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South-Eastern.

North-Eastern.
South-Western.
Brighton...

Great Western..
Bristol and Exeter.

1 in 289,000
1 in 350,000
1 in 433,000
1 in 535,000

1 in 676,000
1 in 702,000

The general conclusion from these converging data seems to be in favor of the relative safety of the broad gauge.

in fatal accidents, and may therefore be taken as a set-off against the increased amount of compensation-money paid for injuries during the past year. For it must be remembered that many of the accidents and collisions which caused the injuries that were paid for in 1863 must have taken place in 1862. The comparison, however, does not amount to much. Meanwhile, it is a matter of some little curiosity to com- On the whole, it can scarcely be conpare the relative safety of some of the cluded that railway accidents are diminleading lines within the same period. We ishing in severity, whatever their number shall only trouble ourselves with what the during a single year may happen to be, at Companies return as casualties beyond the least if we measure their severity by the passengers' own control-which is the rail- amount of compensation awarded under way euphemism for injuries caused by rail- Lord Campbell's Act. Capt. Galton, two way management. The North-Western years ago, in a paper read before the In"system, ," with 1174 miles of line, and 17 stitute of Engineers, calculated that the millions of miles traversed by 19 million Companies paid annually from £100,000 to passengers, injured 69 passengers. The £120,000 in compensation; whereas we Great Western, with 1148 miles of line, have it now proved, from their own returns, and 12 millions of miles traversed by 17 that in 1862 they paid £158,000, and last millions of passengers, injured 37 passen- year as much as nearly £180,000. Some gers. On neither of these great lines of the more fatal collisions have been tre-pa was there last year a single fatal accident mendously expensive to the Companies. to a passenger. The Great Eastern killed For the Atherstone "accident," in 1860, 7; this was the Hunstanton, or great cow, the North-Western paid nearly £18,000; accident. The Great Northern killed the King's Cross accident cost the Great The Brighton killed three; this was Northern £10,000; while the Lewisham the Streatham and Balham casualty. The collision, in 1857, cost the South-Eastern South-Western killed one; and two were £27,000, besides the injury to rollingkilled on Scotch lines. There is another stock. The ugly conclusion at which test of the relative security of the various Captain Galton, addressing the Civil Engreat lines, which has its interest, though gineers, arrives, after an elaborate investiof course it requires checking by the ele- gation of the accidents returned to the ments of length of line, miles traveled, and Board of Trade on an average of seven number of passengers; and, as it only ap- years, is, "that out of 319 collisions only plies to a single year, it would hardly jus- 16 could be attributed to purely accidental tify any sweeping conclusion. The Great causes; and of the 303 remaining only 183 Eastern, with 695 miles open, paid £8824 were due to the negligence of inferior serfor compensation for personal injuries in vants, while the remaining 120 were en1863; the Great Northern, with 433 miles, tirely attributable to the manner in which must have paid (but the returns are mud- the traffic was conducted, and therefore dled) more than £20,000; the Great West- ought not to have occurred." We are ern, with nearly 1200 miles, paid only obliged to Mr. Brunlees, the engineer, who £2176; the North-Western, with about read a paper at the same meeting, for the the same mileage, paid £20,000; the South-information that, in the same seven years, Western, with 513 miles, paid less than £1000; the Brighton, with 243 miles, paid £19,000; the South-Eastern, with 286 miles, paid £1844; the Midland, with 658 miles, paid £17,794. On an average of seven years, Captain Galton classes the chief railways as follows, as to the proportion of killed or injured to the number of passengers conveyed:

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Eastern Counties.........

1 in 212,000
1 in 257,090
1 in 285,000

1041 accidents of different kinds were due in various degrees to mismanagement on the part of the Companies. This mismanagement he classes under the several heads of Defective Permanent Way, Neglected Rolling Stock, and "Management," which accounts for 76 per cent. of the total number of accidents. And by "Management" he means all that belongs to the trafficnamely, speed of trains; irregularity in starting and running them; an inefficient system of telegraph and other signals; ab

sence of communication between guard | tors and the great body of civil engineers. and driver; deficient brake power; and The conclusion of the whole matter is this, negligence of servants, owing to excessive that the vast majority of railway acciwork, insufficient pay, and inadequate num- dents are preventable; and that they are bers. There is nothing new in all this; it not prevented is owing to mismanagehas been said over and over again. But ment-that is; to parsimony, and to the it is something to get a conspectus of the starving system adopted by the Compawhole case. It is something to argue it, nies. Confront this fact with the other not upon single casualties, but upon full fact that the working expenses of railways returns spread over a series of years, and have been diminished, are annually diminembracing the whole railway system of ishing, and that it is the avowed policy of the United Kingdom. And it is something all directors to diminish them still more. to have all these facts produced in an au- And now, pondering over these two great thoritative shape, and to have the usual facts, let us enjoy our railway trips this arguments expressed, not in mere news autumn with such appetite and confidence paper articles, but by government inspec- as we may.

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THE DEATH-DAY OF EURYDICE.

THE sad gray day foredoomed by Death rolled on,
Silent and sad beneath the sightless sun;
The moon-lights vaguely shone, and gusts of balm,
Wind-loosened, from their summer forest thrall,
Came breathing faint along the river's fall,
And levels, checkered with light streaks of calm;
Far off the moveless mountain clouds, embossed
With changeless light and shadow, faintly shed
White splendors o'er the streamlet's distant bed,
Where the fly-following swallow, skirred and cross-
ed:

And o'er the corn-land, in a tender round

Of bluest air, the eager skylark sang,
Till all the silent height with music rang-
Then dropped in a quiver of faltering wings and
sound:

Along the watery reaches smooth and gray,

And margined sands, the lily faint and white,
Bent waveringly above its shadow slight,
In sunny musings all the silent day:

But as noon waned, from out the woods, a strain
Of wind in melancholy dirges went,
Along the winding river reeds it bent;

And southward loomed the low hills, gray with
rain.

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Then suddenly when all was dark and rest,
As from some potent magian's sovereign spells,
Or some awakened deity's behest,
Blue summer lightning crossed the sapphire sea,
Flaming above the hills along the lea,

Flaming amid the lonely forest wells,
And through the casement like a marble tomb,
Where, silent in the deepening azure gloom,
Sad victim of inexorate destiny,

Pale as the dead flowers round her, lies Eurydice.

OVER HER TOMB.

The morn is breaking faint and cold

Along the world with sullen glare;
The moon, like the face of Aquarius old,
Looks through the piteous winter air;
The peasant guides his oxened plow

Amid the shadowed stretch of lawn,
And his far voice sounds upward now
Under the dark and solemn dawn,
Oft have we watched the setting moon,
And often viewed the morning waken,
Nor thought the spirit of our clime,
Relentless god, could mark the time
When, oh! too bitter and too soon,

Thy heart is cold, and mine is breaking.

The sea-birds wheel through misty beams,
The weary sea wakes round the shore,
Like one who dreamed eternal dreams,
Nor thought that he would waken more;
The lean woods shake in upper air,

And lapse in sorrow gray and still,
And sounds amid the bickering glare
The roar of wind beyond the hill:
Thus sing I thee the morning's birth,
Lost spirit, even as thou couldst hear me
Oh, would this day of life were past,
Oh, would that I might rest at last,
And leave all sense above the earth,
Save the dumb joy that thou wert near me.

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TASSO AT FERRARA.

“VEGGIO, quando tal vista Amor m'impetra."

POET child of poet father,

What thy theme for princely ears— Thou, about whose temples gather Laurels riper than thy years? Dost recall the proud memento Of thy birthplace by the sea, Where, in heaven-blest Sorrento, Life is immortality?

Exile son of sire in exile,

Sundered from a mother's love; In thy years most soft and flexile, Sentenced through the world to rove; Dost thou in Ferrara's palace

Dream of having gained a home,
Where, unchafed by plot and malice,
Thou mayest now forget to roam?

All encharmed with joys too pleasant,
Threading mazy canzonet,
Dost thou, dallying with the present,
Nor look forward, nor regret?
Dost thou, priest of love and beauty,
For that Leonore is fair,
Fail to pay a client's duty,

And too boldly, grandly dare?

Dost thou with Rinaldo's story
Fix thy royal lady's eye;
Fire it with great Godfrey's glory;
Dim it when Clorind must die?
Ah! divert thy wild ambition,
Clog not thus thy poet-fame;
Works of splendid erudition

Yet should illustrate thy name!

Would that Fate, in mercy slighting
Her own laws, would bid thee look
Past the princess, at the writing

On the wall behind the duke!
We, alas! with awe and pity
Read the ban in dungeon slime:
"He who frees the Holy City

Shall in chains exhaust his prime. "Shall long years in durance languish,

Half his life shall vex for nought; Though his will rebuke his anguish In the hell of baffled thought. Freedom gained shall see but little

TO MY WIFE.

BY GEORGE W. BETHUNE, D.D. AWAY from thee! the morning breaks, But morning brings no joy to me; Alas! my spirit only wakes

To know that I am far from thee. In dreams I saw thy blessed face,

And thou wert nestled on my breast; In dreams I felt thy fond embrace,

And to mine own thy heart was pressed.

Afar from thee! 'tis solitude

Though smiling crowds around me beThe kind, the beautiful, the good

For I can only think of thee;
Of thee, the kindest, loveliest, best,
My earliest, and my only one;
Without thee I am all unblest,

And wholly blest with thee alone.

Afar from thee! the words of praise
My listless ear unheeded greet;
What sweetness seemed in better days,
Without thee seems no longer sweet.
The dearest joy fame can bestow

Is in thy moistened eye to see,
And in thy cheeks' unusual glow,
Thou deem'st me not unworthy thee.
Afar from thee! the night is come,
But slumbers from my pillow flee;
Oh! who can rest so far from home?
And my heart's home is, love, with thee.
I kneel me down in silent prayer,
And then I know that thou art nigh;
For God, who seest every where,
Bends on us both his watchful eye.

Together in his loved embrace,

No distance can our hearts divide:
Forgotten quite the mediate space,

I kneel thy kneeling form beside.
My tranquil frame then sinks to sleep,
But soars the spirit far and free;
Oh! welcome be night's slumbers deep,
For then, sweet love, I am with thee.

WE TWO.

BY CLARENCE BUTLER.

We own no houses, no lots, no lands,
No dainty viands for us are spread,
By sweat of our brows and toil of our hands
We earn the pittance that buys our bread.

And yet we live in a grander state,
Sunbeam and I, than the millionaires
Who dine off silver and golden plate,
With liveried lacqueys behind the chairs.
We have no riches in houses and stocks,

No bank-books show our balance to draw, Yet we carry a safe-key that unlocks

More treasure than Croesus ever saw. We wear no velvet nor satin fine,

We dress in a very homely way, But ah! what luminous lusters shine

About Sunbeam's gowns and my hodden gray! When we walk together (we do not ride, We are far too poor) it is very rare We are bowed unto from the other side Of the street-but for this we do not care; We are not lonely, we pass along,

Sunbeam and I, and you can not see, We can, what tall and beautiful throngs Of angels we have for company.

No harp, no dulcimer, no guitar,

Breaks into music at Sunbeam's touch, But do not think that our evenings are Without their music; there is none such In the concert halls, where the palpitant air In musical billows floats and swims; Our lives are as psalms, and our foreheads wear A calm, like the peal of beautiful hymns.

When cloudy weather obscures our skies,

And some days darken with drops of rain,
We have but to look in each other's eyes,
And all is balmy and bright again.
Ah! ours is the alchemy that transmutes
The drugs to elixir-the dross to gold,
And so we live on Hesperian fruits,
Sunbeam and I, and never grow old.

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Never grow old, but we live in peace,
And love our fellows and envy none,
And our hearts are glad at the large increase
Of plentiful virtues under the sun.

And the days pass on with their thoughtful tread,
And the shadows lengthen toward the west,
But the wane of our young years brings no dread
To break their harvest of quiet rest.

Sunbeam's hair will be streaked with gray,
And time will furrow my darling's brow,
But never can Time's hand steal away
The tender halo that clasps it now.
So we dwell in wonderful opulence,

With nothing to hurt us or upbraid,
And my life trembles with reverence,
And Sunbeam's spirit is not afraid.

FERNS.

In the cool and quiet nooks,
By the side of running brooks;
In the forest's green retreat,

With the branches overhead, Nestling at the old trees' feet, Choose we there our mossy bed.

On tall cliffs that woo the breeze,

Where no human footstep presses, And no eye our beauty sees,

There we wave our maiden tresses.

In the mouths of mountain caves,
Whence the rapid torrent gushes,
Joying in the spray that laves,
As it wildly foaming rushes.

In the clefts of crumbling walls,
On old ruins sad and hoary,
Filling up the ancient halls

With a new and verdant glory.

Where the shady banks are steepest,
Sheltering from the sunlight's glow,
Loving best the shadiest, deepest,
Where the tallest hedge-rows grow.

In the pleasant woodland glades,
Where the antlered deer are straying,
Lifting there our lofty heads,

There our mimic groves displaying.

Then the treacherous marsh's bosom,
Decking with our regal pride,
There alone allowed to blossom,
(Boon to all our kin denied.)

Though we boast no lovely bloom,
That can rival with the flowers;
Though we filing no sweet perfume;
Though no varied hue is ours-

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WITHOUT THE CHILDREN.

Оn, the weary, solemn silence
Of a house without the children!
Oh, the strange, oppressive stillness

Where the children come no more!
Ah! the longing of the sleepless
For the soft arms of the children!
Ah! the longing for the faces

Peeping through the opening door-
Faces gone for evermore!

Strange it is to wake at midnight
And not hear the children breathing,
Nothing but the old clock ticking,
Ticking, ticking by the door.
Strange to see the little dresses
Hanging up there all the morning;
And the gaiters-ah! their patter,
We will hear it nevermore
On our mirth-forsaken floor!

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Some of thy stern, unyielding might,
Enduring still through day and night
Rude tempest-shock and withering blight-
That I may keep at bay

The changeful April sky of chance,
And the strong tide of circumstance—
Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy pensiveness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,

Put in this scrip of mine

That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light,
And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright-

O sweetly-mournful pine!

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook-
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

1

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;

But good-by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;
Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,

And so my journey's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet?

Some of thy modesty,
That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou'dst been,
Oh, give, to strengthen me.

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The merchant rain, which carries on
Rich commerce 'twixt the earth and sun;
The autumn mist; the springtide shower;
All whisper soft to seed and flower,
"We know no other life to live
But this-we give."

Suggestive warnings crowd the earth;
Glad sounds of labor, songs of mirth,
From creatures both of field and air;
Who, whilst they take their rightful share,
Still truly chant, "We chiefly live
To give to give."

O man, the gem and crown of all,
Take thou this lesson. Heed the call
Of these less gifted creatures near;
The rather-that Christ's voice most dear
Once said, whilst here he deigned to live,
'Blessed to give."

LONDON.

-F. E. Wilson.

BY JOHN D. SHERWOOD, ESQ.

"On the Thames a city stands,
Crowded, rich, and gay-
Almoner of many lands-
The Centuries' highway!
Traffic crowds her busy streets;
Fashion greets the eye:

Wealth with Poverty there meets,
Rags with Royalty.

"Neath the Abbey's towering spire Rest the honored Dead:

By that vast expiring fire,
'Neath that squalid shed,
Wretched want,

Famine gaunt,
Lays its restless head.

"In St. James-gold and lace!
In St. Giles-want, disgrace!
High the noble-rich the rich-
Low the lowly-deep the ditch !"

BRIEF LITERARY NOTICES.

We propose to note each month the chief books James Russell Lowell. of interest which appear on the other side of the

"BLESSED TO GIVE.”

THE kingly sun gives forth his rays; Asks no return; demands no praise;

water.

LA SOCIÉTÉ FRANÇAISE ET LA SOCIÉTÉ ANGLAISE AU XVIII. SIÈCLE. Par M. CORNÉLIS DE WITT. Paris: Lévy.

THE Histoire Anecdotique du Théâtre en France,

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