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Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents.



'Tis not that she is grown less fair, BY ALBERT PIKE.

'Tis not that other maids eclipse A poem with this title, and with some of these verses, The winsome sweetness of her hair was published in No. 2485, credited to William Cowan.

And lips. LIFE is a count of losses,

'Tis not that Fortune's cruel smile Every year;

Ilas shone on her and cast a shade For the weak are heavier crosses, Every year;

Upon the modest little pile

I've made.
Lost Springs with sobs replying
Unto weary Autumns' sighing,
While those we love are dying,

'Tis not ambition makes her scorn
Every year.

A set of rooms in Peckham Rye,
Heroes in just such homes are born

And die.
The days have less of gladness,

Every year;
The nights more weight of sadness,

No mother's icy looks appal,
Every year;

No father's menace holds me back, Fair Springs no longer charm us,

They always welcome me and call
The winds and weather harm us,

Me Jack.
The threats of Death alarm us,
Every year.

'Tis not, I swear, thrice-hideous thought!

That I am fickle, false, or cold,
There come new cares and sorrows,

As soon might truth itself be bought
Every year;

And sold.
Dark days and darker morrows,
Every year;

'Tis simply Time's insidious hand The ghosts of dead loves haunt us,

Has sapped her empire in my heart, The ghosts of changed friends taunt us,

And dulled alike Love's raptures and

His smart.
And disappointments daunt us,
Every year.

It's idle to pretend I pine,
To the Past go more dead faces,

And say my mirth is sorrow's cloak, Every year;

When with such zest I daily dine

And smoke. As the loved leave vacant places,

Every year; Everywhere the sad eyes meet us,

So then since Time has put an end In the evening's dusk they greet us,

To dreams that made my pulses stir, And to come to them entreat us,

I hope he's proved as kind a friend
Every year.

To her.

Cornhill Magazine. “You are growing old,” they tell us,

Every year;
You are more alone,” they tell us,

“Every year;
You can win no new affection,

You have only recollection,
Deeper sorrow and dejection,

My life is full of scented fruits;
Every year."

My garden blooms with stocks and cloves;

Yet o'er the wall my fancy shoots,
Too true! — Life's shores are shifting, And hankers after harsher loves.

Every year;
And we are seaward drifting,

Ah! why — my foolish heart repines —
Every year;

Was I not housed within a waste?
Old places, changing, fret us,

These velvet flowers and syrup-wines
The living more forget us,

Are sweet, but are not to my taste.
There are fewer to regret us,
Every year.

A howling moor, a wattled hut,

A piercing smoke of sodden peat,
But the truer life draws nigher,

The savor of a russet nut,
Every year;

Would make my weary pulses beat.
And its Morning-star climbs higher,
Every year;

O stupid brain that kindly swerves !
Earth's hold on us grows slighter,

O heart that strives not, nor endures ! And the heavy burthen lighter,

Since flowers are hardships to your nerves, And the Dawn Immortal brighter,

Thank heaven a garden-lot is yours!
Every year.



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From Blackwood's Magazine. graphs headed “ Matrimonial Sporting," PLEASURE.

admitted detailed accounts of the raciest WHEN Sainte-Beuve published his ro-crim. con. and abduction cases. This mance “ Volupté,” he showed some solici- gave the lover of legitimate sport a bad tude for the scruples of those who might start. A periodical conducted on such take alarm at such an equivocal title, ex-broad lines might well strengthen the plaining to them frankly in the preface opinion held by some serious persons that that his book, though written with a seri. all sport involves disreputable associaous moral purpose, was not meant for tions, and helped, no doubt, to bring it those who were too strait-laced to have about that many people in this country feeling for human foibles. At the same still think and speak coyly of pleasure, as time, he dismissed rather contemptuously if it were in itself a hurtful or obnoxious those who might be lured to peruse it by thing. the very same appearance of evil that Nevertheless, rightly understood, pleasscared the others, remarking that he did ure is the chief object of all human gov. not concern himself though they would ernment – the art, namely, of making certainly be disappointed. Montaigne, on people pleased or happy; and it would not the other hand, anticipating Helvetius by be less rational to condemn religion bethree centuries in declaring that, even in cause of the cruelties that have been virtue, the principal aim of man is pleas-inflicted in its name, or art because some ure, found a mischievous delight in scan. good pictures have an immoral tendency, dalizing prudes. “Il me plaist de battre as to inveigh against pleasure because leurs aureilles de ce mot (la volupté) qui some people pursue it selfishly or find leur est si fort à contre-ceur:”“I delight in it unworthy objects. 'Ορθώς χαίρειν, to in dinning into their ears this word which enjoy rightly, is one of the surest precepts is so odious to them."

of human happiness; and it is difficult Of the two examples, that of Sainte. for a layman to put his finger on any deBeuve is the safer for a writer in these nunciation of pleasure, as such, in either days to follow, and to acknowledge that Old or New Testament. There is some. the word which stands at the head of this thing of insincerity, something unmanly, page is one of doubtful reputation. It in the conventional attitude assumed has been too often seen in bad company; towards pleasure by professing Christians. noscitur a sociis it is looked on askance We are constantly seeking it, yet we deby steady-going people, as if it were a clare abhorrence of pleasure-seekers; we synonym for revelry, debauchery, promis- profess to despise it, yet the whole effort cuous junketings, horse-racing, card-play of the nations is to obtain it. Montaigne, ing, and suchlike.

distinguished for frankness rather than Towards the close of last century there sternness of philosophy, makes no bones was started the Sporting Magazine, which about this:“ Toutes les opinions du monde ran a career neither inglorious nor unprof- en sont là, que le plaisir est notre but; itable to the publishers, for upwards of quoyqu'elles en prennent divers moyens ; seventy years. The title-page of the ear- aultrement on les chasseroit d'arrivée; lier numbers undertakes that “the Turf, car qui escouteroit celuy qui, pour sa fin, the Chace, and every other Diversion inter- establiroit nostre peine et mesaise ?” esting to the Man of Pleasure ” will be fully This contradiction of profession and dealt with. It must be confessed that practice arises in part from sheer hypocsome of the contents of the magazine were risy, in part from imperfectly understandsuch as to favor the sinister significance ing the true nature of pleasure, or, as it of the term “ Man of Pleasure ;" for the may please some to put it (though the editor took a catholic view of sport, and phrase so arranged is neither so comprenot only interlarded the records of the hensive por so explicit), the nature of chase with annals of the cock-pit and the true pleasure. Christians, it is true, are prize-ring, and realistic descriptions of told to rejoice when men shall speak evil public executions, but, in certain para- l of them and persecute them, and this

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seems sometimes to be interpreted as an It is delicious to picture the prolix and injunction to make themselves so unge. erudite Anatomist of Melancholy being nial and disagreeable as to bring upon lured out of his den in Christ Church to themselves the natural consequences of join “ tempestively” in the dance ; was it being disliked ; but it is certain there is moments like these that led the "ancients nothing good or to be grateful for in evil. of Christ Church” to assure Anthony speaking and persecution, and no merit in a-Wood "that his company was very enduring or courting such treatment, ex. merry, facete, and juvenile? ” cept so far as it is a sign that those who If we may start with the assumption incur it are taking a course opposed to the that pleasure is a good and right thing, will and practice of worldly men. But one to be desired, and therefore one that even such martyrs are not called on to it is worth taking some trouble to secure, resign all idea of pleasure forevermore; then it will not be wasting time to consider the enjoyment is but postponed, “ for great its true nature and remark upon some of is their reward in heaven." Throughout the more frequent and remediable hin. Scripture pleasure is pronounced a good drances to its attainment, as well as to and right thing, and therefore to be de point out the common neglect of some of sired. “I know that there is no good in its purest sources. them," says the preacher, " but for a man Pleasure, then, not in the limited, painto rejoice, and to do good in his life. And fully technical sense in which Sainte-Beuve also that every man should eat and drink, used the word, but in the full meaning of and enjoy the good of all his labor, it is enjoyment and delight, is indeed one of the gift of God.”

the most difficult subjects that can possibly Thorough though our persuasion may be submitted to analysis. Seek and ye be that ours is no continuing city, and that shall not find it, unless your search is we are on the way to a better world, there wisely directed. Often it eludes the most is no merit in making our journey thither elaborate plans and costly preparation for uncomfortable.

its capture. Equally often it springs out What is the aim of all philanthropy but unawares upon the wayfarer when he is pleasure in the present ? what is the prom-least looking for it, meets him with frankise of every religion but pleasure in the est countenance where its presence would future? With what consistency can the be least suspected. Thus the ordinary honest believer undervalue pleasure, when scheme of social entertainment is devised the Psalmist declares that at the Lord's to encourage that most precious of all “right hand are pleasures forevermore?" earthly joys — human intercourse. The Even Jeremiah, the eponymus of all that stranger wandering through London on is doleful, is constrained to offer pleasure some night in June finds himself in a street as the reward of righteousness: "Then crowded with glittering carriages, a con. shall the virgin rejoice in the dance, both stant stream of airily dressed, bejewelled, young men and old together;" yet there and beflowered men and women flows lingers among certain sects a feeling, ex- across the carpeted steps of a spacious pressed in Petrarch's description of the mansion ; strains of exquisite music float dance, as quoted by Burton, as "a circle through open windows into the summer of which the devil himself is the centre ; night; glimpses may be had of staircases many women that use it have come dis. and shaded balconies bright with all the honest home; most indifferent; none flowers of fairyland. To the poor wanbetter.” Burton himself, after citing the derer it seems impossible to imagine enmost furious denunciations of it as well as joyment more complete than that prepared what has been written in its praise, was for those privileged to meet their friends led to the following conclusion : “ This is in such a lovely scene; and turning away my censure in brief; dancing is a pleasant with an envious sigh, he betakes himself recreation of body and mind, if sober and to his lonely lodging to dream of delights modest (such as our Christian dances are), that are far beyond his reach. Beyond his if tempestively used.”

reach only, does he think? He little

knows! Conversation has been described - neither inaptly nor irreverently-as the communion of saints, but, in some of its phases, it is pretty well disguised.


Going to Lady Midas's to-night?" inquires a weary looking woman of one whom she meets dining at a friend's house, who, elderly and overfed, finds it a task almost beyond her powers to keep awake till the men come up from the dining-room.

"Yes," replies the second, ineffectually smothering a yawn; "we must just show ourselves there, I suppose. But it's a bore; for there are two or three balls tonight, and it is such a bad place to get away from."

Or perhaps it is among the men that the popular aspect of Lady Midas's magnificent entertainment reveals itself.

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is far from unattainable; for that may turn up suddenly, without the slightest preparation, in a chance meeting on a railway journey or (this has actually happened) in a dentist's waiting-room. The fact is, elaborate preparations are more likely to scare than to secure pleasure. To quote some expressive words of Mr. Dallas: "Pleasure seldom gives note of her coming. She comes like an angel - unheard, unseen, unknown; and not till she is gone or parting from us are our eyes opened to what we have enjoyed."

The nature of the object sought after is not in itself of the essence of pleasure. There is, perhaps, no engine of ease more consummately designed for its purpose than a modern bed, with its liberal expanse of resilient mattress and alternate layers of snowy flax and creamy wool, by which temperature and weight of covering may be adjusted with the last degree of nicety. As a machine for repose it really leaves nothing to be desired; yet how completely, after all, does the enjoyment of it depend on circumstances beyond the occupant's control. There is no half-hour of physical enjoyment so unalloyed as that before getting up in the morning. The limbs revel in the delicate contact of fine linen and the amorous pressure of the mattress. Is one too warm? There are unexplored recesses under the sheets stored with refreshing coolness, into which feet and arms may be thrust. Is one chilly? There is the eider-down quilt, light as a lover's whisper and warm as his nymph's embrace, to draw over the top. Nor is it merely an hour of sensuous ease. There is none in the whole round of the clock when the intellect is so active, or when thought flows so quick and so clear. A thoughtful host remembers this, and makes bedside book-shelves as integral a part of bedroom furniture as a wash-hand-stand or a wardrobe. Yet, to the bedridden, what is this bed but Gehenna? The same sheets, the same springs, the same decorous luxury is there, but they confer no pleasure

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage.

The sick man loathes the very same couch which, when healthy, he was often too laggard in leaving; and when visitors come, bringing with them the smell of the field and the wood, his whole being yearns to be out in the free air, to feel the glorious sun, or to cower in the bitter blast.

Again to the student-the genuine helluo librorum - books are all in all; give him a generous supply of these and he is satisfied, he wants no more; he even grudges the time spent in taking food, rest, or necessary exercise; in extreme cases he becomes indifferent to living

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