lozenges of gum and sugar, well sprinkled with the above deadly blister in its dry state, and that she drove a thriving trade in that line, and as a pander to the meanest passion man is possessed of. Boston is a moral city, and yet its daily literature is tarnished with public notices of lechers in search of mistresses, — doctors and doctresses who want to kill unborn babies at so much per caput, — five dollars is the standard price! — of women in want of keepers, and a thousand other infernal abominations, all slightly disguised yet so plain that the merest simpleton perfectly comprehends the whole thing at a single glance; and yet all this horror in a city famed to be the most puritanic and moral on the surface of God's habitable globe! Bah! its moral filth exceeds that of either Sodom or Gomorrah!
As a relief from the fearful picture allow me here to present you with the heart song, written by myself in New Orleans, where I served during part of the late rebellion.
Love me, love me in the morning,
When the light breaks on the world,
And crimson glories, sky adorning,
Wave their banners, all unfurled,—
Golden banners, light so pearly!—
Love me in the morning early.
Love me when the sun is flashing,
Rippling seas of love and light;
Love me when his flames are dashing
Death to darkness and to night;
Love me gently, truly, sweetly,
Love me nobly and completely.
Love me in the even-tide,
When God's starry eyes look down;
Or tempests on the air shall ride,
And threat'ning storms in anger frown;
Then draw me gently to thy breast,
And soothe my timid soul to rest.
Love me when my cheek is fading,
And my sparkling eyes grow dim,
And flecks of gray my hair are shading,—
My form no longer lithe and trim.
Love me when no longer young
End the race as you begun.
