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Oн, rally round the banner, boys, now Freedom's chosen sign!
See where amid the clouds of war its new-born glories shine!
The despot's doom, the slave's dear hope, we bear it on the foe!
God's voice rings down the brightening path! Say, brothers, will ye go?

"My father fought at Donelson; he hailed at dawn of day
That flag full-blown upon the walls, and proudly passed away."

"My brother fell on Newbern's shore; he bared his radiant head,

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And shouted, On! the day is won!' leaped forward, and was dead.” "My chosen friend of all the world hears not the bugle-call;

A bullet pierced his loyal heart by Richmond's fatal wall."

But seize the hallowed swords they dropped, with blood yet moist and red!
Fill up the thinned, immortal ranks, and follow where they led!

For right is might, and truth is God, and He upholds our cause,
The grand old cause our fathers loved,


- Freedom and Equal Laws!

My mother's hair is thin and white; she looked me in the face, She clasped me to her heart, and said, 'Go, take thy brother's place!'" "My sister kissed her sweet farewell; her maiden cheeks were wet; Around my neck her arms she threw; I feel the pressure yet." "My wife sits by the cradle's side and keeps our little home,

Or asks the baby on her knee, 'When will thy father come?'”
Oh, woman's faith and man's stout arm shall right the ancient wrong!
So farewell, mother, sister, wife! God keep you brave and strong!
The whizzing shell may burst in fire, the shrieking bullet fly,
The heavens and earth may mingle grief, the gallant soldier die;
But while a haughty Rebel stands, no peace! for peace is war.
The land that is not worth our death is not worth living for!

Then rally round the banner, boys! Its triumph draweth nigh!
See where above the clouds of war its seamless glories fly!
Peace, hovering o'er the bristling van, waves palm and laurel fair,
And Victory binds the rescued stars in Freedom's golden hair!



"WELL, Uncle Sam," says Jefferson D.,

Lilliburlero, old Uncle Sam,

"You'll have to join my Confed'racy,"

Lilliburlero, old Uncle Sam.

"Lero, lero, that don't appear O, that don't appear," says old Uncle Sam, · "Lero, lero, filibustero, that don't appear," says old Uncle Sam.

"So, Uncle Sam, just lay down your arms,"

Lilliburlero, etc.,

"Then you shall hear my reas'nable terms,"

Lilliburlero, etc.

"Lero, lero, I'd like to hear O, I'd like to hear," says old Uncle Sam, "Lero, lero, filibustero, I'd like to hear," says old Uncle Sam.

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"Lero, lero, rather severe O, rather severe," says old Uncle Sam, "Lero, lero, filibustero, rather severe," says old Uncle Sam.

“Then, you must pay my national debts,"
Lilliburlero, etc.,

"No questions asked about my assets,"

Lilliburlero, etc.

"Lero, lero, that 's very dear O, that 's very dear," says old Uncle Sam, "Lero, lero, filibustero, that's very dear," says old Uncle Sam.

"Also, some few I. O. U.s and bets,"

Lilliburlero, etc.,

Mine, and Bob Toombs', and Slidell's, and Rhett's,"

Lilliburlero, etc.

"Lero, lero, that leaves me zero, that leaves me zero," says Uncle Sam, "Lero, lero, filibustero, that leaves me zero," says Uncle Sam.

"And, by the way, one little thing more,"

Lilliburlero, etc.,

"You 're to refund the costs of the war,"

Lilliburlero, etc.

"Lero, lero, just what I fear O, just what I fear," says old Uncle Sam, "Lero, lero, filibustero, just what I fear," says old Uncle Sam.

"Next, you must own our Cavalier blood!"

Lilliburlero, etc.,

"And that your Puritans sprang from the mud!"

Lilliburlero, etc.

"Lero, lero, that mud is clear O, that mud is clear," says old Uncle Sam, "Lero, lero, filibustero, that mud is clear," says old Uncle Sam.

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"Lero, lero, that 's quite sincere O, that 's quite sincere," says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, filibustero, that 's quite sincere," says old Uncle Sam.

"You'll understand, my recreant tool,"

Lilliburlero, etc.,

"You 're to submit, and we are to rule,"

Lilliburlero, etc.

"Lero, lero, are n't you a hero! are n't you a hero!" says Uncle Sam, "Lero, lero, filibustero, are n't you a hero!" says Uncle Sam.

"If to these terms you fully consent,"

Lilliburlero, etc.,

"I'll be Perpetual King-President,"

Lilliburlero, etc.

old Uncle Sam,

"Lero, lero, take your sombrero, off to your swamps!" says
"Lero, lero, filibustero, cut, double-quick!" says old Uncle Sam.


Titan: A Romance. From the German of Jean Paul Friedrich Richter. Translated by CHARLES T. BROOKS. In Two Volumes. Boston: Ticknor and Fields.

JEAN PAUL first became one of the notabilities of German literature after he had published "Hesperus," a novel which contains the originals of the characters that reappear under different names in "Titan." His previous popularity did not penetrate far within the circle of scholars and thinkers, and never knocked at the charmed threshold of the Weimar set, whose taste was controlled by Goethe and Schiller. But "Hesperus" made a great noise, and these warders of the German Valhalla were obliged to open the door just a crack, in order to reconnoitre the pretentious arrival. Goethe first called the attention of Schiller to the book, sending him a copy while he was at Jena, in 1795. Schiller recognized at once its power and geniality, but was disposed to regard it as a literary oddity, whose grotesque build and want of finish rather depreciated the rich cargo, – at least, did not bring it handsomely into port.

The first book of "Wilhelm Meister" had appeared the year before, and that was more acceptable to Schiller, who had cooled off after writing his "Robbers," and was looking out for the true theory of poetry and art. He and Goethe conIcluded that " Hesperus" was worth liking, though it was a great pity the author had not better taste; he ought to come up ve with them, in an æsthetic atmos

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phere, where he could find and admire his superiors, and have his great crude gems ground down to brilliant facets. Schiller said it was the book of a lonely and isolated man. It was, indeed.

But it was a book which represented, far more profoundly and healthily than Schiller's " Robbers," that revolt of men of genius against every species of finical prescription, in literature and society, which ushered in the new age of Germany. And it expresses with uncalculating sincerity all the natural emotions which a century of pedantry and Gallic affectation had been crowding out of books and men. It was a charge at the point of the pen upon the dapper flunkeys who were keeping the door of the German future; the brawny breast, breathing deep with the struggle, and pouring out great volumes of feeling, burst through the restraints of the time. He cleared a place, and called all men to stand close to his beating heart, and almost furiously pressed them there, that they might feel what a thing friendship was and the ideal life of the soul. And as he held them, his face grew broad and deep with humor; men looked into it and saw themselves, all the real good and the absurdly conventional which they had, and there was a great jubilation at the genial sight. And it was as if a lot of porters followed him, overloaded with quaint and curious knowledge gathered from books of travel, of medicine, of history, metaphysics, and biography, which they dumped without much concert, but just as

it happened, in the very middle of a fine emotion, and all through his jovial speech. What an irruption it was!-as if by a tilt of the planet the climate had changed suddenly, and palm-trees, oranges, the sugarcane, the grotesque dragon-tree, and all the woods of rich and curious grain, stood in the temperate and meagre soil.

Schiller met Jean Paul in the spring of 1796. In writing to Goethe about their interviews, he says, "I have told you nothing yet about Hesperus. I found him on the whole such as I expected, just as odd as if he had fallen from the moon, full of good-will, and very eager to see things that are outside of him, but he lacks the organ by which one sees"; and in a letter of a later date he doubts whether Richter will ever sympathize with their way of handling the great subjects of Man and Nature.

The reader can find the first interviews which Richter had with Goethe and Schiller in Lewes's “Life of Goethe," Vol. II. p. 269. Of Goethe, Richter said, By heaven! we shall love each other!" and of Schiller, "He is full of acumen, but without love." The German public, which loves Richter, has reversed his first impression. And indeed Richter himself, though he could not get along with Schiller, learned that Goethe's loving capacity, which he thought he saw break out with fire while Goethe read a poem to him, was only the passion of an artistic nature which impregnates its own prod


Richter's love was very different. It was a sympathy with men and women of all conditions, fed secretly the while that his shaggy genius was struggling with poverty and apparently unfavorable circumstances. He was always a child, yearning to feel the arms of some affection around him, very susceptible to the moods of other people, yet testing them by a humorous sincerity. All the books which he devoured in his desultory rage for knowledge turned into nourishment for an imagination that was destined chiefly to interpret a very lofty moral sense and a very democratic feeling. And whenever his humor caught an edge in the easterly moments of his mind, it was never sharpened against humanity, and made nothing tender bleed. Now and then we know he has a caustic thing or two to say

about women; but it is lunar-caustic for a wart.

Goethe did not like this indiscriminate and democratic temper. The sly remarks of Richter upon the Transparencies and Well-born and Excellencies of his time, with their faded taste and dreary mandarin-life varied by loose morals and contempt for the invisible, could not have suited the man whose best friend was a real Duke, as it happened, one of Nature's noblemen, one whose wife, the Duchess Sophia, afterwards held Bonaparte so tranquilly at bay upon her palace-steps. Goethe had, too, a bureaucratic vein in him; he spoke well of dignities, and carefully stepped through the cumbrous minuet of courtlife without impinging upon a single Serene or Well-born bunyon. Mirabeau himself would have elbowed his way through furbelows and court-rapiers more forbearingly than Richter. It was not possible to make this genius plastic, in the aesthetic sense which legislated at Weimar. Besides, Goethe could not look at Nature as Richter did. To such a grand observer Richter must have appeared like a sunsetsmitten girl.

An American ought to value Richter's books for the causes which made them repulsive to all social and literary cliques. The exquisite art, and the wise, clear mind of Goethe need not come into contrast, to disable us from giving Richter the reception which alone he would value or command. Nor is it necessary to deny that the frequent intercalations and suspensions of his narrative, racy and suggestive as they are, and overflowing with feeling, will fret a modern reader who is always "on time," like an express-man, and is quite as regardless of what may be expressed.

"Titan" is not a novel in the way that Charles Reade's, or Eugene Sue's, or Victor Hugo's books are novels. The nearest English model, in the matter of style and quaint presuming on the reader's patience, is Sterne. But if one wishes to see how Richter is not sentimental, in spite of his incessant and un-American emotion, let him read Sterne, and hasten then to be embraced by Richter's unsophisticated feeling, which is none the less refreshing because it is so exuberant and has such a habit of pursuing all his characters. And where else, in any language, is Nature so

worshipped, and so rapturously chased with glowing words, as some young Daphne by some fiery boy?

Neither are there any characters in this novel, in the sense of marked idiosyncrasies, or of the subtile development of an individual. Sometimes Richter's men and women are only the lay-figures upon which he piles and adjusts his gorgeous cloth-ofgold and figured damask. But Siebenkäs and his wife, in "Flower-, Fruit-, and Thorn-Pieces," are characters, quite as much as any of Balzac's nice genre men and women, and on a higher plane. Richter uses his persons of both sexes principally to express the conditions of his feeling; they are cockles, alternately dry and sparkling, underneath his mighty ebb and flow.

On one point we doubt if the American mind will understand Richter. He believed in a love that one man might have for another man, which as little corresponds to the average idea of friendship as the anti-slavery sentiment of the "People's party" corresponds to Mr. Garrison's. In this respect Richter creates an ideal and interfuses it with all his natural ardor, which a German can understand better than the men of any other nation, for in him is the tendency that Richter seeks to set forth by his passionate imagination. Orestes and Pylades, David and Jonathan, and the other famous loves of men, are suspected by the calculating breeds of people. Brother Jonathan seldom finds his David, and he doubtless thinks the Canon ought to have transferred that Scriptural friendship into the Apocrypha. We shall sniff at the highly colored intercourse of Richter's men, for it is often more than we can do to really love a woman. shall pronounce the relation affected, and the expression of it turgid, even nauseous. But there is a genuine noble pulse in the German heart, which beats to the rhythm of two men's heroic attachment, and can expand till all the blood that flows through Richter's style is welcomed and propelled by it. Still, we think that the unexpressed friendship may also stand justified before the ideal.


The reader must be content to meet this stout and fervent man as he is, not expecting that his genius will consult our tastes roindices, or that his head will stoop

the sake of our company. Then

beneath his dense paragraphs and through his rambling pages his humility will greet us, and fraternal regards draw us irresistibly to him. He is a man for a people's reading, notwithstanding all the involutions of style and thought which might suggest a different judgment. He certainly does not write like Cobbett or Franklin, nor has he the thin, clear polish of the popular historian. Yet his shrewdness and tenderness will touch all simple-minded men; and twenty Cobbetts, or people's writers, sharply rubbed together, could never light the flame of his imperial imagination, for it is a kind of sunshine, sometimes hot enough, but broad, impartial, and quickening, wherever there is something that waits to grow.

And scarcely one man in a century appears so highly gifted with that wonderful quality for which we have no better name than Humor. His humor is the conciliation that takes place between love and knowledge. The two tendencies create the bold and graceful orbit on which his well-balanced books revolve. With one alone, his impetuosity would hasten to quench itself in the molten centre; and with the other alone, he would fly cynically beyond the reach of heat. This reconciling humor sometimes shakes his book with Olympic laughter, as if the postprandial nectar circulated in pools of cups, into which all incompatibilities fall and are drowned. You drink this recasting of the planet's joys and sorrows, contempt and contradictions, while it is yet fluent and bubbling to the lip. There are all the selfish men, and petulant, intriguing women in it, all their weaknesses, and the ill-humor of their times. But the draught lights up the brain with an anticipation of some future solution of these discords, or perhaps we may say, intoxicates us with the serene tolerance which the Creative Mind must have for all His little ones. Is not humor a finite mood of that Impartiality whose sun rises upon the evil and the good, whose smile becomes the laughter of these denser skies?

It is plain from what we have said that the task of translating this novel must be full of difficulties. There are strange words, allusions drawn from foreign books that are now a hundred years old or more and never seen in libraries; the figurative style makes half the sentences in a page seem strange at first, they invite consider

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