Nay, what, after all, are the so heinous faults upon which you animadvert? She cannot earn a cent: that may be her misfortune, it need not be her fault. Perhaps Clement, like Albano, and all good husbands, "never loved to see the sweet form anywhere else than, like other butterflies, by his side among the flowers." She will keep a light burning in her room, forsooth. Have we not all our pet hobgoblins? We know an excellent woman who once sat curled up in an arm-chair all night for fear of a mouse! And is it not a well-understood thing that nothing so baffles midnight burglars as a burning candle? "When a light matter crosses her feelings, she lies in bed for several days." Infinitely better than to go sulking about the house with that "injured-innocence" air which makes a man feel as if he were an assaulter and batterer with intent to kill. Blessings rest upon those charming sensible women, who, when they feel cross, as we all do at times, will go to bed and sleep it away! No, let us everywhere put down treason and ostracize traitors. It is lawful to suspend "_naso adunco_" those whom we may not otherwise suspend. But even traitors have rights which white men and white women are bound to respect. We will crush them, if we can, but we will crush them in open field, by fair fight,--not by stealing into their bedchambers to stab them through the heart of a wife. FOOTNOTES: [G] The meaning of this is, that Mr. Morse was the landlord, not the house. Of course a house could not be a landlord; still less could it be a landlord to itself.--_Note by Reviewer._ THE LAST RALLY. NOVEMBER, 1864. Rally! rally! rally! Arouse the slumbering land! Rally! rally! from mountain and valley, And up from the ocean-strand! Ye sons of the West, America's best! New Hampshire's men of might! From prairie and crag unfurl the flag, And rally to the fight! Armies of untried heroes, Disguised in craftsman and clerk! Ye men of the coast, invincible host! Come, every one, to the work,-- From the fisherman gray as the salt-sea spray That on Long Island breaks, To the youth who tills the uttermost hills By the blue northwestern lakes! And ye Freedmen! rally, rally To the banners of the North! Through the shattered door of bondage pour Your swarthy legions forth! Kentuckians! ye of Tennessee Who scorned the despot's sway! To all, to all, the bugle-call Of Freedom sounds to-day! Old men shall fight with the ballot, Weapon the last and best,-- And the bayonet, with blood red-wet, Shall write the will of the rest; And the boys shall fill men's places, And the little maiden rock Her doll as she sits with her grandam and knits An unknown hero's sock.