In female conduct flaw
Sadder I never saw,
Faith still I've in the law

Of compensation.
Once Uncle went astray,
Smoked, joked, and swore away,
Sworn by he's now, by a

Large congregation. Changed is the Child of Sin, Now he's (he once was thin) Grave, with a double chin

Blest be his fat form! Changed is the garb he wore, Preacher was never more Prized than is Uncle for

Pulpit or platform.

If all's as best befits

Mortals of slender wits,

AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE

REPLY.

THE INVITATION.

COME to Rome, it is a pleasant place,

Your London sun is here seen smiling brightly:

The Briton too puts on a cheery face,

And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly. The Romans are a kind and cordial race,

The women charming if one takes them rightly;

I see them at their doors, as day is closing,
More proud than duchesses-and more impos. .

ing.

A far niente life promotes the graces;

They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee, And in their bearing, and their speech, one

traces

A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy That are not found in more inclement places;

Their clime and tongue seem much in har

mony;

The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey, Is often cold-and always in a hurry.

Though far niente is their passion, they
Seem here most eloquent in things most slight;
No matter what it is they have to say,

The manner always sets the matter right: And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day,

They sweetly wish you "a most happy night." Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, 'Tis always something that they 've wished to please you!

Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to read
Alone of stately palace and of street
Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed,
And never-ceasing murmur. Here we meet
Great Memnon's monoliths, or, gay with weed,

Rich capitals, as corner-stone, or seat,

The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder

Old ruin, hiding ruin even older.

Ay, come, and see the statues, pictures, churches,

Although the last are commonplace, or florid. Some say 't is here that superstition perches,

Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.

The sombre streets are worthy your researches ; The ways are foul, the lava pavement 's horrid, But pleasant sights, that squeamishness dis

Anent one fane I deprecate all sneering,

For during Christmas-time I went there daily, Amused, or edified, or both, by hearing

The little preachers of the Ara Cæli. Conceive a four-year-old bambina rearing

Her small form on a rostrum-tricked out gaily,

And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful, With action most dramatic and delightful.

Oh, come! We'll charter such a pair of nags! The country's better seen when one is riding: We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding With giant march (now whole, now broken

crags

With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding

Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar-
That melt in light beneath the evening star.

A drive to Palæstrina will be pleasant,

The wild fig grows where erst her rampart stood;

There oft, in goat-skin clad, a sun-burnt peasant
Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex-wood,
And seems to wake the past time in the present
Fair contadina-mark his mirthful mood,
No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow
Can join with jolity your saltarello.

Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath

Of life to unsophisticated man.

Thou 'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still
Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine;
I cannot bring myself to drop the quill,
I cannot yet thy little hand resign!
The plain is fading into darkness chill,

The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine,

I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee; Oh come to Rome-oh come, oh come to me!

THE REPLY.

DEAR Exile, I was pleased to get

Your rhyme, I've laid it up in cotton; You know that you are all to "Pet,"

She feared that she was quite forgotten! Mamma, who scolds me when I mope, Insists-mamma is wise as gentleThat I am still in love. I hope

That you feel rather sentimental.

Perhaps you think your Loveforlore

Should pine unless her slave be with her; Of course you 're fond of Rome, and, morePerhaps you'd like to coax me thither! Chè quit this dear delightful maze Of calls and balls, to be intensely Discomfited in fifty ways

I like your confidence immensely!

Some girls who love to ride and race, And live for dancing like the Bruens,

wreath,

"Per dar al mio bene." When you can, Come share their leafy solitudes. Pale Death And Time are grudging of our little span : As Time speeds lightly o'er the changing corn Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.

I dare not speak of Michael Angelo

In spite of all the stupid ruins;

I think it might be sweet to pitch
One's tent beside the banks of Tiber,
And all that sort of thing, of which

Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer.

To see stone pines, and marble gods, In garden alleys, red with roses,

The Church where Raphael reposes; Make pleasant giros-when we may; Jump stagionate-where they 're easy; And play croquet-the Bruens say

There's turf behind the Ludovisi.

I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee Says packing books is such a worry; I'll bring my "Golden Treasury,"

Manzoni, and, of course, a "Murray;" A Tupper, whom good people prize; A Dante-Auntie owns a quartoI'll try and buy a smaller size,

And read him on the muro torto.

But can I go? La madre thinks

It would be such an undertaking:

I wish we could consult a sphinx;
The thought alone has left her quaking.
Papa (we do not mind Papa)

Has got some." notice" of some "motion,"
And could not stay; but, why not-ah,
I've not the very slightest notion.

The Browns have come to stay a week, They've brought the boys, I haven't thanked 'em,

For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic,

Are playing cricket in my sanctum: Your Rover, too, affects my den,

And when I pat the dear old whelp, it . . . It makes me think of you, and then

And then I cry-I cannot help it.

Ab, yes-before you left me, ere

Our separation was impending, These eyes had seldom shed a tear,

I thought my joy could have no ending! But cloudlets gathered soon, and this,

This was the first that rose to grieve meTo know that I possessed such blissFor then I knew such bliss might leave me.

My thoughts are sadder than my rhymes! But yours have made my spirit better: And though perhaps I grieve at times,

I'd meant to write a cheery letter; But skies were dull, Rome sounded hot, I fancied I could live without it: I thought I'd go, I thought I'd not, And then I thought I'd think about it.

The sun now glances o'er the Park;

If tears are on my cheek, they glitter; I think I've kissed your rhyme, for, hark! My "bulley" gives a saucy twitter! Your blessed words extinguish doubt, A sudden breeze is gaily blowing, And, hark! The minster-bells ring out"She ought to go. Of course she's going!"

I wish we better understood
The tax that poets levy!
I know the Muse is goody good,
I think she's rather heavy:
She now compounds for winning ways
By morals of the sternest,
Methinks the lays of nowadays
Are painfully in earnest.

When Wisdom halts, I humbly try
To make the most of Folly:
If Pallas be unwilling, I

Prefer to flirt with Polly;
To quit the goddess for the maid
Seems low in lofty musers;
But Pallas is a lofty jade-

And beggars can't be choosers.

I do not wish to see the slaves
Of party, stirring passion,
Or psalms quite superseding staves,
Or piety "the fashion."

I bless the hearts where pity glows,
Who, here together banded,
Are holding out a hand to those
That wait so empty-handed!

A righteous work! My masters, may
A Jester by confession
Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay,
The close of your procession?
The motley here seems out of place
With graver robes to mingle,
But if one tear bedews his face,
Forgive the bells their jingle.

561

Says Di, "The stubble

Is very stupid-as I live

I'm shocked-I'm quite ashamed to give You so much trouble."

For answer I was fain to sink

To what we all would say and think Were Beauty present:

"Don't mention such a simple actA trouble? not the least. In fact, It's rather pleasant."

I trust that Love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover.

She's happy now as Mrs. SmithAnd less polite when walking with Her chosen lover!

Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings To Di's blue eyes, and sandal-strings, We've had our quarrels !-

I think that Smith is thought an ass, I know that when they walk in grass She wears balmorals.

MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION.
"Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella,
That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella."
Letters from Rome.

MISS TRISTRAM's poulet ended thus: "Nota bene,

We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini," Said my wife, "Then I'll drive, and you 'll ride with Selina"

(The fair spouse of Jones, of the Via Sistina).

We started: I'll own that my family deem That I'm soft, but I'm not quite so soft as I

seem;

As we crossed the stones gently a nursemaid said, "La

There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa!"

Our friends, one or two may be mentioned anon, Had arranged rendez-vous at the gate of St. John:

That passed, off we spun over turf that's not green there,

And soon were all met at the villa. You've been there?

I will try and describe, or I won't, if you please, The good cheer that was set for us under the trees:

You have read the menu, may you read it again;

Champagne, perigord, galantine, and-cham

pagne.

Suffice it to say I got seated between

Mrs. Jones and old Brown-to the latter's chagrin.

Poor Brown, who believes in himself-and, another thing,

Whose talk is so bald, but whose cheeks are so -t'other thing.

VOL. III.-36

A girl came with violet posies, and two
Gentle eyes, like her violets, laden with dew,
And a kind of an indolent, fine-lady air-
As if she by accident found herself there.

I bought one. Selina was pleased to accept it; She gave me a rosebud to keep-and I've kept it.

Thus the moments flew by, and I think in my heart,

When one vowed one must go-two were loath to depart.

The twilight is near, we no longer can stay;
The steeds are remounted, and wheels roll away,
The ladies condemn Mrs. Jones, as the phrase is,
But vie with each other in chanting my praises

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER, daughter of Bryan Waller Procter, was born in London, October 30, 1825. She acquired an extensive knowledge of modern languages at a very early age, travelled on the Continent, and resided for a time in Turin. In 1853 she sent several poems to Dickens's "Household Words," under the assumed name of Mary Berwick. They were accepted, and especially attracted the attention of Dickens, who had no idea of the author's identity. "This went on," he wrote, "until December, 1854, when the Christmas number, entitled 'The Seven Poor Travellers,' was sent to press. Happening to be going to dine that day with an old and dear friend, distinguished in literature as Barry Cornwall, I took with me an early proof of that number, and remarked, as I laid it on the drawing-room table, that it contained a very pretty poem written by a certain

| Miss Berwick. Next day brought me the disclosure that I had so spoken of the poem to the mother of its writer, in its writer's presence; that I had no such correspondent in existence as Miss Berwick; and that the name had been assumed by Barry Cornwall's eldest daughter, Miss Adelaide Anne Procter." She had concealed her real name lest her verses might be accepted for her father's sake, and not on their own merits. Her publications in book form were: "Legends and Lyrics," first series 1858, second series 1861; and "A Chaplet of Verses," published for the benefit of a night refuge, 1862. The complete collection of her poems, with a sketch by Dickens, has passed through many editions. Miss Procter embraced the Roman Catholic faith in 1851, and in that faith she died, at her father's home in London, February 2, 1864.

LEGENDS AND LYRICS.

A LEGEND OF PROVENCE.

THE lights extinguished, by the heart I leaned,
Half weary with a listless discontent.
The flickering giant-shadows, gathering near,
Closed round me with a dim and silent fear.
All dull, all dark, save when the leaping flame,
Glancing, lit up a Picture's ancient frame.
Above the hearth it hung. Perhaps the night,
My foolish tremors, or the gleaming light,
Lent power to that Portrait dark and quaint-
A Portrait such as Rembrandt loved to paint-
The likeness of a Nun. I seem to trace
A world of sorrow in the patient face,
In the thin hands folded across her breast:-
Its own and the room's shadow hid the rest.
I gazed and dreamed, and the dull embers
stirred,

Till an old legend that I once had heard
Came back to me; linked to the mystic gloom
Of that dark Picture in the ghostly room.

In the far south, where clustering vines are hung;

Where first the old chivalric lays were sung; Where earliest smiled that gracious child of France,

Angel and knight and fairy, called Romance, I stood one day. The warm blue June was spread

Upon the earth; blue summer overhead,

Without a cloud to fleck its radiant glare,
Without a breath to stir its sultry air.
All still, all silent, save the sobbing rush
Of rippling waves, that lapsed in silver hush
Upon the beach; where, glittering toward the
strand,

The purple Mediterranean kissed the land.

All still, all peaceful; when a convent chime
Broke on the mid-day silence for a time,
Then, trembling into quiet, seemed to cease,
In deeper silence and more utter peace.
So as I turned to gaze, where gleaming white,
Half hid by shadowy trees from passers' sight,
The Convent lay, one who had dwelt for long
In that fair home of ancient tale and song,
Who knew the story of each cave and hill
And every haunting fancy lingering still
Within the land, spake thus to me, and told
The Convent's treasured Legend, quaint and old

Long years ago, a dense and flowering wood, Still more concealed where the white convent stood,

Borne on its perfumed wings the title came;
"Our Lady of the Hawthorns" is its name.
Then did that bell, which still rings out to-day,
Bid all the country rise, or eat, or pray.
Before that convent shrine, the haughty knight
Passed the lone vigil of his perilous fight;
For humbler cottage strife or village brawl,
The Abbess listened, prayed, and settled all.