formed on ordinary occasions. "Partant pour la Syrie," attributed to Queen Hortense, is, with no special propriety, the recognised French air at present. "God save the King" has the advantage of being suited to all times and seasons; so while there is a king in Great Britain no other song will take its place. And this will be a very long time; much longer than many people think. For not only is John Bull, as I heard a distinguished British statesman say, "a lord-loving animal"; he is a king-worshipping creature also. He may daily devote his own soul to perdition, but he devoutly prays for the queen and all the royal family. He delights in the very epithet royal, and unless some of his heartiness is bred out of him, utters it with unctuous relish. He rises in his own respect by dealing with the grocer to her Majesty; and his eye beams complacently upon the crown stamped on his pickle jar. Kingship will never be driven out from that land; it will be solicitously retained while it is gradually robbed of even the semblance of prerogative, until at length there will be somebody called a king there who has less power than a constable. And when at last the shadow of royalty has become so faint that even British eyes can see nothing on the throne but velvet and vacuity, and nothing in the crown but emptiness, when the game of monarchy is played out, and "God Save the King" cannot be sung because there is no king to save, be sure that a new national hymn will not be written. The old air will be preserved; the words will be altered as little as possible, and perverted as much as possible, so that Britons, though they no longer express their "respect for their monarch," can yet give utterance to their "national pride," as nearly as may be in the good old way.* * A gentleman who has seen the proofs of these pages as they passed through the press, has laid upon my table the following verses as a rough sketch of the form which the British national hymn might conveniently take at the period referred to above: GOD SAVE JOHN BULL. God save me, great John Bull! God save John Bull! Ever victorious, Haughty, vain-glorious, Snobbish, censorious, God save John Bull! O Lords, our gods, arise! Make tariffs fall! God "bless" them all! Thy choicest gifts in store, On me, me only pour, Me, great John Bull! Maintain oppressive laws, [Sinistrd manu.] Frown down the poor man's cause! So sing with heart and voice, But rough as this sketch is, I cannot present it even thus, without expostulating with my friend on his grave, and I fear mischievous misrepresentations of the British character and policy. I must protest against it, also, as an ungrateful return for the candor, the courtesy, and the genuine good feeling with which American affairs have always, and especially of late, been discussed in Great Britain, Less fortunate as we are than British subjects and French citizens, in having no national hymn, the history of theirs is not very encouraging to an attempt to obtain one deliberately. But in that need of one which was felt just after the breaking out of our great pro-slavery insurrection, a number of gentlemen were requested to act as a committee to offer a prize for the words and music of a hymn which, in their judg ment, might be to us something like what the British and French hymns are to those nations. It has been said that this committee was self-appointed; but that was not the case. The notion of thus calling for a national hymn, I know did not even originate with any member of the committee, but with an intelligent gentleman whose warm patriotic feeling led him to be active in the matter. At first it was proposed to place the matter in the hands of three gentlemen, one from New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, respectively; but the inconvenience of this plan soon became apparent, and the New York committee was appointed. All who were asked heartily consented to serve; but not one of them expressed any confidence in the success of the undertaking. Yet as there was a great desire expressed for the hymn on all sides, and as the occasion was propitious for its production, they wil lingly said Yes, instead of No. They felt much like the Bowery boy who, being cut short in a hard life "One "No." by sore disease, which quickly brought him to death's door, was informed by his physician that medicine could do nothing for him. "What's my chances, doctor?" "Not worth speaking of." in twenty?" "Oh, no." "In thirty ?" "Fifty ?" "I think not." "A hundred ?" "Well, perhaps there may be one in a hundred." "I say, then, doctor," pulling him close down, and whispering with feeble earnestness in his ear, "jess you go in like h— on that one chance." The doctor went in," and the patient recovered. The chance that there was, the members of the committee did not feel at liberty to refuse. There was special reason, too, at the time of the appointment of the committee, for the hope that it might accomplish its object. The excited feeling of the country vented itself in verse to a most remarkable extent. Newspapers which undertook to gather these effusions of popular sentiment together from various quarters, filled column after column with them, and sometimes page after page. The greater part of these verses was unmitigated nonsense, it is true; much of the residue was commonplace; but really spirited and well-written compositions appeared with sufficient frequency, considering what a very rare production good lyric poetry is, to give color to the hope that from some poet of reputation, or from some other who had his reputation to make, the wished-for song would come. The following verses were written about that time. The reader will remember how intently the whole country had watched Fort Sumter through four long months (it seems as if it had been four years, and had happened twenty years ago!) and with what intense feeling they learned that Major Anderson had struck his flag when the fort became untenable, and had evacuated, not surrendered, the post, raising his flag again and saluting it; and this happening on Saturday, how on Monday morning the eye could hardly turn, north of the Potomac, without being gladdened by the sight of the American flag,—how dear to us, we of this generation never knew till then! THE FLAG. BY HORATIO WOODMAN. Why flashed that flag on Monday morn Across the startled sky? Why leapt the blood to every cheek, The tears to every eye? The hero in our four months' woe, The symbol of our might, The mind of Cromwell claimed his own, |