On a bell at Amesbury is:

"Be strong in faith, praise God well, Frances Countess Hertford's bell."

It is noticeable, in running through these legends, how easy and frequent comes the simple rhyme of "bell-well," "well-bell."

Two seventeenth century bells read:

"When I ring, God's praises sing; When I toule, pray heart and soule ;"

and

"Who is to bell the cat?"-a common question, but odd, if one stops to think. It is supposed to refer to Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, whose nickname it was; and it friends?" means, "Who will venture his life to help his

mode of formally excommunicating in the "Bell, book, and candle," the Roman Catholic Church. "Bells," on board ship, -the division of time into watches, answering to the landsman's "o'clock." "To bear off the bell," to carry away the prize. May the latter be the lot, in life's turmoil, of each reader.

W. J. LACEY.

WAS evening; or, as poets say,

“Phœbus had wheeled his car away:
The shades of night were mantling
round,

And a dense dew o'erspread the ground."
Yet I, where gas and comfort cheered,
Nor chilling damps, nor darkness feared,
Upon a chair of ease reclined;
I sought diversion for my mind
By talking with my lady friend,
And what we said I'll now append.

"I cannot understand," said she,
"How such a man as Henry B-
Should care to join himself for life
To such a very vulgar wife."

"Has he indeed so done?" I said.
"And what good lady did he wed?
Was she some wily Jezebel
Into whose tangled net he fell ?
Or some Delilah, whose deceit
Was bitter as herself was sweet?"
"Oh! not at all. I must aver
That nothing in her character
Is ill; and I will also say

That she is clever-in her way.
But everybody must admit

She isn't lady-like a bit.

Now, look at Mrs. William B——,

His brother's wife. Why, you can see,
She doesn't fail in this respect;
For, though she has not intellect,
On every hand it's always said,
'She is a lady-born and bred.'
And so she is her father's brother
Is the great Mr. C――; her mother
Was a Miss R; and I am told,
That family is very old;

While Mrs. Henry must be styled
Only a common clothier's child.”

Must I, good madam, then infer
From what you say, that you prefer
A pedigree to intellect?

That you would have a man select,

Not her whose charms enslave his breast,

Not her whose soul he loves the best,

But her whose uncle is a squire;

Or who can name some distant sire?

If worth by pedigree you span,

A racehorse oft excels a man.

But, hold, I rashly criticise:
First tell me, madam, wherein lies
The merit, or superior worth
That sparkles round a lady's birth?

Tell me what means that mystic word-
'A lady,' which just now I heard?

Upon my word," my friend replied, "Have you not heard of proper pride? A pride of station and of birth Are but a consciousness of worth. That which we feel (say what you list), At least you'll grant me must exist?" "Is pride the test by which you scan A lady or a gentleman?'

"A proper pride is always seen

To dignify a lady's mien."

"But do you mean," said I, "that pride

Can in some form be justified?"

"Yes; we need some to get on well

And keep ourselves respectable;

Lest with the vulgar we be mixed,

Pride forms a boundary line betwixt.

A vulgar man may be defined—

A man without a cultured mind ;'

The men that sweep our chimnies clean,
And all that class of men, I mean."

Thus having drawn the lady out,
I folded both my arms about-
And like some sage philosopher,
Reproachful, thus I answered her :

66

Madam, your ethics seem to me A moral homoeopathy!

Sin's full-brimmed bowl, no doubt, you think Is far too poisonous to drink;

But though too much would make you ill, you'll

Take a little-like a pillule:

'A little pride is proper pride!' Then-(for it cannot be denied

That pride is sin)-you'll have to grant,

A little sin we sinners want?

This is indeed a doctrine new.

Search, madam, all the Scriptures through

No word of pride in moderation,'

From Genesis to Revelation.

Nor can you find me, from beginning
To end, a text on proper sinning.

The Great Physician of the soul,

Who made so many sick ones whole :
Think, what would His opinion be

Of moral homœopathy?

Did He say, 'Blest who get on well,
And keep themselves respectable,
Who with the vulgar herd unmix'd,
Draw the firm boundary line betwixt ? '
No-hear the gentle Saviour speak-
Blest are the persecuted, meek;
Blest who, for My sake, is reviled,
And willing to become a child;
To sit the lowest at the feast,

Nor think himself above the least.'
If any might be proud, 'twas He,
The great Incarnate Deity;
But like a sheep to slaughter led,
He meekly bows His willing head;
And when they drag Him forth to die,
Their scoffs provoke no proud reply.
Then, madam, if we really be
Professing Christianity,

Let's own, at least, that we should do
That which our Master bids us to.
If, as you argue, no one can
Be lady or be gentleman
Without a modicum of pride,
Either Isaiah prophesied

(Chapter the fifty-third) in vain;
Or else the evidence is plain-

Christ could have been no gentleman;
And so, of course, no Christian can:
Perchance, if 'twixt the rich and poor,
We ceased to build the wall so sure,
If (as of old, round Jericho)
The trumpet of goodwill would blow,
High as it is, the tottering wall
At one good hearty shout would fall.
Uncultured minds would not be found
If we would only till the ground
Instead of building barriers round."

At length, I thought it time to
pause-

Not (like a speaker) for applauseBut lest, becoming too elated, The very pride I deprecated Should tinge my words; as when of yore Diogenes-that Cynic boarTrampling on Plato's gilded bed, Exclaimed, "On Plato's pride I tread!" "You do," the smiling sage replied, "You do, with even greater pride!" And I was tired, and she offended, And so the conversation ended.

CLAUD HEIMAR.

III. ITS LUNGS.

66

LD HORACE was an ardent lover of nature, and we may well excuse him for expressing a great truth rather strongly, when he said that, though you may expel nature with a pitchfork, she will always return." All great cities and towns abound in proofs of this fact. Life there has its own peculiar charms, and yet their inhabitants are never content without borrowing from the country as many as possible of its more real attractions; while, on the other hand, as if in revenge, the town is ever making fresh inroads into the country. So it is, that in the most stifling courts and alleys, roses, geraniums, and calceolarias are often to be seen struggling for existence behind the smoke-stained window panes. Square yards- euphemistically called gardenswith a few half-withered shrubs and plants, are highly prized; and public recreation grounds are jealously guarded from the incursions of builders and contractors, as their natural enemies. Indeed, all who are concerned for the physical and moral well-being of the people, should spare no pains to secure and beautify

such precious oases in the dreary desert of bricks and mortar. Great advances have undoubtedly been made in our own modern Babylon towards these ends, although very much remains to be done. The Thames Embankment and the Temple Gardens greatly relieve the gloom of the heart of the Metropolis. Leicester Square is no longer an eye-sore to all lovers of the picturesque, and a laughing-stock to foreigners. Victoria, Finsbury, and Battersea Parks, are priceless boons to all classes-especially the poor. But there are masses of the population at impossible distances from any of these, and many more such health-giving resorts are urgently needed. Spacious, well-planted squares abound in some parts of London; but they are rigidly shut against the public as in a state of siege.

In this respect, the contrast between London and Paris is very striking. There are many French institutions that we Englishmen should be most unwilling to adopt. Here, however, they are far before us. There is scarcely quarter in Paris, where old and young, rich and poor, cannot find close to their doors some pleasant retreat for their leisure hours, or during their long summer evenings. Even the crowded boulevards are planted with shade-giving trees, and furnished with comfortable benches, where the weary may rest without fear of disturbance