you that if those men swallowed at a dose all the pills of old Parr, or if they were mummied by some resuscitated Egyptian, they never could by any accident be remembered, save indeed they passed through the alembic of Barnum's Museum. But let us change the subject, for I feel like dying suddenly myself under the blighting influence of even a consideration of such mere earthy stuff.

BELLOWS.-Well, suppose we take a glance at Mrs. Hewitt?

"Thy sun and rain call forth the bud of promise, And with fresh leaves in spring time deck the

tree,

That where man's hand hath shut out nature from us,

We, by these glimpses, may remember thee?" And

"Think the dew drops there each blade adorning Are angels' tears for mortal frailty shed." There are some capital lines in "A Yarn,” the tale of a sailor who was the lone sur

vivor of a vessel that was lost in a hail storm on her passage home from Labrador. Ere he began his tale,

JOHANNES.-Yes; we shall find in her something to please. Mary E. Hewitt has considerable force and fancy, and altogether is much superior to the crowd who crush "Jack's brawny chest like the broad sea heaved, each other in the magazines. Her love While his loving lip to the beaker cleaved." poems are happy, and convey the passion- You must read the poem, Morton, for yourate anxiety of a true and loving woman. self. I'm not as good a reader as I used to Here are a few verses from "Love's Plead-be, but I will "pipe" you a few stanzas which ing:"

Call me thy laurel, thy victorious crown,
Wreathed in unfading glory round thy name."

In all of Mrs. Hewitt's poems there is much
earnestness, which is a pleasing contrast to
the sentimental lack-a-daisy of the "female
poets." In the following stanza there is a
trite observation very artistically told:-

"God bless the hardy mariner!

A homely garb wears he,
And he goeth with a rolling gait
Like a ship before the sea."

And a very beautiful appreciation in this :—
"But oh, a spirit looketh

From out his clear blue eye,
With a truthful childlike earnestness,
Like an angel from the sky."

The trustful spirit of woman is combined
with a happy fancy in the following stanza
from "Green Places in the City :"—

are striking, and which ought to make you anxious to peruse it yourself:

-"The pattering hail

Had coated each spar as 'twere in mail;
Loud swelled the tempest, and rose the shriek-
'Save, save; we are sinking!-a leak! a leak!"
And the hale old skipper's tawny cheek
Was cold, as 'twere sculptured in marble there,
And white as the foam, or his own white hair.
The wind piped shrilly, the wind piped loud;
It shrieked mong the cordage, it howled in the shroud,
And the sleet fell thick from the cold, dun cloud
Those lines make us as chill and stiff as Cole-

ridge's picture of the icebergs:—

"The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around;

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled
Like noises in a swound."

It

Or the opening of Keats' "Agnes' Eve."
Here's another stanza quite in keeping.
is the morning after the wreck, and “the dead
lay around him every where." The mate
had been quite hopeful through the storm,
and cheered his comrades to work the vessel:
"True to his trust, to his last chill gasp,

The helm lay clutched in his stiff, cold grasp
You might scarcely in death undo the clasp;
And his crisp brown locks were dank and thin,
And the icicles hung from his bearded chin."

Sometimes Mrs. Hewitt betrays a fine imagination and exhibits some lofty thought. She is often forcible and not seldom unequal.

"Breath of our nostrils-Thou! whose love em- "The Last Chant of Corinne" is in her

braces,

Whose light shall never from our souls depart, Beneath thy touch hath sprung a green oasis Amid the arid desert of my heart.

rected to it by a maiden with as candid a best love style. My attention was lately dimouth, and as brilliant a pair of eyes, as

MASS FOR THE HUNGARIANS

WHO FELL IN THE LATE GLOPIOUS STRUGGLE WITH AUSTRIA.

[THE following fine lyric, from the proof sheets of a volume now in press, has been handed us by the author, Mr. WM. R. WALLACE, as appropriate to the coming event referred to more particularly in an article in this number. Our readers will remember several fine poems which have appeared in our pages by the same hand. They are characterized by a force of diction and sweep of imagination as rare as it is inspiring to the poetic feelings. The forthcoming volume, we doubt not, will be widely called for.-ED.]

I.

ALONE and in darkness I chanted their mass

The mass that a poet should roll

For the brave who have fallen in Liberty's pass,
Through the shadowy aisles of his soul.

The Shades of old Heroes were kneeling around;
TELL, WASHINGTON, EMMET were there:

Their brows were with Liberty's aureoles bound,

And their broad, spectral banners waved out without sound
On the funeral breath of the air.

II.

Alone and in darkness I chanted their mass:

But shall that be the only one said?

Is it thus they shall slumber in Liberty's pass?
No! a grander mass still for the Dead!

Then again will the Shades of those Heroes appear:

Not soundless their banners shall wave;

But, like thunder-storms bursting on Tyranny's bier,

They shall blaze, while the Austrian is trembling with fear,
And KOSSUTH avenges the Brave!

III.

The tapers that light up that terrible mass
Shall the fagots of battle-flames be;
Its organ, the cannon in Liberty's pass,

Roaring down from the ranks of the free;
The priests are fair Liberty's soldiers who stand
On their soil which they swear to redeem:
Oh, never was mass for a mortal so grand
As that to be rolled over Hungary's Land,
By the blood-dripping bayonet's gleam!

IV.

Then rest, Heroes! rest with the Heroes of old!

We trample in scorn on the lie,

That for Faction your glorious banners unrolled—
For Freedom alone did ye die!

Yes, rest, Heroes, rest! Every zephyr that sweeps
O'er the battle-field murmurs your fame:
Oh, yet shall your monuments soar on the steeps
Of your own beloved Hungary, saved from the deeps
Where the Tyrant would bury her name!

CONSTANTINOPLE NOW.

The "Golden Horn," the inner harbor, has no equal. The "Sweet Waters "flow

THE whole approach to Constantinople [ view, so far exceeding that of any other city, through the Dardanelles is the most exqui- is owing to the number, beauty and size of site thing in the world. On either side you the domes and minarets. The latter are are presented with spots of undying inter- not confined to the mosques, though St. est and classical renown: like Paul you Sophia has nine; but every public bath "sail under Cyprus;" you anchor in full here, as in Cai o and Damascus, is distinsight of that stronghold of chivalry, Rhodes; guished by a huge dome, and there are one every island as you pass has its separate hundred and thirty of these; then each khan story of ancient or modern fame, and many and large bazaar has one or more; so that of the spots are beautiful of themselves. Stamboul (as the Turks call it) may well Tenedos appeared finely as the steamer be named the city of domes. swept by; the low coast of Troy, with the Achilles' mound, was full in sight; next came the spot where Leander and afterwards By-ing into it, upon which stand many summerron swam diagonally across the Hellespont; and then we were amongst a small fleet off Dardanelles, waiting permission to pass between these forts, whose immense guns the traveller has no opportunity to see or hear. Fortifications abound along these thinlysettled hills on either side, which directed by European science might give a very warm welcome to any intruder, but at present are of very little account. If a ship of war were only obliging enough to anchor right under a battery, after some trial the Turks might manage to hit; but to a steamer in rapid motion they could do no mischief. So that their capital city lies at the mercy of the world by sea as well as by land, and yet in its long history it boasts of having been but twice taken. It is more than twelve hours of steaming from the Dardanelles up to the city; but a world of fatigue is richly repaid by the view as you draw near Constantinople. If there is a great disappointment laid up for one inside, outside the most excited imagination is surpassed. I saw it when the morning sun was just gilding its lofty, needle-like minarets and vast domes (almost without number) with a flood of gold. Golden points and glittering crescents rise from every part of the city; high over all tower the mosque of Achmet and the superb dome of the once Christian St. Sophia, and above the gloomy turrets which girdle the whole rise up palace and seraglio-walls of dazzling white. The effect of the entire

houses and small palaces, serve to keep it clean; the depth of the water allows the largest vessel to discharge its cargo right at the quays; only two bridges interrupt its navigation. Its shelter is as perfect as that of a Liverpool dock; and a thousand large vessels would not crowd one another. Here is the favorite promenade of the Turk. Whole fleets of light canoes, called caïques, are shooting all the day up and down these quiet waters. On the Christians' side are arsenals, barracks, military schools, naval and military hospitals, and dock-yards belonging to the government; on the opposite side a row of mean, half-painted, decaying wooden houses, a wonderful contrast to the fine view from the Sea of Marmora. Next on the Turkish side is the holy suburb of Eyoub, the palace of the Sultan's mother, the country-houses of wealthy citizens, each with its little boat-house. Then the arm of the sea contracts, and you are floating past kiosks, gardens and fountains, until you leap ashore at the favorite spring-house of the last Sultan, and see where his horses were buried, and where he and his ministers smoked away many a sultry hour in the sweetest of marble pavilions, in the midst of the falling waters. Europe has nothing more refreshing, and the Orient nothing more oriental, than this rural little palace.

The most holy cemetery deserves special notice. Its beautiful little mosque, which no Christian ever entered, and in which every