on that particular evening was the settlement at once and forever of the question, "Which am de mightiest, de pen or de swoard?"

Mr. Laukins said about as follows: "Mr. Chaarman, what's de use ob a swoard unless you's gwyne to waar? Who's hyar dat's gwyne to waar? I isn't, Mr. Moorhouse isn't, Mrs. Moorehouse isn't, Mr. Newsome isn't; I'll bet no feller wot speaks on de swoard side is any ideer ob gwyne to waar. Den what's de use ob de swoard? I don't tink dere's much show for argument in de matter."

Mr. Lewman said: "What's de use ob de pen 'less you knows how to write? How's dat? Dat's what I wants to know. Look at de chillum ob Isr'l-wasn't but one man in de hole crowd gwyne up from Egyp' to de Promis' Lan' cood write, an' he didn't write much. [A voice in the audience, "Wrote de ten comman'ments, anyhow, you bet." Cheers from the pen side.] Wrote 'em? wrote 'em? Not much; guess not; not on a stone, honey. Might p'r'aps cut 'em wid a chisel. Broke 'em all, anyhow, 'fore he got down de hill. Den when he cut a new set, de chillun ob Isr'l broke 'em all again. Say he did write 'em, what good was it? So his pen no 'count nohow. No, Saar. De swoard's what fotched 'em into de Promis' Lan', Saar. Why, Saar, it's ridiculous. Tink, Saar, ob David a-cuttin' off Goliah's head wid a pen, Saar! De ideer's altogedder too 'poterous, Saar. De swoard, Saar, de suoard, mus' win de argument, Saar."

Dr. Crane said: "I tink Mr. Lewman a leetle too fas'. He's a-speakin' ob de times in de dim pas', when de mind ob man was crude, an' de han' ob man was in de ruff state, an' not toned down to de refinement ob cibilized times. Dey wasn't educated up to de use ob de pen. Deir hans was only fit for de ruff use ob de swoard. Now, as de modern poet says, our swoards rest in deir cubbards, an peas, sweet peas, covers de lan'. An' what has wrot all dis change? De pen. Do I take a swoard now to git me a peck ob sweettaters, a pair ob chickens, a pair ob shoes? No, Saar. I

"DE PEN AND DE SWOARD."

257

jess take my pen an' write a order for 'em. Do I want money? I don't get it by de edge ob de swoard; I writes a check. I want a suit ob clothes, for instance-a stroke ob de pen, de mighty pen, de clothes is on de way. I's done."

Mr. Newsome said: " Wid all due 'spect to de learned gemmen dat's jus' spoke, we must all agree dat for smoovin' tings off an' a-levelin' tings down dere's notting equals de swoard."

Mr. Hunnicut said "I agrees entirely wid Mr. Newsome; an' in answer to what Dr. Crane says, I would jess ask what's de use ob drawin' a check unless you's got de money in de bank, or a-drawin' de order on de store unless de store truss you? S'pose de store do truss, ain't it easier to sen' a boy as to write a order? If you got no boy handy, telegraf. No use for a pen-not a bit. Who ebber heard ob Mr. Hill's pen ? Nobody, Saar. But his swoard, Saar-de swoard ob ole Bunker Hill, Saar-is known to ebbery chile in de lan'. If it hadden bin for de swoard ob ole Bunker Hill, Saar, whaar'd we niggers be to-night, Saar? Whaar, Saar? Not hyar, Saar. In Georgia, Saar, or wuss, Saar. No cul

lud man, Saar, should ebber go back, Saar, on de swoard, Saar."

Mr. Hunnicut's remarks seemed to carry a good deal of weight with the audience. After speeches by a number of others, the subject was handed over to "the committee," who carried it out and "sot on it." In due time they returned with the following decision :

"De committee decide dat de swoard has de most pints an' de best backin', and dat de pen is de most beneficial, and dat de whole ting is about a stan'-off."

HARPER'S MAGAZINE.

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

It was the calm and silent night!
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up in might,
And now was queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars:
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars

Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.

"Twas in the calm and silent night!
The Senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home;
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell

A paltry province far away,

In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.

Within that province far away

Went plodding home a weary boor:
A streak of light before him lay,

Fallen through a half-shut stable-door
Across his path. He passed-for naught
Told what was going on within :
How keen the stars, his only thought:

The air how cold, and calm, and thin,
In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

NAPOLEON'S RUSSIAN CAMPAIGN.

Oh, strange indifference! low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares;
The earth was still, but knew not why:
The world was listening unawares.
How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world forever!
To that still moment, none would heed,
Man's doom was linked no more to sever:
In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

It is the calm and silent night!

A thousand bells ring out and throw
Their joyous peals abroad and smite

The darkness, charmed and holy now!
The night that erst no name had worn
To it a happy name is given :

For in that stable lay new-born,

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,
In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

259

ALFRED DOMMETT.

Note 111.

NAPOLEON'S RUSSIAN CAMPAIGN.

(Abridged.)

MUCH has been said, and perhaps somewhat vaguely, on the subject of the Russian Campaign and the particular error committed by Napoleon in engaging in it. It is said that he trusted presumptuously in fate; that he entered into a conflict with the elements. Not at all. He looked as cautiously after the helping hand of fate now as he had done at Friedland or Eckmühl. "I was a few days too late," said he. "I had made a calculation of the weather

for fifty years before, and the extreme cold had never commenced until about the 20th of December, twenty days later than it began this time." That man left nothing to fate. His intellect was still clear. This early setting in of the cold was the first great cause of the failure of the Russian attempt. The second was the burning of MosCOW. Human prescience could have anticipated neither. The one great error which he committed in this expedition was, that he did not preserve his rear. He did not secure his retreat. The story of the Russian Campaign of Napoleon is the most solemn and tragic in the annals of modern warfare. No poet of these times, so far as one may judge, has possessed a power necessary to its poetic delineation. Perhaps, in their very highest moments, Coleridge, Shelley, or Byron might have caught certain of its tints of gloom and grandeur: now and then a tone of Mrs. Browning's harp may reach the epic height of its sublimity. But he who depicted the woe of Othello and the madness of Lear; and he who described the march of the rebel angels along the plains of heaven, might have joined their powers to bring out, in right poetic representation, the whole aspects of the Russian Campaign. It lies among those subjects of which common life affords no precedent, and common language no words. Indeed, no description seems necessary or possible. The poetry of Nature, in its weird colors and dark, rhythmic harmonies, is already there. Those brave soldiers, those dauntless, devoted veterans, those children of victory, swift as eagles, fearless as lions, who had charged on the dikes of Arcola, and hailed the sun of Austerlitz, who were the very embodiment of wild southern valor, following Napoleon, the sun of the lightning, beneath the dim vault of the northern winter, the northern blast singing over them its song of stern and melancholy triumph, to lay their fire-hearts under that winding-sheet of snow-what could be more sublime poetry than that? And how grandly is the darkness broken as those flames touch all the clouds with angry crimson, and a great people thrill