discourage us, no
disasters appal. We move on with indomitable will and determination,
looking through all the obstacles to the grand result as already
accomplished. Does slavery stand in the way, and cotton seek to usurp
the throne of universal empire, dictating terms to twenty millions of
freemen, and demanding the acquiescence of the world? The first is
annihilated by a word proclaiming universal liberation; the second is
blockaded in his ports, surrounded by a wall of fire, suffocated and
strangled, and dragged helpless and insensible from his imaginary
throne. A proud and desperate aristocracy, rich and powerful, and
correspondingly confident, undertake to measure strength with the
democratic millions whom they despise. These Northern people, scorned
and detested, have ideas--grand and magnificent as well as practical
ideas, nurtured by universal education and unlimited freedom of thought
and act. The fierce and relentless aristocracy rave in their very
madness, and defy the people whom they seek to destroy; but these bear
down upon the haughty enemy, slowly and deliberately--awkwardly and
blunderingly, it may be, at first, but learning by experience, and
moving on, through all vicissitudes, with the certainty and solemnity of
destiny to the hour of final and complete success. The confidence in
this grand result dominates every other thought. All ideas and all
purposes revolve around it as a centre. It is the internal fire which
warms the patriotism, strengthens the purpose, stimulates the invention,
sustains the courage, and feeds the undying confidence of the nation, in
this, the hour of its desperate struggle for existence.

PROMOTED!

'_You_ will not bid me stay!' he said,
'She calls for me--my native land!
And _stay_? ah, better to be dead!
A _coward_ dare not ask your hand!

'My crimson sash you'll tie for me,
My belted sword you'll fasten, love!
I swear to both I'll faithful be,
To these below! to God above!

'And if, perchance, my sword shall win
A laurel wreath to crown _your_ name,
He will not count it as my sin,
That I for _you_ have prayed for fame!'

* * * * *

His name rings thro' his native land,
His sword has won the hero's prize;
Why comes he not to ask her hand?
Dead on the battle field he lies.

HENRIETTA AND VULCAN.

Time, O well beloved, floweth by like a river; sweepeth on by turrete