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RESURRECTION. 
BY A. A. HOPKINS. 
GrA r-BKAnnF.n Winter, touched at last 
By tears and prayers of homeless ones, 
A genial smile doth on them e« J t, 
Reflected by the lingering suns. 
The fettered brooks at length set free 
Go laughing all the hillsides down, 
And through its swelling buds each tree 
Is whispering of m leafy crown. 
Within the clasp of quickened earth 
Yet. sleep the roses June will own; 
But warming showers will give them birth, 
To deck again fair Summer's throne. 
Tho sods aoblll with wintry cold 
Hold sweetest life with hands of frost; 
But smiling suns will stir the mold, 
And bring the blooms we fancied lost. 
October’s glories will return. 
The gold and crimson changed to green 
By some strango art. wo iuay not learn, 
Wrought out by workers all unseen; 
The rare perfume tho brne/.os bore 
Will flood again the softened air, 
And Summer, in Its mystic lore, 
Will breathe of beauty everywhere. 
Take courage, then, O heart of mine ! 
Each buried bloom will have Its Spring, 
When warming rays will surely shine, 
And life its resurrection sing ! 
There hides beneath the ice of death 
Some wondrous germ of being, still, 
That only waits a balmy breath 
Tv feel a mure than mortal thrill! 
If death were death, then might we sigh 
O'er beauty hidden from our sight; 
But nothtng dies that seems to die, 
And sleep Is only for a night. 
So let um, then, the morn await, 
In peaceful patience as we may; 
For bud or being, soon or late, 
Will find its Resurrection Day! 
New York, March, 1869. 
♦ -- 
THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
BY L. D, BURDICK. 
A little more than h century ago, tlie son 
of an obscure schoolmaster of Bristol began 
a career which, though brief, for a long time 
puzzled the Literati of Europe. Thomas 
Chattekton was one of those enigmatical 
beings whose lives are here and there re¬ 
corded in the world’s history. After the. 
lapse of so long a time, the perusal of the 
simple story of his eventful life of seventeen 
years and nine months, is attended with all 
the emotions to which a thrilling romance 
gives rise. 
Who can behold that fatherless boy, con¬ 
sider his aspirations, struggles, misfortunes, 
virtues, vices and wants, without a sympa¬ 
thetic tear ill behalf of the ill-fated genius ? 
His life was a curious medley of contradic¬ 
tions. At five, they called him a fool. At 
six and a half, “he fell in love” with the 
French capitals of a musical manuscript, 
and a new world opened to him. At eight, 
he was disgusted with the Charity School 
because it did not furnish him books enough. 
At ten he was an author, and a few years 
later he was able to furnish from his own 
fruitful imagination the necessary facts for a 
history of Bristol. 
That he possessed no ordinary ability and 
was exceedingly ingenious, this extraordi¬ 
nary fictitious history with which he imposed 
upon the famous Barret proves. So do the 
Rowley poems and the remarkable pedi¬ 
gree with which he so delighted the illus¬ 
trious Be i ton am. That he possessed an 
inordinate desire for fame, the whole of his 
singular career shows. In his childhood, his 
boyish fancy could create no nobler device 
for his present from the pottery dealer, than 
an angel with wings and a trumpet to 
trumpet his fame throughout the earth. 
To his pride he himself attributed his ruin. 
During the darkest hours of his changeful 
London life, he ever strove to present a cheer¬ 
ful appearance to his friends, and lo bear alone 
his bitter trials. He had a consciousness of 
possessing talent sufficient to occupy a higher 
position than that in which circumstances 
placed him; and his pride was ever strug¬ 
gling with liis poverty. In reviewing his 
life, it is difficult to separate the virtues from 
the vices, so curiously are they blended. 
The beautiful hymn for Christmas day 
contrasts strangely indeed with some of his 
infidel works of later years. He discussed in 
a masterly way the complex political ques¬ 
tions of the times, and often, under different 
assumed names, advocated both -sides. Be 
not too ready to judge him harshly for du¬ 
plicity. Behold the marvelous youth, con¬ 
scious of superior genius, embarrassed by 
abject poverty, impelled by a restless ambi¬ 
tion for distinction. Ho wrote for his daily 
bread. He was not the deliberate villain, 
artfully plotting deceptions by which to in¬ 
jure bis fellows; but he was moved by im¬ 
pulse and not guided by fixed principles. 
He sought fame ; and the want of patience 
and contentment to rise by slow degrees, 
caused liis ruin. He wrote a volume while 
Virgil wrote an eclogue. Had he been con¬ 
tent gradually to rise from his humble posi¬ 
tion as an attorney’s clerk, and to wait for 
favorable circumstances and a mind matured 
before astonishing the world, how different 
wouL-1 have been his success and his fate. 
^ Amidst all Ins faults, he had noble virtues. 
There are some bright lights illumining the 
dark portrait his biography has placed before 
the world. His career as an attorney’s clerk 
was an honest one, irksome and uncongenial 
as were liis labors. He manifested strong 
attachment to friends. The group around 
the fireside hearth was ever clear to him. In 
his most straightened circumstances, until 
hope gave way to despair, he looked for better 
times in coming years, and his fancy wrought 
beautiful presents for those he loved. His 
London letters to the family circle were ac¬ 
companied with many a token of affection. 
liis name has been mentioned in con¬ 
nexion with all that is vicious. In the haste 
to condemn the infidel boy, he has been stig¬ 
matized as an Inebriate and a libertine, with¬ 
out evidence, while his virtues have been 
forgotten. But, after all, to him alone we 
look for the cause of his melancholy fate, 
lie not only stands guilty of the suicidal act 
itself, but bis own impatience and misguided 
ambition placed him in circumstances which 
drove him to tho inhuman deed. History 
has acquitted Horace Walpole from the 
charge of causing his ruin. He only passed 
unnoticed the impositions of the rash and 
crafty Cuatterton. For acting thus he 
cannot be condemned; but had he, in his 
high position, deigned to notice the poor, 
aspiring boy, and, by fatherly counsels, 
persuaded him from the path of decep¬ 
tion he was just entering and encour¬ 
aged him in more wisely developing his 
genius, perhaps he would not have mot a 
suicide’s death and found a pauper’s grave. 
No pen can describe the suffering of those 
last days. Hunger was gnawing at liis 
vitals and the vulture of despair hovered 
over him. All hope had fled; hut pride re¬ 
mained. Almost a century ago they hollowed 
out liis lowly grave, lie lies forgotten, save 
when an occasional glance at the records of 
the past recalls the sad memory of 
“The sleepless soul that perished In his pride.” 
-- 
THE SUPERIOR ANIMAL. 
• 
The dog possesses, incontestably, all the 
qualities of a sensible man; and man has 
not, in general, the noble qualities of the 
dog. Wo make a virtue of gratitude, which 
is nothing but a duty; this virtue, this duty, 
are inherent to the dog. We brand ingrati¬ 
tude, and yet all men arc ungrateful. It is a 
vice which commences in the cradle, and 
grows with our growth; and, together with 
selfishness, becomes almost always thugrand 
mover of human actions. The dog knows 
not the word virtue ; that which we dignify 
by this title, and admire as a rare thing — 
and very rare it is, in truth — constitutes his 
normal state. 
Where will you find a man always grate- 
fill, affectionate, never selfish, pushing the 
abnegation of self to the utmost limits of 
possibility; without gain, devoted even unto 
death; without ambition, rendering every 
service — in short, forgetful of injuries, and 
mindful only of the benefits received ? Seek 
him not, it would be only a useless task; but 
take the first dog you meet, and Horn tho 
moment lie adopts you for his master yon 
will find in him all these qualities. He will 
love you without calculations entering into 
his affections. His greatest happiness will 
he to be near you; and should you lie re¬ 
duced to beg your bread, not. only will ho 
aid you in this difficult trade, but lie would 
not abandon you lo follow oven a king in 
his palace. Your friends will quit, you in 
misfortune; your wife, perhaps, will forget 
her plighted troth; but your dog will remain 
always near you; or, if you depart before 
hhn on the great voyage, he will accompany 
you to your last abode. — Selected. 
-«-•*-*-— 
FRANKNESS. 
Frankness is supposed to be a common 
virtue. It is most uncommon. It is, in¬ 
deed, an extraordinary thing. It requires 
truth, simplicity, love, and genuine goodness. 
Many men speak truth very plainly when 
angry; many speak pleasant truth frankly. 
But few there arc whose souls are so balanced 
in an atmosphere of love that they speak 
whatever needs lobe said, to each and to all, 
plainly, gently, fully. The dearest friends 
live together for years without daring to 
speak things which they know, and which 
each party knows that the other knows. 
Parents live with a reserve years long to¬ 
ward their children, Children carry un¬ 
touched, unsyllabled, thoughts and feelings 
that take hold of their very being. Friends 
meet and part day by day—friends so true 
that they would almost die for each other 
(or, what is harder than this, who are willing 
to live for each other), and never speak of 
things that each know is passing in the 
other’s mind. It is very strange to see people 
come up to conversation in topics that by a 
tacit free-masonry are sacred, and, without 
word or look, one glides past on one side and 
the other upon the other side, and meet be¬ 
yond, going down the common channel 
again. Was there ever a thoughtful, sen¬ 
sitive person, that dared to be open, trans¬ 
parent, frank? 
But, however this may be, there can be no 
doubt that Christian people are not frank 
enough for each other’s good. If men knew 
how to speak the truth in love, how rich j 
iPTCACIC A INTO PLENTY. 
Paint and fainter grow the echoes Discord flung 
upon the air, 
And we catch the answering music of the Na¬ 
tion's chanted prayer; 
Like a holy benediction on a prisoned soul’s re¬ 
lease 
Come ut length the sweet intonings of tho 
blessed words of Peace. 
There are memory-planted willows o’er tho 
graves ol' missing ones, 
For tho sisters miss their lovers, and the moth¬ 
ers mourn their sons; 
Out the willows' sighing cadence is the softest 
murmuring. 
And wo only heed their presence for the shad¬ 
ows that thoy fling! 
By the side of laughing waters, up and down the 
fragrant meads, 
Yet tho air may bear u whisper of a thousand 
noble deeds; 
But the shout and din of battle all have floated 
far away, 
And tho song of air and waters is the song of 
Peace, to-day. 
might one become! A man might stand 
then in tho focus of the wisdom of all his 
friends. But, refusing to let their light shine, 
men now grope in the partial light, of their 
own wisdom, distempered by self-love.— 
Selected. 
--- 
A RUSSIAN HONEYMOON. 
Tiie Russian passport system is still main¬ 
tained in all its rlgitf, and is a great inconve¬ 
nience to travelers. Count X, a young 
Prussian nobleman, went last December to 
Russia, to be married. On his return the 
police at the last station on the Russian side 
of the frontier refused to let him proceed, 
because bis passport contained no mention 
of the countess. The inspector sent to the 
higher authorities at Riga for instructions. 
As all the baggage had gone forward to Ber¬ 
lin, the delay was a great inconvenience, 
and the count pleaded eloquently for leave to 
go on, hut the officials were obdurate, and 
would not consent. In tills dilemma, the 
count feigned submission, but bribed one of 
the subordinate officials to act as his guide, 
and started with his young wife to cross the 
frontier between the sentinels, in the middle 
of the night. They had to find their way 
through fields and hedges, and to wade 
through a river; but success crowned their 
pluck, and they soon arrived at Eydtkulmen, 
the first station on the Prussian side, rather 
wet, but otherwise none the worse for their 
adventure. The next morning they saw the 
Russian inspector at Eydtkulmen, but there 
they could snap their lingers at him, for they 
were under the protection of the Bund. 
-♦-*-*- 
EDUCATION IN ENGLAND. 
Mr. Furnivall, tlie charming editor of 
the “Babus Boke,” &e., expresses the opin¬ 
ion that education in England traveled up 
from the middle and lower ranks rather than 
down from the higher. The classes who 
studied the graces of society did not betake 
themselves to solid learning till the sons of 
the poor, educated by priests, jostled them 
on the steps of the throne. The poor man's 
course of study became in time that of the 
rich man ; when geometry got into the course 
there ceased to be a royal road to learning. 
But, unfortunately, this was hardly coinc 
about till the rich began that pillaging of 
poor boy’s rights, which has now shut those 
for whom they were given out of the muni¬ 
ficent endowments of the schools of Eng- 
land. 
The founder of these endowments pro¬ 
vided for the education and boone of a cer¬ 
tain number of poor lads. But the election 
fell into the hands of the rich, Or of those who 
desired the favor of the rich, and these gave 
tlie places to wealthy lads. The complaint 
of the i>oor could not be heard; perhaps it 
was not often made, for in a land of privilege 
the poor are kept in ignorance of the bles¬ 
sings of education. This is one of the wrongs 
which democratic England ought to make 
haste to set right. 
There are promises of Plenty in the balmy air 
of Spi'ing; 
Of a coming; golden harvest all the breezes seem 
to sing; 
All the buds upon the branches sweetest blos¬ 
soms prophesy, 
And the blooms will breathe of ripeness in an 
early by-und-by. 
Where the plowman turns his furrow there are 
promises of grain, 
Forthe plowing and the sowing they shall not he 
all in vain; 
And tho l'aith that trusts a kernel to tho keep¬ 
ing of the sod 
Shall an hundred fold receive it from the open 
hand of Got) I 
If our l'aith has special blessing, it Is surely 
granted hero, 
For we walk in utter blindness through tlie 
changes of the year: 
We may plant in human weakness, with a hope 
of bounteous yield; 
But tho blessing of the Master resteth on each 
pluuted Held 1 
Saye Something. —No matter how little 
it may be, always save something. Never 
turn away your head from small savings; 
they are the foundation of all great ones; a 
penny is not much. Muny a man would 
rather throw away a penny than pick it up, 
if it lay before him. Yet a penny a day is 
nearly eight dollars a year, and eight dollars 
is the interest of between one and two 
hundred dollars capital. * Waste not,, want 
not,’ is an old saying; and he who is ex¬ 
travagant enough to cast idly away what can 
be made useful, though it be but a trifle, may 
expect to see the day when eveu that trifle 
would be acceptable. 
< f > 
trrtfs far ILmilists. 
IMOGENE: 
OR, A. WOMAN’S WAITING. 
BY BERTHA SI 11 LEY SCRANTOM. 
CHAPTER X. 
He stood at the door, looking out. 
Perhaps he did’nt notice the coloring in 
the filmy cloudland beyond him; he was 
not a reader ‘of Rusiun, and if the sky was 
red, it only meant fair weather; if it burned 
fierce,tropical heats,why, it would be dry; 
if it loomed up, grey solid banks, and mar¬ 
shaled a background of intense cloud, why, 
ho looked to the cisterns and their leakage. 
Yet, as he stood there, a certain some¬ 
thing about his lips, whether of womanish 
sensitiveness, or the sudden interpretation of 
an old lesson revealed in its lines, you would 
have fancied lie saw something in the sun¬ 
set, besides mere color and cloud-form. 
It never improves a man’s temper to wait 
for his supper. T think even Mrs. Job 
might have hurried on the tea things if she 
heard the IVont gate click a little before¬ 
time. Somehow,— why is It?—the most 
meditative minds prefer warm biscuit and 
marmalade to an ethical or metaphysical 
problem on an empty stomach. 
It was not long before a woman within 
doors,— who had only paused from her 
hasty walk between the supper preparations 
to look long and wistfully,—I might have 
said sorrowfully , only that the quick look in 
her eyes, whatever it was, died out too soon, 
— called to him, and he turned at the sound 
of her voice and went in. 
The gold and red outside died away; she 
saw it, as he took his cup from her hand. 
He was thinking, and he was always me¬ 
chanical when his brain was busiest; so, 
sbe too, who wore a light on her face not 
unlike a smile, stabbed it in its first awaken¬ 
ing, and it ended in a sigh. 
“ Daniel has sold the west lot, he says,” 
she ventured, when he sat stirring liis tea. 
“Yes!” with a quick nod, as though he 
spoke to a person unseen to her. 
“Do you believe he will let the judge 
have the farm ?” 
When women of her mold are most in 
earnest, they are most quiet; she was not 
looking at him, only at the sky beyond him. 
“ I do not know. Where is Miss Byiice? 
ho said, abruptly. 
“Out. again. Gathering, ‘nothing hut 
leaves,’ for skeleton reminders of summer. 
One would fancy her heart might make some 
such Oenevra’s chest, after all.” 
She was sorry, then, the moment after 
those words were spoken. Looking out, 
she saw !;• r coming, in her stately way, with 
the gorgeous bit of scarlet in her hat tossing 
in the fresh night breeze, and her hands 
laden with autumn spoils. She said nothing, 
this woman, as she watched her; only over 
in her heart she was re-echoing the fragment 
of an old tune. 
“When even Sallubt moralized,I expect 
of course you people will. I shall have a 
lecture on straying through the swamps and 
woods in my French boots, may be sent 
to lied in the dark, with a supperless portion. 
Mate, it’s my last, day, and one cannot find 
such lovely mosses, such lichens and wild 
vines in town, you see, and I’ll promise to 
write a lament after I’ve packed my ‘ Sara¬ 
toga’ to-night.” 
The owner of the soft-cadenccd, Spanish 
voice, looked at the woman, but spoke to 
tlie man. 
Imogens; smiled at her as she took a va¬ 
cant cup from the tray. 
“ It is late for you to be out. Our frosty 
twilights are chilling,” was all he said. 
1 sometimes wonder why, when people 
who know one another’s hearts as they 
know their childish thumbed primers of old, 
meet face to face before a stubborn sorrow, 
or a doubtful joy, they so often venture to 
deceive one another, or try to baffle their 
own conclusions ? Why such good, sensible 
people as these three, for instance, sat in that 
fading twilight-time, and toyed with com¬ 
mon-places as mere strangers might, leaving 
out all chances of the life happiness each 
heart was secretly weighing and hiding from 
the light? 
Ah! were we never to unravel the threads 
from the varied and tangled web of our 
weaving, bow worthless might the garment 
be, how poor the spinning! 
“Your aunt returns, then, on Monday’s 
steamer? I Tow exceedingly glad you must 
he to meet, 1 How long has it been — this 
absence, of hers ?” Imogens asked, at length. 
“ Five yearst a veritable age ! Why, one 
can grow fearfully changed in that time! 
There was Vergie, a child when last we 
quarreled over our young lovers, a belle, the 
jianc.ee of a great catch ; and Florence, the 
youngster who was sent up to Marguerite 
at eight, has resigned the spencer govern¬ 
ment, and is affecting young ladyisms and a 
lover! As for myself, if time has done 
equally marvelous things, I fancy them re¬ 
quiring authentic proof that I am the red- 
haired protege bestowed so kindly on mad- 
ame and madame’s world of wonders!” 
It was easy to laugh, to fiend a pretty, 
graceful head down over her old-fashioned 
cup, studying it. (What! those bronze 
masses of hair red, once, did she say ?) Easy 
to droop such marvelous lashes over such a 
dangerous smile as the eyes held, — easy, 
When one was sure of the grave, steady look 
that was fixed upon one’s face. 
I am not sure that, she fathomed the man. 
But if Miss Byiice had chosen her plummet 
line, she knew the result of her soundings. 
And she did know them. 
It wtis when she stood at the window in 
the dusky parlor afterward, that Imogene 
heard her say with a sigh, “ A pleasant sum¬ 
mer ! What would I give to carry it through 
my life!” 
She heard the sea below; and going to the 
door she lost his answer to Miss Byrce. 
The salt air blew against her cheeks. I dare 
say she held out her two hands to the night, 
with a lost look creeping over her face a 
moment. Only a moment, then she came 
back to her work. 
Work, woman’s work! Little house-cor¬ 
ners to sweep, clothes to patch, dishes to 
wash, and all with a hunger at your soul for 
something better than you have known. 
She felt to-night as apart from that woman 
in the soft, trailing dress and rare lace yon¬ 
der, as though she lived in a perfumed, 
silken - lined world of her own. Not an 
every-day world, where you find yourself 
only a plain, every-day woman with a living 
to earn; and yet,— God knows the choking 
was bitter that catne with the thought,—her 
soul was conscious of powerful, deep chan¬ 
nels where she could creep into a nearness 
to all heroic, great minds, abysses, capacities 
for suffering, such as that soft, dainty-faced 
girl had no conception of! Where was the 
right of it? One to suffer,—the other—but 
she would not prove herself a coward; she 
faced life,—and the one thing in It that 
made death seem a comforting conclusion,— 
again, and as she walked quickly about the 
kitchen she was humming a little scrap of a 
tune. 
Presently the house door closed. Through 
the dusk she could see two figures going. 
One might have been the woman’s Joy, an¬ 
other her Hope, as she watched them, sitting 
