The question naturally arises, whether New York, Boston, or Philadelphia has a history which would appear well in such a drama! Although our history extends back over little more than one fourth of the period occupied by that of Munich, it might afford this material. The annals of public events would be found preserved with great fulness and distinctness--the archives of city and state councils and of the churches would supply the needed facts--but who could furnish the fashions, tools, and implements of each successive age from that of the Pilgrim fathers to that of the great rebellion? Who would perform the labor of research necessary to ascertain what they were? Where is the American court, supported at an expense of several millions per annum, to preserve all these in collections, or to get them up for court theatres? Who would pay for making all these for a procession of twenty thousand persons, with all the necessary horses and carriages? And surely, if we could not feel the confidence that everything was historical, all our interest in the display would be gone. I am apprehensive that we shall be obliged to leave such exhibitions to those countries which have hereditary heads, and, making a virtue of necessity, console ourselves with the thought that we have something better. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 8: Luther was not in Munich at that time, if indeed he ever was.] [Footnote 9: Catherine Bora, Luther's wife.] [Footnote 10: _Vide_ Schiller's 'Geschichte des dreisigjährigen Krieges.'] THE DANISH SAILOR. Far by the Baltic shore, Where storied Elsinore Rears its dark walls, invincible to time; Where yet Horatio walks, And with Marcellus talks, And Hamlet dreams soliloquy sublime; Though forms of Old Romance, Mail-clad, with shield and lance, Are laid in 'fair Ophelia's' watery tomb, Still, passion rules her hour, Love, Hate, Revenge, have power, And hearts, in Elsinore, know joy and gloom. * * * * * Grouped round a massy gun Black sleeping in the sun, The belted gunners list to many a tale Told by grim Jarl, the tar, Old Danish dog of war, Of his young days in battle and in gale. The medal at his breast, The single-sleeved blue vest, His thin, white hair, tossed by the Norway breeze, His knotted, horny hand, And wrinkled face, dark tanned, Tell of the times when Nelson sailed the seas. * * * * * Steam-winged, upon the tides A gallant vessel glides, Two royal flags float blended at her fore, Gay convoyed by a fleet, Whose answering guns repeat The joyous 'God speeds' thundered from the shore. 'Look, comrades! there she goes, Old Denmark's Royal Rose, Plucked but to wither on a foreign strand; Can Copenhagen's dames Forget their country's shames-- Her sons, unblushing, clasp a British hand?