"So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind!" But the innate genius of this great orator and statesman overcame all disadvantages, and received from his enthusiastic audiences the recognition and respect so justly due to it. At Manchester, Birmingham, and London, he made the finest speeches heard in England since the days of Chatham and Burke. The living orators of the land shrink in comparison with him, even while thus suffering under ill-health and exile, and speaking in a strange tongue to a strange people. The power and poetry of his harangues have seldom been surpassed; while their statesmanship is as noble and remarkable as any of their other qualities. Whitfield (we believe it was) was said to have popularized the truths of the Reformation. Kossuth is popularizing the truths of European statesmanship. Never did any orator adapt his language with more prudence and ability to his objects. He knew he had a practical and trading people to deal with in England, and he showed them that their vital interests were identified with the liberty of Europe. He showed that despotism is opposed to free trade, which must henceforth be the breath of John Bull's nostrils. He showed that social order can only exist under free institutions. He showed that despotic monarchies were no safe securities for loans. He showed that the great Peace Association must necessarily -if it desire to be anything more than a mere mockery and delusion-identify its principles with those of European liberty. He conclusively and very happily showed that the war of Hungary was waged on the very principles of Hampden and Sydney. He made these the chief points in all his speeches; and, at the winding-up of every one of them, he repeated the adjuration, "That they would not let their sympathy be a barren feeling." This recurred, in fact, like the refrain of a song. He seemed very much interested in neutralizing the position of the Peace Society, which is very strong in Manchester; and argued to prove (though there is little need of such an argument) that there can be no true peace in the world while there are wrong and tyranny in it. Public opinion is not an end; it is a means. It would have very little effect on the Emperor of Austria and the Czar, if these rulers did not believe some

In another matter of policy Kossuth exhibited the ready originality of his mind. He contended that the business of international diplomacy should be no longer done in secret, but openly. In this he suggested a great democratic reform-such as would enable free people, everywhere, to know the arrangements, and allow time and opportu nity to stop them, if necessary. This was certainly pointed against Lord Palmerston, who did not give the exile a reception, and who, in fact, allowed the Hungarians to be beaten to the earth in 1849. Kossuth feels that the sympathy of the British ministry is not with him; and that, to bring the force of England to bear upon the continent, he must try and sway the people. It was a great thing, therefore, to see the Hungarian undertake, in the name of Liberty, to wrestle singlehanded, with the English government in the heart of England. And a great thing, too, to see how the people respond to him, while he went on popularizing those doctrines of governing which ministers now-a-days use as the Egyptian priests formerly used their hieroglyphics to impose upon the masses.

Kossuth's campaign of 1851-2 promises to be a grand affair. He was received in England as if he had come, not as a poor exile, but as a conqueror marching from the scene of his victories. And he was a conqueror, in reality; he conquered the English thoroughly at Kutayah; and no one can deny that he is improving the victory. His past imprisonments are intimately connected with his present triumphs.

"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them how we will."

When he lay in a dungeon at Pesth, in 1837. they would not allow him to read anything of national interest-and pens, ink, and paper, were denied him. He was, therefore, driven to study something, and so resolved to study our language. He begged for and received a few harmlesslooking books-such as Lindley Murray, Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, and William Shakspeare, His jailers little knew what wildfire was wrapped up in them-what ultimate rebellion against the House of Hapsburg! They furnished him. unconsciously, with the weapons he was yet to wield. Coming out of prison, and entering into the absorbing business of war, it was natural that a good deal of his English should be lost in the wind of such commotion. But that was provided for. He was sent to Kutayah in 1849, where he was provided with a large, quiet barrack, to finish his studies in. Hence, when he came from the Turkish academy to the quarter-deck of the Mis

sissippi, he was armed with our vocabulary, as with a "two-edged sword," and prepared to carry the cause of Hungary victorious from one hemisphere to the other. He is now reaping in honour and light, what was sown in dishonour and in darkness. Themistocles once said to his wife and children, at the court of Artaxerxes,-where fortune again began to smile on him, after his expulsion from Athens,-"We should certainly have been ruined, if we had not formerly been undone." Kossuth may also say to his wife and children, "We should, indeed, be miserably off at this moment, if the Austrians had not put me into one prison, and driven me into another!"

Kossuth, from being Governor of Hungary, is now the honoured champion of European liberty "The Man of Two Worlds"-like Lafayette. The American public feel the warmest sympathy with this defeated Washington; and with many, a feeling has arisen that the United States should now take up the great cause of justice in Europe. There will be no need of armaments and chivalrous expeditions, for which the world, in these days of trade, seems to be somewhat unfitted. But there will be a change in the tone of our government. The mighty "Populus Vult," of the present day, is as strong as the thundering Deus Vult of the old time. As a powerful republic of freemen, America should not be bound down to the international secret diplomacy of the wicked or effete old nations, and stoop to the degrading fellowship of those who hate and trample upon the principles which we uphold and live by. She has a high and noble part to play, and she will play it. Her part is to make the improved

diplomacy a powerful means of rebuking tyranny and encouraging all attempts of the people at self-government.

Lajos Kossuth is welcome to America. We thank him for all that he has done for the world. We are his debtors for the noble and beautiful moral influences with which he is investing the rough and stalworth strength of republicanism. We thank him for proving that our age has a great amount of heroic poetry in it after all; that human nature is not entirely huckster-entirely given over to steamships, tariffs, best markets, and the prices of stocks. He disproves Burke's assertion, with more than Burke's eloquence, and shows that the "age of chivalry" is not gone by. If men write no more such noble epics as the Iliad and the Odyssey, Kossuth gives us the happiness to know that such may still be acted, beside the Scamanders and ocean-streams, of the modern world! We therefore bid him God speed, and hope the day may soon come, when the Magyars shall make themselves again dreaded in Europe, and the quaking despots be heard croaking together the old litany of the people of Modena :

"From the weapons of the Hungarians, good Lord deliver us!"

WHEN we parted, years ago,
Free from care thy brow of snow;
Sparkling with a happy light
Were thine eyes of hazel bright;
Raven curls, with careless grace,
Clustered round thy neck and face;
And thy damask lip the while
Redder grew with gleeful smile.
Dreaming not of grief or woe,
Thus I knew thee, years ago;
And thy wondrous loveliness,
Which my gazing eyes did bless,
Which came gleaming on my vision
With a spell like face Elysian,-
For all this I loved thee, Clare,-
Wooed thee on an evening fair,
Sitting fondly hand in hand,
Where the clustered elm trees stand;
Whilst I bent, with anxious ear,
The murmur of thy voice to hear,
Downcast eye, and trembling tone,
Told me thou wert all my own.

And a spell of fatal power Sundered us until this hour;Scorning both our prayers and tears, Parted us for many years.

Sitting 'neath the elm tree bower,
Fondly now as in that hour,

I with mournful eye can trace
Marks of Time upon thy face.
Raven curls with graceful flow
No longer shade thy neck of snow;
Hazel eyes, once sparkling bright,
Gleam no more with joyous light;
Lines of grief and anxious care
Mark thy brow, once smooth and fair:
But I love thee; for, unchanged,
Spirit loveliness remained,
And though gone that beauty rare,
Which my eyes did worship, Clare,
And though fled that witching glee,
Which once drew my soul to thee,
I feel I know-I love thee more
Than my heart e'er loved before.
Fate no more may part us, Clare;
Life for us will yet be fair;
Happiness shall wake for thee,
Long-lost smiles of girlhood free.
Fled the grace of years ago,

Traced with care thy brow of snow,-
Yet still my heart doth love thee more
Than in the golden days of yore.

THIS legend is laughable to relate, and yet true withal. For my grandfather, whenever he told it, was wont to say, "It must be so, my son, otherwise how could I tell it thee?" And it was in this wise that the thing came to pass.

It was a fair Sunday morn before harvest-tide, about buckwheat bloom. The sun shone bright in the sky, the morning wind blew warm over the stubble, the larks sang in the air, the bees hummed in the buckwheat, all nature rejoicedand with it the Porcupine. For the Porcupine stood before his door, with folded arms, gazing out towards the morning wind, and trilled (quinkeleerde) a little song, in a manner neither better nor worse than that of any porcupine, when he sings. And while he thus hummed, it came into his head that, while his wife washed and dried the children, he would take a little walk in the field, and see how his turnips were getting on For the turnips grew near his house, and as he ate of them, with his family, he called them his own. Said and done. The Porcupine shut the door and went his way to the field. And at no great distance from home, as he was going through the bushes which grow in the field which lies near the road which runs by the rock which is just before the hedge which is not far from the brook which runs behind the slope which lies below the spot where the turnips grow, he met the Hare, who had gone forth on similar business, namely, to look after his cabbages. And as the Porcupine saw the Hare, he civilly bade him good morning. But the Hare (who on his own meadow was quite the gentleman, and murderously polite at that) answered the Porcupine nothing; but said to him, with the sneering air of a nobleman, "Why are you strolling round here so early in the morning?"

Taking a walk," answered the Porcupine. "Walk, indeed!" laughed the Hare; "it seems to me that you might better use your legs for something else."

This answer aggravated the Porcupine, who was crooked by nature, being somewhat bent in the legs, and not straight in the soul; and he replied accordingly, "You think, then, that your legs are worth more than mine?"

That I do," answered the Hare.

"And that remains to be proved," quoth Porcupine, "for I bet that in a race I beat you." "Fudge!" replied the Hare; " with your crook ed legs? But I take the bet-what is it?" "A louisd'or and a bottle of wine," said the Porcupine.

"Done!" cried the Hare. "Cut and run, I'm ready!"

"Let me first go," replied the Porcupine," and get my breakfast."

When the Porcupine reached home, he said. "Wife, dress yourself, and come to the field, for I am to run a race with the Hare for a gold louisd'or and a bottle of wine!"

"Man, man!" she answered, "art thou mad What! race with the Hare!"

"Hold your tongue, wife," replied the Porcupine. "Ladies should never meddle with their husbands' business. So dress and come!"

And when they were in the field he said. "See, we will run our race on this ploughed ground, between the furrows, where neither can see the other. Now you must stand at the one end of the furrow, so that, when the Hare comes racing up on the other side, you may cry out Here I am!" And this she did like a good wife.

And as the Porcupine came on the ground, behold the Hare was there. "What's the word? asked Fur-Coat.

"Cut and run!" replied Porcupine.

And off the Hare went, like a storm-wind, over the field. But the Porcupine ran exactly three steps, and then turned back. And as the Hare came full pace to the other end, there was Por cupine, his wife, and she cried, "Lo, here am I!" And the Hare stared and wondered not a little. thinking that it was Porcupine himself; for I forgot to tell you that the Porcupine's wife is the very image of her husband.

"The Old Nick must have helped you," snapped the Hare. "Here goes again!"

And off he shot like the storm-wind, till his ears lay flat; but Mrs. Porcupine lay still. And as he came to the other end, her husband cried. "Here we are again! how are you?"

Then the Hare began to swear like a Viscount. and snarled, "Try it again."

"Take it easy, son!" answered the Porcupine "As often as you like, for aught I care!"