were going a six months voyage: but are glad nevertheless when they are "off" at last. In one part of the vessel may be seen a father, with the aforementioned "Steam-boat Companion," pointing out and explaining in a loud voice to the little group who surround him all the objects individual in that brief holyday, while even Lucy worked on mechanically, and forgot the weary pain that was fast wearing away her young life in listening to them; and when it seemed worse than usual, she would take out her little smelling-bottle, and feel that it did her good even to look at it. Struck with the alter-worthy of attention as they glide past; while, ation in the listless, hopeless countenances of her workwomen, Madame seriously reflected whether it would not be a matter of policy to renew the occasion of it from time to time; but she was, unfortunately for them, interrupted in the midst of her meditations by a large mourning order, and will in all probability never again recur to the subject. It is a general custom with our London tradesmen who are "well to do in the world," as the saying is, to have their annual holyday, and long may it continue to be so. For such, Margate and Ramsgate have been for years the fashionable resort, although in these days of cheap excursions, and pleasant railway trips, they would seem to be going somewhat out of repute. Troops of well-dressed girls with their portly-looking mammas, may, however, still be seen crowding the sea-girt haunts of their favourite watering-place. The former inhaling its breezes, with all due regard to complexion, through thick green or purple veils, and protected by parasols; and the latter resolutely defying the effect of sun and air, in order that the neighbours may see they have been enjoying themselves. While of a Sunday, and, perhaps, once or twice in the week beside, the happy father, casting all care behind him, comes to share and enhance by his presence the merriment of their brief holyday. Those who cannot afford to leave home entirely, console themselves in general with a day's trip to Gravesend. As the very poorest have, at a trifling expense, the noble park at Greenwich open to their wanderings, and we know not of a sweeter spot for the holyday seeker-a fact amply attested by the thousands who crowd eagerly thither in the summer time. It is both curious and interesting for the careful observer on board one of those little steamers which ply every half hour between London and Greenwich, to notice the striking contrast between the business and pleasure-seeking portion of the passengers. The former most probably have a book or a newspaper, or may be seen to draw forth certain papers, in the contents of which they are soon completely absorbed, while one or two of the younger men smoke cigars, gazing listlessly into the water without seeing it, or with equal abstraction upon the faces of their fellow-passengers, unless, indeed, it should happen to be a very pretty girl. Those out for a holyday are, on the contrary, in a restless and perpetual state of excitement. They lay in a stock of fruit and cakes, and buy "Punch," or "The Steam-boat Companion,' or "The Guide to Greenwich," and examine, with a longing eye, pocket pen-knives with eight different blades, and spectacles warranted the very best that were ever bought, just as if they a little further off, a young man with long hair, a ring on his little finger, and a lady on his arm, is looking and causing her to look as happy as it is possible for two mortal beings to do. Presently the musicians, par complaisance, come round to know if some lady or gentleman would not like to choose a tune; whereupon a young wag of a lawyer's clerk winks to his party as he names one Italian air after another, until the poor man is perfectly bewildered, and finally leaves the choice to his pretty little sister Anne. What shall it be, Tom?" asks the girl, appealing to one of her companions, who somehow by a strange chance always happens to be nearest. "Nannie wilt thou gang wi' me?" was the prompt reply. And while the brother laughed the sister blushed, and the greatly relieved musicians commenced playing with all their might: Tom had an opportunity of whispering just what he liked. On the other side of the steamer was a happylooking couple surrounded by a group of children; and when the music struck up nothing would do but the youngest, a little toddling thing about three years of age, must dance; and so she did with great determination, to the evident delight of her mother and all the married and single ladies present, especially the latter, who called her "a little love!" and asked how old she was, being of course duly astonished at her extraordinary precocity. One comfortable motherly looking dame, going, as she told them, to spend the day with a married daughter at Greenwich, mentioned a little grandchild, four years old, who could actually dance the Polka! After which, many equally astonishing instances of juvenile talent were related. But from time to time one of the party, habited in deep mourning, might have been observed to turn away her head to conceal the starting tear occasioned by such reminiscences; it may be, those who had once, with their joyous wiles and innocent caresses, made life seem one long holyday to her, were no more. A little distance from the pier at which they landed stood a beggar and her child, half clad and shivering, although it was the bright summer time. The young clerk flung her a sixpence as he passed, whispering to his sister, as if in excuse for the action, that he had come out on purpose to spend his money; while the mother of the dancing girl followed his example, be cause her kind heart ached for the poor child; and she could not have enjoyed herself all day if she had not done so. The lady in mourning added to her mite kind words, dearer still to the heart of that wretched outcast; sorrow had made her pitiful to others. The rest passed on absorbed in business or pleasure, while the beggar woman stole away to buy bread for her hungry child-perhaps she too had her holyday. Fain would we follow our various parties into the glorious old park; and tell how the lovers he of the long hair, and she of the bright eyes, wandered away all by themselves where the shadow fell deepest, and few people came; and how the good mother grew tired at last, and the little dancing girl too, but soon rallied beneath the influence of tea and shrimps; and how the landlady lifted up her eyes, astonished at their appetite, and thanked her stars she had no children, while the father and mother looked quietly on as though they were used to it, and would rather, as they often said, pay the baker than the doctor; and how nothing would suit the young clerk but they must all go to Blackheath, and have their fortunes told; and his little sister would have fain shrunk back, but Tom drew her arm through his, and enjoyed her blushing and confusion with a deeper feeling than the mere love of fun; and how the gipsy, who, if she were no prophetess, was at least no fool, actually foretold things just as they afterwards came to pass the only mystery that hung about her prediction being one particular clause which no one could get Anne to confess whether or not ever came to pass-that she would be kissed by a dark man before the day was over. Well, after all, that did not much matter, since the rest of the prophecy was duly realized. But it has struck us all of a sudden that our readers may like a holyday as well as ourselves; and we hasten to conclude a paper that might have else been spun out into volumes-golden records of life's brightest, sunniest hours! After all, the dying bequest of the good old Greek, proved him a philosopher indeed. We only wish there were more such in our own times. LAMENT OF A POLISH EXILE, On returning, in disguise, and revisiting his native land, soon after its overthrow by the Russians. BY WILLIAM HENRY FISK. POLAND my birth-place and my kinsmen's land, Thou treasured home so worshipped by my siresWhere are the smiles that decked thy lovely band, Ere War last gathered round her midnight fires? The smiles which Peace last shed upon thy browAre they all dead? or, do they linger now, Again to burst to life e'en from thy blood-stained snow? Alas! the sun o'er WARSAW ne'er shall rise Died he for this? and did their spirits flee No more soft music woos the wanderer's ear; Now, for soft music, peals the martial drum; Now, savage foes recline her hills between, scene. In vain, swift torrents, thus ye pour your tears, POLAND is dead, and ne'er shall be again! POLAND thy children fought as heroes fight; Heroic were their deeds, which, all untold, Have sunk with thee into oblivion's nightSunk in the past, which time shall ne'er unfold: They fighting fell, and falling, fell, to die! Swift reeled the scene, dim was each steadfast eye, And dire the thought of dawning misery. Heaped in thy ruins, buried in thy fall, The foeman's boast, but not the foeman's spoil; Earth for their bier, a nation for their pall, They sleep where death bereaved them of their toil; Wreathed with the cypress, dark and ever drear, They rest, nor show one trace of hope or fear, Save on some anguished cheeks there lies, congealed, a tear. And for thee died the good, the bright, the brave, Can earth forget it, when ten thousand cries And could'st thou, Albion, from thy green isle gaze, First-born of liberty, unbowed, unbent, And bid thee let the old, the young, the brave, Down 'mid their ruins sink to an untimely grave? One near that sheltered spot Fortune around his lot Rich gifts had cast; Slowly his footsteps stray Gay visions fill. Soft stole the stranger on, Long that smooth brow upon "Oh! that such rest were mine! And to my sleep like thine Sweet dreams were sent." Tears o'er his earnest gaze Silently start; Thoughts of forgotten days Steal round his heart; When with his day-dreams fair, All that the world calls great, Glory and high estate On him had smil'd: Yet had he falsehood found, Then came the yearning thought Would it be vain, If he with fervour sought Sweet peace to gain? The business with which Sir Ronald Elliot was intrusted by government (for he combined two things in this trip of pleasure), led him to Constantinople; and as he could not persuade his guests that Turkey would be infinitely more interesting than Italy, for a brief residence, he permitted them, after a month's delicious cruise, to embark at the nearest port to Florence, to which fair city they were bound, for thither, though she said but little, Florence's wishes turned. it in her presence. Yet he persevered in his resolution, that she should never know how she was beloved, till she was happy enough to be awake to the consciousness that she had yet the power of charming one in unselfish reverence to her side. She seemed to him as one too pure, too unearthly in her high and beautiful excellence, to be approached with aught of worldly passion, and so, though his limbs trembled with suppressed emotion as he came to bid her farewell, every feeling was effectually concealed. day dream? Who might answer? There are mysteries in the human heart, depths and capabilities of suffering and of enjoyment, which even their possessor can scarcely define, and how, then, may they be described to others? The Countess often wondered if the wish to visit the scene of her mother's last sufferings ever crossed her mind, but she never alluded to it, nor did Florence. Strength, as Sir Charles Brashleigh pre- And at last Florence was in Italy! Was it dicted, had partially returned; and the great the spirit of her own ill-fated mother at work, benefit which she had derived from the sea which caused her whole being to thrill with such breezes, and continually changing scene, argued a mingled sense of pain and pleasure that her well for the hopes of her friends. Lady St. feeble frame could scarcely sustain it, as she Maur, indeed, still in secret trembled; for to gazed on those scenes of nature, those exquiher affection it seemed, that the returning elas-site models of art, which had been so long her ticity was merely temporary, and that Florence would at length sink, not from the terrible trials she had undergone, but from that dark and fatal secret, which, with all a woman's sympathy, she felt was crushing life beneath its weight. Lord St. Maur could not feel this, because hope was so strongly at work within him; young Elliot so entirely forgot it, except as rendering her in his eyes a being still more demanding love and cherishing, that he could not believe that it could weigh so heavily on her. Still, by neither word nor sign did he betray the devoted love which in reality he felt; though to a mind less pre-spatches awaiting him from England. It was occupied, his almost reverential manner of addressing her, of superintending all the little kindnesses which could tend to her comfort, might have betrayed something deeper than mere regard. Lord St. Maur had departed on a private expedition, a week or ten days after their arrival at Florence, and on his return he found several de easy for his wife to read in his features that his search had not been in vain, and that Elford's tale really had foundation; but the peculiar expression which attended the perusal of an enclosure from Lord Edgemere, was even to her penetration incomprehensible. It was speedily explained. The little party broke up with regret, only softened by the idea of their very shortly meeting again-on Captain Elliot's return from the Florence, I have news for you. Are you Sublime Porte, when it would be decided whe- strong enough to hear them?" inquired Lady ther they were to accompany him again to the St. Maur, entering her friend's boudoir the folSouth of France, or return to England over-lowing morning, and finding her reclining on a land. However he might believe that to wor- sofa, resting from the fatigue of inditing a long ship as an unknown devotee would content him, letter to Minie. Sir Ronald found that this worship, apart from its idol, was something very different to paying | Ida? "News, requiring strength to hear, dearest (Lady St. Maur had long since insisted that Florence should drop her title.) What can What of her?" "Nothing of her, you apprehensive being; besides, if it were, my news are of joy, not of sorrow!" "Joy!-and for me!" "Why, are there no news which can be fraught with joy for you, Florence? Think, is there nothing-nothing in the whole range of thought and wish, which you have lingered on, which, if discovered, would bring joy?" "Nothing, but that which is impossible," replied Florence, despondingly. little appearance of his accomplishing it. When, however, you became ill, and Sir Charles mentioned Italy and a voyage, as likely to restore you, he was quite as anxious to try it as Ronald himself, still hoping-a hope, I candidly own, I could not share-that the papers did exist, and would be found. You sacrificed your own desire, to keep your fatal secret hid from all, in my favour, dearest Florence, that I might not be burdened with a secret which I might not impart to my husband; and to this sacrifice of self you owe a discovery, which, I trust, you will eventually own is fraught with joy. To tell you all in a few words-the Earl's secret expedition was to the source of the Arno, and there, true both to Mrs. Leslie's manuscripts and El"Do not say so, dearest, it is unlike your ford's narrative, he found the village cure, the trusting faith, to imagine there is any one thing superstitious host, and the long-desired casket. impossible to Him who watches over us, till all So easily had every difficulty at length been things meet together for our good. Have you never overcome, that my husband had scarcely courage thought, never believed, that your own poor mo- to examine the papers, fearing now he really ther had grounds for her assertion that her | had them, that they were not those he sought." child's birth was as legal as her own marriage?" "But they were!-they were!" burst passion"Yes, that she had grounds, perhaps proofs ately from the parched lips of Florence. to satisfy herself-but not the world, for even she might have been deceived." "Do you remember in Mrs. Leslie's MS. that she alludes to a search for papers, which she imagined her poor friend had really obtained, but that none were found?" 66 Perfectly; but I believe with my dear father, that it was merely the excitement of fever which made her thus speak-not actual possession." "And suppose there really had been such papers, and by a most providential concatination of circumstances they had been traced and found, and all mystery respecting your birth dispelled. Florence, dearest, I must be silent, if you give way to agitation such as this-" "No! no! no!" gasped poor Florence, struggling with the excitement which nearly overpowered her, "tell me all that you have learned. I am strong enough to bear it. Can it be, that after such a lapse of years, they can be discovered; that all may yet be revealed?" "I bade you hope, my Florence, when I had little hope myself," replied Lady St. Maur. "Little to build on, but the words of my husband, narrating a curious tale which had met his ears in Italy, disregarded at the time, but recalled by the perusal of Mrs. Leslie's MS." She here related briefly that with which our readers are already acquainted, and continued-"Lord St. Maur did all he could to obtain farther information of these young men. Elford he did not know personally; George Lacy, Elford's particular friend, was seized with a mania to travel all over the world; for my husband could not get a letter to reach him, until, I think, full eight months after his first attempt. Lacy's information only consisted in stating, that Elford was with his regiment in India, and not expected to return for four or five years. As this was the case, my husband felt there was little chance of his obtaining the papers, except by going to Italy himself. It was just about the time of Minie's marriage, and then there was Dearest, they were even those very papers to which your unhappy mother's dying words alluded. It is clear that Madeleine, ill and suffering as she was, must have sought for and found the abbé who had united them, obtained from him the certificate of their marriage, and also a written document, proving, on oath, not only the truth and sanctity of his cloth, which in the wildness of her agony she appears to have doubted; but that a notorious fact concerning this Charles Neville, having met his ear, he had positively refused to marry them, unless Mr. Neville would take the most solemn oath, and bring papers to testify, that he was uniting himself to Madeleine Montain under his real name. This was done, papers signed to that effect were given to the reverend priest's care, who, in his simplicity, inferred the repentance of the bridegroom, and his pure love for his beautiful bride, by the little resistance he made to this proposal. Alas! ere the year was passed, the cause for this seeming submission was explained. Neville wrote to the old man, tauntingly and triumphantly, alluding to the compact he had made, but that it was idle and useless all; did he believe him such a dolt as to forge chains for himself, which he could not break at his will? At the very time the abbé had united him as Charles Neville, to the deceived Madeleine, he said his father was using every effort and expending large sums of money in changing the name, and that he had succeeded. Not alone was the name of Neville banished for ever, but a title was in prospect, and when obtained, what search, what claim could ever identify him as the husband of Madeleine, the father of her child?" "But he acknowledged he knew she was his wife!" exclaimed Florence, strongly agitated. "Alas! alas, my mother! Yet this satisfaction was at least her own." 'It was. Her search for the Abbé Gramont was at least not entirely in vain. Convinced |