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And all the trees that branch'J the sky around,
Seem'd to her tender with a fairy sound,
But pale and paler faded Lilian's check,
As in her room through many a dreary week
Till oucc again she wandered, as of old,
Rob'd in a magic panoply of gold,
Through (he crisp Autumn-leaves the shafts of tire Scattcr'd in prism-light upon her eyes;
And there she heard among them nigh and nigher
Softly they melted in the drowsy air,
Charming the heavy scents to linger there,
Then fainter grew the notes the spirits snng;
The suu drew down his broad rim out of sight; And, as he fell, a parting ray he flung,
That kiss'd her face to light.
The spirits ceased: a moaning gathcr'd loud,
'And the sad moon fell in a silver shroud
MY LOST SAILOR.
BY ELIZABETH T O W N B tt I I) G E.
There was moonlight on the water—
I low fair it looked, and still!
AVith ever wayward will.
Led on by hope so sweet,
To welcome and to greet.
I did not dream of danger,
No safe should come that ship— I did not think of falsehood,
No truth was on that lip As he answered, when I whispered
Of altered glance and brow, "You know I loved you always,
But never more than now I"
My trnc love and my brave love,
That life of joy held for me,
That last, last happy twilight
I sat beside the shore,
I ne'er should look on more?
Oh! if but for one moment
I could behold his face
Again his neck embrace—
Feci his lips laid on mine,
I would not so resign?
They say he did his duty—
Did he owe none to me?
That uone could rule but he?
Over the shrieking wind—
Need you only stay behind?"
My darling 1 oh, my darling!
When e'er I hear your name, Under my hot tears flushing
Need rise no blush of shame: For, when hungry waves closed rouud yon,
Leaping the strong ship's side, That those yon ruled might see their homes,
You, rny gallant sailor, died!
UNDER THE SNOW.
BY M. W. IIACKELTOX.
Gather the white shrond over it;
Cover it deep with clay; Dust of the pure and beautiful,
Hide in the dust away; Silent and cold and motionless,
Freezing the soul with woe— Make for the dead a sepulchre
Under the drifted snow.
Veil the closed eyelids reverently—
Eyes that have been thy heaven, Holy with trust and tenderness,
Love to their light had given. Seal the pale lips all silently—
Lips that have clung to thine, Dewy with love's sweet ecstasy,
Kich with its glowing wine.
Gather the while shroud over it,
Monni for the glory fled— Faith, thou art lost forever!
Love, thou art cold and dead! Silent and cold and motionless,
Freezing the sonl with woe— Over the icy sepulchre
Gathers the drifting snow.
MEMS OF THE MONTH.
It is a matter of the most sincere congratulation that we have once more returned to the mud, slush, and ordinary weather of London; and, although, so variable is this climate of ours, we may possibly be suffering from severe frost at the time these lines appear in print, we are, at this present moment, revelling in the genial warmth pervading the atmosphere, and are actually rejoicing in the muddy state of the streets. We are inclined to think that the cold weather we had previous to the thaw was rather too much of a good thing: it may be all very well for those persons who are engaged in pursuits requiring violent muscular exerertion, and who like to be "braced." For our own part we found that the cold weather caused us' to lose a deal of time in cowering over the fire, and contributed not a little towards increasing the natural asperity of our temper. And, as to being "braced"—we wish it to be distinctly understood we object to be " braced" under any circumstances, especially in a violent way. The miseries of the period of the frost seem to have culminated on that memorable Tuesday, when the " frozen rain" fell, of which we have read so much in the papers lately. Your Bohemian was one of the unfortunate people who happened to be out on the evening in question, and it was only by means of his clinging to railings with a pertinacity horribly suggestive of inebriety that he was enabled to reach his home without a severe fall. Such a slippery state of the streets has not been known, it is said, within the memory of the "oldest inhabitant" of London. It is quite certain that, if the oldest inhabitant had been about the streets at the time, he would have scarcely have returned sound in wind and limb.
The falls, on this occasion, were numerous and frequent—we happen to know of a certain eminent tragedian who fell on his back twice on returning from the theatre: the second time he offered a man a sovereign to take him home. The man, to use the language of Mrs. Brown, "smiled derisive," and replied, "No, not if you'll give me fifty" 1 One of our best pantomimists had an awkward tumble the same night. Though so used to "butter slides" on the stage, and so accustomed to "taking the slap" on all occasions, he was not proof against the glassy slipperiness of the roads, and found the "slap" that he had to take when he unexpectedly alighted on the pavement to be particularly painful and hard. Sad was the lot of people who had to go to evening parties on this eventful Tuesday, for it was impossible for horses to stand; the only method of travelling in any way satisfactory seemed to be on skates, and many gentlemen availed themselves of this mode of progression. Just fancy a family re
turning in this wise from an evening party, paterfamilias, young ladies and all 1 How admirably poor John Leech would have drawn such a subject! Apropos of skating reminds us of the lamentable accident in Regent's Park—a calamity which seems to be brought about entirely by the obstinacy and foolhardiness of the people there assembled, as, according to the most reliable authority, we find that the ice was in a most dangerous condition, such as to make it absolute madness to attempt to venture on it. It is a long while since the Londoners have had such a skating season, and they certainly have made the best of it whilst the frost lasted. The Serpentine and the Round Pond have been crowded with people. A select few also affected the ornamental water in the Botanic Gardens, Regent's Park. It was here that a great many ladies disported themselves, and added not a little to the gaiety of the scene by their bright bizarre costumes and graceful evolutions. A great many people patronized the Crystal Palace, the ice there being in admirable condition. Your Bohemian "assisted" at the disastrous fire at the last-named popular resort. It was surprising to see the rapidity with which the flames consumed the building, especially when there really seemed nothing to burn. No doubt the great conductors of fire were the floorings in the tropical department, which, having been exposed to such a constant warmth for so many years, were almost reduced to the dryness of touchwood at the time the fire occurred. It was lamentable to see the way in which the iron girders and pillars curled up as if they had been made of lead, and the melted glass pouring down from the roof.
I have received The Pen. It decidedly belongs to the heavy order of literature. With regard to my having the idea of its being an old title, I have received a note from a friend—who, by the way, is an authority on such subjects— in which he states that he has a prospectus of a work bearing that title, dated many years ago, but which work never even arrived at the glory of a first number. A monthly called The Hawk has been forwarded to me: it is published at Ringwood. The best thing in it is the introductory lines by Mr. Reade—a gentleman who, by the way, has recently written some admirable political letters in the Sunday Times. The Hawk seems to be, in the main, severely classical. Is that the reason that such an ordinary word as nom-de-plume should be translated in a footnote?
Mr. Henry Southgate has just published another of those volumes which bear testimony to the extent and variety of his reading, the tenacity of his memory, and the unwearied perseverance necessary for their compilation. In the presentwork, which is entitled " Musings about Men," the author treats of "Men" in every variety and phase of thought, derived principally from quotations from the poets, with an occasional bit of prose from such writers as Addison, Bacon, Steele, or Doddridge. After leading us through a bright garden of the flowers of quotation for more than three hundred pages, the author seems even then conscious that he has not exhausted the subject, for be concludes with the lines of Thomas Mace—
"What shall I say P Or shall I say no more P
The second volume of the enlarged series of the Family Friend is before me. It contains a variety of pleasing contributions from popular authors, amongst whom may be mentioned Messrs. W. Sawyer, W. Justyne, Walter Thornbury, and the Rev. Edward Munro. Amongst the announcements of the number for the coming year we notice the names of some of the best of the well-tried pens of the day— such as Artemus Ward, A. Halliday, Tom Hood, A. A'Beckett, H. Leigh, C. W. Quin, T. Archer, J. W. Robinson—indeed, we should say this magazine bids fair to be one of the best "Sizpennies" going.
Some time ago a charming paper appeared in the pages of All the Year Round, entitled "Cupid and Co.," in which the author took us to a valentine manufactory, and introduced us to the artist and the poet of the establishment, and initiated us into all the mysteries of the construction of these amatory missives. Undoubtedly these manufactories are necessary, especially if we take into consideration the number of valentines passing through the post every year: but out of this enormous quantity there are very many that never saw the inside of such an establishment as that we have alluded to. Many girls like to have their valentines direct from their lovers, and will brook no intervention of the embossed paper and silver flowers of commercial enterprise. To those who are in this fix, and who are hopelessly biting a pen, and blundering over the ancient rhymes of "love" and " dove," or "heart" and " dart," we commend a charming little volume edited by Mr. Davidson. It is entitled, "Heart'sease; a Bouquet of Love-Lyrics," and will be found invaluable just at this period of the year, as it contains every variety of valentine-versification —" from grave to gay; from lively to severe."
One is getting rather tired of Mr. John Bright and his everlastingly publishing long correspondence in the papers. It is a well-known fact that the most persistent of practical jokers
are the worst people to bear a joke practised on themselves. By the same rule we find the member for Birmingham, who, though a notoriously bard-hitter himself, finds himself wondrously aggrieved when his opponents attempt to tar him with his own brush. His last letter to Mr. Garth, whatever might have been the provocation, was in the worst possible taste.
Your readers will be sorry to hear that, on account of severe indisposition, Mr. Artemus Ward has been obliged to close his pleasant little room at the Egyptian Hall. It is sincerely to be hoped, that in a few weeks' time he will be enabled to resume his lecture, for the public can ill afford to lose one of the quaintest and most original entertainments ever produced in London.
Mr. Angell, the able and energetic honorary secretary of the " Arts Club," having just retired from that office, the members of the club are about to subscribe to present him with a testimonial in acknowledgment of the great service he has rendered to the club since ifs establishment.
At last two of the lions have been placed on their pedestals in Trafalgar Square 1 Who of the present generation expected to have lived to have seen it? The writers in comic papers will be certainly entitled to a pension from Government now. What will Punch do; His Wiscount is gone; his Landseer lions are played out; the Poet Bunn was one too many for him: so there is nothing left but Tupper!
The dispute between the proprietors of the rival Belgravias has, to a certain extent, been settled; that is, it has been concluded in the most unsatisfactory way. It was decided that neither Mr. Maxwell nor Messrs. Hogg had an exclusive right to the title, consequently they were unable to debar the other from making use of it. Each, therefore, had to pay their own costs, and the law remains, as it did before, in a most unsatisfactory condition. The whole matter of the law of copyright, and especially the system of registration at Stationers' Hall, wants thoroughly looking into and reforming; this "consummation devoutly to be wished" will, it is hoped, be brought about early in the ensuing session.
And talking of the session reminds us that we shall soon be wearied once more, and our morning papers will be filled with closely-printed columns, giving in detail the voluminous orations of those honourable but blatant members who revel in the " gift of the gab," and in a few days' time we shall have entered upon the hardwork of a session that promises to be fraught with as much importance as any we have had for many a year.
OUR PARIS CORRESPONDENT.
Mv Dear C ,
What nose-biting weather! and how the cold wind enters the numerous bad-fitting doors and windows of our Paris houses, and bids defiance to the fires on our low hearths! This, indeed, is a real winter, snow in every direction. In several localities communications entirely suspended, trains half-buried in the snow, and, alas! here and there, an unfortunate pedestrian frozen to death while endeavouring to escape through the silent-falling element that gradually gets higher and higher until the white shroud covers its victim. In Paris we have only a thin covering, just enough to freeze and crackle under our feet, and to send flocks of sparrows and robins to beg a few crumbs from our windows. The Skating Club is in high spirits, and many a poor novice on skates has already been heels upwards on the ice in the Bois de Boulogne, where everything is so well regulated that such an awful accident as that in the Regent's Park cannot happen. Our fashionables merely risk a cold bath, if the ice does break.
Monsieur Haussmann's government is good sometimes, if we could but appreciate it; though we are sadly incredulous on that point occasionally, and just at the present moment in particular, when, without the least respect for public opinion, he is unmercifully cutting up our beautiful garden du Luxembourg, and that after Government having promised last year that nothing should be done before the Corps Lcgislatif had discussed the question at the coming sessions: there never was a more flagrant manque de parole; one of the loveliest places in Paris, la pepinifre, with its paths meandering through the shades of every species of blooming and fragrant tree, and possessing the most precious collection of vines in the world, has disappeared entirely; and in other parts of the garden, trees that have been ages in growing are to be cut down, because Monsieur Hau6smann prefers flower-beds. The Parisians are furious, and His Majesty may depend that he has committed a great fault in laughing at public opinion.
The New Year has thinned the ranks of eminent personages: the brilliant orator aud senator, the Marquis de Larochejaquelin, died the other day; then Ingres, the first artist raised to the dignity of senator by Napoleon III., and in him France has lost her most distinguished painter. He belonged to the Raphael school, and used to declare that Rubens was a mere butcher, and his paintings a butcher's shop; and so exasperated was he against all colourists, that, in visiting a friend who possessed a picture by Chasselian, he would hold the tail of his coat before his eyes until he had jiassed before the obnoxious painting. One of
his works was sold a short time ago for 35,000 francs; another was sold at auction a little time before his death, for lOfrancs 60 centimes. It was not signed, but the connoisseur to whom it was knocked down, carried it immediately to Ingres, who recognized it and signed it. His talent, or rather his genius, is contested by some of his cotemporaries, and the papers are full of anecdotes relative to his struggles before attaining celebrity. Monsieur de Pommereux was once at Monsieur de Pastoret's, and seeing a portrait of the master of the house, said to a little man near him, "What a daub!" "Do yon think so?" answered the little man. "That is an esthetical question—it is a question of good taste," replied
Monsieur de P . "Allow me not to be of
your opinion, then," said the little man, " I being the author of the present daub!" and Ingres gravely bowed to his confused critic. Alphonse Karr related this scene, in his "Guepes," in a manner that displeased Monsieur de Pommereux; he immediately went to Ingres, and a provocation of a duel was the result of the visit. Ingres had never either touched a sword or pistol in his life; but he was so enraged at his antagonist rendering him responsible for what an author chose to write, that he was determined to fight. Madame Ingres, in a fright, ran and related the affair to Monsieur Mole, then Minister of State; he went and told it to the King (Louis Philippe), who despatched a guard, with orders to prevent Monsieur Ingres leaving his house, and during that time the seconds arranged the affair. A Sew days after Monsieur Ingres' death, Monsieur Cousin was struck with an apoplectic fit, and is also gone to his last home. He was a peer of France, and Minister of Public Instruction under Louis Philippe, Member of the French Academy, and was a distinguished writer. Mile. Georges, the once famous tragedian, the rival of Mile. Duchenois, is also dead. She had long retired from the stage, and lived in obscurity. The present quarrel of two actresses (Mile. Schneider and Mile. Silly), which has been the theme of discussion with the press for the last fortnight, has recalled to memory the quarrels of Mile. Georges and Mile. Duchenois, when a Minister of State deigned to interfere.
By my tone in announcing so many deaths you will begin to imagine that Paris is dull this season, when, on the contrary, we give a passing sigh to departed souls, and then continue our amusements; and never have the Parisians danced more than they dance now. There are balls in every direction, masked balls in particular. Almost every theatre now has its bal masque'. The Italian Theatre gave its first the other night; and—quite a new thing there— private soirees are also very brilliant. Theresa has gone done. The little Camille, the child that performed with such success in the "Benoiton Family," is now all the rage. She repeats fables, and is the idol for the moment. Those who can, secure the German star that is for a short time sinning in our horizon—the great violinist Joachim. His talent surpasses all we have ever heard here: everyone acknowledges it. He has played at the Athenee—a new room for concerts and lectures, built by a Monsieur Bishoffsheim, in the fashionable quarter, with the intention of giving its produce to charitable institutions. As yet it does not pay its expenses. It fills very well the night of the concerts; but when Monsieur Babinet and Co. send people to sleep on the lecture-nights, they prefer going to bed; it is more comfortable, and less expensive. Apropos of Monsieur Babinet, the "savant de l'institut," who cannot admit the possibility of the Transatlantic telegraph: he now denies the beauty of the Koh-i-nor, in an article in the Conslitutionnel on diamonds. The mountain of light makes apoor effect beside the Regent. The English, to get the Koh-inor, according to M. Babinet, refused all food to their captives (the Rajah, his wives, and children) for several days, until hunger made the poor Indian deliver up the jewel.
It seems that the " Enfant-torpille," of which I spoke in my last letter, is a fact: Monsieur le docteur Boussieres affirms it. He saw with his own eyes—lie who was the most incredulous of the incredulous—he saw a table spring on the child, and chairs run after her: one even dragged Monsieur le docteur with it! Monsieur BousMcres says lie can explain the phenomenon by electro-physical process. I imagine that this child will soon be the amusement of our parties. The pupazzi of Monsieur Lemercier de Xeuville have again appeared in several private entertainments. By-the-bye this gentleman has been refused admittance into the "Societe" des Gens de Lettres," on account of his dancing dolls, although he ill writer of merit. Mile. Patti received
a very splendid anonymous New-year's gift—a bracelet with three magnificent stones, a diamond, an emerald, and a ruby. She has been obliged to accept it, not being able to make out whence k comes. What a nuisance these Newyear's gifts here are! It is a regular tax. If you have looked at a man, woman, or child beneath you, they expect "des dtrennes" from you on New-year's Day, and always appear dissatisfied with what you give. I admire Cardinal Dubois' gift to his steward, cited the other day by the Liberie. "Friend," said the Cardinal to his steward, who came to wish him a happy new year, "I give you for your * etrennes '" (the steward's mouth was wide open, and his face beaming with hope), "I give you all that you have robbed roe of during the year."
The Monde publishes a paper on Germany. The god beer, according to the Monde, reigns absolute in that country. It is he that has materialized and brutalized the Germans. The author then cites Luther as having adored him. Schiller, Goethe, and Hedal did not despise him, &c, &c. If beer brutalizes and materializes in that fashion, I say let us set-to and adore! If we could only get a spark of their stupidity it would be worth while.
The 243rd anniversary of the birth of Moliere was celebrated the other day at the Theatre Franchise and the Odeon, with the usual ceremony..
If you had any wolves in England, I would say beware of your calves, ladies. It seems that these animals are very fond of the fat of female calves of the legs, and snap at them with great gusto when fortune (for the wolves I) sends ladies in their way—much obliged for their preference! It scums that there is a Spanish proverb, which says that "young ladies are gold, married ladies silver, widows copper, and old women tin I" I wonder what old men are? Wolves are not so particular: as long as the calves are fat, that is all they desire—in which they are more reasonable than men. Adieu.
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
CONVERSATIONS WITH PAPA.
Ethel. Papa, what is meant by Dog-days? I know it's very hot weather, but that doesn't tell me the reason they are called by such an odd name.
Papa. They begin on the 3rd of July, when Sirius, the dog-star, rises and sets with the "in. They end on the 11th of August.
Ida. And Rogation-days, Papa? I heard a gentleman ask the other day what they were, and nobody could tell him.
Papa. 'They are the days preceding Holy
Thursday. The early Christians used to spend the time in prayer and supplication to God. The word is from the Latin, rogare—to beseech. There is also Maunday-Tbursday, i.e., the Thursday in Passion-week. It was so named from the command of our Saviour to his Apostles to commemorate him in the Lord's Supper. On Mid-Lent, or Mothering Sunday as it is called in some parts of England, it was once the custom to visit the cathedral, or mother-church, on that day, hence the term.
Richard. Papa, who invented coats-ofarms?