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conceal his sentiments, and you will hear nothing but the most proper and edifying discourse from his thin, bloodless lips.

Very different from him is the sturdy Alsatian Jerome, who is sitting on the opposite side of the room. Jerome is rough in manners; his speech is rude, and I incline to his own belief, that he speaks Italian better than his own language; but he is a brave, noble painter, with all his heart in his work, and, what is still better, a trustworthy, honest fellow. He pays no compliments, Jerome: he used to quarrel with my French, which he said was execrable, and asserted I only understood Dante brutalement,' and condemned what I considered my most successful sketches; but, for all that, I would rather he should smite me friendly, and reprove me, than receive the elaborate compliments of M. Levi. Jerome is a pupil of the French Academy, and obtained the grand prize in 1839 for his picture of Socrates drinking the Hemlock,' and he would be a full-blown painter this year were it not that a severe fever for a long time entirely incapacitated him for work.

Those two quiet little men who are conversing together are also students of the French Academy in the class of architecture, and are

engaged upon a restoration of the castle of Saint Angelo, formerly the tomb of Emperor Hadrian. You will observe that the Frenchmen all wear their hair cropped closely, and they talk much louder than the English; and there are generally two at the end of the room, as there are now, engaged in a wordy discussion about some trifle or other.

There is a general movement among the British: some are going to the Life Academy, some to Gigi's, or some other private school of costume, to get up the materials for scenes at Grotto Ferrata, or Tivoli, or Italian peasants at a shrine, or reposing, or dancing, or carousing, or doing something of the sort, as they do annually on the walls of every exhibition in the metropolis.

Wrap your plaid carefully around you, for the Roman nights are chilly. The patrol (consisting of one pontifical gendarme, and two French soldiers to take care of him) plods steadily through the gutter down the middle of the street: from the distance comes the monotonous chant of a passing funeral; the shops are all shut, the streets are nearly deserted, and in the Piazza Trajana

The bearded grass is dry and dewless.
Let us go.'
J. H.


H, soft, grey eyes that gleam so bright!

Oh, sunny face all lit with smiles!
To me how sad, but yet how dear!
Caught in your toils, among your spoils
I rank, and my poor heart now swells
The fatal list of conquered swains

Your beauty's wondrous power that tells.

Ah! hapless day when first on you
I gazed, when on the croquet lawn
Your little feet tripped o'er the grass,
As light and graceful as a fawn.
No rest for me now e'er will be:

Still in my car that merry scream
Melodious sounds; before me glides
Your presence like a pleasant dream.

Would that a dream it were and would
I ne'er had seen your face, so fair
And yet so false! Your words, poor fool,
I trusted then, nor saw the snare.
At me you smiled, and I, beguiled,
Thought not I but a pastime made
For you to while away the hour,

As at your feet my heart I laid.
Oh! my Lily,* mine no more,

Could you no better pastime find Than this poor heart to win and break And leave it languishing behind? Ah! cruel heart! A bitter smart

You left, if this sad truth to know

Will please you aught; perchance you love
With broken hearts your path to strow.
Tell me, Lily, tell me truly,

When on a winter's night, alone

Thou sitt'st, all dark, nor sound is heard
But dripping rain and cold wind's moan-

Tell me if then before thy ken

The spectres of thy lovers pass

Wan, haggard men, whose lives thou'st wrecked, And left a bruised and shattered mass!

Oh, shame upon you, Lily, Lily!

For once let honest crimson dye

Your cheeks; there's much to make you blush,
And bring the tear-drop to your eye;

For while you laugh and blithely quaff
The cup of pleasure to the full,
For you there's many a manly brow
Clouded with care, with sorrow dull.

Look round you, Lily, Lily,

Hark to the reaper's harvest song,
As mid the sheaves the sickles flash
The yellow autumn fields among.
Earth seems to bound at this glad sound;
Ripe-rosy apple, mellow pear,

The purple grape, the golden corn,
With grateful fragrance fill the air.

And can you, Lily, while each breeze
That with your brown hair stops to toy
Breathes forth its glad Æolian song
Of fulness, happiness, and joy-
Can you delight, with cruel spite,
Sadness alone round you to see,

And blighted peace and withered hope
While Nature claps her hands with glee?

Oh, Lily, Lily, surely not!

Oh, say, not yet is turned to gall
That sweet young heart, nor true love ye
Is banished from it past recall!
Thou'rt in thy spring; with joyous wing
Thou gaily flitt'st from flower to flower.
But spring is brief, and summer o'er,
Sunshine soon flies and chill clouds lower.

* A literal translation of a common English name.

Oh, listen, laughing Lily!

The leaves that formed our summer shade And graced the trees with emerald crown, Soon withered, brown and sere shall fade. Go on thy way, but think, some day,

Fair one, thy autumn, too, shall come.
Like these shall fade and fall thy charms,
Who'll ask thee then to share his home?
Lily, in thy spring-time stay a while;
Think on the autumn of thy life.
If thou pursu'st thy wayward course
When wilt thou e'er become a wife?
Pause, Lily, cease thy cruel sport;

Send foolish hearts unharmed away;

So shalt thou find a husband's sheltering arm, Ere sober autumn turns thy hair to grey.

J. W. D.

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has often been said that the

to bear.

This may sound paradoxical, but nevertheless there is a considerable amount of truth in the assertion. It may arise from their perpetual recurrence, or that from their very insignificance we make no effort to meet them. Still, whatever is the cause, most people can recall some period when the fret of their daily life has tried them more than a real sorrow. Among these lesser evils we may reckon some of our social duties. These often harass us greatly, and have the same irritating effect on our minds that gnats, or any small teasing insects have upon our bodies. They make life one general discomfort without causing any particular suffering.

Take, for instance, the necessity for paying morning visits, and especially for paying them in the country. When life is at the best so full of annoyances that are unavoidable, it strikes us as almost absurd that in this age of civilization and selfishness we should have such a tax imposed upon us, and it might be well to consider if this arbitrary law is absolutely necessary. there no hope of its ever being repealed? At present the framework of society seems to hang upon it, and it would be thought impossible to keep a neighbourhood in the bonds of fellowship if this time


honoured custom were infringed. That they are a grievance is universally allowed. Miss Berry calls morning visits the abomination of desolation.' Did any one ever announce an intention of devoting a day to them in any tone of satisfaction? Was it not, on the contrary, moaned over, bewailed, detested? and is it within the range of possibility that such intercourse can lead to any agreeable result? You order the carriage on some cheerless December day, and, after perhaps a seven miles' drive through a bleak or hilly country, you arrive cold, miserable, and somewhat peevish at your friend's door. You listen eagerly for the servant's reply as to whether Mrs. A-- is at home. 'Yes, will you walk in?' Of course she is at home,' you mutter indignantly; she would not be such a fool as to go out on a day like this,' and you glance up at the leaden sky, from which a few heavy flakes of snow are slowly descending. Would, you think, that you could emulate that self-possessed young gentleman who, when told by the servant that his uncle was at home, had the presence of mind to answer, Is he, then I'll call another day,' and in this happy disposition you follow the servant into the drawing-room. It looks cold, cheerless, and uninhabited; and if your visit is to some country parsonage, or to any one to whom

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