rged their duty to
France and Europe by delivering up Napoleon to Louis XVIII.'s
government, to be treated as he himself had treated the Duc d'Enghien."
So that the Continent did not monopolize the assassins of that time.

THE SONG SPARROW.

Can you hear the sparrow in the lane
Singing above the graves? she said.
He knows my gladness, he knows my pain,
Though spring be over and summer be dead.

His note hath a chime all cannot hear,
And none can love him better than I;
For he sings to me when the land is drear,
And makes it cheerful even to die.

'T is beautiful on this odorous morn,
When grasses are waving in every wind,
To know my bird is not forlorn,
That summer to him is also kind;--

But sweeter, when grasses no longer stir,
And every lilac-leaf is shed,
To know that my voiceful worshipper
Is singing above my voiceless dead.

INVALIDISM.

One of the first tendencies of sickness is to centralization. Every
invalid at least begins by being pivotal in the household. But with the
earliest hint that the case is chronic, things recoil to their own
centres again; people begin to come and go in the gayest way; they laugh
and eat immensely, and fly through the halls asking if one couldn't take
a bit of stuffed veal. And while one still sinks lower, failing down to
the verge of the grave, it is only to hear of the most cherished friends
in another town leading the whirl with tableaux and private theatricals.
Finally is realized the dire _denouement_, that, though one lay with
breath flickering away, the daily grocer would come driving up without
any velvet on his wheels or any softness in his voice, and that the
whole routine of affairs is to proceed, whoever goes or stays. This
cold-heartedness it seems will kill one at any rate. Rather the universe
should sigh and be darkened. To pass unheeded is worse than to die. Just
now it is impossible to compass even the satirical mood of Pope, who
declared himself not at all uneasy that many men for whom he never had
any esteem were likely to enjoy the world after him. But before one has
time to die, the absent friends write such a kind, sorry letter, in
which they do not say anything about private theatricals, and, as Thad
Stevens said of that speech, one knows of course that it was all a hoax!
Then the people who eat stuffed veal repent themselves, and send in a
delicate br