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There appears to be in the Keltic race a strong tendency to what is called Imperialism, as opposed to the Constitutionalism to which the Teutonic races tend. The Teuton loves laws and parliaments, the Kelt loves a king. Even the highly civilized Kelt of France, familiar as he is with the theories of political liberty, seems almost incapable of sustaining free institutions. After a moment of constitutional government he reverts, with a bias which the fatalist might call irresistible, to despotism in some form, whether it be that of a Bonaparte or that of a Robespierre. The Irish have hitherto shown a similar attachment to the rule of persons rather than to that of institutions. So far as willingness to submit to governors is concerned, they are only too easily governed. Loyalty is the great virtue of their political character. Its great defect is want of independence and of that strong sense of right by which law and personal liberty are upheld. These are the characteristic qualities of clansmen, to whom, in their half-patriarchal state, the will and the protecting power of the chief are more than any law. But whether it was the clan that engendered the political tendency of the Keltic race, or an innate tendency of the race that produced the clan, or at least preserved that form of society when it had been discarded by other races, is a question which cannot here be considered. It opens a wider and more interesting question, of a general kind, as to the historical relation between the characters of different races and their different primitive institutions.

The direct and manifest influence of the clan feeling, and of the feeling towards the chief of the clan, reaches far down into Irish history; and it is probable that its indirect and secret influence is not yet extinct.

We see the different political tendencies of the Irish and English races combined, yet distinguishable from each other, in the political character of Burke, to whose writing we owe, more than we are aware, the almost religious reverence with which we regard the Constitution. Trained among English statesmen, Burke had learnt to love English institutions, but he loved them not as an Englishman, from a practical sense of their usefulness, but like an Irishman, with the passionate fervor of personal attachment, and rendered to their imagined founders, collectively, the homage of the heart which devoted loyalty pays to a king. His feelings, diffused by his eloquence, have become those of our whole nation.

IN SCHOOL DAYS.

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

[JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, the distinguished American poet, was born of Quaker parentage at Haverhill, Mass., December 17, 1807. He worked on a farm in his boyhood, and earned enough by shoemaking to warrant his entering a local academy. At twenty-two he began his journalistic career as editor of the American Manufacturer; and was later connected with the New England Weekly Review and Haverhill Gazette. Becoming noted for his opposition to slavery, he was appointed secretary of the American Antislavery Society, and for a year in Philadelphia edited the Pennsylvania Freeman, which was suppressed by a mob that sacked and burned the printing office. In 1840 he settled in Amesbury, and continued to reside there until his death in 1892. Among his numerous publications were: Legends of New England," "Moll Pitcher," "Mogg Megone," "The Voices of Freedom," "Songs of Labor," "Home Ballads," "In War Time,' ," "National Lyrics," "Snow-Bound," "Tent on the Beach," "Ballads of New England," "Hazel Blossoms," "Bay of Seven Islands."]

66

STILL sits the schoolhouse by the road;

A ragged beggar, sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,

And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall ;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing.

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its Western window-panes
And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of One who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled,
His cap pulled low upon a face

Where pride and shame were mingled.

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[BAYARD TAYLOR, traveler, novelist, poet, and critic, was born in Pennsylvania in 1825; died as U.S. minister to Germany in 1878; was secretary of legation at St. Petersburg, 1862-1863. His first book, "Views Afoot" (1846), was the result of an adventurous journey to Europe almost without money at nineteen, on the chance (successful) of writing letters to the home newspapers. He traveled thereafter almost all over the world, and his descriptive books were very popular. His novels, "Hannah Thurston" (1863) and "The Story of Kennett" (1866), had some success. But his permanent repute rests on his poetry, including besides many excellent lyrics the narratives "Lars" (1873) and "Prince Deukalion (1878), and, perhaps his masterpiece, the translation of Goethe's "Faust."]

"GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under;

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow: Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon;

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory;
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem rich and strong-
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters
With scream of shot and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars.

And Irish Norah's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory;

And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing;

The bravest are the tenderest,

The loving are the daring.

THE WARFARE OF LIFE.

BY OWEN MEREDITH.

(From "Lucile.")

[EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON, first Earl of Lytton, better known to literature as "Owen Meredith," was the only son of the famous novelist, and was born in London, November 8, 1831. He began his diplomatic career as private secretary to his uncle, Sir H. L. Bulwer, at Washington, D.C., and afterwards held various important posts in Europe. He was viceroy of India (1876-1880), and ambassador at Paris from 1887 until his death, November 24, 1891. The chief events of his viceroyalty were the Afghan War and the proclamation of Queen Victoria as Empress of India. Under the pen name of "Owen Meredith" he published "Clytemnestra,' ," "The Earl's Return," etc., (1855); "The Wanderer" (1859); "Lucile," a novel in verse, his best known production (1860); "The Ring of Amasis," a prose romance (1863); "Orval" (1869), "Julian Fane" (1871), "Glenaveril" (1885), "After Paradise" (1887); and other works.]

I.

MAN is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rend
Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend,
By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern shocks
That have shattered creation, and shapen it, rocks.
He leaps with a wail into being; and lo!

His own mother, fierce Nature herself, is his foe.
Her whirlwinds are roused into wrath o'er his head:
'Neath his feet roll her earthquakes: her solitudes spread
To daunt him: her forces dispute his command:
Her snows fall to freeze him: her suns burn to brand:
Her seas yawn to engulf him: her rocks rise to crush:
And the lion and leopard, allied, lurk to rush
On their startled invader.

In lone Malabar,

Where the infinite forest spreads breathless and far,
'Mid the cruel of eye and the stealthy of claw

(Striped and spotted destroyers!) he sees, pale with awe,
On the menacing edge of a fiery sky

Grim Doorga, blue-limbed and red-handed, go by,

And the first thing he worships is Terror.

Anon,

Still impelled by necessity hungrily on,
He conquers the realms of his own self-reliance,
And the last cry of fear wakes the first of defiance.
From the serpent he crushes its poisonous soul:
Smitten down in his path see the dead lion roll!

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