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1 лау At last, the silence and suspense I could no long. Upon my mother's lonely grave, and sobbed my er bear,

heart away i LIVING AGE. 37

DXL.

Portrait of a Chefponier

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE — No. 540.- 23 AND 30 SEPT., 1854.

PORTRAIT OF A CHIFFONNIER.

Reader ! as a Tail-piece to the volume, we have imported a portrait of a Parisian : a man about Town. This is not offered as a Fashion-Plate.—You might be able to copy his dressbut could you assume that nonchalance of attitude and manner, which can only be acquired by & long course of leisure and freedom from labor!

fire;

kin;

have gone

THE SOUND OF THE UNKNOWN SEA. And, opening the door, I stepped into the mid

night air. 'Twas on a winter's evening, I was sitting by the fire,

There lay a man, an old, old man—so old, you In idleness unwonted, but employment seemed would have said to tire;

Slowly revolving centuries had rolled above his Some mystic power had lulled my soul-in trance head. as deep and still

I took him up into my arms, and bore him to my As though enthralled by slumber, lay its living thought and will.

But, as I laid him down, I saw its last faint spark

expire. When, suddenly, there came a knock, a feeble knock and low,

No other human being dwelt my lonely home Upon the door; which startled me, and made the

within ; life-blood flow

I was a solitary man, who had nor kith nor Back to my heart, pause there awhile, then coursing round again

To seek for any creature's help, a league I must Bring to the ears a rushing heat, and tingle in each vein.

I felt, that I was there to see the old man die

alone. And yet awhile, I listened ; and then, outside, a sound

The anxious minutes passed away; I chafed his As of something falling heavily, but slowly, to

hands in vain, the ground !

Until the pulses of the heart began to beat Then, utter silence reigned around—a silence

again, dread and drear; I would have given all I had some well known And, by the fitful moon, I saw his eyelids slowly

rise, sound to hear.

Spell-bound, I sat, awed by the look, the weird

look of his eyes. It seemed as if that silence with darkness filled

the room ; 'Twas only that my lamp was spent, that caused Then, slowly lifting up his head, he lent a listen. the sudden gloom;

ing ear, Its flame sank down, then rose again, then show. As if some long expected voice, or sound, he ed one lonely spark,

strove to hear. And very soon that died away, and left me in The night was silent as the grave. But, sinking the dark.

on the floor,

He gasped, “I hear it louder swell, and nearer I felt as if, with that ono spark, my own life's

than before ! fire were spent, But, in a while, I roused myself, and to the case-" I cannot die until I know the meaning of that

sound; ment went ; And, drawing back the curtain, I vainly strained Death will not give me rest, until the answer has

been found; my sight, Till, slowly, from behind a cloud, gleamed out Mightier than death, fuller than life, upon my the pale moon's light.

ear it falls;

Until I know what it may be, Oh, how that Upon the steps below my door, lying across the

sound appals ! snow, I saw then something dark and still, but what I “I heard it first, long years ago, when yet a child did not know;

I lay At last, the silence and suspense I could no long. Upon my mother's lonely grave, and sobbed my er bear,

heart away ; DXL. LIVING AGE. 37

me

Faintly, yet clearly, in the air, I heard its solemn | Or wake glad echoes where no music flows ? tone,

Why to a barren thing As I lay and cried in agony, “I fear to be With senseless ardor cling, alone !”

Or gardens till that never yield a rose ? "And when that day returned each year, I heard Yet when devotion pure the sound again;

Breeds courage to endure, And every year it seemed to grow plainer and and grace to hallow the career of time, yet more plain.

When for another's joy But I know, however weary, I may not rest in Thy moments we employ, peace;

Like clouds by sunbeams lit they grow sublime. For until I learn its meaning, that sound will never cease.”

The tender, true and brave,

Disdain a gift to save He paused; and, as he paused, the moon was In which self only claims a weary part; hidden by a cloud,

Nor would thy course delay And utter darkness wrapped us round, as with To pamper their frail clay, an awful shroud.

And life consume in tricks of soulless art. And presently I heard a noise, a broken gurgling sound,

Haste, then, till thou hast brought That came from where the old man's head had

The good so fondly sought, sunk upon the ground.

And love's bright harvest richly waves at lasti

Then will I call thee mine, Then, broken, faint, and gasping, as in the throes And hail thee as divine, of death,

The present cherish, nor lament the past. I heard these words among the sighs that shook

BENTLEY his dying breath, “I know it now—for Death itself is teaching it to It is the surging on Life's strand, of the tide

HIDDEN LIGHT.
Eternity !”
Tait's Magazine

I Much mistrust the voice

That says all hearts are cold:
That mere self-interest reigns,

And all is bought and sold.
LOVE AND TIME.

I much mistrust the man
Let those lament thy flight,

Who will not strive to find Who find a new delight

Some latent virtue in
In every hour that o'er them swiftly flies;

The soul of all mankind.
Whose hearts are free and strong
As some well-carolled song,

Yes! If you say the fount
That charms the ear with ever fresh surprise.

Is seald and dry, I know

It needs a wiser hand
To Wealth's stern devotee

To make the waters flow.
Too fast the moments flee,
That gainful schemes to golden issues bring;

If you will still appeal
And Fame's deluded child,

To Evil rife in all, By Glory's dream beguiled,

I know a demon band To twine his laurel wreath would stay thy

Will answer to your call. wing.

But when the Lord was gone,
They who have learned to bind

The Lord who came to save,
The warm and restless mind
In soft content to Pleasure's rosy car,

Two Angels fair and bright
May sigh to hold thee back,

Sat watching by the grave.
And linger on the track
That sends no lofty promise from afar.

And from that blessed hour,
But by the heart that turns

With an immortal mein, To those celestial urns

In every tomb of Good
That with love's dew for 'ever overflow,

Some Angel sits unseen.
Uncherished are the years
No sympathy endears,

The spell to bring it forth?
When all thy flowers droop beneath the snow.

With lowly gentle mind,

With patient love and trust, What holy spell is thine

Go seek-and ye shall find ! To bless å lonely shrine,

(Household Words.

From the Examiner.

are simply gross, and Tom Killigrew's crude and Songs from the Dramatists. Edited by Robert artificial. Beli . (Annotated Edition of the English here that might not have been anticipated. A

On the other hand, some things will be found Poets.) Parker & Son.

few plays with nothing else in them worth pre

servation have supplied an excellent song; and It is a very serious amount of labor to which others that had long been consigned to oblivion Mr. Bell necessarily subjects himself when he by their dulness or depravity, have unexpectedundertakes the editing of a monthly volume lý thrown up an occasional stanza of permanent of our standard English poetry, with so much value. popular annotation as shall supply what is The superiority in all qualities of sweetness, needed for a reasonable understanding of each thoughtfulness, and purity of the writers of the poet by the multitude of readers. It is a la-sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth bor too, that demands no trifling qualifications, ted in these productions. The dramatic songs

century over their successors is strikingly exhibi. natural and acquired; fine taste and matured of the age of Elizabeth and

James I. are distinhabits of study, with love for the kind of guished as much by their delicacy and chastity work even in its least kindly aspect, as pure of feeling, as by their vigor and beauty. The work, difficult and unremitting.

change that took place under Charles II. was sudThe eighth of Mr. Bell's monthly volumes den and complete. With the Restoration, love is before us. We have never felt the editor disappears, and sensuousness takes its place.unequal to his task, but if any such feeling Voluptuous without taste or sentiment, the songs had existed, this volume of Songs from the of that period may be said to dissect in broad Dramatists would have sufficed for its complete daylight the life of the town, laying bare with reextinction. The conception of it belongs

volting shamelessness the tissues of its most sewholly to Mr. Bell. The songs of our elder tomy required some variation to relieve its same

cret vices. But as this species of morbid anadramatists have, with a few exceptions, re-ness, the song sometimes transported the libertinmained scattered about their works, and Mr. ism into the country, and through the medium Bell is the first editor who has acted upon the of a sort of Covent-garden pastoral exhibited the admirable idea of concentrating all their grace fashionable delinquencies in a masquerade of and quaintness into the form of a collection Strephons and Chlorises, no better than the which must have to every reader, more or less Courtalls and Loveits of the comedies. The costhe charm of a new volume of Standard lyrics. tume of innocence gave increased zest to the

To carry out this idea thoroughly, it was worth dissolute wit, and the audiences seem to have while to examine the whole mass of our dra- been delighted with the representation of their matic literature down to the times of Wycher-verdant images, and the affectation of rural sim

own licentiousness in the transparent disguise of ly and Congreve, even to turn over dross in plicity. It helped them to a spurious ideal, which which the required gold might lie hidden, in rarely, however, lasted out to the end of the rerse. the hope of finding, as Mr. Bell has sometimes The subsequent decline of the drama is sensibly found, a good song lost in a bad play. But felt in the degeneracy of its lyrics. The interval, let the editor, to whose skill and patience we from the end of the seventeenth century to the owe this most choice addition to our libraries, close of the eighteenth, presents a multitude of speak for himself :

songs, chiefly, however, in operas which do not

come strictly within the plan of this volume ; The labor which is not represented in the en- but, with a few solitary exceptions, they are trisuing pages considerably exceeded the labor liant genius of Sheridan alone shines out with which has borne the fruit and flowers gathered into this little book. Many hundreds of plays conspicuous lustre, and terminates the series with have been examined without yielding any results, a gaiety and freshness that may be regarded as or such only as in their nature were unavailable. a revival of the spirit with which it opens. Some names will be missed from the catalogue

The addition of a few songs from the plays of dramatic writers, and others will be found to contribute less than might be looked for from

of Sheridan—they occupy but three pages their celebrity; but in all such cases a satisfac- was prompted, we think, by an impulse of tory explanation can be given. Marlowe's plays, good taste. The close of the collection, howfor example, do not contain a single song, and ever, corresponds naturally with the close of Greene's only one. Southerne abounds in songs, the seventeenth century. but they are furnished chiefly by other writers, It begins of course in the sixteenth. The and are of the most commonplace character:- first songs in the collection are from the first Etherege has several broken snatches of drinking known English comedy, not " Gammer Gyrrhymes and choruses dancing through his come ton's Needle," but the play that has taken hisdies, full of riotous animal spirits soaring to the torical precedence of that, “ Ralph Roister rably suited to ventilate the profligacy of the

day, Poister,” by Nicholas Udall or Uvedale, a rodbut for the most part they are either unfit for loving headmaster of Westminster three hunextract from their coarseness, or have not sub- dred years ago, whose career is sketched by stance enough to stand alone. Wycherley's songs Mr. Bell in a preliminary notice, by which, as

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