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yes, and even when the child is born, and the man dies, we have the frosted christening cake, and the plumes upon the hearse.

But the decorations are finished at last, and the tables are arranged, and how difficult it was to arrange them in the most effective manner, and so to dispose the dolls, the pincushions, the pen-wipers, and all kinds of rubbish so as to prevent Mrs. Smith from fancying that her contribution was not thought so much of as the contribution of Mrs. James. The sale begins at one o'clock, and by half-past twelve the fair shopwomen, in the new muslins and the becoming hats, are in their places, with little cashboxes beside them, and little piles of small silver for change, and a little pencil to jot down

accounts.

There is a great deal of variety about these amateur shopwomen: there is the timid seller, who either sits down behind her counter, or else shields herself behind a screen of antimacassars, or pinafores, which she has ingeniously suspended for the purposes of fence; she is always changing the position of her wares, and hoping that they look well from the outside; after everything she sells she counts her money, and she is the only one from whom, on the first day of the sale, any article can be got a bargain. She never asks any one to buy anything, but when people come up to her stall she gently puts some little thing that she fancies they may be looking for, more prominently in view. It is to her that children who have small sums, varying from one penny to six, to invest in behalf of the Fee-lo-gee's noses, invariably resort; she is almost certain to cheat herself rather than disappoint the eager little buyers, and to give a shilling doll for sixpence; indeed I think it may be said that the timid seller does not make much.

Then there is the worrying seller: she is generally a "fast" young lady, and she keeps shop as though she had served her time to a "fancy business." Her wares are arranged to the best advantage, she knows where everything is, and if she have not exactly what you ask for, she will give you something far nicer and prettier, she says, in every way; she is never at a loss for anything, from a sharp answer to a penny top; it is very hard to escape from her without buying: you feel that you are being taken in, but you have no power to resist; she tells you that the artcle you are looking at is really "ridiculously, shamefully cheap!" that you never saw so pretty a cosy," so "lovely a fender-stool," or such a "love" of a smokingcap'; and then, if you are a gentleman, you probably buy the three articles, although perhaps, strictly speaking, you have no tea-pot for the "cosy," no fender for the stool, and no head for the cap, for you don't smoke! and having paid for them you are about to "move on," trying to feel that you have not thrown away your money, when the worrying seller again attacks you to take a ticket for a raffle"A splendid cushion, worked in beads, for sixpence! fancy that cushion for sixpence !"

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Well, you think it would be cheap at the money, and although you never won anything at a raffle in your life, you give your sixpence, and you are allowed to escape for the present.

Then there is the quiet, lady-like seller, about whose table I think the steadiest trade is carried on; she does not force you to buy whether you like it or not, neither will she allow people who really want to buy to pass on to other tables, as the timid seller would do. She is generally a pretty girl too, and of course the gentlemen crowd about her, and the gentlemen attract the ladies, and so the world goes round!

Then there is the seller great at expedients by which to get off the large unsaleable articles, and the small rubbishy articles, and from whom, especially on the second day, you can get the most wonderful and unexpected bargains. For the large articles, such as worked chair-covers, cushions, banner-screens, &c., &c., she gets up raffles, she charters unwary young gentlemen, and giving them the articles to be raffled for, and a piece of paper and a pencil, she sends them about through the room to collect names and shillings. Then, with the smaller things, actual rubbish, which no one in their senses would buy, she makes up a raffle in which there are no blanks! The name of the particular chiffon is written on a slip of paper, the slips are put into a "wheel of fortune," you give your sixpence and draw your slip, and get your doll, your pincushion, your pen-wiper, or your mat!

There is always a great deal of excitement round this seller's table; she is so full of fun, and tells you so pleasantly, if you lose in one of the large raffles, "to try again, and you will have better luck!" that you do try again, and if, as is very prohable, you have not better luck, she will perhaps console you by telling yon that "everyone can't win."

And among the buyers there is quite as much variety as among the sellers. I have often thought that if, of the people who go to an exhibition-say of pictures-those who go to see and to be seen, those who go to meet their friends, those who go because everyone goes, those who go because they may as well kill time by staring at pictures as kill it by not staring at them, were all turned out, the people who go to see the pictures from the pure and simple love of art, would be few indeed. And so with bazaars-of those who go for amusement, from curiosity, and from idleness were all turned out; those who go to buy, and especially those who buy for the sake of charity, would be a decided minority.

But among the actual buyers at a bazaar there is, as I have said, a great variety. There is the gentleman who declares that he intends to lay out exactly half-a-crown, and who lays out five pounds before an hour; there is the hard-tobe-pleased buyer, who is also determined to lay out a certain sum, who is equally determined not to be imposed upon, and not to be inveigled into putting in for a raffle, this buyer (generally

a rich old maid) turns a deaf ear to the worrying seller, while she coolly examines almost every article upon the table, and probably ends by walking off to another stall without having opened he purse; she finally expends her money upon useful frocks and pinafores for her little nephews and nieces at home.

Then there is the reckless buyer-by far the more numerous class-who buys the most absurd and utterly useless things, and who, moreover, carries them about for the rest of the day, and finds them dreadfully in the way. And there is the buyer who is watching and waiting for bargains, and always asking "What is the lowest you will take for this?" These buyers disarrange the table sadly and take up the different articles and pinch them and pull them and squeeze them in a most tormenting way; they open everything in the shape of a box, and generally smell them too; they examine into the mysteries of the doll's attire in a very impertinent, I might almost say indelicate, manner; they turn the "cosies" inside out, and count the needles in the needle-books; but the way in which they maltreat the mats is really shocking. Indeed mats generally at a bazaar have a bad time of it, there is no respect for them, dolls sit upon them, and they are flattened out of all shape by cushions.

I think the grand mistake of all in connexion with bazaars is in making them to last two days; when the second day comes the sellers are tired, the wares are tossed, and the whole affair is as flat as stale champagne. Of course there are exceptions, and I have myself been at bazaars which were better the second day than the first.

Finally, it has always been a perplexing question to me to know what becomes of the things which are not sold at bazaars! Do the dolls emigrate? do the pincushions and the pen-wipers and the mats melt? or is there a "Hades" for fancy work-a "Happy hunting ground" for Chiffons, into which they vanish and are heard of no more? Or are they returned to their original owners, or makers rather, to be pulled out of workboxes, or writing-desks after many years, and contemptuously thrown aside with the remark-"Look at that dreadful old thing which I made for the Fee-lo-gee Bazaar!" S. G.

LILIAN GREY.

She heard the bell sound on the deck, and knew That now the bitter hour to part was come. One long, wild kiss, and then a faintness grew Upon her; and the hum

And crowds became a dream, where, dim and pale, Strange phantom-faces flickered, gaz'd, and pass'd, And, shudd'ring, vanish'd, till a shrouding veil Darken'd her soul at last.

And when she woke the ship was far away, Dotted across the misty morning light, Where, glimmering into pearly tracks of grey, It vanish'd out of sight.

Oh, cruel hour! oh, blinding, cruel dawn! How could it flash a light upon the ship That left the heart of Lilian Grey forlorn, And blanch'd her very lip?

So back she went, back to the lonely hall,

Weeping until the yellow dawn was dead: She watch'd the doleful veil of twilight fall, And moon rise overhead.

And ever as she moved from room to room

Her foot woke phantom echoes on the floors: Alone she paced the echoes and the gloom, And ghostly corridors.

And chiefly there did Lilian strive to find—

New chains of memory, that might clasp her mind
In the lone rooms and in the pictures dim-
In golden links to Him.

Only when summer evenings flushed the hills

An influence drew her from herself away: She follow'd to the woodland and the rills, And wept to dying day.

And there, beneath the quiet eventide,

She heard old voices on the scented air, Old sounds that softly into music died,

And knew that He was there

There, underneath the orange-breadth of sky,

That flung a glory from the flaming westThere, in the winds that breath'd in fragrance by, And waters hushed to rest.

But when the colours faded, and the sun

Was dreaming downward, and the desolate wind Swayed to and fro, and with a mournful mon Wrought sadness on the mind,

She left the rocking shadows of the wood,

And lonely sounds that chilled her solitude, And from the hall and hollow gloom, again, Would watch the red moon wane.

But as the years, slow-wing'd with sorrow, swept
Over her life, and never tidings came,
From Him, a sense of wrong upon her crept-
No more she breath'd his name-

No more his face upon her fancy rose;

And only when the wizard-hand of night Had flung a spell of sleep upon her woes, He glimmer'd in her sight.

She never saw him in the drowsy glen,

Nor where the scarlet shrines of sunset lay: But other voices-not of mortal menShe heard at fall of day.

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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"! 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! 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 te nacity of his memory, and the unwearied perseverance necessary for their compilation. In the present work, 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 he concludes with the lines of Thomas Mace

"What shall I say? Or shall I say no more? I must go on! I'm brimfull, running o'er: But yet I'll hold, because I judge ye wise; And few words unto such may well suffice."

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 "Sixpennies" 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 hard-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 from that office, the members of the club are secretary of the " Arts Club," having just retired about to subscribe to present him with a testihe has rendered to the club since its establishmonial in acknowledgment of the great service

ment.

At last two of the lions have been placed on their pedestals in Trafalgar Square! 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.

YOUR BOHEMIAN,

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