his back seamed by the application of the whip. The human machines used by war and trade are the only ones, except the negro slave, who are now flogged.

The soldier desires labor to be cheap, that recruits may readily be obtained. The great land-owner desires it may be cheap, that he may be enabled to appropriate to himself a large proportion of the proceeds of his land; and the trader desires. it to be cheap, that he may be enabled to dictate the terms upon which he will buy, as well as those upon which he will sell.

The object of all being thus identical-that of obtaining power over their fellow-men-it is no matter of surprise that we find the trader and the soldier so uniformly helping, and being helped by, each other. The bankers of Rome were as ready to furnish material aid to Cæsar, Pompey, and Augustus, as are now those of London, Paris, Amsterdam, and Vienna, to grant it to the Emperors of France, Austria, and Russiaand as indifferent as they in relation to the end for whose attainment it was destined to be used. War and trade thus travel together, as is shown by the history of the world. The only difference between wars made for purposes of conquest, and those for the maintenance of monopolies of trade, being that the virulence of the latter is much greater than is that of the former. The conqueror, secking political power, is sometimes moved by a desire to improve the condition of his fellowmen; but the trader, in pursuit of power, is animated by no other idea than that of buying in the cheapest market, and selling in the dearest-cheapening merchandise in the one, even at the cost of starving the producers, and increasing his price in the other, even at the cost of starving the consumers. Both profit by whatever tends to diminution in the power of voluntary association, and consequent decline of commerce. The soldier forbids the holding of meetings among his subjects. The slave-owner interdicts his people from assembling together, except at such times and in such places as meet his approbation. The shipmaster rejoices when the men of England separate from each other, and transport themselves by hundreds of thousands to Canada and Australia, because it enhances freights; and the trader rejoices because the more widely men are scattered, the more they need the service of the middle-man, and the richer and more powerful does he become at their

expense.

SARAH JOSEPHA HALE.

SARAH JOSEPHA BUELL was born in Newport, New Hampshire, in the year 1795, whither her parents had removed soon after the close of the Revolution, from Saybrook, Connecticut. Her mother was a woman of a highly cultivated mind, and attended carefully to the education of her children; and our authoress had also the advantage of the instruction of a brother who graduated at Dartmouth College, in 1809. In 1814, she was married to Mr. David Hale, a lawyer of distinguished abilities, and great excellence of character, but who died in 1822, leaving her with five children, the eldest but seven years old. To train, support, and educate these, she engaged in literature as a profession. Her first publication was "The Genius of Oblivion, and other Original Poems," printed at Concord, in 1823. Her next work was "Northwood, a Tale of New England," in two volumes, published in Boston, in 1827, in which is happily illustrated common life among the descendants of the Puritans. In 1828, she removed to Boston, and became the editor of "The Ladies' Magazine," the first periodical, exclusively devoted to her sex, which appeared in America. She continued to edit this until 1837, when it was united with "The Lady's Book," in Philadelphia, of the literary department of which she has ever since had charge. However, as her sons were in Harvard College, she continued to reside in Boston, till 1841, when she removed to Philadelphia, where she now resides.

Mrs. Hale has been a most industrious, as well as instructive, writer. Her other publications are, “Sketches of American Character;" "Flora's Interpreter" (republished in London); "The Ladies' Wreath, a selection from the Female Poets of England and America;" "The Way to Live Well, and to be Well while we Live;""Grosvenor, a Tragedy;" "Alice Ray, a Romance in Rhyme;" "Harry Gray, the Widow's Son, a Story of the Sea;""Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, and other Poems;" "A Complete Dictionary of Poetical Quotations, containing selections from the Writings of the Poets of England and

We always regretted that Mrs. Hale did not at once resign the editorial charge of "The Lady's Book," when its proprietor removed, at the dictation of some southern subscribers, the name of Grace Greenwood from the cover of his magazine, because she was also a contributor to "The National Era." See his letter in the " Era," of Feb 12th, 1850, to the editors of the Colum bin (8) C.) “ Telegraph." For some comments upon this letter, of no very complimentary kind, see "The N. Y Independent of that time.

America ;" and, lastly, "Woman's Record, or, Sketches of all Distinguished Women from 'the beginning' till A. D. 1850,” a large octavo, in double columns, of nine hundred pages. Such industry has seldom been surpassed.

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

My son, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam,

And thou must go; but never, when there,
Forget the light of Home!

Though pleasures may smile with a ray more bright,
It dazzles to lead astray;

Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night

When treading thy lonely way :

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as vestal fire-

'Twill burn, 'twill burn for ever the same,
For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed,

And thy hopes may vanish like foam-
When sails are shivered and compass lost,
Then look to the light of Home!

And there, like a star through midnight cloud,
Thou'lt see the beacon bright;

For never, till shining on thy shroud,
Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of fame may gild the name,
But the heart ne'er felt its ray;

And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim,
Are beams of a wintry day:

How cold and dim those beams would be,
Should Life's poor wanderer come!-
My son, when the world is dark to thee,
Then turn to the light of Home.

WORSHIP IN THE FOREST.

What numbers, when the Sabbath comes,
Are trooping from their forest homes!

'I am happy here to acknowledge my indebtedness to this work for information respecting a few of the female authors in my book.

The maiden, pure as prairie rose,
Beside her bending grandsire goes;
The fawn-eyed children bound at large,
The mother brings her nursling charge;
And, bearing some pale, sickly child,
Stalks the strong hunter of the wild.
And he may see, through copse-wood near,
The antlers of the browsing deer;
Or, as his path through prairie goes,
Hear the dull tramp of buffaloes;
Or savage foe, or beast of prey,
May haunt his steps, or bar his way;
So, like a knight, he goes prepared
His foes to meet, his friends to guard:
The rifle in his ready hand
Proclaims the forester's command;
And as his glance is onward cast,
Or wild-wood sounds go rustling past,
His flashing eye and flushing cheek
Betray the wish he may not speak;—
But soon these fancies fade away,
Checked by the thought-'tis Sabbath Day!
And when he gains the house of prayer,
Heart, soul, and mind are centered there.

That house of prayer-how mean beside
The grand cathedral's sculptured pride!
Yet He who in a manger slept,
And in the wilds his vigils kept,
Will breathe a holy charm around,
Where His true followers are found.
Oh! never deem it low and rude,

Though fashioned by the settler's axe,
The sap still weeping from the wood,
As loath to leave its brother trees,
That wave above it in the breeze-

No pomp it needs, no glory lacks ;-
The holy angels are its guard,

And pious feet its planks have trod'Tis consecrated to the Lord,

The Temple of the living God!

But when the Sabbath gatherings press,
Like armies, from the wilderness,
Tis then the dim, old woods afford

The sanctuary of the Lord!

The Holy Spirit breathes around-
That forest glade is sacred ground,

Nor Temple built with hands could vie
In glory with its majesty.

The trees like living columns rise,

Whose tops sustain the bending skies;

And o'er those earnest worshippers,
God's love, like golden roof, is spread,
And every leaf the zephyr stirs,

Some heavenly promise seems to shed;
The flowers' sweet breath and gladsome eyes
Recall the joys of Paradise,

When God and man were garden-friends;
And now the loving Saviour bends-
So do they deem, those fervent bands-
With blessings in his bleeding hands!

And though the organ's ocean swell
Has never shook that woodland air,
Yet do the soul's emotions tell

That music's monarch power is there.
It lifts the mortal's hope above-
It draws to earth the angels' love-

The eye of faith may see them near,
Their golden harps forgotten when,
As breathed from lips of contrite men,
Redemption's joyful song they hear!

IT SNOWS.

"It snows!" cries the School-boy-"hurrah!" and his shout Is ringing through parlor and hall,

While swift, as the wing of a swallow, he's out,

And his playmates have answered his call:

It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy—
Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow,

Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy,
As he gathers his treasures of snow;

Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs,
While health, and the riches of Nature, are theirs.

"It snows!" sighs the Imbecile-"Ah!" and his breath
Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight;

While from the pale aspect of Nature in death,
He turns to the blaze of his grate:

And nearer, and nearer, his soft-cushioned chair
Is wheeled tow'rds the life-giving flame-
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
Lest it wither his delicate frame:

Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give,

When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!

"It snows!" cries the Traveller-" Ho!" and the word
Has quickened his steed's lagging pace;

The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard-
Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;