place."

Death, O death! why wilt thou, ever and anon, blast the fond hopes of the doting parent, stamp thy dark signet on the marble brow of beauty, and blur the glossy tincture of the skin? See! see! thou hast shrouded my dear little friend for the cold and silent tomb, in robes of spotless white, laid the pale rose on her coffin, (emblem of innocence,) and lowered her into the earth, as the fast-flowing tears of the bereaved mother moistened the hallowed ground. Oh, yes! hallowed is the spot where repose in dreamless sleep the remains of beauty and of worth. Time, ever on the glide, (oh, how quickly it passes!) has rolled onward and onward to its eternal goal, and five years have gone to "the tomb of the Capulets," since the event herein, not eloquently, but truthfully recorded, and the good mother has been entombed in the same grave with the subject of this sketch; she sank under the intensity of grief, for her sufferings were far greater than she could bear. In a secluded spot, in the beautiful "Cemetery of the Cypress Hills," a lofty monument has been erected to the memory of the mother and her first-born. A portion of the inscription is in the following words, traced in golden letters:

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Reader, this is no fancy sketch. I have not, to wile away an idle hour, portrayed to you a tale of fiction. Death is too serious a subject to dilate on upon trivial occasions. There has been more than one mother who has gone down in sorrow to the grave, crushed in spirit, and bleeding at heart at the early departure of a beloved daughter. The contemplation of such an event is agonizing beyond description, and should summon to the breast of humanity each noble feeling of the soul, each generous sentiment of the heart. That which afflicts your neighbor to-day, and fills his manly eyes with tears, bowing him in sorrow to the earth, in humble submission to the DECREE of Heaven, to-morrow may overwhelm you, my friend, in the deepest agony of grief. The loss of an only child-THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN-is peculiarly distressing to those who have anticipated great joy and pleasure from the companionship of their darling child, as she increased in growth and progressed in years; and when death sips the honey from her lips, sucks away the breath of life, contracts the elasticity of "By these silver lakes ye may make your her limbs, and renders motionless her frabed in peace; along these peaceful valleys gile form, ah! then, indeed, the heart of the the hum of earth's distracting cares will mother, who made her breast the pillow of never come. The sweetest zephyrs shall her infancy, will gradually yield to despair, make music from waving boughs around and soon, very soon, will she forget her your home, and the wild-bird shall pour out troubles in that sleep which is dreamless— its requiem strain over your pillow; and the sleep of the grave.

SONNET: SOLITUDE.

BY S. F. FLINT, AN ILLINOIS LAD.

NOT in the cloistered pride of marble walls,
Where sordid Wealth his yellow visage shows,
But, distant, in dear Nature's rural halls,

Where babbling to itself the streamlet flows;
There, in some low green glen or forest shade,
Where the fringed floweret blossoms all alone,
And, waving listless in the fragrant shade,

Sighs to the katydid's low, twittering tone;
If 'twas the lightly waving bough you saw,
Know that the songster stoopeth from on high,
His small wing drooping to his clinging claw,

Scanning thee, envious, with his dewy eye;
O Solitude! such are thy simple charms, divine
Thrice happy if those sacred charms be mine.

KOSSUTH AND INTERVENTION.

BY THE EDITOR.

"His presence here, we feel assured, will not conduce to our national peace; for if he comes, he comes avowedly to fan the flame of animosity against European states; and with the prestige of his name, and the influence that he will exercise with the Red Republicans who have recently swarmed upon our shores from the revolutions of the Old World, it is not too much to believe that the American ballotbox will be made to echo the radical sentiments of European malcontents, and perhaps, ere long, involve us in a bloody and disastrous war. Why not? American demagogues stand ever ready to grasp at any theme that promises to carry them into power; and why not Hungarian independence as easily as American disunion ?"

These words were used by us, in theNovember number of the Republic, in relation to Kossuth. The great Magyar had not then reached our shores, and our opinion respecting the motive of his contemplated visit, and the influence that he would exercise upon our politics while here, was pronounced by many good and thinking men to have been unfounded in truth and probability.

Since that article was written and printed, Kossuth has come amongst us, and every man, even to the most obscure portion of the land, is enabled to judge from facts how truthful was our prediction. The champion of Hungary came to us with his heart upon his tongue. In his words there was no guile, no concealment-all could understand him. Before he had been forty-eight hours on American soil, he said, "I come to ask your moral, financial, active aid" in the cause of Hungary against the despotisms of Europe; and from that moment to the present he has not ceased to "fan the flame." How far the second portion of our prediction has been fulfilled, all know; the "European malcontents" are active in every nook and corner of the land. Red Republicanism, albeit he acknowledges no sympathy with its theories, has flung its sanguine flag to the breeze, and cries for intervention, American intervention; politicans throng around him with adulatory promises; parties, Whig, Democratic, and Abolitionist, seize upon the skirts of his mantle like fawning hounds, and emulate each other in hollow-hearted profes

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sions of sympathy; senates and legislatures, eager, like the rest, to secure the prestige of his name, pass resolutions favoring his doctrines, and promulge addresses of fulsome adulation. The "Father of our country" has become heterodox; he has been weighed in the balance against the Hungarian doctrine, and found wanting; and it is dangerous to quote his precepts now; they are antiquated and feeble, in comparison with the new theory of Louis Kossuth. Nay, more, it is asserted that never until now have we rightly understood his meaning; the Hungarian has given us a new translaThe magnates of the nation are paralyzed; they dare not open their hearts, for popularity's sake; and the aspirants for the suffrages of the people in the great oncoming contest, bow down before this foreign influence, and over the wine-cup shout for intervention. The gray hairs of our land, and the calm voice of wisdom and age, have been insulted for daring to confront the dangerous torrent of European sympathy; and, in a word, it is plain to foresee that European interests, European sentiments, and European influences, will gorge the American ballot-box at the next Presidential election. On these issues the demagogues of the land are already hanging their hopes of success; and the great contest will take place, not at the election, but before it. It is not now a contest for partisan supremacy, or for measures of domestic policy; these have grown too insignificant for American statesmen ;

like all things else, they are absorbed in the meteoric blaze that is sweeping over the land; and the great struggle will be to secure beforehand the European sympathy, the European votes.

Said we not truly then? Have not all our anticipations been realized, so far as time has rendered their realization possible? All, in fact, save the grand finale, war? Assuredly; and the American people have but to go on in the impetuous career already marked out for them, to arrive, ere long, at that consummation to their hearts' content, war,—a war, not "for our firesides and our homes," nor for our native land;" a war, not for our rights contested or a wrong performed against us; a war, involving not merely our honor and our strength, but our nationality itself, and with it the great principle of civil and religious freedom.

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Are we ready to embrace these issues at a moment when the demon of Despotism reigns in the complacency of renewed vigor over the whole of continental Europe, from the North Sea to the Mediterranean? when, with his four millions of greedy bayonets about his person, he looks out securely upon the world, and laps the blood of victims who lack either the courage or the will to be free? Is not the prediction of Napoleon verified? The continent of Europe is at this moment Cossack; and if France, with her thirty-six millions of people, after serving two apprenticeships at republicanism, and in the possession of universal suffrage, cannot, or dare not, or will not resist, even with her vote, the despotic usurpation of a single man, what can America do for European liberty?

The opinion of Kossuth on this point is precisely our own. In one of his speeches in this city, he made use of these words:

"I believe every nation has got all it can desire, when, by the blessing of God, it has got freedom, and the faculty to be master of its own fate; and if a nation has obtained this faculty, to be master of its own fate, but has not the understanding, nor the will, nor the resolution to become happy, why, then it deserves to be not happy, and it is not for a stranger to meddle with its affairs."

France occupies the latter position; she

had freedom, and "the faculty," in pos-
sessing the right of suffrage, to be happy:
Louis Napoleon gave her the opportunity,
by universal suffrage, to choose him as her
supreme dictator or not, and she chose him
through the ballot-box. We say, therefore,
with Kossuth, France "does not deserve to
be free and happy," and we
be free and happy," and we "have no right
to meddle in her affairs." Or if that right
was ours, we are not willing to risk the
existence of the only free government on
earth in a contest so unthankful, so utterly
hopeless.

But it will be argued that France is not Hungary; and therefore we have no right to judge the one by the other. True, France is not Hungary, but in all the attributes of freedom, she is immeasurably her superior; and if France, who, after Rome, gave literature and civilization to all Europe besides, and who has retained at least an equality with all other nations, and a superiority over most of them in intelligence, is unfit for self-government, what can we expect of the nations of the far interior, who have been for ever immersed in despotic darkness, and accustomed to look to their governments for the means of supplying all their individual necessities? Besides, Kossuth tells us that it is not Hungary alone that needs our sympathy or aid, but all the despotridden nations of Europe. A fine prospect, truly, for Brother Jonathan, with his four millions of able-bodied men, and an empty treasury.

Again, this war, if it ever comes off, is to be not merely political in its character and objects, but religious also; Catholicism against Protestantism. Bishop Hughes has already issued his anathema against Kossuth and his mission. If the United States determines to defend Hungary against despotism in Europe, men, money, and munitions must necessarily be sent over to back her pretensions and sympathy. Who are the men that will go? Will they be recruited from those who call so loudly for American aid for the emancipation of Catholic Ireland? No, they have different no

tions of what constitutes liberty, and the idea of fighting for Protestant freedom never enters their heads; therefore the men that we send must be Protestants, the money must be Protestant, and the munitions must be Protestant, leaving the Catholic men, money, munitions, and suffrages to take care of the interests of Protestant America, while our fellow-countrymen, our army and our navy, are on a wild-goose chase after the Great Bear and the double-headed Eagle.

These facts are so clear and palpable to the vision of every intelligent and thinking mind, that we have not the charity to believe in the sincerity of our statesmen, when they talk of intervention against European despotism; and we know that not one of them, whatever his present professions may be, would so far compromise his own character for sagacity, as to carry out the measures proposed by Kossuth, if it was in his power to do so. The eloquent Magyar is a man to be admired; and he argues so carnestly the doctrines which we, as an American, have long advocated-viz.: the inviolability of nationality-that we love him.

Would that the American people would emulate his patriotism, his zeal for fatherland, and catch from the inspiration of his example a brighter gleam of the HOME sentiment. Yet, while we admire his patriotism, his zeal, and his eloquence, we cannot lose sight of the fact that there is much of sophistry mingled with the logic of his discourse; he comes to us the avowed foe of foreign influence in the policy of nations, yet brings with him a foreign influence of frightful magnitude, entreating us to change our whole system of national policy; he comes to us, denying the right of national interference among nations, yet urges us to interfere in the affairs of others; he comes to us the avowed advocate of national independence, yet requires us to set on foot and establish a new law of nations, which, from conflicting interests, the powers of earth never have been, and never will be able to create, until the great finger of Time, verging on eternity, and directed by the foreknowledge of Almighty wisdom, shall point to the commencement of the great Millenium.

WALTER MILL,

THE LAST OF THE SCOTTISH MARTYRS.

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

HISTORY has made us all acquainted with the sufferings of the Reformers in Scotlandthat is, supposing we all read history-and the severity of the persecutions which they endured from the implacable hatred of the Catholics; but about the middle of the sixteenth century, by the death of the bloodthirsty Cardinal-Primate at St. Andrews, the persecutors were deprived of a courageous and wily leader, and the persecuted Protestants were relieved from their most cruel, implacable, and formidable foe.

though it lulled the storm, and mitigated the rigors of persecution, did not entirely quench the burning spirit of hatred and bigotry. The Protestants, relieved in a measure from the cloud of terrors which had hitherto encircled them, and encouraged by the success of the new faith in England, became more free and open in their discussions, notwithstanding that their own government was opposed to them; and, under the seeming sanction of comparative safety, new converts, who had long embraced the new faith, but The death of the Primate, however, who had been deterred by fear from express

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