And I rejoiced my race was run,
Thy righteous hand the bliss withdrew,
And still I say, "Thy will be done!"

this further instance of Morgiana's attach- | When heaven seemed dawning on my view, ment; and Cassim was so much pleased with her spirit and good sense, that he took her to wife. The whole treasure in the cavern became now safely the property of Ali Baba. He taught his son the secret, which he handed down to posterity; and using this good fortune with moderation, they lived in great honor, serving the chief offices of the city.

[Anna Cora Mowatt-Ritchie was born in 1819, at Bordeaux, France. She resided in America the greater part of her life, and, after a brilliant career in literary and theatrical circles, died in 1870.]

Thy will be done! O heavenly King,
I bow my head to Thy decree,
Albeit my soul not yet may wing

Its upward flight, great God, to Thee!-
Though I must still on earth abide,
To toil and groan and suffer here,
To seek for peace on sorrow's tide,
And meet the world's unfeeling jeer.

VOL. X.

And though the world can never more
A world of sunshine be to me,

Though all my fairy dreams are o'er,

And Care pursues where'er I flee,

Though friends I loved the dearest, best,
Were scattered by the storm away,
And scarce a hand I warmly pressed
As fondly presses mine to-day,--

Yet must I live-must live for those
Who mourn the shadow on my brow,
Who feel my hand can soothe their woes,
Whose faithful hearts I gladden now.

Yes, I will live-live to fulfil

The noble mission scarce begun,

And, pressed with grief, to murmur still,
"All-Wise, All-Just, Thy will be done!"

HILDA'S LITTLE HOOD.

[Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen was born in Nor way, 1848, came to America in 1869, and became coeditor of a Norwegian newspaper in Chicago. He has contributed much to periodical literature. We extract the following gem from his volume of poems, Idylls of Norway.]

In sooth I have forgotten, for it is long ago, And winters twelve have hid it beneath their shrouds of snow;

And 'tisn't well, the parson says, o'er bygone
things to brood,

But, sure, it was the strangest tale, this tale of
Hilda's hood.

For Hilda was a merry maid, and wild as wild could be,

Among the parish maidens was none so fair as she;

Her eyes they shone with wilful mirth, and like a golden flood

Her sunny hair rolled downward from her little scarlet hood.

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subdue;

I once was out a-fishing, and, though sturdy | Then straight my heart ran riot, and wild my at the oar, pulses flew ; My arms were growing weaker, and I was far I strove in vain my flutter and my blushes to from shore; And angry squalls swept thickly from out the "Why, Eric!" laughed a roguish maid, “your lurid skies, cheeks are red as blood;" And every landmark that I knew was hidden "It is the shine," another cried, "from Hil. from mine eyes. da's scarlet hood."

The gull's shrill shriek above me, the sea's I answered not, for 'tis not safe to banter with strong bass beneath, a girl;

The numbness grew upon me with its chilling The trees, the church, the belfry danced about touch of death, me in a whirl;

And blackness gathered round me; then I was as dizzy as a moth that flutters round the through the night's dark shroud

A clear young voice came swiftly as an arrow cleaves the cloud.

It was a voice so mellow, so bright and warm and round,

flame;

I turned about, and twirled my cap, but could not speak for shame.

But that same Sabbath evening, as I sauntered o'er the beach,

As if a beam of sunshine had been melted And cursed that foolish heart of mine for into sound;

choking up my speech,

It fell upon my frozen nerves, and thawed the I spied, half wrapped in shadow at the margin springs of life;

I grasped the oar and strove afresh; it was a bitter strife.

of the wood,

The wavy mass of sunshine that broke from
Hilda's hood.

The breakers roared about me, but the song With quickened breath on tiptoe across the

took bolder flight,

And rose above the darkness like a beacon in

the night;

sand I stepped;

Her face was hidden in her lap, as though she mused or slept;

that downward rolled,

And swift I steered and safely, struck shore, The hood had glided backward o'er the hair and by God's rood, Through gloom and spray I caught the gleam Like some large petal of a flower upon a stream of Hilda's scarlet hood.

The moon athwart the darkness broke a broad and misty way,

of gold.

"Fair Hilda," so I whispered, as I bended to her ear;

The dawn grew red beyond the sea and sent She started up and smiled at me without surabroad the day;

prise or fear.

And loud I prayed to God above to help me, "I love you, Hilda,” said I; then in whispers if He would, more subdued: For deep into my soul had pierced that gleam "Love me again, or wear no more that little from Hilda's hood. scarlet hood."

I sought her in the forest, I sought her on the "Why, Eric," cried she, laughing, "how can strand, you talk so wild? The pine-trees spread their dusky roof, bleak I was confirmed last Easter, half maid and lay the glittering sand,

half a child,

Until one Sabbath morning at the parish But since you are so stubborn-no, no; I never church I stood, could

And saw, amid a throng of maids, the little Unless you guess what's written in my little scarlet hood. scarlet hood."

habits, and they invariably sleep for three hours after noon.

Their ordinary drink is pure water. They have an unrestrained fancy for European garments, and seek by every imaginable means to get themselves coats, hats, silk cravats, and especially shirts. But as they do not possess sufficient of our manufactures to dress themselves completely in our style, they frequently exhibit a sort of motley attire. The women when within-doors are almost naked; some pieces of cloth, skilfully arranged and halfcovering their bosoms, form a kind of tunic, while their feet are bare. They have a great liking for chaplets of flowers, and bright blossoms of the Hibiscus Rosa sinensis, or China rose, adorn their foreheads. They pass through the lobe of their ears the long tube of the white and perfumed corolla of the gardenia, and protect their faces from the fiery rays of the sun with small leaves of the cocoatree.

greatly neglected since they have acquired fire-arms. Heretofore, they had long spears with pointed ends, slings formed from the husk of the cocoa-nut, basalt axes of perfect shape, and files made out of the rasp-like skin of a skate-fish.

They have a passionate love for dancing. The instrument they use for beating the measure is a drum, the cylinder of which consists of a trunk of a tree scooped very thin. The dog-skins which constitute the drum-head are stretched by ribbons of bark. They blow with the nose into a little reed flute having three holes at its open end, and one only at that which is furnished with a diaphragm, and produce deep, monotonous tones from it.

The Tahitians are hospitable, and display great civility in guiding travellers in the middle of the woods, and in their mountains. Christianity has modified their habits a little. They attend the Protestant churches because they are obliged to do so, but they have little religion. Among themselves property is sacred; that of strangers is, however, eagerly coveted and frequently appropriated.

The chief employment of the Tahitians is the manufacture of cloth. By very simple means they form fabrics from various barks, with which they clothe themselves in a manner as ingenious as it is comfortable. The paper-mulberry tree, the bread tree, the Hibiscus tiliaceus, etc., are the plants of which they generally use RALPH the inner bark. They dye these stuffs with the red juice extracted from the fruit of a species of fig-tree, or in canaryyellow.

Their garments are not the only things which these people embellish in brilliant colors and with different patterns. They have a passionate love for tattooing, but, nevertheless, do not bear a single device on their faces. The parts on which they trace indelible marks are the legs, arms, thighs, and breast. Everything leads to the conclusion that tattooing, which is forbidden by the missionaries under the severest penalties, was, and is doubtless still, the symbol of each individual's functions, and the emblazonment of the armorial bearings of families, for its designs are always varied.

The Tahitians of former days constructed canoes ornamented with very carefully executed emblematic carvings, but since iron tools have taken the place of their imperfect implements, they do not give signs of the same pains in adorning their workmanship. Their ancient weapons are also

WALDO EMERSON ON
BURNS.

[From the account of the Boston Celebration of the Burns Centenary, January 25, 1859, we cite the remarks

of Mr. Emerson, as reported for the journals of the day.]

MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN :

I do not know by what untoward accident it has chanced, and I forbear to inquire, that, in this accomplished circle, it should fall to me, the worst Scotsman of all, to receive your commands, and at the latest hour too, to respond to the sentiment just offered, and which indeed makes the occasion. But I am told there is no appeal, and I must trust to the inspirations of the theme to make a fitness which does not otherwise exist. Yet, sir, I heartily feel the singular claims of the occasion. At the first announcement, from I know not whence, that the 25th of January was the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns, a sudden consent warmed the great English race, in all its kingdoms, colonies, and states, all over the

world, to keep the festival. We are here | ale, the poor man's wine; hardship; the to hold our parliament with love and poesy, fear of debt; the dear society of weans as men were wont to do in the Middle and wife, of brothers and sisters, proud Ages. Those famous parliaments might of each other, knowing so few and finding or might not have had more stateliness, amends for want and obscurity in books and better singers than we,-though that and thoughts. What a love of nature, is yet to be known,-but they could not and, shall I say it? of middle class nature. have better reason. I can only explain Not like Goethe, in the stars, or like Bythis singular unanimity in a race which ron, in the ocean, or Moore, in the luxurarely acts together, but rather after their rious East, but in the homely landscape watchword, Each for himself,-by the which the poor see around them,-bleak fact that Robert Burns, the poet of the leagues of pasture and stubble, ice and middle class, represents in the minds of sleet and rain and snow-choked brooks; men to day that great uprising of the birds, hares, field-mice, thistles and middle class against the armed and privi- heather, which he daily knew. 'How leged minorities, that uprising which many "Bonny Doons" and "John_Anworked politically in the American and derson my jo's," and "Auld Lang French Revolutions, and which, not in Synes," all around the earth have his governments so much as in education and verses been applied to! And his lovesocial order, has changed the face of the songs still woo and melt the youths and world. maids; the farm-work, the country holiday, the fishing-cobble, are still his debtors to-day.

In order for this destiny, his birth, breeding, and fortunes were low. His organic sentiment was absolute independence, and resting as it should on a life of labor. No man existed who could look down on him. They that looked into his eyes saw that they might look down the sky as easily. His muse and teaching was common-sense, joyful, aggressive, irresistible. Not Latimer, not Luther struck more telling blows against false theology than did this brave singer. The Confession of Augsburg, the Declaration of Independence, the French Rights of Man, and the Marseillaise, are not more weighty documents in the history of freedom than the songs of Burns. His satire has lost none of its edge. His musical arrows yet sing through the air. He is so substantially a reformer that I find his grand, plain sense in close chain with the greatest masters, Rabelais, Shakespeare in comedy, Cervantes, Butler, and Burns. If I should add another name, I find it only in a living countryman of Burns.

He is an exceptional genius. The people who care nothing for literature and poetry care for Burns. It was indifferent-they thought who saw him-whether he wrote verse or not he could have done anything else as well. Yet how true a poet he is! And the poet, too, of poor men, of gray hodden and the guernsey coat and the blouse. He has given voice to all the experiences of common life; he has endeared the farm-house and cottage, patches and poverty, beans and barley;

And as he was thus the poet of the poor, anxious, cheerful, working humanity, so had he the language of low life. He grew up in a rural district, speaking a patois unintelligible to all but natives, and he has made the Lowland Scotch a Doric dialect of fame. It is the only example in history of a language made classic by the genius of a single man. But more than this. He had that secret of genius to draw from the bottom of society the strength of its speech, and astonish the ears of the polite with these artless words, better than art, and filtered of all offence through his beauty. It seemed odious to Luther that the devil should have all the best tunes; he would bring them into the churches; and Burns knew how to take from fairs and gypsies, blacksmiths and drovers, the speech of the market and street, and clothe it with melody. But I am detaining you too long. The memory of Burns,—I am afraid heaven and earth have taken too good care of it to leave us anything to say. The west winds are murmuring it. Open the windows behind you, and hearken for the incoming tide, what the waves say of it. The doves perching always on the eaves of the Stone Chapel opposite, may know something about it. Every home in broad Scotland keeps his fame bright. The memory of Burns-every man's, every boy's and girl's head carries snatches of his songs, and they say them by heart,