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as may still be seen in his correspondence preserved at Simancas, what revelations could he not have made of events and persons had he been so minded? or what autobiography so rich, when retired from the world he dictated to his secretary, Van Male, at Yuste, the rich lessons of his long and varied experience? Surely, a man of less busy life and less stirring ambition than Charles V., in his sombre solitude, as he looked back upon the breathing world which he had left, amidst " his gardens of lemon and orange trees, and sparkling fountains and basins," could not have failed to have left some impressions in his memoirs of those noble scenes—" sad, high, and working full of state and woe," in which he had once played so important a part. If, however, in the work now before us, which professes to contain his autobiography, the reader expects to meet with any such revelations, he will find himself miserably mistaken. If these are the incidents he would naturally look out for in the life of Charles V., he will look in vain for them here. Katharine and her divorce, and all its momentous consequences cannot draw from the imperial narrator a single passing expression of regret . Luther and Wolsey may as well have never been, for any notice they receive in his pages. The fall of Rhodes, which

struck all Christendom with consternation, and the battle of Muhacz, which sealed the fate of Hungary and hia own sister Mary, are not even mentioned. Not a single trait of the character or personal appearance of any one of his contemporaries, great or small, seems to have fastened on his imagination or his memory. He is, indeed, the central figure of his own narrative, and the most important, but that is by wiping out of his canvas all others, and throwing them into such an immeasurable distance, that no distinct impression of them is made upon the spectator. In fact, from beginning to end, the book is full of the emperor's marches and countermarches, of what he might have done and didn't do; how he got into a wood and got out again, marched up a hill and marched down; and the marvellous minuteness with which these points are insisted on, bears a ludicrous disproportion to their want of importance. We know of no parallel to it in reality or romance, except it be in Foote's farce of " The Mayor of Garratt:" "Oh! such marchings and countermarchings! From Brentford to Baling; from Baling to Acton; from Acton to Uxbridge! The dust flying, sun scorching, men sweating!" Such a chronicle of jiocci, nihili, pani, is this Autobiography of Charles V., only not one-half so amusing.

Garidaldi has written a raptnrons political love-let!' to Britannia; and Britannia, much as she lulmires the man, feels n little bashful and awkward in the unexpected situation. She is to arise with "uplifted brow," and point to her sister France tlio rood of happy revolutionary freedom. She is to call to Helvetia—the Vestal Virgin of the Alps—to aid America, her daughter, who has so recently gone forth from her bosom and is engaged in struggling against the traders in human flesh; and when Bho has aided that daughter to conquer them, to call her back to her side to aid in the great Congress of liberated nations, whose judgments are to supersede war over the whole earth. Britannia is renlly embarrassed how to reply, and feels n little inclined to answer General Garibaldi like the fascinating child when told by its father to kiss the kind lady,—" You do it, pa; I so shy." The letter is couched in that peculiar tone of noble but hectic sentiment which scarcely realizes the heavy weight ofperaonal responsibility attaching to national efforts

for freedom, and treats as a question of epidemic emotion what wo look upon as one too sacred and solemn for the protfcr of foreign sympathy and counsel.—Spectator, 4 Oct.

A Number of operatives, trained in the different branches of flax manufacture and the power-loom weaving of linen, have been engaged at Belfast to work in mills in Prussia and Belgium. They are chiefly women, and have entered into ammgcmenu to work for stipulated periods.

Street railways are to be immediately introduced in the cities of Hamburg and Altona. Herr Muller, a civil engineer, hus also devised a system of city railroads for Berlin and Vienna, and it is considered likely that the latter will accept the proposition.



Garibaldi has addressed the following remarkable letter to the people of England:—

"To The English Nation: It is while under the double pressure of bodily and mental pain that man can most truly and most acutely appreciate good and evil, and, leaving the authors of his misery to eternal shame, devote unlimited affection and gratitude to his benefactors. And that to you, O people of England, I owe a heavy debt for benefits bestowed, I feel in the inmost recesses of my soul. You were my friends in prosperity, and now you continue the precious boon in the days of my adversity. May God reward you! And my gratitude is the more intense, O worthy people, inasmuch as, rising as it must do beyond the mere level of individual feeling, it becomes sublime in the general sentiment toward those nations whose progress you represent.

"Yes! you are deserving of the gratitude of the world, because you offer an asylum for misfortune, from whatever part it may come; and you identify yourself with misery, pity it, and relieve it. The French and Neapolitan exile finds in your bosom shelter from his tyrant; be finds sympathy; he is helped, because an exile, because unhappy. The Haynaus—the hardened instruments of autocrats—find no rest in your liberal land, and fly terrified before the bitter scorn of your generous sons. And, in truth, without your noble bearing, what would Europe be? Tyranny seizes its exiles in those other lands where virtue is unnatural, where liberty is a lie; but they are still safe on the sacred soil of Albion. I, like so many others, seeing the cause of justice trampled under foot in so many parts of the world, despaired of human progress. But, turning to you, my mind is calmed—calmed by the contemplation of your fearless progress towards that end to which the human race seems called by Providence.

"Proceed on your way, O calm, unconquered nation, and be less tardy in calling your sister peoples into the same path of human progress. Call the French nation to co-operate with you. You two are worthy to march hand in hand in the vanguard of human progress. Yes, call her! In all your meetings let concord between the two great sisters be your cry. Yes, call her! Call to her always, and in every manner— with your voice, and with the voice of her great exiles—of Victor Hugo, the highpriest of human brotherhood. Tell her that conquest is, in this age, an anomaly— the emanation of an unsound mind. Why should we covet the land of others, when all

men should be as brethren? Yes, call her J And she, forgetting that she is temporarily under the dominion of the Genius of Evil— if not to-day, to-morrow—if not to-morrow, later—will reply as she ought to your generous and regenerating appeal. Call, and at once, the bold sons of Helvetia, and clasp them firmly to your breast! The warlike children of the Alps—the vestals of the sacred fire of liberty on the continent of Europe—they will be with you. What a host!

"Call the great American Republic, for she is in truth your daughter, and is struggling now for the abolition of that slavery which you have already so nobly proclaimei Help her to escape from the terrible strife waged against her by the traders in human flesh. Help her, and then place her by your side at the great assembly of nations—that final work of human intellect. Call to your side all those people who would be free, and lose not an hour. The initiative which belongs to you to-day, may to-morrow concern another. May God forbid such a calamity! Who ever more gallantly than France in '89 assumed that responsibility? At that solemn moment she held up 'Reason ' to the world, crushed tyranny, aud consecrated free brotherhood. Now, after nearly a century, she is reduced to combat the liberty of nations, to protect tyranny, and over the altar of Reason to erect the symbol of that wicked and immoral monstrosity which is called the Papacy.

"Arise, then, Britannia, and at once! Arise with your undaunted brow and point out to the peoples the path they must tread! With a Congress of the world to decide between nations, war would be an impossibility. No longer would there exist those standing armies which make liberty impossible. What weapons! Wrhat defences! What engines of attack and defence! And then the millions squandered in implements of destruction would be employed in fostering the industry and diminishing the misery of the human race. Begin, then, O people of England; and, for the love of God, initiate the vast human compact, and bestow this great gift on the present generation! Besides Switzerland and Belgium, you would see other nations, urged on by the good sense of the people, accept your invitation, and hasten to enroll themselves under your banner. Let London now be the seat of this Congress, which shall in future be agreed on by a mutual compact of arrangement and convenience. Once more, God bless you. May he repay you for the benefits you have heaped so prodigally on. aae» With gratitude and affection, yours,


"Varigncmo, Sept. 28."

GARIBALDI. They would have said, " She crouchoth to her

If Italy, in some shape, had not risen!

I say 'twas God's voice bade him offer up
Himself for Aspromontcls sacrifice;
So, to that height, his countrymen might rise;

For them he freely drank his bitter cup.

It is a faith too many yet receive,—

Since the false prophecy of old went forth— "The tribe of Judas yet shall rule the earth."

But he is one that never would believe.

His vision is most clear where ours is dim.
The mystic spirit of eternity ,

That slumbers in us deep and dreamingly,

Was ever quick and more awake in him.

And so he fixed his look across the night:
His face, though bright as sunshine, often told
How the soul's underworld in darkness rolled,

And what he saw with sorrow's second sight:

But, like a lamp across some dismal heath,
A light shone through his eyes no night could

The winds might make it flicker, rains might

Nothing could dim it save the dark of death.

And if his work's unfinished in the flesh.
Why, then his soul will join the noble dead
And toil till it shall be accomplished,

And Italy hath burst this Devil's mesh.

Easier to conquer kingdoms than to breed
A man like Garibaldi, whose great name
Doth fence his country with his glorious fame.

Worth many armies in her battle-need.

His is the royal heart that never quails,
But always conquers; wounded, pale, and

He never was so dear as he is now ,

They bind him, and more strongly ho prevails.

Greater to-day than Emperor or Kin;;,
There, where, for throne, they scat him in tho

The express imago of snhlimest Trust,

And consecrated by his suffering.

A sovereignty that overtops success!

Nothing but heaven might crown his patriotbrow,

And lo, a Crown of Thorns is on it now,
With higher guerdon than our world's caress.

The vision of all his glory fills our eyes,
And with one heart expectant nations throb
Around him—with one mighty prayer they

And wait God's answer to this sacrifice.

Gkiiald Mabsbt.
—Goad Words.

The Lion is down, and how the Dogs will run;
Something above the level is their delight
For insult; Asses lift the hoof to smite;

The Birds of darkness hoot, " His day is done."

"Would he had kept his attitude sublime!" Cry some; "With crossed arms held his

heart at rest, And left us his grand likeness at its best;

High on a hill up which tho world might climb!"

"Better for all had he been sooner shrined;

The old true heart, and very foolish head!

A model Man—especially if dead—
Perfect as some Greek statue—and as blind!"

Friends talk of failure; and I know how he
Will slowly lift his loving, cordial eyes
And look them through, with mournful,
strange surprise,

Until they shrink and feel 'tis Italy

Has failed instead. The words they came to speak

Will sink back awed by his majestic calm.

His wounds arc such as bleed immortal bnlm, And he is strong again; the friends are weak.

It is not failure to be thus struck down

By Brothers who obeyed their Foe's com-
And in the darkness lopped the saving hand

Put forth to reach their country her last crown.

He only sought to see her safely home;
The tragic trials end; tho sufferings cease,
In wedded oneness and completing pence;

Then bow his gray old head and die in Home.

It is no failure to be thus struck back—

Caught in a Country's arms—clasped to her

heart— She tends his wounds awhile, and then will


Afresh! Some precious drops mark out her

No failure! though the rocks may dash in foam
This ii; I strength of a nation's new lifu-

'Twill rise—a Bow of Promise—that shall

In glory over all the waves to come.

We miss a footstep, thinking " Here's a stair,"
In sonic uncertain way we darkly tread;
But i in'! - enduring skies are overhead,

And spirits step their surest oft in air.

His ways arc not as our ways; the new birth,
At cost of the old life, is often given.
To-day God crowns the Martyrs in his heaven;

To-morrow whips their murderers on our curih.

You take back Garibaldi to his prison 1
Why, t/iit may bo the very road to Rome;


In the fort of Varignano,

On a. hai-d and narrow bed,
Brooding thoughts, as a volcano

Broodctli lava-floods unshed,
Lies a chained ami crippled hero,

Balked and baffled, not subdued,
Though his fortune's sunk to zero,

At blood-hcut still stands his mood.

In his sumptuous sen-side palace,

Where Biarritz looks o'er sea,
With all splendor for such solace

As from splendor wrung may be,
. Sits n crowned and sceptred sovereign,
» Strong in arms, more strong in art,

Wrapped in thoughts past men's discovering,

With a marble stono for heart.

From her centuries' sleep arisen,

Clenching half unfettered hands,
'Twixt that palace and that prison,

Flushed and fierce Italia stands.
Bravo words she has owed that ruler,

Brave words and brave deeds as well,
Now she doubts he fain would fool her

Of the hopes he helped to swell.

So with visage dark and lowering

She that palace-threshold spurns,
And with tenderness o'erpowering

To the fortress-prison turns.
Ne'er a doubt of the devotion

Of that chained and crippled chief,
Clouds her love's profound emotion,

Stays the passion of her grief.

What's an emperor's word, whose action
To his utterance gives the lie?

But this chief for love bade faction,
Prudence, policy stand by—

Blind maybe, but blind for brightness
Of the goal to which he strove,

All his life is one long witness
Life to him is less than love.

Then what wonder to the prison

From the palace if she turn?
'Tis her star that newly risen

O'er that fortress-cell doth bum.
The true prison is that palace,

And that prisoner is true king!
Were his pallet-bed a gallows,

There Italia's heart would cling,
Not to yon man, dark and callous,

Girt by his base courtier-ring.



"Petrus, quum venisset ad portam, vidi Christum sibi occurrentem, et ait 'Domine, quo vadisV Qui respondit, 'Venio Romam iterum crucifigi.' "—Aukea Legesda, cap. 89. "What memory of my ancient life art thou 1 Is there another Christ than he who trod The shattered gates of death, and rose to God But no—all pain is graven on thy brow As only one could suffer.—Thou art he!

Not thus thy own, the suffering, thought to see Thy coming, when the rifted clouds should


To quivering wings and golden panoplies, While high above the starry arch should rise The jasper judgment-thrones. Was all n

d ream * Hath faith no future? Was the cross in vain *

I travel Romewards—I must die again."

O Lord, the story of thy death is sung
In every church, and carved on every stone;—
The glazing eye sees thee; the infant's tongue
Blends Jesus' with its household names in one;
The priest who curses those whom Christ set

free, The freeman, cursed and cringing, call on


The sbirro in the desecrated home,
The soldier, whose dishonored sword is red,
The mother crouched beside tho nameless

dead, All know that thou hast died for them, for

Rome; These wait thy judgments, Lord! thy cross

were vain.

"I travel Homewards—I must die again."

'Alas, not only the eternal shrine
And common faith witness Gethscmane;
A people, almost in great grief divine,
Hath trod the via crucis after thee:
The seven-hilled palace, where the city sate
Queenlike, enfolds her passion and her fate,—
Soldier and priest have bound her that she

die. O Lord, what need that costlier blood should


Will he believe, who turns to Calvary *
With eyes averted from a nation's woe?
Come clothed in thunder, Lord ! thy cross is

vain— And Rome were hopeless though thou diedst




How sweet the evening shadows fall,
Advancing from tho west!

As ends the weary week of toil,
And comes the day of rest.

Bright o'er the earth the star of eve

Her radiant beauty sheds;
And myriad sisters calmly weave

Their light around our heads,

Rest, man, from labor 1 rest from sin I
The world's hard contest close;

The holy hours with God begin—
Yield thee to sweet repose.

Bright o'er the earth the morning ray

Its sacred light will cast,
Fair emblem of that glorious day

That evermore shall last.

No. 964.—22 November, 1862.



1. Female Life in Prison, Christian Remembrancer, 339

2. Mistress and Maid. Chaps. 21-23, . . Good Words, 354

3. The Naggletons on their Tour, .... Punch, 371

4. Henry Taylor's New Drama, .... National Review, 373

5. New Tales by Hans Andersen, .... Spectator, 376

6. Verses and Translations, .... Press, 379

7. The Alliances of France Examiner, 380

8. British Opinions Quar. Se. and Edinburgh Re., 381

Poetry.—Come unto Me, 338. October, 338. Diversity in Unity, 338. The Italian Trio, 370. Elegy in the Temple Gardens, 383. Paris, 384. London, 384.

Shout Articles.—Follow my Leader, 370. The phrase "A Violation of Nature," 375. Circular Panoramic Prints, 375.

13* The article on The Slave Power, in No. 963, is said to be by John Stuart Mill.


The Two Homes : or, Earning and Spending. By Mrs. Madeline Leslie. Boston : Andrew F. Graves.

The Sioux War: What shall we do with it? The Sioux Indians : What shall we do with them? By James W. Taylor. Saint Paul, Minnesota.

The United States And France. By Edward Labonlaye. Translated for, and published by, The Boston Daily Advertiser.


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