The Sun.
London, England, 1868-04-17 00:00:00

THE SUN, LONDON, FRIDAY EVENING, APRIL 17, 1868.

so violent and prejudicial, that it defeats itself as
to achieving any definite purpose, and only shows
the narrow limits in which the question is con-

LITERATURE.

Walt Whitman's Poems.

Poems by TValt TVhitmaii. Selected and Edited by
William Michael Rossetti. One Vol., pp. 403.

J. C. Hotten.

Opening this book has been to us a revelation.
Reading it has yielded us exquisite pleasure. The
remembrance of it sweetens life. Echoes from it
haunt us in the thick of our occupations, " under
the shade of melancholy boughs," in the throng of
the streets, at our meals, in the midst of our conversa-
tions, anywhere, everywhere, under the likeliest and
the unlikeliest circumstances. Before the volume
now under notice came into our hands, the name
of Walt Whitman was certainly known to us,
but that was all. Now that we have read
these selections—observe, these selections—from
his " Chants Democratic," from his " Drum Taps,"
from his " Leaves of Grass," from his " Songs of
Parting," we have learnt to love that name of his, it
has become to us a synonym of pleasure, suggestive
of thoughts, emotions, aspirations, expressed as in a
new language, and, once so expressed, never after-
wards to be altogether forgotten. To William Michael
Rossetti, as the selecter of these poems, we are not
simply, in old-fashioned phrase, beholden, we are not
merely in courtlier terms his most obedient, we are
his very gratefully, and that, moreover, in heartfelt
truthfulness. Already in the columns of the clever
but now dead and gone Chronicle, under date 6th
July, 1867, the editor of this henceforth to us
cherished volume of Walt Whitman's Poems had
sounded the trumpet of admiration in praise of that
particular poet of America. Here, however, he has
made good, in every sense, his high, and, as it
might have seemed to some, extravagant com-
mendations. Of the justice of the estimate thus
enunciated,these poems yield absolute demonstration.
Apart from the selection now given to us by Mr. Ros-
setti, we are desirous that it should be understood at
once, however, by our readers, that we know no-
thing whatever of the writings of Walt Whitman.
This we would especially premise. And fora suffi-
cient reason. According to a very general rumour
even over here in England, according to the showin g
of even so enthusiastic an appreciator of his genius as
Mr. Rossetti has (happily for us all) shown himself to
be—Walt Whitman has written things that his own
most ardent admirers would willingly let die. Yet,
of all this, the volume now in our hand, here sub-
mitted to our consideration, bears not a particle of
evidence. The leering satyrs have been scared
away from among the beautiful umbrage. The dregs
lurk no longer in the limpid draught placed at our
lips. We can quaff without a qualm. There is no
canker in the rose-wreath as it is thus brought within
our reach-=it is all fragrance and dripping with dew.
Not a taint is here, in bloom, or foliage, or fruit.
The very atmosphere investing these poems is all
purity, like the breath of morning. And yet—

though we never should have conjectured as much
from these poems themselves—the Collective Writ-
ings of Walt Whitman must indubitably be tainted,
flawed, polluted—and that, too, with a taint, a
d tw, a pollution in no c.mceivable way to be ex-
tenuated. Mr. Rossetti himself sets forth in regtrd
co the incriminated poems (all of which he has
carefully omitted in the process of making his selec-
tion) not one word, not one hint of extenua
tion. He says, indeed, that he considers " that
most of them would be much better away."
:end, whatever else can be said of the editor of the
present volume as a critic of poetic literature, it
certainly cannot be said of him that he is a purist.
" Indecencies, improprieties, deforming crudities"
there are, he tells us, scattered, it
may eren be abun-
lantly scattered, here and there, over the 'Writings
of Walt Whitman. Such they are acknow-
[edged to be, in so many words, even by the critic
thanks to whose judicious hands those damning
)lemishes have been discarded. Of their existence

Lion. They themselves are not here. Nevertheless
a all, only know, now, by their own evil reputa-
this selection is in no respect what we should call,
in the ordinary acceptation of the words, an Ex-
purgated Edition. There is here no emasculation.

rhe poems that are given are given in their en-
tirety. Mere parts have been nowhere selected.
abbreviations, ellisions, excisions, the Elitor
has shrunk from as from impertinencJs. lle
done his task well and wisely. And yet,
task it can hardly be called—true labour of love as it
gas been (and no wonder) through mt. Although
,:ontaining within it " a little less," we are told
that half the entire bulk of Whitman's poetry,"
this one volume affords a comprehensive view of

the writer's genius in its integrity. It is no
eroken gem that is here placed in our hands
for examination, but—" one entire and perfect
,enharlyfasolpiotee.t'i'vuepr,osnoWalt Whit-
far as those
Beforeu
cti
ons commentingho however,
e
ire here brought within our survey,
calpro
a word or two
is to the man himself. Abraham Lincoln's excla-
nation on seeing him was—" Well, he looks like a
(nail !" Nor can that exclamation be wondered at
when one comes to sum up his characteristics.
Lofty in stature, admirably well proportioned, of
vigorous strength, of abounding health—forty-nine
years of age on the last day of next month—his
eyes of a light blue, his complexion florid, his beard
fleecy and flowing, but alreal-
4, quite grey—
cheerful and masculine in applAraece
having a predilection for the society of
common people—intensely fond of fine music, and
with a great natural taste for works of art—abso-
lutely indifferent " as to either praise or blame of
what he writes "—such, in brief, is Walt Whitman.
Born on the 31st of gay, 1819, at the farm village
of West Hills, Long Island, in the State of New
York, somewhere about thirty miles from the great
American capital and outport—he is but now in the
prime or meridian of his manhood, though already
old-looking in spite of his health, of his whole-
some out-door life, his temperate habits,
and his vigorous constitution. A schoolboy
up to thirteen, afterwards a compositor, then a
country teacher, then a press writer, then a news-
paper editor, then a master printer, then (like
his father) a carpenter and builder, then, throughout
the Great Civil War, to the Northern Army, what
Nliss Nightingale was to theßritish Army at Scutari
throughout the War in the Crimea. And, yet all
along, and at last wholly and solely, what he is now
for the rest of his days—a Poet. Before considering
him as such, it is but justice to remark of him in his
capacity as a practical philanthropist when attending
r, he poor soldiers all through that tremendous struggle
between North and South, between the Federals and
the Confederates in America, that—" It is said that
by the end of the war he had personally ministered
to upwards of 100,000 sick and wounded." Honour,
therefore, to the brave, true heat, if only in re-
membrance of that one recorded fact in his history
—a fact evidencing that Walt Whitman not only
" looks" but acts " like a man."'turning our
glance, however, from the man himself to his pro-
ductions, to those Poems of his which have been here
selected for us from his " Songs of Parting," his
"Leaves of Grass," his" DruraTaps," and so on-- one
peculiarity is at once especially noticeable in regard to
them, and that is their startling, intense, and absolute
originality. In their manner, they are unlike any
other poems that have ever previously made their
appearance. As a rule, they are rhymeless. But,
always, always they are rhythmical, and yet
rhythmical after a manner peculiarly and excep-
tionally their own. The lines are of any length—
sometimes abbreviated to a little more than a
monosyllable—occasioeally running out to the
extent of half-a-dozen alexandrines. .N ow stand-
ing, as one might say, on one foot, and that a-tip-
toe—now running along upon as many feet a 3 those
of a centipede. But—with all this whimsicality and
abandon of manner, with all this wild defiance of
the hitherto dominant laws of poetical, and, for
that matter even at times of rhetorical, construe-
(ion--O the charm, the grace, the tenderness, the
patho.,, the abounding and captivating beauties
scattered broadcast, with a lavish hand, with an
affluent fancy, with the royal prodigality of genius,
over these pages of true poetry ! Nor can the dar-
ing originality thus manifested by Walt Whitman
in the mere manner of his composition be regarded
as so wholly unexampled. As has been admirably
well asked—
" Was genius awed by Aristotle's rules
When Shakspero burst the cobwebs of the schools ?"
Flinging to the winds of heaven all the precedents

of literature, this new poet of the New World, a
poet intensely sari generic, one racy of the soil from
A-hich he has sprung, carves out his own way with
a pen as trenchant as an axe, and goes upon that
way of his rejoicing. About the one only rhymed
passage in the whole of•this otherwise quite rhyme-
less volume of poetry, is the opening of the song in
celebration of the broad-axe in the " Chants De-
mocratic." And, having but just now—in total for-
getfulness at the moment, alike of that especial
passage and of that particular song—likened Walt
Whitman's pen, in the trenchant sweep of it, to au
axe, such as it might be seen gleaming and crashing
when wielded in the grip of a backwoodsman of
thews and sinews like his own—upon our sudden
remembrance immediately afterwards of his own
words, the simile appears more than ever most ap-
propriate. For, thus it is that Walt Whitman, in
his " Song of the Broad Axe," apostrophises that—
" Weapon, shapely, naked, wan ;
Head from the mother's bowels drawn !
Wooded flesh and metal bone ; limb only one,
and lip only one !
Grey-blue leaf by red-heat grown ! halve
produced from a light seed sown !
Resting the grass amid and upon,
To be lamed, and to lean on."
A pen no less potent, keen, piercing, than such a
broad axe, " to be leaned and to lean on," " rest-
ing the grass [Leaves of Grass] amid and upon "
—is, most assuredly, for us the pen of Walt
Whitman. Otherwise than in one fragmen-
tary instance like the foregoing, the book is,
as we have said, altogether rhymeless. Wonder-
fully rhythmical throughout, though in lines of
the most oddly varying lengths, the poems of
Walt Whitman—when the reader has once passed
the Rubicon—exercise over that initiated reader's
mind a potent and irresistible fascination. The
Rubicon must be passed, however, as a pre-
liminary, as the first and all-essential pre-
liminary of initiation. Meaning by that, simply,
that any ono coming to the examina-
tion of Walt Whitman's poems with a view
to their complete appreciation, must begin by, we
wont say taking this and that for granted, we wont
even say by making such and such allowances, for,
so expressing ourselves, we might seem to be slight-
ing the high inherent claims to respect of a great
original writer, such as Walt Whitman : instead of
that we will say then simply --that the
all-essential preliminary we are alluding to is
one purely of concession. Concede to Whit-
man the fashion of his verse—concede to
him his terse but never bald realism—concede to
him his exotic verbiage, his coinage of words occa-
sionally, with a daring disregard alike of the laws
of syntax and of philology—and the spell of the
magician is felt at once and for ever ! We are
within the circle of his poetic incantations ! He
" hath his will" thenceforth—as he lists—at his own
pleasure over our hearts, our emotions, our imagi-
nations. As exemplars, to begin with, of his magica
power in mere word-painting--take almost hap-
hazard a single line or versa picked out here and
there from the midst of his descriptions :

" Evening—me in my room—the setting sun,
The setting summer sun shining in my open windows,
showing the swarm of flies, suspended, balancing
in the air in the centre of the room, darting athwart,
up and down, casting swift shadows in specks on
' the opposite wall, where the shine is."
" The irregular tapping of rain down on the leaves, after

the storm is lulled."
"Me observing the spiral flight of two little yellow
butterflies, shuffling botween each other, ascending

high in the
"And the fish suspending themselves below there—and
the beautiful curious liquid."
" In the distance the flowing glaz ), the breast of the river,
with a wind-dapple here and there."
These word paintings of Whitman's sometimes
pass by their very vividness into whimsicalities, yet
are, for all that, wondrous word-paintings never-
theless : as wher e he speaks of—

" • • . dabs of music ;
Fingers of the organist skipping staccato over the keys o:

the great organ."
Hie word-painting power goes with him every-
where. Into the shipbuilding yard, for example,
where we see with him, as if we, too, were there—
" The butter-coloured chips flying off in great flakes,

and slivers."
It goes with him, and we with it and with him.
through even the swinging of a door—
" The door passing the dissovered friend, flushed
and in haste."
Sometimes the secret of it lies even in a word—
" The dim-lit church and the shiuldering organ."
Or, again, as where conjuring up shapes before him
in his reverie, he speaks, among others, of—
" The shape of the shamed and angry stairs, trod by
sneaking footsteps."
Or, yet more even, where brooding over many ex:
quisite imaginings, he says most oddly and whim-
sically—
" They are so beautiful I nudge myself to listen."
Or, again in the same way, when, by one subtle
word, we note the last agonised kiss of bereaved
affection, when—
" The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead
of the dying."
The merest specks and atoms of beauty, however,
are these little word-pictures noticeable in casual
lines
and phrases in Walt Whitman's poetry. Im-
measurably more noteworthy are the large humanity
and the wide philosophy evidenced and inculcate]
by his utterances. His cry is that of Happiness
and of Adoration—
" For I do not see ono imperfection in the universe."
Another while he declares--
" That all the things of the universe are perfect miracles,
each as profound as any."
And another while he ejaculates :
" The sun and stars that float in the open air ;
The apple-shaped earth and we upon it—surely the drift
of thorn is something grand !"
Adding—
" I do not know what it is, except that it is grand, and
that it is happiness."
Again, he is full of wonderment at the abounding
wonders around him, among others at—

" The wonder every one sees in every one else he sees, and
the wonders that fill each minute of time forever."
The wonder of wonders to him, however the
glory and consolation of his life--(the enunciation
of which, of the joy and solace of which to his fel-
low mortals, is among the most dearly-cherished
aspirations of his ambition) the one great end
worth living for, being, according to Walt Whit-
man—Death. Thus he exclaims—

And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it
may be turned to beautiful results—and I will show
that nothing Can happen more beautiful than death.',
It is thus that he speaks in his " Song at Sunset" of
_" the superb vistas of Death." It is thus that in
his poem addressed "To one Shortly to Die," ht
closes it not iu pity but in felicitation—

" I do not commiserate —I congratulate you."
It is thus he sings exultantly—
" J shall go with the rest.
We cannot be stopped at a given point—that is no satis-
faction,
To show us a good thing, or a few good things, for a spacw
of time—that is no satisfaction ;
We must have the indestructible breed of the best, regard-
less of time.
If otherwise, all these things come but to ashes of dung
If maggots and rats ended us, then alarum ! for we are
betrayed !
Then indeed suspicion of death.
Do you suspect death? If I wore to suspect death 1 should
dig now :
Do you think 1 could walk pleasantly and well suited to-
ward annihilation ?"
Consonant with his rapturous exultation in the
thought of Death, consonant with his homage for
the perfection of the universe, are his absolute confi-
denc3 in the reality of the future, and his profound
sense that all that is holiest has never yet in any way
been adequately realised or appreciated :
" I ray the whole earth, and all the stars in the sky, are
for religion's sake.
I say no man has ever yet been half devout enough,
None has ever yet adored or Ttorshippod half enough ;
None has begun to think how divine ho himself is,
and how certain the future is."

Hence he sings, hence he is a Poet, hence he un-
dertakes in these poems of his to write the evangel-
poem of comrades and love." Akin to his overflow-
ing delight in the thought of the Now and the Here-
after, are the largeness and the depth, the exquisite
self-abnegation and the all-embracing comprehen-
siveness of his humanity. To the very dregs and
scu.n and squalor of the evil streets of a
bad city he cries out—by a subtle violation of gram-
mar, as it seems to us, i, e., in the verb we have
italicized iu the subjoined quotation, appealing to

them as though he spoke with them from their own
level—

Because you are greasy and pimpled, or that you wa3

drunk, or a thief,
Or diseased, or rheumatic, or a prostitute, or are so now,
Or from frivolity or impotence, or that you are no scholar,
and never saw your name in print,
Do you give in that you aro any less immortal 2"
At the City Dead House in his " Leaves of
Grass," we see him standing—gazing—yearning,
in tenderest pity and commiseration over—what ?
over " au outcast form," indeed, over the body of
a poor dead prostitute—

The divine woman, her body—l see her body—l look on

it alone,

That hous), once full of passion and beauty —all else I

notice not ;
No stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor
odours morbitic impress me ;
But the houso alone—that wondrous house—that delicate

fair house—that ruin !
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings

ever built,
Or white domed Capitol itself, with majestic figura sur-
mounted—or all the old high-s-pired clthedrals,
That little house alone more than them all—poor desperate
house !
pair, fearful work! tenement of a Saul ! itself a S'ul !

Unclaimed, avoided house ! take one breath from my
tremulous lips;
Take ono tear, dropped aside as I go, for thought of you,
Dead house of love ! house of madness and sin, crumbled!
crushed !
House of life—ere while talking and laughing—but, oh,
poor house ! dead even then ;
Months, years, an echoing, garnished house—but dead
dead, dead."
So wide, so profound, so insatiable are the yearnings
of this great heart for sympathy, that on turning to
his poem on " Envy" what do we find to be the
cause of his Envy ? Not a perusal of the records of
heroism, not the thought of Mighty Generals or
Men in Power, but—when he reads of the brother-
hood of lovers—

" How through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging ,
long and long,
Through youth, and through middle and through old age,
how unfaltering, how affectionate, and faithful they

were,
Then lam pensive—l hastily put down the book, and
walk away, filled with the bitterest envy."
In illustration of the same thought, or rather of
the same tender yearning for sympathy, read his
commemoration of " Parting Friends,—
"Two simple men I saw to-day on the pier, in the midst
of the crowd parting the parting of dear friends ;
The one to remain hung on the other's neck and pas-
sionately kissed him,
Whilst the one to depart tightly pressed the one to re-
main in his arms."
Or, still more, the Poet's apostrophe "To a
Stranger" :
" Passing stranger ! you do not know how longingly I look
upon you."
Most of all this yearning for sympathy shines forth
when it is recognised " Among the iNlultitude ;"
when, in other words, the Poet foresees it, thus
" Among the mon and women, the multitude,
parceive one picking me out by secret ant divine signs,
Acknowledging none else—not parent, wifo, husband,
brother, child, any nearer than I am :
Some are barn:al—But that one is not—that one knows

me.
Ah! lover and perfect oval !
I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint
indirectious [indications ?J ;
And I, when I meet you, mean to discover you by tho
like in you."
So, too, he sees them afar off in foreign lands, those
breasts with whom his own could sympathise could
they but be brought into communion :
" 0 I know we should be brethren and lovers—
I know I should be happy with them."
It were idle, however, attempting to afford the
reader any adequate notion. of these poems as a
symmetrical whole, through mere fragmentary or
Incidental quotations like those to which a reviewer
is necessarily restricted. It would be worse than
the profferring of the specimen-brick by the house-
vendor in Hierocles—it would be the production of
t handful of splinters chipped off the Apollo Belvi-
lere, or of a stray finger torn from the Venus
de Medici. Whitman's Poems—as is the case with
every true work of art—must be viewed each in its
entirety before there can be any hope whatever of
their accurate appreciation. So regarded, they
cannot fail by any possibility, as we con-
ceive, to win the admiration to which they
tre so signally entitled. After this fashion
done that is to say at once, search-
ngly and comprehensively—ought at any
6itno to be examined, that noble apostrophe, be-
ginning at page 310, To Death, that profound
and heart-penetrating epitome of Human Life,
commencing at page 356, that no less effective and
affecting poem upon Night and Death which opens
at page 266, but above all the miguißeent
Nocturn upon the Death of President Lin-
coln, beginning at page 301, and, what is to our
mind even finer than that, the exquisitely pathetic
and pre-eminently beautiful celebration by Walt
Whitman of the first revelation to himself of his
own powers and future path in life as a poet, when,
as a little barefooted child, he stool upon the sea-
shore one evening and far on into the night, listen-
ing to the lamentations of the swig-bird bereaved
if its mate, himself drowned in tears as he
listened—standing, there, entranced in the moca-
light drinking in the music of that delicate
and tender death-chant ! Never before was the
song of a bird so put into human. language
—never before was the rapturous anguish of the
poetic summons so articulated. It is B6ranger's
die Vocation repeated : when—speaking of himself
as a mere infant—the old Chansonnier sings
to US

" Une plainte touchanto ,
De ma bouche sortit ;
Le bon Dieu me dit : Chante,
Chante, pauvre petit."
thatAn matter,
d hasnowthahtalpVphiliytinsianliginr in th midst of us) in
sung (and is still, for
obedience to the holy mandate by which every true
poet is at the outset made aware of his vocation,
he has as profound a sense of the reality of that
summons, and of the consequent permanence or
security of his reputation as a Poet, as ever Horace
had when proudly forecasting his own poetic immor-
tality. Assuming to himself at once his right
position in English Literature, he has even, as it
happens, like almost all the more remarkable
poets in our language, selected, unconsciously it
(nay be, but unmistakably his own especial em-
blem! Henceforth, as it seems to us, his inalien-
ably and no other's ! A floral emblem to be worn
by him from this time forth as conspicuously
as the sprig of broom fastened of old on the
helmet of the first Plantaganet. In this,
as we have just now intimated, it is with
him, as it has been before him with his compeers
and his congeners, the majority of the great poets
in our language. Has not Moore, for example, in
this way taken to himself for ever as his the sham-
rock—and Scott the purpling heather—and Camp-
bell the red velvet strings of love-lies-bleeding ?
Has not Keats his sprig of basil—and Blair his
branch of funereal yew—and Chatter ton his trail of
lamenting willow ? But that Burns, again, accord-
ing his own showing, was endowed by his Muse (the
M use of Scotland) with the glistening bough of the
holly, he might perchance have contested with
Dan Chaucer the latter's now undisputed right to the
possession as his of the darling blossom of the daisy.
As indubitably, moreover, as the daisy be-
longs to Chaucer and the holly to Barns—
so has Shelley assumed to himself the sensitive
plant, and Wordsworth the little celandine
and the daffodils, and Cowper the rose and the
water lily, and Leigh Hunt the flowering branch of
may, and Tennyson the gorgeous blossom of the
passion flower, if only by right of the " splendid
cear" shed upon it at the garden porch in " Maul,”
And Milton " the yellow cowslip and the pale prim-
rose," and Shakspere, for that matter, almost every
bloom of the parterre or of the wilderness. And,
as it has been with those, so is it now and hence-
forth with this true American Poet Walt Whit-
man, who has ma le the lilac—the fragrant, bla3-
sh-pink blossoms of the lilac—his own completely.
Turning the leaves of these poems, the reader may
say before the book is closed as the Poet himself
says or rather sings with a sort of rapture
" Yet the lilac with masterius odour holds me."
For it blossoms, and breathes forth its haunting per-
fume, and verdantly unfolds its delicate heart-shaped
leaves, again and again, all through' these pages—
more especiaPy in the great Nocturn on the Death
, of President Lincoln. And so, with the fragrance

of the lilacs in our nostrils, and with the song of th e
lamenting bird in our ears, and with the thought in
our hearts of the manly poet himself going his
sickening rounds in the ghastly hospitals, all through
the great American War, accompanied, as he went
down the wards, by his attendant, bearing sponge,
and pail, and lint, and ointment, for the cleansing
and the binding up of many loathsome wounds, IVJ
close this beautiful volume with a renewal of our
grateful acknowledgments to Mr. Ro.isetti, and with
a benison to Walt Whitman.

C-7,:-:*•Ps21-f 3
urn Ta

HER MAJESTY.

-4,----

WINDSOR CASTLE, April 16.

The Queen, accompanied by their Royal High-
nesses Prince Leopold and Princess Beatrice, drove
in the Great Park this morning.

Her Majesty honoured Lord and Lady Bridport
with a visit.

LATEST INTELL MENGE.

(REUTER'S TELEGRAMS.)

THE WAR IN ABYSSINIA.

Sir S. Northcote has received the following tele-
gram from Sir R. Napier, dated March 23 :

" Sir R. Napier marches to-day from Latt with
advanced column ; troops moved with provision,
but no baggage, yesterday. Crossed a pass ten
thousand feet high. Staveley with second column
one day in rear ; one day in rear of Staveley
elephants with guns, with reserve ammunition
coming on well. Distance from advanced camp
to Magdala 60 miles. Colonel Phayre reconnoi-
tred 20 miles in advance. Theodore at Magdala
exhibits uneasiness. Intention uncertain. Troops
full of spirits."

PERSIA.

CONSTANTINOPLE, April 16.

The Persian Government has published a green-
book containing official correspondence relative to
four serious differences with the Porte, namely-,
violation of the Persian frontier by a Turkish
Brigade auder Chibli Pasha ; violent proceedings
by Namyk Pasha, ex-governor of Bagdad against
the Persian colonists at Fao ; attack by Turks on
the Persian town of Scridabi, and slaughter of forty
inhabitants ; and lastly, an accusation against the
brigand chief lianize Aga for making raids into
Persian territory and recently burning the Persian
town of Seedach.

The green-book contains also the official notes
exchanged between Fuad Pasha and the Persian
Minister here respecting these grievances.

AM ERICA.
(By Atlantic Telegraph.)
WASHINGTON, April 16.

The Impeachment trial was continued to-day.
Evidence was produced by the counsel for the de-
fence to show that President Johnson tried to get
a writ of quo warranto to test the right of Mr
Stanton to hold the office of Secretary for War.

ARRIVAL OF THE BORUSSIA.

SOUTHAMPTON, April 7.

The Hamburg and American Company's steamer
Borussia, from New York on the 4th inst., has ar-
rived here, with 23 passengers for Havre and Lon-
don. She brings no specie.

On the 15th she spoke the C. T. Satton, of
Jersey, and the English ship Algonta, from Liver-
pool for Bombay.

SOUTHAMPTON, April 17.

The Hamburg and American Company's steamer,
Chnbria, from New York, has arrived here. She
brings 88 passengers for this port, Havre, and
Hamburg, 47 sacks of mails for England, 13 sacks
for Germany, $5,000 in specie for London, and
$l,OOO and 500 tons of cargo for Hamburg.