FOOTNOTES:[4]An Account of the Danes and Norwegians in England, Scotland, and Ireland.By J. J. A. Worsaae, For. F. S. A., London; Author ofPrimæval Antiquities of Denmark.London: Murray. 1852.
[4]An Account of the Danes and Norwegians in England, Scotland, and Ireland.By J. J. A. Worsaae, For. F. S. A., London; Author ofPrimæval Antiquities of Denmark.London: Murray. 1852.
[4]An Account of the Danes and Norwegians in England, Scotland, and Ireland.By J. J. A. Worsaae, For. F. S. A., London; Author ofPrimæval Antiquities of Denmark.London: Murray. 1852.
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When I was in Berlin, I went into the public prison, and visited every part of the establishment. At last I was introduced to a very large hall, which was full of children, with their books and teachers, and having the appearance of a Prussian school-room. 'What!' said I, 'is it possible that all these children are imprisoned here for crime?' 'O no,' said my conductor, smiling at my simplicity; 'but if a parent is imprisoned for crime, and on that account his children are left destitute of the means of education, and are liable to grow up in ignorance and crime, the government places them here, and maintains and educates them for useful employment.' This was a new idea to me. I know not that it has ever been suggested in the United States; but surely it is the duty of government, as well as its highest interest, when a man is paying the penalties of his crime in a public prison, to see that his unoffending children are not left to suffer and inherit their father's vices. Surely it would be better for the child, and cheaper as well as better for the state. Let it not be supposed that a man will go to prison for the sake of having his children taken care of; for those who go to prison, usually have little regard for their children. If they had,disciplinelike that of the Berlin prison would soon sicken them of such a bargain.—Professor Stowe.
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Ruler and hero, shining in the westWith great bright eye,Rain down thy luminous arrows in this breastWith influence calm and high,And speak to me of many things gone by.Rememberest thou—'tis years since, wandering star—Those eves in June,When thou hung'st quivering o'er the tree-tops far,Where, with discordant tune,Many-tongued rooks hailed the red-rising moon?Some watched thee then with human eyes like mine,Whose boundless gazeMay now pierce on from orb to orb divineUp to the Triune blazeOf glory—nor be dazzled by its rays.All things they know, whose wisdom seemed obscure;They, sometime blamed,Hold our best purities as things impure:Their star-glance downward aimed,Makes our most lamp-like deeds grow pale and shamed.Their star-glance?—What if through those rays there gleamImmortal eyesDown to this dark? What if these thoughts, that seemUnbidden to arise,Be souls with my soul talking from the skies?I know not. Yet awhile, and I shall know!—Thou, to thy placeSlow journeying back, there startlingly to shewThy orb in liquid space,Like a familiar death-lost angel face—O planet! thou hast blotted out whole yearsOf life's dull round;The Abel-voice of heart's-blood and of tearsSinks dumb into the ground,And the green grass waves on with lulling sound.
Ruler and hero, shining in the westWith great bright eye,Rain down thy luminous arrows in this breastWith influence calm and high,And speak to me of many things gone by.
Rememberest thou—'tis years since, wandering star—Those eves in June,When thou hung'st quivering o'er the tree-tops far,Where, with discordant tune,Many-tongued rooks hailed the red-rising moon?
Some watched thee then with human eyes like mine,Whose boundless gazeMay now pierce on from orb to orb divineUp to the Triune blazeOf glory—nor be dazzled by its rays.
All things they know, whose wisdom seemed obscure;They, sometime blamed,Hold our best purities as things impure:Their star-glance downward aimed,Makes our most lamp-like deeds grow pale and shamed.
Their star-glance?—What if through those rays there gleamImmortal eyesDown to this dark? What if these thoughts, that seemUnbidden to arise,Be souls with my soul talking from the skies?
I know not. Yet awhile, and I shall know!—Thou, to thy placeSlow journeying back, there startlingly to shewThy orb in liquid space,Like a familiar death-lost angel face—
O planet! thou hast blotted out whole yearsOf life's dull round;The Abel-voice of heart's-blood and of tearsSinks dumb into the ground,And the green grass waves on with lulling sound.
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Never let people work for yougratis. Two years ago, a man carried a bundle for us to Boston, and we have been lending him two shillings a week ever since.—American paper.
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