DIRGE FOR GENERAL LYON. By Mrs. Helen Rich. BURY him like a conqueror! Fold The glorious banner that he died to save Above the lion heart ye give the mould! Rain hero tears upon a hero's grave. 0 Liberty! most worthy of the life, Stainless and bright, we lay upon thy shrine! How like a god he dared the deadly strife, Yielding his great heart's rich and royal wine. Seeing no terror in its mighty king; Hearing no thunder, only Freedom's cry; Her foes they trembled at his lion spring, And traitors paled beneath his blazing eye. Write his dear name in tears, and let the sword MARTYRS OF SCOTLAND. A WORTHY ANCESTRY. "In the year 1684, when field-preaching was punished in Scotland with fines, tortures, imprisonment, banishment, and death, the years which the Scots called the killing time,' there were executed at the Cross at Glasgow nine excellent serious Christians, among whom was James Johnston, who, when on the scaffold, sung the Thirty-seventh Psalm with heroic courage, influenced by the presence and power of Christ.” This is the opening of an account given of James Johnston, an ancestor of the late Rev. George Bourne, so well known as an early and indomitable champion of the anti-slavery cause in the United States, and author of "The Picture of Slavery," etc. The memory of those martyrs was perpetuated in a monumental inscription on the walls of the cathedral of Glasgow. While in Glasgow, in the year 1862, I visited the cathedral, and after passing through the crypts of that famous and unique edifice, I requested the verger to show me the inscription in memory of the "Martyrs of the Covenant." This we found on the outside wall of the cathedral. It is worthy of being published, not only for its quaintness, but in memory of those glorious men whose influence has reached to our day, and whose spirit is now animating thousands in our own land to brave oppression and tyranny for conscience' sake. Inscription on the wall of the Cathedral Church, Glasgow. "MARTYRS FOR THE COVENANT. "Here lies the corps of Robert Bunton, John Hart, Robert Scott, Matthew Patoun, John Richmond, James Johnston, Archibald Stewart, James Vinning, and John Main, who suffered, at the Cross of Glasgow, for their testimony to the Covenants and work of Reformation, because they durst not own the authority of the then tyrants destroying the same, betwixt 1666 and 1688. CHRISTIANITY was, Christianity is, a system of life communicated from God to the soul of man, embodied in Jesus Christ, who is himself the essential revelation, who inspires each truth, forces home each moral precept, and with his own personality affirms the miracles. This is the principle which, when poured into the hearts of men, caused them to feel that Jesus spake as never man spake. This shifted the very level of their nature, and opened heights of divine reality which they had never known before. This gave them sublime vision. This transfigured their personality so that peasants became apostles, weak ones heroes, and lowly ones stood up undaunted before priests and kings. It flashed upon atheistic senses a revelation of God, new thoughts and convictions burning into the soul. It tore away the veil from the grave. It reduced and diminished earthly things, and it expanded heaven.. Editor's Table. THE HOT WEATHER. ed to the Table, Looking in all directions for something suitthe reader, and the state of things in general, one subject continually looms up, shutting out all others, THE HEAT. Through all the house steams the dissolving element turning butter, to oil, solid flesh to fluid, and sweet tempers to something akin to the exalted temperature of the atmosphere. Nothing else can be talked of, nothing else felt. To open the windows and let in the outer air, or to keep them closed and shut it out, is a problem occupying all minds, each solution seeming the most unsatisfactory. The heat is here, whichever way we turn. Out-doors it is no better. The wavering atmosphere, hanging over the valley and creeping up the hillsides, is like the breath of a furnace, and dazzles you with its unsteady radiance. The trees faint with the sultry air-bath which is day after day distilling the life-sap from their pores, and their leaves hang limp and motionless, as if too weary to lift themselves up. The little birds are silent, having either forgotten how to sing or betaken themselves to the cooler shadows of the groves; and even the crickets and the shrill-voiced cicadas, dearly as they love the hot weather, seem to have too much of it now, and refuse to let their whirring notes be heard. The barn-door fowls hang their wings and stand motionless under the carts and sheds, knowing the value of their protecting shadows, and decline to cackle or to crow. How congenial the old philosopher, Pythagoras, who enjoined five years' silence on his disciples, and held up the example of fishes for their imitation, would find the stillness of these summer days! It must have been when wrapped in such days as these, that Keats, in his Hyprion, wrote, – "Deep in the shady stillness of a vale, Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, in summer, and when I have seen the little things drooping on their perches, and helplessly gazing out into the green trees and among the flowers, where the robin was singing exultant in the shade, and the humming-bird dartsometimes found it difficult to restrain my band ing hilariously from bloom to bloom, I have from opening its prison-door and saying, "Pretty bird, go free!" I never could allow a poor little frightened, despairing bird, that might accidentally have flown in at my window, to be caught; but always, by opening wide the doors and windows, facilitated its escape, feeling a little throb of joy as it winged its way out again into the blue air, that perhaps for a moment equalled that of the bird itself. Have you ever read some sweet lines by Chaucer, running thus? "Take any bird and put it in a cage, And though thou hast the forethought of a mage, To foster it tenderly with meat and drink, "For though thou night and day of them take heed, And strew their cages soft and fair as silk, cup, And to the woods straightway on worms to feed." Ah, yes, Liberty, — I have felt more than ever since our war for liberty commenced, liberty is sweet even to the birds; how much more must it be to beings of nobler mould! To them,-. "An hour, a day of virtuous liberty Is worth a whole eternity of bondage." I heard one remark the other day, "I do not like that word,-woman! It has a coarse, homely sound!" It was a sentiment, uttered in words, which has long been tacitly expressed among us, for the term woman is well nigh driven out, not only from "society," but from even our simple farmhouses and cottages. Who speaks of Mrs. So-and-so, or Miss So-and-so now as a woman? Scarcely one. The word is forgotten, and "lady" is now on all occasions and to every person the fine and polite word applied. This term has its appropriate place, and in that place is beautiful and well; but indiscriminately used it has no meaning. But "woman" is of universal application, and seems to me one of the most beautiful words in our language. I like its honest, Saxon ring, its noble meaning, and really hope the day may come again when it may seem as respectable to be called a woman as to be called a lady. There is another beautiful word which is in many places and certain phases of society almost ignored; that is,"wife!" The favorite term lady is substituted even for this noble Saxon word. Mr. G. and lady, Mr. H. and lady, - these are the terms adopted when you would introduce Mr. G. and wife. What is the cause of this? Are we getting ashamed to be called wives? or do we prefer something a little more dubious in its signification? I think this custom is peculiar to this country, or very nearly so, and that it does not obtain to any considerable extent in the best society of Europe. Of course, where the rank of nobility demands its use, it is always heard; but then the name is always spoken with it. Lord F., in introducing his wife, would not introduce her as "my lady," but as Lady F. A circumstance occurred three or four years ago, illustrating a point I wish to set forth. A New York merchant, a member of a wealthy firm, went to England to arrange certain affairs connected with their business with the London and Liverpool branches of the house, carrying various letters of introduction. As several months would be required to complete his business, his wife accompanied him. On arriving in Liverpool, they took rooms at a fashionable hotel, and Mr. M. went out and presented his letters, and was of course very kindly and courteously received. On separating from his new acquaintances and friends, he was urged to visit at their houses, which he promised to do, inviting them in return to his hotel. "I have brought my lady with me," said he," and we should both be very much pleased to receive you and your families." The gentlemen soon waited on him, and were introduced to Mrs. M. as "my lady." She was an accomplished and most charming woman, and they could not but admire her. They called often, and invited her and Mr. M. to accompany them to the theatre and other places of amusement. They dined with them at their hotel, inviting Mr. M. to dine with them in return, and in short howed them a thousand attentions. But a week went by, and they began to be surprised that not a lady had called on Mrs. M. Mr. M. had seen them at their houses, and had repeatedly expressed his desire that his lady should make their acquaintance; but in spite of their polite "Thank yous," "We shall be very happy," etc., they did not call! It was mysterious, and Mrs. M. became mortified and unhappy. That the wives of her husband's business partners at least should not visit her was something she could not understand. Meanwhile, the gentlemen continued their constant and respectful attentions; and after three weeks of mortification and suspense, Mr. M. one day determined to inquire the cause of the great slight to which his wife was subjected. "I wish to know," said he to one with whom he was most intimate, "if there is any reason why my lady' has thus far not received a single call from any lady of the families to whom I brought letters of introduction, and who certainly have treated me with every mark of politeness possible. She is feeling very much mortified at the slight." friends that Mr. M. was always very emphatic in his manner of saying "my wife." WAR POETRY. The war has evoked such rivers of poetry as no other war surely ever evoked before. The queerest, the oddest, the funniest things imaginable have poured in one continuous stream from the army, North and South, ever since the war commenced. Here is one, by one of our modest, unassuming, stay-at-home soldiers. A HOME-GUARD SONG." I'm a son of ma's, and I've listed for the wars, In the Sidewalk Huzzas an officer am I ; away my sword; The gentleman seemed much embarrassed and at a loss to express himself. "It is not the custom in England," said he at length, "for wives to recognize this sort of connection. They are I've boldly drawn my scabbard, and I've thrown always happy to see you; but you can easily see that they could not, without compromising their own claims to respect, go further. Your lady is a most lovely and accomplished person; but then you must know that connections of this kind are not recognized as proper, or”. "What do you mean, sir?" said Mr. M., provoked at the stammering and hesitation of his friend. "I give you my word that I do not understand a thing you have been saying. What connection are you talking about?" "Why, your connection with the lady to whom you introduced us, and of whom we have been speaking." "My connection with her! She is my wife!" "Your wife!" exclaimed his friend, starting to his feet. "Good God, sir! why didn't you tell us so?" "Tell you so? Why, I did!" "No, sir! You introduced her as your 'lady,' and have never, in my hearing, called her your wife, or Mrs. M. Every one of us supposed her to be your mistress; and our wives have been at their wits' end to know how to get out of the embarrassing difficulty of declining your pressing invitations to visit her without offending you." Mr. M. looked in the face of his friend, thoughtful and confounded, and with probably a dawning sense of having been more refined than wise. It is scarcely necessary to add that, after this explanation, he had no further reason to complain of his friends for neglecting his wife. She was inundated with visits and invitations, every attention that could possibly tend to efface the memory of the mortifying misconception in relation to her social and domestic position being freely lavished upon her. On their return from Europe, it was observed by his And I'll bleed for my country like a black berry pie!" And here follows some excellent advice for the times, in rather bad orthography, but very good "Yankee pluck," and a glorious conclusion: TO DRAFTED MEN. Paytryits! when summent from your houses, Our heroines sometimes burst out in grand, hilarious strains which quite take the breath out of us to read. One of them exults in the following transcendent flight : O, HALE Columbus! take my bunnit ! Another, an appreciative wife, celebrates her husband in a joyful war pow-wow, beginning: 66 'My hus-iband is galliant, and My hus-iband is gay; Whene'er he take a warlike stand, The rebels run away; He laughs a laugh of scornful wrath, To see the cowards flee, With their high, their low, their pummadiddle, Natbang, sollygoggle, jamboree!" And "Molly Stark," a dairymaid from the old Green Mountain State, grows grand over our good president. "I tell yer what, he makes the South Look pretty glum wid sorror. Let 'em try, it's all I asks, If they don't get put through, And I feels like lookin' blue." And who, after reading the following sonnet, will say that Mr. Lincoln is not a suitable man for OUR CHIEF MAGISTRATE? Grait Magistrait! that gits up in the nite Knows youre a dooin jest wot he wood doo, Pervidin he was down ther on the spot, & had the mind to see throo things like you. Some Patrits ony ses your projick may do, but thats becos you know so much more'n wot they doo. Our soldiers have many favorite songs which I have heard sung with a life and spirit wonderful to witness. Some of them have a chorus of most extraordinary character, as the following: "Raise the banner, raise it high, boys, Let it float against the sky; 'God be with us,' this our cry, boys! 1ST CHORUS. Arise to glory, glory, glory! The following was the defiant song which Burnside's soldiers sent over, with ringing voices, to the North Carolina shore, as they approached it : "Say, rebels, will you meet us, Say, rebels, will you greet us, Say, rebels, will you beat us, On North Carolina shore? In the name of God we'll meet you, Singing glory, hallelujah, "With the sword of Jeff. you meet us, On North Carolina shore. On North Carolina shore. The way the Border State patriots concluded finally that it was necessary to treat traitors, is thus explained : "Just give them chaps a half a chance; A traitor, and he'll have to dance, |