BOOKS RECEIVED.

Weak Lungs, and How to Make them Strong; or, Diseases of the Organs of the Chest, with their Home Treatment by the Movement Cure. ByDio Lewis, M. D.Profusely illustrated. Ticknor & Fields, Boston, 1863.

Diet, air, sunshine, dress, exercise, and water, are all indispensable hygienic agents, but considerable knowledge and experience are necessary for their proper adaptation to particular cases. Dr. Lewis's work is designed (to a certain degree) to impart such knowledge, and, while the general rules he gives cannot fail to be useful to all, we doubt not there are many instances of the especial malady under consideration in which the proposed mode of treatment would prove entirely efficacious. The numerous and carefully elaborated illustrations contained in the book render the application of the text simple and easy. The feature which especially pleases us is, that arrangements are made for home treatment, for, if there is anything depressing to the human spirit, it is an association of invalids. We do not mean a regular hospital, where people are suffering from acute forms of disease, and are learning and teaching the grand lessons of patience, endurance, and fortitude so necessary to humanity, but a community of individuals, able to walk about, talk to one another, and be generally engrossed with one idea, the pursuit of health. We once spent thirty days in a water-cure establishment, and can truly say that it was one of the most miserable months we ever passed. The totally physical atmosphere, the selfish, material countenances surrounding us, weighed upon our spirit until our nerves gave way, and we wondered which were on the broad road to insanity, our companions or ourselves. We examined narrowly, and found (in the generality of cases) that the angels within the bodies of those men and women had had their wings cut away until nothing remained but the senses and the limited knowledge they are capable of conveying.

Our experience may have been peculiarly unfortunate, but it has rendered us always happy to welcome a rational treatment of disease that may be pursued at home. Self-denial and activity are the two principal lessons inculcated in the work; and if we be careful to lift them from the body to the soul, we need not fear the slight tinge of materialism that seems almost inseparable from essays on bodily health. We repeat that Dr. Lewis's book abounds in excellent suggestions, essential to all, and its wide circulation will doubtless tend to the improvement of the general health of our people. Those even who, in some points, fail to agree with the author, must acknowledge the usefulness and practicability of the general ideas advanced, together with the simplicity of their application.

Life of Chopin, byF. Liszt. Translated from the French byMartha Walker Cook. 12mo, pp. 202. Philadelphia: F. Leypoldt. New York: F. W. Christern and James Miller. 2d Edition.

We are glad to see that this little work has already gone into its second edition. It gives evidence that, in spite of our domestic afflictions, more interest is felt in this country for art, than is generally believed to be the case, even by the most astute publishers among us. In calling the attention of our readers to this second edition of Liszt's 'Chopin,' we do not think we can do better than place before them the following extracts from a critique which appeared in the New YorkDaily Tribuneof June 11th, 1863.

'The lovers of musical art may justly be congratulated on the appearance of this extraordinary biographical study in an appropriate English dress. It is the enthusiastic tribute of a man of noble genius to a kindred spirit, whose mastership he acknowledged, and with whom he cherished a deep and tender friendship, beyond the vitiating touch of personal or artistic rivalry. The volume, indeed, affords a no less admirable illustration of the impulsive, generous, unworldly character of the author, than of the rare andwonderful gifts of its unique subject. It is the product of the heart rather than the head, and its frequent passages of childlikenaïveté, its transparent revelations of the inmost soul of the writer, and the radiant atmosphere of spiritual beauty in which thoughts and images are melted together with a magic spell, transport it from the sphere of prose composition to that of high poetry. In spite of the trammels of words, it gives expression to the same subtle and ethereal conceptions which inspired the genius of Liszt as a musical artist. As a sketch of the life of the great composer, it possesses an interest with which few biographical works can compare; but no details of incident could imprison the soul of the author; and a fine æsthetic aroma breathes from every page, fragrant with the blossoming out of a rich, original nature, as well as with an exquisite sense of art.'Chopin was born in Poland, near Warsaw, in the year 1810. His boyhood was marked by no events that gave promise of the greatness of his future career. He early became the victim of ill health, which was almost the perpetual torment of his after life. He grew up in simple and quiet habits, surrounded by the purest influences, conversant with bright examples of piety, modesty, and integrity, which gave to his imagination 'the velvety tenderness that characterizes the plants which have never been exposed to the dust of the beaten highways.' Commencing the study of music when he was but nine years old, he was soon after confided to a passionate disciple of Sebastian Bach, who for many years directed his studies in accordance with the prevailing classic models. Through the liberality of a distinguished patron of art, Prince Radziwill, he was placed in one of the first colleges in Warsaw, where he received a finished education in every branch of learning. The following picture, although partaking of the nature of a fancy piece, is introduced by Liszt, from the pen of one of the greatest living writers of fiction, as a just representation of the youthful artist at this period of his life.'Gentle, sensitive, and very lovely, at fifteen years of age he united the charms of adolescence with the gravity of a more mature age. He was delicate both in body and in mind. Through the want of muscular development he retained a peculiar beauty, an exceptional physiognomy, which had, if we may venture so to speak, neither age nor sex. It was not the bold and masculine air of a descendant of a race of magnates, who know nothing but drinking, hunting, and making war; neither was it the effeminate loveliness of a cherubcouleur de rose. It was more like the ideal creations with which the poetry of the Middle Ages adorned the Christian temples: a beautiful angel, with a form pure and slight as a young god of Olympus, with a face like that of a majestic woman filled with a divine sorrow, and as the crown of all, an expression at the same time tender and severe, chaste and impassioned.'This expression revealed the depths of his being. Nothing could be purer, more exalted than his thoughts; nothing more tenacious, more exclusive, more intensely devoted, than his affections.... But he could only understand that which closely resembled himself.... Everything else only existed for him as a kind of annoying dream which he tried to shake off while living with the rest of the world. Always plunged in reveries, realities displeased him. As a child, he could never touch a sharp instrument without injuring himself with it; as a man, he never found himself face to face with a being different from himself without being wounded by the living contradiction....'He was preserved from a constant antagonism by a voluntary and almost inveterate habit of never seeing or hearing anything which was disagreeable to him, unless it touched upon his personal affections. The beings who did not think as he did, were only phantoms in his eyes. As his manners were polished and graceful, it was easy to mistake his cold disdain or insurmountable aversion for benevolent courtesy....'He never spent an hour in open-hearted expansiveness, without compensating for it by a season of reserve. The moral causes which induced such reserve were too slight, too subtle, to be discovered by the naked eye. It was necessary to use the microscope to read his soul, into which so little of the light of the living ever penetrated....'With such a character, it seems strange he should have had friends: yet he had them, not only the friends of his mother, who esteemed him as the noble son of a noble mother, but friends of his own age, who loved him ardently, and who were loved by him in return.... He had formed a high ideal of friendship; in the age of early illusions he loved to think that his friends and himself, brought up nearly in the same manner, with the same principles, would never change their opinions, and that no formal disagreement could ever occur between them....'He was externally so affectionate, his education had been so finished, and he possessed so much natural grace, that he had the gift of pleasing even where he was not personally known. His exceeding loveliness was immediately prepossessing, the delicacy of his constitution rendered him interesting in the eyes of women, the full yet graceful cultivation of his mind, the sweet and captivating originality of his conversation, gained for him the attention of the most enlightened men. Men less highly cultivated, liked him for his exquisite courtesy of manner. They were so much the more pleased with this, because, in their simplicity, they never imagined it was the graceful fulfilment of a duty into which no real sympathy entered.'Could such people have divined the secrets of his mystic character, they would have said he was more amiable than loving—and with respect to them, this would have been true. But how could they have known that his real, though rare attachments, were so vivid, so profound, so undying?...'Association with him in the details of life was delightful. He filled all the forms of friendship with an unaccustomed charm, and when he expressed his gratitude, it was with that deep emotion which recompenses kindness with usury. He willingly imagined that he felt himself every day dying; he accepted the cares of a friend, hiding from him, lest it should render him unhappy, the little time he expected to profit by them. He possessed great physical courage, and if he did not accept with the heroic recklessness of youth the idea of approaching death, at least he cherished the expectation of it with a kind of bitter pleasure.'...'After completing his studies in harmony with a celebrated master, he complied with the wishes of his parents, who desired that he should travel, in order that he should become familiar with the best musical productions under the advantage of their perfect execution. For this purpose he visited many of the German cities, and was absent from Warsaw on one of his excursions when the revolution broke out in the autumn of 1830. He was thus forced to remain in Vienna, and was heard there in some concerts, but failed to receive the appreciation from the artisticpublic of that city which he had a right to anticipate. Leaving Vienna, he repaired to Paris, which was henceforth to be the scene of his brilliant triumphs. His constitution, being frail and delicate, could not long sustain the rude shocks of life unscathed, and we accordingly find Chopin at the age of thirty with rapidly declining health; and for the next decade, his existence was only a continued succession of the alternations of disease. At last, he began to fail so rapidly that the fears of his friends assumed the shape of despair. He scarcely ever left his bed, and spoke but rarely.'His sister, upon receiving this intelligence, came from Warsaw to take her place at his pillow, which she left no more. He witnessed the anguish, the presentiments, the redoubled sadness around him, without showing what impression they made upon him. He thought of death with Christian calm and resignation, yet he did not cease to prepare for the morrow. From week to week and soon from day to day, the cold shadow of death gained upon him. His end was rapidly approaching; his sufferings became more and more intense; his crises grew more frequent, and at each accelerated occurrence resembled more and more a mortal agony. He retained his presence of mind, his vivid will upon their intermission, until the last; neither losing the precision of his ideas, nor the clear perception of his intentions. The wishes which he expressed in his short moments of respite, evinced the calm solemnity with which he contemplated the approach of death.''The inevitable hour came finally not without a certain strange, romantic beauty in its solemn aspects.'The parlor adjoining the chamber of Chopin was constantly occupied by some of his friends, who, one by one, in turn, approached him to receive a sign of recognition, a look of affection, when he was no longer able to address them in words. On Sunday, the 15th of October, his attacks were more violent and more frequent—lasting for several hours in succession. He endured them with patience and great strength of mind. The Countess Delphine Potocka, who was present, was much distressed; her tears were flowing fast when he observed her standing at the foot of his bed; tall, slight, draped in white, resembling the beautiful angels created by the imagination of the most devout among the painters. Without doubt, he supposed her to be a celestial apparition; and when the crisis left him a moment in repose, he requested her to sing; they deemed him at first seized with delirium, but he eagerly repeated his request. Who could have ventured to oppose his wish? The piano was rolled from his parlor to the door of his chamber, while, with sobs in her voice, and tears streaming down her cheeks, his gifted countrywoman sang. Certainly, this delightful voice had never before attained an expression so full of profound pathos. He seemed to suffer less as he listened. She sang that famous Canticle to the Virgin, which, it is said, once saved the life of Siradella. 'How beautiful it is!' he exclaimed. 'My God, how very beautiful! Again—again!' Though overwhelmed with emotion, the Countess had the noble courage to comply with the last wish of a friend, a compatriot; she again took a seat at the piano, and sang a hymn from Marcello. Chopin again feeling worse, everybody was seized with fright—by a spontaneous impulse all who were present threw themselves upon their knees—no one ventured to speak; the sacred silence was only broken by the voice of the Countess, floating, like a melody from heaven, above the sighs and sobs which formed its heavy and mournful earth accompaniment. It was the haunted hour of twilight; a dying light lent its mysterious shadows to this sad scene—the sister of Chopin, prostrated near his bed, wept and prayed—and never quitted this attitude of supplication while the life of the brother she had so cherished lasted.'His condition altered for the worse during the night, but he felt more tranquil upon Monday morning, and as if he had known in advance the appointed and propitious moment, he asked to receive immediately the last sacraments. In the absence of the Abbé ——, with whom he had been very intimate since their common expatriation, he requested that the Abbé Jelowicki, one of the most distinguished men of the Polish emigration, should be sent for. When the holy Viaticum was administered to him, he received it, surrounded by those who loved him, with great devotion. He called his friends a short time afterward, one by one, to his bedside, to give each of them his last earnest blessing; calling down the grace of God fervently upon themselves, their affections, and their hopes—every knee bent—every head bowed—all eyes were heavy with tears—every heart was sad and oppressed—every soul elevated.'Attacks, more and more painful, returned and continued during the day; from Monday night until Tuesday, he did not utter a single word. He did not seem able to distinguish the persons who were around him. About eleven o'clock on Tuesday evening he appeared to revive a little. The Abbé Jelowicki had never left him. Hardly had he recovered the power of speech, than he requested him to recite with him the prayers and litanies for the dying. He was able to accompany the Abbé in an audible and intelligible voice. From this moment until his death, he held his head constantly supported upon the shoulder of M. Gutman, who, during the whole course of this sickness, had devoted his days and nights to him.'A convulsive sleep lasted until the 17th of October, 1849. The final agony commenced about two o'clock; a cold sweat ran profusely from his brow; after a short drowsiness, he assessed in a voice scarcely audible: 'Who is near me?' Being answered; he bent his head to kiss the hand of M. Gutman, who still supported it—while giving this last tender proof of love and gratitude, the soul of the artist left its fragile clay. He died as he had lived—in loving.'His love for flowers being well known, they were brought in such quantities the next day, that the bed in which they had placed them, and indeed the whole room, almost disappeared, hidden by their varied and brilliant hues. He seemed to repose in a garden of roses. His face regained its early beauty, its purity of expression, its long unwonted serenity. Calmly—with his youthful loveliness, so long dimmed by bitter suffering, restored by death—he slept among the flowers he loved, the last long and dreamless sleep!''We must not forget to thank the intelligent translator of this volume for the fidelity with which she has executed her by no means easy task. The elevated, almost aerial conceptions of Liszt, often seeming as if they disdained the bonds of language, are presented in lucid, idiomatic English, which derives a certain vital force more from warmth of sympathy with the original than from the use of any of the arts of vigorous expression.'

'Chopin was born in Poland, near Warsaw, in the year 1810. His boyhood was marked by no events that gave promise of the greatness of his future career. He early became the victim of ill health, which was almost the perpetual torment of his after life. He grew up in simple and quiet habits, surrounded by the purest influences, conversant with bright examples of piety, modesty, and integrity, which gave to his imagination 'the velvety tenderness that characterizes the plants which have never been exposed to the dust of the beaten highways.' Commencing the study of music when he was but nine years old, he was soon after confided to a passionate disciple of Sebastian Bach, who for many years directed his studies in accordance with the prevailing classic models. Through the liberality of a distinguished patron of art, Prince Radziwill, he was placed in one of the first colleges in Warsaw, where he received a finished education in every branch of learning. The following picture, although partaking of the nature of a fancy piece, is introduced by Liszt, from the pen of one of the greatest living writers of fiction, as a just representation of the youthful artist at this period of his life.

'Gentle, sensitive, and very lovely, at fifteen years of age he united the charms of adolescence with the gravity of a more mature age. He was delicate both in body and in mind. Through the want of muscular development he retained a peculiar beauty, an exceptional physiognomy, which had, if we may venture so to speak, neither age nor sex. It was not the bold and masculine air of a descendant of a race of magnates, who know nothing but drinking, hunting, and making war; neither was it the effeminate loveliness of a cherubcouleur de rose. It was more like the ideal creations with which the poetry of the Middle Ages adorned the Christian temples: a beautiful angel, with a form pure and slight as a young god of Olympus, with a face like that of a majestic woman filled with a divine sorrow, and as the crown of all, an expression at the same time tender and severe, chaste and impassioned.'This expression revealed the depths of his being. Nothing could be purer, more exalted than his thoughts; nothing more tenacious, more exclusive, more intensely devoted, than his affections.... But he could only understand that which closely resembled himself.... Everything else only existed for him as a kind of annoying dream which he tried to shake off while living with the rest of the world. Always plunged in reveries, realities displeased him. As a child, he could never touch a sharp instrument without injuring himself with it; as a man, he never found himself face to face with a being different from himself without being wounded by the living contradiction....'He was preserved from a constant antagonism by a voluntary and almost inveterate habit of never seeing or hearing anything which was disagreeable to him, unless it touched upon his personal affections. The beings who did not think as he did, were only phantoms in his eyes. As his manners were polished and graceful, it was easy to mistake his cold disdain or insurmountable aversion for benevolent courtesy....'He never spent an hour in open-hearted expansiveness, without compensating for it by a season of reserve. The moral causes which induced such reserve were too slight, too subtle, to be discovered by the naked eye. It was necessary to use the microscope to read his soul, into which so little of the light of the living ever penetrated....'With such a character, it seems strange he should have had friends: yet he had them, not only the friends of his mother, who esteemed him as the noble son of a noble mother, but friends of his own age, who loved him ardently, and who were loved by him in return.... He had formed a high ideal of friendship; in the age of early illusions he loved to think that his friends and himself, brought up nearly in the same manner, with the same principles, would never change their opinions, and that no formal disagreement could ever occur between them....'He was externally so affectionate, his education had been so finished, and he possessed so much natural grace, that he had the gift of pleasing even where he was not personally known. His exceeding loveliness was immediately prepossessing, the delicacy of his constitution rendered him interesting in the eyes of women, the full yet graceful cultivation of his mind, the sweet and captivating originality of his conversation, gained for him the attention of the most enlightened men. Men less highly cultivated, liked him for his exquisite courtesy of manner. They were so much the more pleased with this, because, in their simplicity, they never imagined it was the graceful fulfilment of a duty into which no real sympathy entered.'Could such people have divined the secrets of his mystic character, they would have said he was more amiable than loving—and with respect to them, this would have been true. But how could they have known that his real, though rare attachments, were so vivid, so profound, so undying?...'Association with him in the details of life was delightful. He filled all the forms of friendship with an unaccustomed charm, and when he expressed his gratitude, it was with that deep emotion which recompenses kindness with usury. He willingly imagined that he felt himself every day dying; he accepted the cares of a friend, hiding from him, lest it should render him unhappy, the little time he expected to profit by them. He possessed great physical courage, and if he did not accept with the heroic recklessness of youth the idea of approaching death, at least he cherished the expectation of it with a kind of bitter pleasure.'...

'This expression revealed the depths of his being. Nothing could be purer, more exalted than his thoughts; nothing more tenacious, more exclusive, more intensely devoted, than his affections.... But he could only understand that which closely resembled himself.... Everything else only existed for him as a kind of annoying dream which he tried to shake off while living with the rest of the world. Always plunged in reveries, realities displeased him. As a child, he could never touch a sharp instrument without injuring himself with it; as a man, he never found himself face to face with a being different from himself without being wounded by the living contradiction....

'He was preserved from a constant antagonism by a voluntary and almost inveterate habit of never seeing or hearing anything which was disagreeable to him, unless it touched upon his personal affections. The beings who did not think as he did, were only phantoms in his eyes. As his manners were polished and graceful, it was easy to mistake his cold disdain or insurmountable aversion for benevolent courtesy....

'He never spent an hour in open-hearted expansiveness, without compensating for it by a season of reserve. The moral causes which induced such reserve were too slight, too subtle, to be discovered by the naked eye. It was necessary to use the microscope to read his soul, into which so little of the light of the living ever penetrated....

'With such a character, it seems strange he should have had friends: yet he had them, not only the friends of his mother, who esteemed him as the noble son of a noble mother, but friends of his own age, who loved him ardently, and who were loved by him in return.... He had formed a high ideal of friendship; in the age of early illusions he loved to think that his friends and himself, brought up nearly in the same manner, with the same principles, would never change their opinions, and that no formal disagreement could ever occur between them....

'He was externally so affectionate, his education had been so finished, and he possessed so much natural grace, that he had the gift of pleasing even where he was not personally known. His exceeding loveliness was immediately prepossessing, the delicacy of his constitution rendered him interesting in the eyes of women, the full yet graceful cultivation of his mind, the sweet and captivating originality of his conversation, gained for him the attention of the most enlightened men. Men less highly cultivated, liked him for his exquisite courtesy of manner. They were so much the more pleased with this, because, in their simplicity, they never imagined it was the graceful fulfilment of a duty into which no real sympathy entered.

'Could such people have divined the secrets of his mystic character, they would have said he was more amiable than loving—and with respect to them, this would have been true. But how could they have known that his real, though rare attachments, were so vivid, so profound, so undying?...

'Association with him in the details of life was delightful. He filled all the forms of friendship with an unaccustomed charm, and when he expressed his gratitude, it was with that deep emotion which recompenses kindness with usury. He willingly imagined that he felt himself every day dying; he accepted the cares of a friend, hiding from him, lest it should render him unhappy, the little time he expected to profit by them. He possessed great physical courage, and if he did not accept with the heroic recklessness of youth the idea of approaching death, at least he cherished the expectation of it with a kind of bitter pleasure.'...

'After completing his studies in harmony with a celebrated master, he complied with the wishes of his parents, who desired that he should travel, in order that he should become familiar with the best musical productions under the advantage of their perfect execution. For this purpose he visited many of the German cities, and was absent from Warsaw on one of his excursions when the revolution broke out in the autumn of 1830. He was thus forced to remain in Vienna, and was heard there in some concerts, but failed to receive the appreciation from the artisticpublic of that city which he had a right to anticipate. Leaving Vienna, he repaired to Paris, which was henceforth to be the scene of his brilliant triumphs. His constitution, being frail and delicate, could not long sustain the rude shocks of life unscathed, and we accordingly find Chopin at the age of thirty with rapidly declining health; and for the next decade, his existence was only a continued succession of the alternations of disease. At last, he began to fail so rapidly that the fears of his friends assumed the shape of despair. He scarcely ever left his bed, and spoke but rarely.

'His sister, upon receiving this intelligence, came from Warsaw to take her place at his pillow, which she left no more. He witnessed the anguish, the presentiments, the redoubled sadness around him, without showing what impression they made upon him. He thought of death with Christian calm and resignation, yet he did not cease to prepare for the morrow. From week to week and soon from day to day, the cold shadow of death gained upon him. His end was rapidly approaching; his sufferings became more and more intense; his crises grew more frequent, and at each accelerated occurrence resembled more and more a mortal agony. He retained his presence of mind, his vivid will upon their intermission, until the last; neither losing the precision of his ideas, nor the clear perception of his intentions. The wishes which he expressed in his short moments of respite, evinced the calm solemnity with which he contemplated the approach of death.'

'The inevitable hour came finally not without a certain strange, romantic beauty in its solemn aspects.

'The parlor adjoining the chamber of Chopin was constantly occupied by some of his friends, who, one by one, in turn, approached him to receive a sign of recognition, a look of affection, when he was no longer able to address them in words. On Sunday, the 15th of October, his attacks were more violent and more frequent—lasting for several hours in succession. He endured them with patience and great strength of mind. The Countess Delphine Potocka, who was present, was much distressed; her tears were flowing fast when he observed her standing at the foot of his bed; tall, slight, draped in white, resembling the beautiful angels created by the imagination of the most devout among the painters. Without doubt, he supposed her to be a celestial apparition; and when the crisis left him a moment in repose, he requested her to sing; they deemed him at first seized with delirium, but he eagerly repeated his request. Who could have ventured to oppose his wish? The piano was rolled from his parlor to the door of his chamber, while, with sobs in her voice, and tears streaming down her cheeks, his gifted countrywoman sang. Certainly, this delightful voice had never before attained an expression so full of profound pathos. He seemed to suffer less as he listened. She sang that famous Canticle to the Virgin, which, it is said, once saved the life of Siradella. 'How beautiful it is!' he exclaimed. 'My God, how very beautiful! Again—again!' Though overwhelmed with emotion, the Countess had the noble courage to comply with the last wish of a friend, a compatriot; she again took a seat at the piano, and sang a hymn from Marcello. Chopin again feeling worse, everybody was seized with fright—by a spontaneous impulse all who were present threw themselves upon their knees—no one ventured to speak; the sacred silence was only broken by the voice of the Countess, floating, like a melody from heaven, above the sighs and sobs which formed its heavy and mournful earth accompaniment. It was the haunted hour of twilight; a dying light lent its mysterious shadows to this sad scene—the sister of Chopin, prostrated near his bed, wept and prayed—and never quitted this attitude of supplication while the life of the brother she had so cherished lasted.'His condition altered for the worse during the night, but he felt more tranquil upon Monday morning, and as if he had known in advance the appointed and propitious moment, he asked to receive immediately the last sacraments. In the absence of the Abbé ——, with whom he had been very intimate since their common expatriation, he requested that the Abbé Jelowicki, one of the most distinguished men of the Polish emigration, should be sent for. When the holy Viaticum was administered to him, he received it, surrounded by those who loved him, with great devotion. He called his friends a short time afterward, one by one, to his bedside, to give each of them his last earnest blessing; calling down the grace of God fervently upon themselves, their affections, and their hopes—every knee bent—every head bowed—all eyes were heavy with tears—every heart was sad and oppressed—every soul elevated.'Attacks, more and more painful, returned and continued during the day; from Monday night until Tuesday, he did not utter a single word. He did not seem able to distinguish the persons who were around him. About eleven o'clock on Tuesday evening he appeared to revive a little. The Abbé Jelowicki had never left him. Hardly had he recovered the power of speech, than he requested him to recite with him the prayers and litanies for the dying. He was able to accompany the Abbé in an audible and intelligible voice. From this moment until his death, he held his head constantly supported upon the shoulder of M. Gutman, who, during the whole course of this sickness, had devoted his days and nights to him.'A convulsive sleep lasted until the 17th of October, 1849. The final agony commenced about two o'clock; a cold sweat ran profusely from his brow; after a short drowsiness, he assessed in a voice scarcely audible: 'Who is near me?' Being answered; he bent his head to kiss the hand of M. Gutman, who still supported it—while giving this last tender proof of love and gratitude, the soul of the artist left its fragile clay. He died as he had lived—in loving.'His love for flowers being well known, they were brought in such quantities the next day, that the bed in which they had placed them, and indeed the whole room, almost disappeared, hidden by their varied and brilliant hues. He seemed to repose in a garden of roses. His face regained its early beauty, its purity of expression, its long unwonted serenity. Calmly—with his youthful loveliness, so long dimmed by bitter suffering, restored by death—he slept among the flowers he loved, the last long and dreamless sleep!'

'His condition altered for the worse during the night, but he felt more tranquil upon Monday morning, and as if he had known in advance the appointed and propitious moment, he asked to receive immediately the last sacraments. In the absence of the Abbé ——, with whom he had been very intimate since their common expatriation, he requested that the Abbé Jelowicki, one of the most distinguished men of the Polish emigration, should be sent for. When the holy Viaticum was administered to him, he received it, surrounded by those who loved him, with great devotion. He called his friends a short time afterward, one by one, to his bedside, to give each of them his last earnest blessing; calling down the grace of God fervently upon themselves, their affections, and their hopes—every knee bent—every head bowed—all eyes were heavy with tears—every heart was sad and oppressed—every soul elevated.

'Attacks, more and more painful, returned and continued during the day; from Monday night until Tuesday, he did not utter a single word. He did not seem able to distinguish the persons who were around him. About eleven o'clock on Tuesday evening he appeared to revive a little. The Abbé Jelowicki had never left him. Hardly had he recovered the power of speech, than he requested him to recite with him the prayers and litanies for the dying. He was able to accompany the Abbé in an audible and intelligible voice. From this moment until his death, he held his head constantly supported upon the shoulder of M. Gutman, who, during the whole course of this sickness, had devoted his days and nights to him.

'A convulsive sleep lasted until the 17th of October, 1849. The final agony commenced about two o'clock; a cold sweat ran profusely from his brow; after a short drowsiness, he assessed in a voice scarcely audible: 'Who is near me?' Being answered; he bent his head to kiss the hand of M. Gutman, who still supported it—while giving this last tender proof of love and gratitude, the soul of the artist left its fragile clay. He died as he had lived—in loving.

'His love for flowers being well known, they were brought in such quantities the next day, that the bed in which they had placed them, and indeed the whole room, almost disappeared, hidden by their varied and brilliant hues. He seemed to repose in a garden of roses. His face regained its early beauty, its purity of expression, its long unwonted serenity. Calmly—with his youthful loveliness, so long dimmed by bitter suffering, restored by death—he slept among the flowers he loved, the last long and dreamless sleep!'

'We must not forget to thank the intelligent translator of this volume for the fidelity with which she has executed her by no means easy task. The elevated, almost aerial conceptions of Liszt, often seeming as if they disdained the bonds of language, are presented in lucid, idiomatic English, which derives a certain vital force more from warmth of sympathy with the original than from the use of any of the arts of vigorous expression.'

Rockford; or, Sunshine and Storm. By Mrs.Lillie Devereux Umsted. Author of Southwold. Carleton, publisher, 413 Broadway, New York.

A novel of considerable ability. The characters are well drawn, and the moral unexceptionable. The scenes occur in fashionable life; the descriptions are vivid, the conversations (in which it abounds) are easy andsparkling, and the pictures of social life varied and interesting.

Good Thoughts in Bad Times, and other Papers. ByThomas Fuller, D. D.Price, $1.50. Ticknor & Fields, Boston.

Coleridge says of Fuller: 'Next to Shakespeare, I am not certain whether he, beyond all other writers, does not excite in me the sense and emotion of the marvellous.'

Thomas Fuller was born in 1608, was a chaplain in the army during the great civil war in England, and died in 1661, so that much of his fifty-four years of life was spent among no very peaceful scenes. He followed the army with a loyal heart and courageous spirit, and wrought earnestly to mitigate the violence of hostile parties. One of the wisest and wittiest divines who have ever ascended the pulpit, he has left behind him a fame second to none who have labored to elevate and make their fellow creatures better. 'Untiring humor seemed the ruling passion of his soul. With a heart open to all innocent pleasures, purged from the leaven of malice and uncharitableness, it was as natural that he should be full of mirth as it is for the grasshopper to chirp or bee to hum, or the birds to warble in the spring breeze and bright sunshine.'

His good thoughts are clothed in pure and beautiful language, are wise, quaint, genial, and witty. Being collected and matured during his marches and countermarches through the country at the time of the great civil war, we look upon their present publication as very timely and judicious, considering the disturbed state of our own suffering country.

The Gentleman. ByGeorge H. Calvert. Ticknor & Fields. Boston. Price, 75 cts.

A book which we hope will have a wide circulation, and exercise a beneficial influence in this country. It is no superficial essay on external matters of etiquette, or even of mere æsthetic culture: it goes to the very heart of the meaning of the abused word, Gentleman, and proves its root to beunselfishness. The author says: 'It is themoralelement which, in my conception of the gentleman, is pivotal. Dealing with the highest type, I conceive that in that type not only are morals primary, but that manners result from them; so that where there is not a solid substratum of pure, elevated feeling there cannot be a clean, high, and unaffected demeanor.' 'The true gentleman is a Christian product.

'The best of menThat e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit,The first true gentleman that ever breathed.''

These views are illustrated with genius and scholarship. Their dissemination among ourselves is especially important, because our ideas of what is requisite to form a gentleman are essentially vague, crude, unformed, and often false.

It is no dull book of commonplace thoughts, but a high and noble essay on an important subject, and we commend it to the attention of our readers. Let him who would look upon the reverse of the gentleman, turn to the Editor's Table of the July issue ofThe Continental, and regard the repulsive sketch of the 'Southern Colonel,' whose ideal seems to be 'Brandy Smash and Cocktails.' Alas! that such ideals too frequently occur among ourselves. Bayard and Sir Philip Sydney are valuable studies for our own young and gallant soldiers.

Point of Honor. By the Author of the 'Morals of May Fair,' 'Creeds,' &c., &c. Harper & Brothers, publishers, Franklin Square, New York.

This is no sensational tale. Its interest is not derived from intricacy of plot or mysterious developments; it presents us with admirable studies of male and female character, the traits of which are manifested in the progress of the plot. The portraits are detailed, natural, and living; the heroine feminine and lovely. The moral is good, and the 'Point of Honor' ably displayed.

Science for the School and Family. Part I. Natural Philosophy. ByWorthington Hooker, M. D., Professor of the Theory and Practice of Medicine in Yale College, Author of 'Human Physiology,' 'Child's Book of Nature,' 'Natural History,' &c., Illustrated by nearly 300 engravings. Harper & Brothers, publishers, Franklin Square, New York.

A valuable offering to teachers and pupils.

Professor Hooker has published a graduated series of books, carefully adapted to the different periods of the course of study; exceedingly simple for the beginner, stepping carefully from the known to the unknown, and widening their range with the increasingknowledge and mental growth of the student. The first in the graduated series is the 'Child's Book of Common Things.' Next, the 'Child's Book of Nature,' in three Parts, viz.: 'Plants,' 'Animals,' 'Air, Water, Light, Heat,'—then follow the 'First Book in Chemistry' and 'First Book in Physiology.' The next step in the gradation brings us to three books under one title: 'Science for the School and the Family;' Part I, Natural Philosophy; Part II, Chemistry; Part III, Mineralogy and Geology.

Our author says: 'One grand essential for giving interest to any study is the presentation of the various points in thenatural orderin which they should enter the mind.They should be so presented that each portion of a book shall make the following portions more interesting and more easily understood.This principle I have endeavored to observe strictly in the preparation of my volumes.' We believe Professor Hooker has succeeded in the observation of this principle, and that its observation must insure success.

The Story of the Guard: A Chronicle of the War. ByJessie Benton Fremont. Knapsack Edition. Price, 50 cts. Ticknor & Fields, Boston.

We are glad to see this little work of affection and patriotism from the hand of a gifted lady (who says: 'For any personal object I should never use my name, which has been to me adoublecharge to keep; but I think my father would more than approve, when it is to do justice, and to aid the widow and the orphan') already passed into thesixthedition.

'To do justice to brave men and to aid the widow and orphan!' What nobler motive could there be for publishing a book, than the prevailing one so simply given by Mrs. Fremont in the lines just quoted! Truly the most determined hater of the so much read and so much abused 'women's books,' must cease to sneer in acknowledging that here indeed was inducement sufficient to make the most timid and shrinking of the sex face the frowns of the critic, the scoff of the antagonistic politician, and the astonishment of the fashionable world that one who had long been one of its most brilliant ornaments should condescend to become known as an authoress! We heartily congratulate her on the success of her book, which, as achieving its object, must be dear to her heart. Very charming, too, are the extracts given from General Fremont's letters. Domestic love and peace are surely holy!

'To do justice to brave men!' 'Major Zagonyi, with one hundred and fifty of the body guard, attacked and drove from Springfield over two thousand rebels, with a loss of only fifteen men.' All honor to the brave Zagonyi! His Hungarian English is strong, graphic, simple, and, like himself, true. With a thorough military education, dauntless courage, untiring energy, and a natural, perhaps national, love for horses and horsemanship, we doubt not he is one of the best cavalry officers in our service. He has long chafed under a forced inaction, and, full of unselfish devotion, burns to do and dare in what he believes to be the cause of freedom and humanity. May he soon add fresh laurels to his glorious Springfield wreath—and may the same gentle chronicler again twine them for his brave brow!

Substance and Shadow; or, Morality and Religion in their Relation to Life: An Essay upon the Physics of Creation. ByHenry James. Ticknor & Fields, Boston.

We advise such of our readers as take interest in metaphysical theology, in the vexed questions of the origin of evil, of free will, of God's communication with the spirit of man, of the growth of faith in the soul, to read this book for themselves. We are not Swedenborgians, though we believe Swedenborg to have been a great and good man; we do not deem ourselves able to pronounce upon the truths or errors elaborated in the pages of Mr. James's book, but we feel convinced that its author is as sincere as able, and that he really aims at reaching the heart and marrow of his important subjects. His argument with the German and Scotch philosophies is profound and skilful. He is a believer in revelation, in its unfolding a true philosophy of the Infinite; showing how the infinite is contained in the finite, the absolute in the relative, not spatially or by continuation, but by exact correspondency, as the soul is contained in the body. He always steers clear of the shoals of atheism, and of the dim and chaotic abysses of pantheism. He is often obscure, but has the power to be concise and luminous. His style is vigorous, though we object to the meaning he attaches to two words very dear to the human heart: forreligionis notritualism, nor ismoralitymade of the starched buckram ofselfhood.Religion is love to God—morality, love to our neighbor. We differ from him in many of his positions, his standpoint is not ours, but he struggles bravely to rescue philosophy from a degrading bondage to sense, and to restore her to the service of revelation. No analysis within our present limits would avail to combat the errors, to make manifest the truths contained in the book, nor do we feel ourselves competent to undertake the task.

If the lucid and vigorous writer, author of the article entitled 'Mill on Liberty' in our June issue, as well as of some able remarks headed 'Matter and Spirit' published in the Editor's Table of the July number ofThe Continental, would review this book of Mr. James, he might be able to pour a flood of light on many mooted questions, many metaphysical queries; for a clear mind is a marvellous solvent.

The Western Law Monthly.June, 1863. Hon.John Crowell, William Lawrence, Editors. Cleveland, Ohio: Fairbanks, Benedict & Co. New York: John S. Voorhies, law bookseller and publisher, No. 20 Nassau street.

The Massachusetts Teacher: A Journal of School and Home Education. June, 1863. Boston: Published by the Massachusetts Teachers' Association, No. 119 Washington street.

Vermont School Journal: Devoted to the Educational Interests of the State.Hiram Orcutt, Editor and Proprietor, West Brattleboro.

The Illinois Teacher: Devoted to Education, Science, and Free Schools. Editors:Alexander M. Gow, Rock Island;Samuel A. Briggs, Chicago. Published monthly, Peoria, Illinois, by N. I. Nason.

The Home Monthly: Devoted to Home Education, Literature, and Religion. Edited by Rev.Wm. M. Thayer. Boston: Published by D. W. Childs, No. 456 Washington street, corner of Essex.

The British American.A Monthly Magazine, devoted to Science, Literature, and Art. Toronto. Rollo & Adams, publishers. No. 1, May, 1863.The British Americancontains: North West British America; My Cousin Tom; Early Notices of Toronto; The Bank of Credit Foncier; Holiday Musings of a Worker; The Emigrants; Flowers and their Moral Teaching; Sketches of Indian Life; Given and Taken; The Post Office and the Railway; Insect Life in Canada; Reviews, &c.

The Christian Examiner.July, 1863. Boston: By the proprietors, at Walker, Wise, & Co.'s, 245 Washington street. Contents: Conditions of Belief; Mrs. Browning's Essays on the Poets; Rome, Republican and Imperial; The Pulpit in the Past; Kinglake and his Critics; The Colenso Controversy; Art and Artists of America; Reviews, &c.

The North American Review.July, 1863. Contents: Traits of Jean Paul and his Titan; Peerages and Genealogies; The Chronology, Topography, and Archæology of the Life of Christ; Story's Roba di Roma; Liberia College; Samuel Kirkland; Leigh Hunt; Acarnania; The American Tract Society; May's Constitutional History of England; Critical Notices,&c.

The Suspense.—Seldom, in the eventful course of human affairs, have great nations, with their rich and populous cities, been placed in the attitude of danger and of solemn suspense in which the American people find themselves at this momentous crisis. Even while we write this sentence, a great battle is raging in one of the fairest valleys of Pennsylvania, and although the actual struggle is destined to be decisive in its bearing, there is no possibility of knowing how the strife goes from hour to hour. Issues of immense and incalculable importance are involved in the immediate result: the cities of Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia, to say nothing of the existence of the nation itself, so gravely imperilled, on the one hand; and Richmond, with all the desperate hopes and daring purposes of the rebellion, on the other, are the mighty stakes played for in the bloody game now going on upon the chessboard in the vicinity of Gettysburg.

With the overthrow of Lee's army, and its effectual cut off from escape, not only will come the speedy fall of Richmond, but the rebellion itself will be virtually at an end; for it will never be able to recover from the blow. On the other hand, with the complete discomfiture of our own army, we should be temporarily at the mercy of the enemy, as we do not seem to have contemplated the contingency of defeat, and have made little preparation for it. The victorious Lee would drive our shattered forces into Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia, and would follow close upon their heels with his irresistible columns. Dark would be the day for our country and for human liberty, and terrible would be the struggle made necessary afterward to enable us to recover from so great a disaster. Assuredly we would be able to recover; and in this fact lies our great superiority over the adversary, who stakes his all upon the issue of this desperate and reckless invasion into the heart of the loyal States. But, with all our confidence in the justice and ultimate triumph of our cause, how great is the patriotic anxiety with which our hearts are burdened, and how intensely earnest are the prayers we offer to the Most High for the success of our noble army in the pending battle! In our excited imaginations, we see only the impenetrable cloud of smoke which envelops the bloody field; we hear the loud thunders of the murderous artillery, the rattle of musketry, the groans of the wounded and dying, and the shouts of infuriated columns as they rush into the jaws of death, and are rolled away on the fiery billows of the mighty conflict. We feel all the frenzy of the deadly strife as if we were in the midst of it; and yet, though we strain our inward vision to the utmost, no ray of light comes from the terrible scene to inform us how the scale of victory inclines. We only know that thousands of our brothers lie on the battle field dead or dying, wounded and suffering, and we anticipate the melancholy wail which their wives and children, their brothers and friends will utter on the morrow. Shall it be mingled with shouts of victory, and softened by the sweet consolation that the death and suffering of so many noble victims have been repaid by the safety of our country, and the reëstablishment of liberty under the glorious Constitution of our fathers?

The Relief.—Time rolls on. In spite of anxieties and torturing uncertainties; over broken hearts and ruined hopes; over fields of slaughter, where the harvest of death has been garnered in abundance so great as to sicken the soul of man; over pillaged cities and countries laid waste; over all the works of man, good and bad, time rolls on, careless alike of the joys and sorrows, the victoriesand defeats of men and nations. And, with the steady and remorseless march of time, events, however bound up with the mightiest interests of mankind, necessarily hasten to their consummation. The web of fate is unravelled—the tide of battle flows in its irrevocable course, and having stranded the hopes of the defeated power, there is no ebb, no reflux, by which the disaster may be undone, and the ruined cause restored again to prosperity and hope.

Gradually the cloud breaks away from the battle field, and the various incidents and accomplished results of the contest become known. The silent, faithful wires, stretching away to the intervening cities and villages, are burdened with their mysterious messages, to be delivered from time to time to the expectant crowds who await them with eager impatience. With the dawn of Independence Day, some gleams of light come up from the scene of conflict, and some encouraging words are heard from high quarters. In their patriotic assemblages, the people are full of hope and confidence, though still not without intense anxiety with regard to the final result, yet imperfectly made known. Every additional message, with which the wires tremble, makes the hopeful impression stronger and stronger; and, upon the whole, the 4th of July, 1863, is a day of rejoicing to all those who love their country and desire to see it restored to its pristine vigor and glory. Scarcely a doubt remains that the daring traitors have been defeated and the country saved; though it is yet uncertain whether the victory will be complete and the army of the enemy scattered and destroyed or captured.

If by possibility Lee should again escape and make his way back to the exhausted fields of Eastern Virginia, there may still be some hard work for our armies in order to put a final end to the great rebellion. But the failure of this last desperate enterprise gives the deathblow to the wicked and ambitious power of the usurpers at the head of the pretended confederacy. They may obstruct our march and harass our armies, but they can no longer hope to place any permanent obstacle in the way of our progress toward the restoration of the Union. The tide has turned at last. We have seen the darkest day of our mortal struggle, and the hour of deliverance is at hand.

Agriculture is the foundation of all other industries. It is quite as indispensable for the support of armies in the field as it is for that of commerce and manufactures in the halcyon days of national repose. If those who have gone forth with arms in their hands to do battle for the preservation of our free government are performing services of the highest importance to the nation, those also who remain at home to till the earth are doing work indispensable to the success of our sacred cause. If they do not strike the enemy with their hoes and scythes, they at least sustain and invigorate those who carry the bayonet and meet the shock of actual war.

Under all circumstances the great operations of agriculture must still go on. The seasons do not cease their appointed rounds; the sun does not fail to dispense his genial stores of light and heat; nor do the fertilizing showers of heaven refuse to descend upon the soil, because the fierce passions of man have aroused him to discord and battle. Nature still maintains her serenity in the midst of all the fearful agitations of mankind; and she still scatters her blessings with a lavish hand, though they may be trampled under foot by the gathering hosts of infuriated men. Even, therefore, while the human tempest rages around us, we may well pause to contemplate the peaceful beneficence of nature, and to rejoice in the thought that all the wickedness and violence of man cannot provoke or derange into confusion and disorder the great natural elements which minister to his comfort and happiness—which cause the seed to germinate, the flower to bloom, and the fruit to ripen, regardless of all his passions, and in spite of his ingratitude. The unambitious pursuits of the husbandman may have in them nothing of the pomp and circumstance of glorious war; but they are at least in harmony with the beneficence of God and the permanent interests of man; while they are also of the highest importance to the country, even in the extremity of her peril.

The harvest, now approaching, everywhere gives promise of a bounteous supply of the productions which annually bless our favored land. The vast invading army of the enemy, soon to be driven with disaster out of the loyal States, will have made no serious impression upon the abundance of our overflowingstores. There may be some scarcity of labor to secure the maturing crops, but we shall still supply all our own wants abundantly, leaving a large surplus for shipment abroad, and even for meeting the necessities of our suffering brethren in the South, when they shall have utterly failed in their wicked purpose of destroying the Government, and when their sharp cry of hunger and suffering shall appeal to our relenting hearts for succor.

The great bulk of all vegetation is derived from the atmosphere. The air is always loaded with watery vapor, and it contains a vast quantity of carbonic acid gas, which furnishes the chief material for the woody fibre of all plants, for the starch, sugar, gums, oils, and other valuable compounds produced by them. Nitrogen, also, is one of the large constituents of the air, and is found in it likewise in the form of ammonia. It is wonderful to reflect that of all the vegetable productions of the earth—its vast forests, the flowery clothing of its boundless prairies, the immeasurable productions raised by the industry of the whole human race in its countless fields of labor—that of all this mighty growth which covers and adorns the face of the whole solid globe, more than ninety-five hundredths are derived exclusively from the atmosphere. This vast ocean which surrounds the earth, in which we are immersed, and which is actually the breath of life to us, indispensable to our existence during every moment of our lives, is also the great reservoir from which the mighty vegetable world draws almost the whole of its substance. While we are inspiring the invisible fluid, and with every breath renewing the ruddy currents of the heart and sending them glowing with warmth and vitality to all the extremities of the frame, every leaf in the mighty forest, and every herb, and flower, and blade of grass on the surface of the whole earth, is maintaining a similar commerce with the air, drawing from its boundless stores of carbon, piling up cell upon cell and adding fibre to fibre, until trunk, and branch, and stem, and leaf, with all the gorgeous productions of vegetable life, stand forth in their maturity, filling the bosom of the conscious atmosphere with wonderful creations of beauty and fruits of joy.

But in fact the atmosphere is only an appendage to the solid earth, existing in that plastic form which is necessary to the creation both of animal and vegetable life. It is her breath, by which, as the minister of God, she breathes life into the nostrils of men and animals, and imparts vitality and growth to all plants. But in this life-giving process, she furnishes also a part, minute though it be, of her own proper substance. Consume with fire the trees of the forest, or the grass of the prairie, and though the greater part of the burning mass will disappear and mingle with the air from which it came, there will yet remain the ashes, which cannot be dissipated, but must return again to the earth which gave them. These solid constituents of plants are the contributions of the soil; and though they seem to be comparatively inconsiderable, yet when taken in connection with the large operations of agriculture continued through a series of years, they become so great as to be of the utmost importance. They perform an interesting part in the economy of vegetable life, for they are to the plant what the bones are to the animal. In the stalks of wheat and Indian corn, as indeed of all the grasses, the flinty surface is constituted largely of silex; as the shells of crustacea and the bones of animals are composed mostly of lime. Without these earthy substances, nothing that grows from the soil can come to perfection. They are equally important to animals and to man himself, who receives them from the vegetable world and assimilates them in his own marvellous organization—building up his bony frame with the lime of the earth; filling his veins with its iron; constructing the very seat and citadel of the soul, and flashing its spiritual mandates through the nerves, by the help of the phosphorus which he derives from the soil through the elaboration of plants and inferior animals.

Oh, we're not tired of fighting yet!We're not the boys to frighten yet!While drums are drumming we'll be coming,With the ball and bayonet!For we can hit while they can pound,And so let's have another round!Secesh is bound to lick the ground,And we'll be in their pantry yet!Oh, we're not tired of tramping yet—Of soldier life or camping yet;And rough or level, man or devil,We are game for stamping yet.We've lived through weather wet and dry,Through hail and fire, without a cry;We wouldn't freeze, and couldn't fry,And haven't got through our ramping yet!We haven't broke up the party yet;We're rough, and tough, and hearty yet;Who talks of going pays what's owing,And there's a bill will smart ye yet!So bang the doors, and lock 'em tight!Secesh, you've got to make it right!We'll have a little dance to-night;You can't begin to travel yet!Oh, we're not tired of fighting yet,Nor ripe for disuniting yet!Before they do it, or get through it,There'll be some savage biting yet!Then hip, hurrah for Uncle Sam!And down with all secesh and sham!From Davis to Vallandigham,They all shall rue their treason yet!

Oh, we're not tired of tramping yet—Of soldier life or camping yet;And rough or level, man or devil,We are game for stamping yet.We've lived through weather wet and dry,Through hail and fire, without a cry;We wouldn't freeze, and couldn't fry,And haven't got through our ramping yet!

We haven't broke up the party yet;We're rough, and tough, and hearty yet;Who talks of going pays what's owing,And there's a bill will smart ye yet!So bang the doors, and lock 'em tight!Secesh, you've got to make it right!We'll have a little dance to-night;You can't begin to travel yet!

Oh, we're not tired of fighting yet,Nor ripe for disuniting yet!Before they do it, or get through it,There'll be some savage biting yet!Then hip, hurrah for Uncle Sam!And down with all secesh and sham!From Davis to Vallandigham,They all shall rue their treason yet!

We cannot close the present number ofThe Continentalwithout a few words of fervid congratulation to our readers and countrymen. We may greet each other now with glad hearts and uplifted brows. What a glorious "Fourth" was ours, with our Eagle scattering the heavy war-clouds which hung around us, soaring to gaze once more undazzled at the sun of liberty; our stars again shining down clear upon us from their heaven of light! Joy sparkles in every eye, and high, strong words flash from every tongue. Grant victorious—Vicksburg ours—the army of the Potomac covered with glory—Meade everywhere triumphant, and in full pursuit of our flying and disheartened foe! Heroes and soldiers, your country blesses and thanks you!

Let us now resolve that with every day our Union shall grow closer. Let faction die; political intrigue cease to rear its serpent head; let doubt become trust; suspicion, faith! Countrymen, let us also learn to pity the unhappy race whom this war must free. You cannot now prevent it; its first tocsin of liberty pealed with the first gun fired at Fort Sumter. After long ages of barbaric night, of slavery, of misery, these beings cut in ebony begin to robe themselves as men; on the battle field they have at last put on the virile toga dyed in blood, not now drawn by the lash from the back of the wretched chattel, but from the heart of the man face to face with his oppressor on the field of righteous battle. Rude and uncultured, they hold up to you hands hard with labor, still bleeding from the scarcely fallen manacles, and implore aid and manly mercy. Let it be granted without stint, and let not the freedom God has given, become a curse to them! You cannot roll back the stately steppings of destiny—and let this great and magnanimous people show its magnanimity now!

And, oh, ye glorious dead, now resting in eternal peace, whom the drum and fife will rouse no more to superhuman effort in our behalf, sweet be your sleep in the heart of the country you died to save, and ever green the laurel above your grassy graves! We will not forget you, wrapped in your gory shrouds for the land ye loved! Never shall our national hymns again greet our ears without awakening tender thoughts of you! Hot, sad tears will mourn your loss in the homes your smiles shall light no more—but your names shall be an heirloom of glory to your mothers, wives, and children, and your country will weep with them! We greet you, holy graves! As the onward path of humanity passes over your new-made mounds, her children will veil their heads and honor the martyrs who lie below. And when the coming centuries shall have covered you with moss and flowers, they will never forget to throw the laurel as they pass, acknowledging that these tombs have made progress and happiness possible! Brothers, the Union shall be sacred which you died to save! In the more intense and glowing patriotism engendered by your sacrifice, we swear it on your blessed sepulchres, and this shall be your deathless epitaph!

M. W. C.

The readers of theContinentalare aware of the important position it has assumed, of the influence which it exerts, and of the brilliant array of political and literary talent of the highest order which supports it. No publication of the kind has, in this country, so successfully combined the energy and freedom of the daily newspaper with the higher literary tone of the first-class monthly; and it is very certain that no magazine has given wider range to its contributors, or preserved itself so completely from the narrow influences of party or of faction. In times like the present, such a journal is either a power in the land or it is nothing. That theContinentalis not the latter is abundantly evidencedby what it has done—by the reflection of its counsels in many important public events, and in the character and power of those who are its staunchest supporters.

Though but little more than a year has elapsed since theContinentalwas first established, it has during that time acquired a strength and a political significance elevating it to a position far above that previously occupied by any publication of the kind in America. In proof of which assertion we call attention to the following facts:

1. Of itspoliticalarticles republished in pamphlet form, a single one has had, thus far, a circulation ofone hundred and six thousandcopies.

2. From itsliterarydepartment, a single serial novel, "Among the Pines," has, within a very few months, sold nearlythirty-five thousandcopies. Two other series of its literary articles have also been republished in book form, while the first portion of a third is already in press.

No more conclusive facts need be alleged to prove the excellence of the contributions to theContinental, or theirextraordinary popularity; and its conductors are determined that it shall not fall behind. Preserving all "the boldness, vigor, and ability" which a thousand journals have attributed to it, it will greatly enlarge its circle of action, and discuss, fearlessly and frankly, every principle involved in the great questions of the day. The first minds of the country, embracing the men most familiar with its diplomacy and most distinguished for ability, are among its contributors; and it is no mere "flattering promise of a prospectus" to say that this "magazine for the times" will employ the first intellect in America, under auspices which no publication ever enjoyed before in this country.

While theContinentalwill express decided opinions on the great questions of the day, it will not be a mere political journal: much the larger portion of its columns will be enlivened, as heretofore, by tales, poetry, and humor. In a word, theContinentalwill be found, under its new staff of Editors, occupying a position and presenting attractions never before found in a magazine.

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