And here we part with Motley the historian, only to clasp hands with Motley the patriot. In the present tremendous struggle of people against progress, this fierce contest between labor and the lords, these last convulsions of the expiring giant of feudal aristocracy, whose monstrous conception dates far back among the Middle Ages, Motley has shown himself the true champion of the doctrines advocated in his histories. His platform is still the same, but how changed the theatre of his action! His letter to the London _Times_ on the 'Causes of the American Civil War' is a masterly exposition of facts, whose naked power is obscured by no useless displays of rhetoric. Its tone is calm, dignified, confident; its statements are strongly maintained, its logic convincing. All honor to the man who from his quiet researches in royal archives and busy deciphering of dusty MSS. turned to his country in her hour of need, and defended her where defence should have been superfluous, but was, unhappily, of small avail. And still he works nobly for the dear old flag, and, intimately _lié_ as he is with the first literati and politicians of Europe, it is not easy to measure his influence. His purely literary habits forbid all suspicion of his disinterestedness, and will go far to commend him to the sympathies of the commanding intellects of the age. Let us hope for the time when, with renewed faith in his mighty theories and still renewing love for his motherland, he shall return to the retirement which has already produced such noble fruits, and add works as worthy to our American classics. Meanwhile, _vive qui vince!_ * * * * * THE LESSON OF THE HOUR. Thou who for years hast watched the course of nature, What time the changing seasons swept their round, And, 'mid the play of every varying feature, New founts of pleasure for thyself hast found; Who, when dark clouds upon the mountain glooming, Threaten destruction to the smiling plain, Canst pierce the shadow and foresee the blooming Of budding blossoms brighter for the rain: To whom, when the dread winter's icy fingers Have chilled to silence the gay babbling stream, A memory of its summer music lingers, Or April violets in the future beam; To whom the darkness whispers of the dawning, And sorrow's night tells of the coming day; And even death is but the twilight morning Of glory which shall never fade away;-- _Teach us thy lesson_. Unto us be given The trusting faith the April flowers display; Looking in their meek confidence to heaven,-- Trusting to God the future of the day. Our night is dark, and perils vast surround us, But, firm in truth and right, what shall we fear? Has danger ever yet base cravens found us? Who has sustained thus far will guide us here.