"I will back the Duke of Brecon against him," said one of his companions. "He raved about her at White's yesterday." "Hem!" "The end is not so near as all that," said a third wassailer. "I do not know that," said Hugo Bohun. "It is a family that marries off quickly. If a fellow is obliged to marry, he always likes to marry one of them." he had originally adopted these latter views with the amiable intention of piquing Lady St. Aldegonde; but if so, he had not succeeded. Beaming with brightness, with the voice and airiness of a bird, and a cloudless temper, Albertha St. Aldegonde had, from the first hour of her marriage, concentrated her intelligence, which was not mean, on one object; and that was never to cross her husband on any conceivable topic. They had been marshe treated him as a darling spoiled child. When he cried for the moon, it was promised him immediately; however irrational his proposition, she always assented to it, though generally by tact and "What of this new star?" said his friend, ried several years, and and he mentioned Lothair. Be "O! he is too young; not launched. sides he is going to turn Catholic, and I doubt whether that would do in that quarter." "But he has a greater fortune than any of vigilance she guided him in the right direction. them." "Immense! A man I know, who knows another man and then he began a long statistical story about Lothair's resources. "Have you got any room here, Hugo?" drawled out Lord St. Aldegonde. "Plenty, and here is my chair." Nevertheless, St. Aldegonde was sometimes in It was agreed that after breakfast they should "On no account; half of it and some soup go and see Corisande's garden. will satisfy me." "I should have thought you would have been with the swells," said Hugo Bohun. "That does not exactly suit me," said St. Aldegonde. "I was ticketed to the Duchess of Salop, but I got a first rate substitute with the charm of novelty for her Grace, and sent her in with Lothair." St. Aldegonde was the heir apparent of the wealthiest, if not the most ancient, dukedom in the United Kingdom. He was spoiled, but he knew it. Had he been an ordinary being, he would have merely subsided into selfishness and caprice, but having good abilities and a good disposition, he was eccentric, adventurous, and sentimental. Notwithstanding the apathy which had been engendered by premature experience, St. Aldegonde held extreme opinions, especially on political affairs, being a republican of the reddest dye. He was opposed to all privilege, and indeed to all orders of men, except dukes, who were a necessity. He was also strongly in favour of the equal division of all property, except land. Liberty depended on land, and the greater the landowners, the greater the liberty of a country. He would hold forth on this topic even with energy, amazed at anyone differing from him; "as if a fellow could have too much land," he would urge with a voice and glance which defied contradiction. St. Aldegonde had married for love and he loved his wife, but he was strongly in favour of woman's rights and their extremest consequences. It was thought that 1 did go: all the Phoebus family, and Lord and Lady St. Aldegonde, and Lady Corisande, and Bertram and Lothair. In the pleasure-grounds of Brentham were the remains of an ancient garden of the ancient house that had long ago been pulled down. When the modern pleasure-grounds were planned and created, notwithstanding the protests of the artists in landscape, the father of the present Duke would not allow this ancient garden to be entirely destroyed, and you came upon its quaint appearance in the dissimilar world in which it was placed, as you might in some festival of romantic costume upon a person habited in the courtly dress of the last century. It was formed upon a gentle southern slope, with turfen terraces walled in on three sides, the fourth consisting of arches of golden yew. The Duke had given this garden to Lady Corisande, in order that she might practise her theory, that flower-gardens should be sweet and luxuriant, and not hard and scentless imitations of works of art. Here, in their season, flourished abundantly all those productions of nature which are now banished from our once delighted senses: huge bushes of honeysuckle, and bowers of sweet-pea and sweet-briar, and jessamine clustering over the walls, and gillyflowers scenting with their sweet breath the ancient bricks from which they seemed to spring. There were banks of violets which the southern breeze always stirred, and mignonette filled every vacant nook. As they entered now, it seemed a blaze of roses and carnations, though one recognized in a moment the presence of the lily, the heliotrope, and the stock. Some white peacocks were basking on the southern wall, and one of them, as their visitors entered, moved and displayed its plumage with scornful pride. The bees were busy in the air, but their homes were near, and you might watch them labouring in their glassy hives. Now, is not Corisande quite right?" said Lord St. Aldegonde, as he presented Madame Phoebus with a garland of woodbine, with which she said she would dress her head at dinner. All agreed with him, and Bertram and Euphrosyne adorned each other with carnations, and Mr. Phoebus placed a flower on the uncovered head of Lady St. Aldegonde, according to the principles of high art, and they sauntered and rambled in the sweet and sunny air amid a blaze of butterflies and the ceaseless hum of bees. Bertram and Euphrosyne had disappeared, and the rest were lingering about the hives while Mr. Phoebus gave them a lecture on the apiary and its marvellous life. The bees understood Mr. Phoebus, at least he said so, and thus his friends had considerable advantage in this lesson in entomology. Lady Corisande and Lothair were in a distant corner of the garden, and she was explaining to him her plans; what she had done and what she meant to do. arches of golden yew, there were no friends in sight. "I think I hear sounds this way," said Lothair, and he led his companion farther from home. "I see no one," said Lady Corisande, distressed, and when they had advanced a little way. We are sure to find them in good time," said Lothair. "Besides, I wanted to speak to you about the garden at Muriel. I wanted to induce you to go there and help me to make it. Yes," he added, after some hesitation, "on this spot, I believe on this very spot, I asked the permission of your mother two years ago to express to you my love. She thought me a boy, and she treated me as a boy. She said I knew nothing of the world, and both our characters were unformed. I know the world now. I have committed many mistakes, doubtless many follies, have formed many opinions, and have changed many opinions; but to one I have been constant, in one I am unchanged, and that is my adoring love for you.' She turned pale, she stopped, then gently taking his arm, she hid her face in his breast. He soothed and sustained her agitated frame, and sealed with an embrace her speechless form. Then, with soft thoughts and softer words, clinging to him he induced her to resume their "I wish I had a garden like this at Muriel," stroll, which both of them now wished might said Lothair. "You could easily make one." "If you helped me. assuredly be undisturbed. They had arrived at the limit of the pleasure-grounds, and they wandered into the park and into its most se I have told you all my plans," said Lady questered parts. All this time Lothair spoke Corisande. much, and gave her the history of his life since "Yes; but I was thinking of something else he first visited her home. Lady Corisande when you spoke," said Lothair. "That is not very complimentary." "I do not wish to be complimentary," said Lothair, "if compliments mean less than they declare. I was not thinking of your garden, but of you." "Where can they have all gone?" said Lady Corisande. looking round. "We must find them." "And leave this garden?" said Lothair. "And I without a flower, the only one without a flower? I am afraid that is significant of my lot." "You shall choose a rose," said Lady Corisande. Nay; the charm is that it should be your choice.' But choosing the rose lost more time, and when Corisande and Lothair reached the said little, but when she was more composed, she told him that from the first her heart had been his, but everything seemed to go against her hopes. Perhaps at last, to please her parents, she would have married the Duke of Brecon, had not Lothair returned; and what he had said to her that morning at Crecy House had decided her resolution, whatever might be her lot, to unite it to no one else but him. But then came the adventure of the crucifix, and she thought all was over for her, and she quitted town in despair. "Let us rest here for a while," said Lothair. under the shade of this oak;" and Lady Corisande reclined against its mighty trunk, and Lothair threw himself at her feet. He had a great deal still to tell her, and among other things, the story of the pearls, which he had wished to give to Theodora. "She was, after all, your good genius," said Lady Corisande. "I always liked her.' "Well now," said Lothair, "that case has never been opened. The year has elapsed, but I would not open it, for I had always a wild wish that the person who opened it should be yourself. See, here it is.' And he gave her the case. "We will not break the seal," said Lady Corisande. "Let us respect it for her sake: ROMA!" she said, examining it; and then they opened the case. There was the slip of paper which Theodora at the time had placed upon the pearls, and on which she had written some unseen words. They were read now, and ran thus: "THE OFFERING OF THEODORA TO LOTHAIR'S BRIDE." "Let me place them on you now," said Lothair. "I will wear them as your chains," said Corisande. The sun began to tell them that some hours had elapsed since they quitted Brentham House. At last a soft hand which Lothair retained, gave him a slight pressure, and a sweet voice whispered, "Dearest, I think we ought to return.' They And they returned almost in silence. rather calculated that, taking advantage of the luncheon-hour, Corisande might escape to her room; but they were a little too late. Luncheon was over, and they met the duchess and a large party on the terrace. "What has become of you, my good people?" said her grace; "bells have been ringing for you in every direction. Where can you have been!" "I have been in Corisande's garden," said Lothair, "and she has given me a rose.' Three years she grew in sun and shower, On earth was never sown; "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me, The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power, To kindle or restrain. 2D SERIES, VOL. I. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That, wild with glee, across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm, Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see, Even in the motions of the storm, "The stars of midnight shall be dear "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, Thus Nature spake-The work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; THE PASSING CROWD. BY ROBERT CHAMBERS. "The passing crowd" is a phrase coined in the spirit of indifference. Yet, to a man of what Plato calls "universal sympathies," and even to the plain ordinary denizens of this world, what can be more interesting than "the passing crowd?" Does not this tide of human beings, which we daily see passing along the ways of this world, consist of persons animated by the same spark of the divine essence, and partaking of the same high destinies with ourselves? Let us stand still but for a moment in the midst of this busy, and seemingly careless scene, and consider what they are or may be whom we see around us. In the hurry of the passing show, and of our own sensations, we see but a series of unknown faces; but this is no reason why we should regard them with indifference. Many of these persons, if we knew their histories, would rivet our admiration, by the ability, worth, benevolence, or 119 1 piety, which they have displayed in their various paths through life. Many would excite our warmest interest by their sufferings sufferings, perhaps, borne meekly and well, and more for the sake of others than themselves. How many tales of human weal and woe, of glory and of humiliation, could be told by those beings, whom, in passing, we regard not! Unvalued as they are by us, how many as good as ourselves repose upon them the affections of bounteous hearts, and would not want them for any earthly compensation. Every one of these persons, in all probability, retains in his bosom the cherished recollections of early happy days, spent in some scene which "they ne'er forget, though there they are forgot," with friends and fellows who, though now far removed in distance and in fortune, are never to be given up by the heart. Every one of these individuals, in all probability, nurses still deeper, in the recesses of feeling, the remembrance of that chapter of romance in the life of every man, an early earnest attachment, conceived in the fervour of youth, unstained by the slightest thought of self, and for the time purifying and elevating the character far above its ordinary standard. Beneath all this gloss of the world-this cold conventional aspect, which all more or less present, and which the business of life renders necessary-there resides for certain a fountain of goodness, pure in its inner depths as the lymph rock-distilled, and ready on every proper occasion to well out in the exercise of the O the sunny days before us, before us, before us noblest duties. Though all may seem but a hunt after worldly objects, the great majority of these individuals can, at the proper time, cast aside all earthly thoughts, and communicate directly with the Being whom their fathers have taught them to worship, and whose will and attributes have been taught to man immediately by himself. Perhaps many of these persons are loftier of aspect than ourselves, and belong to a sphere removed above our own. But, nevertheless, if the barrier of mere worldly form were taken out of the way, it is probable that we could interchange sympa thies with these persons as freely and cordially as with any of our own class. Perhaps they. are of an inferior order: but they are only inferior in certain circumstances, which should never interpose to prevent the flow of feeling for our kind. The great common features of human nature remain; and let us never forget how much respect is due to the very impress of humanity the type of the divine nature itwelf! Even where our fellow-creatures are degraded by vice and poverty, let us still be gentle in our judging. The various fortunes which we every day see befalling the members of a single family, after they part off in their several paths through life, teach us, that it is not to every one that success in the career of existence is destined. Besides, do not the arrangements of society at once necessitate the subjection of an immense multitude to humble toil, and give rise to temptations, before which the weak and uninstructed can scarcely escape falling? But even beneath the soiled face of the poor artisan there may be aspirations after some vague excellence, which hard fate has denied him the means of attaining, though the very wish to obtain it is itself ennobling. The very mendicant was not always so; he, too, has had his undegraded and happier days, upon the recollection of which, some remnant of better feeling may still repose. These, I humbly think, are reasons why we should not look with coldness upon any masses of men with whom it may be our lot to mingle. It is the nature of a good man to conclude that others are like himself; and if we take the crowd promiscuously, we can never be far wrong in thinking that there are worthy and well-directed feelings in it as well as in our own bosoms. BEFORE, BEHIND, AND BEYOND. BY ALFRED AUSTIN. When all was bright From holt to height, And the heavens were shining o'er us; O the dreary days behind us, behind us, behind us And care, and cark, Or transient gleams remind us Oh! is there nought beyond us, beyond us, beyond us, The changed, the fled, Ere Faith put out, and Love in rout, -Interludes. THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. [Samuel Rogers, born in London, 30th July, 1763; died there, 18th December, 1855. He was the son of a wealthy banker, and his house in St. James's Place was the resort of all the famous authors and artists of his time. He wrote many poems, but the Pleasures of Memory, first published in 1792, remained his best and finest achievement in verse. Byron, in his English Bards, says that this and Pope's Essay on Man, are "the most beautiful didactic poems in our language." Of his other poems the chief are: Jacqueline, a tale; Human Life: Italy, &c. Lord Jeffrey said of Rogers' poems that "they come over us with a bewitching softness, and soothe the troubled spirits with a refreshing sense of truth, purity, and elegance."1] Sweet MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. Ages and climes remote to thee impart What charms in Genius and refines in Art; Thee, in whose hands the keys of Science dwell, The pensive portress of her holy cell; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp. They in their glorious course the guides of Youth, Whose language breathed the eloquence of Truth; Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught The great in conduct, and the pure in thought; These still exist, by thee to Fame consigned, Still speak and act, the models of mankind. From thee gay Hope her airy colouring draws; And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. From thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Still thro' the gloom thy star serenely glows: Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light. The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu, Oft of that world will snatch a fond review; Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace Some social scene, some dear, familiar face: And ere, with iron-tongue, the vesper-bell Bursts thro' the cypress-walk, the convent-cell, Rogers never married; and an interesting anecdote of the cause of his celibacy is told by the Edinburgh Reviewe "When a young man, he admired and sedulously sought the society of the most beautiful girl he then, and still thought he had ever seen. At the end of a London season, at a ball, she said, 'I go to-morrow to Worthing. Are you coming there?' He did not go. Some months afterwards, being at Ranelagh, he saw the attention of every one drawn towards a large party that had just entered, in the centre of which was a lady on the arm of her husband; stepping forward to see this wonderful beauty, he found it was his love. She merely said-You never came to Worthing."" Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, The full reflection of her vivid hues. "Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, Ah, why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate? But most we mark the wonders of her reign, When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round |