PERE LA CHAISE.

Amid its tones half pensive, half in glee,
Is heard the farewell of the Autumn hours,
Murmured in fading words and by the sea
And round fair homes, where late in golden
showers

[The following verses were suggested by a
visit to the resting-place of Béranger. He is
buried by the side of Manuel, one of the patri.
otic statesmen of 1830. The same tombstone
commemorates both names; on the one side is
engraved the extract from Manuel's speech,
given below; the other is covered with immor-But the blue sea unchanged around the isles
telles and other offerings to the poet.]

Two great names carved upon a simple stone;
Two great hearts mouldering 'neath the same
green grass;

The patriot's voice, the poet's softer tone,
Ceasing together, into silence pass.

The one was bred to arms, and served the State;
Soldier and senator, he stood his ground,-
A star of battle, ruler of debate,

Firm against hostile ranks or storms of sound.
A spotless knight of France, he knew to wield
Weapons of reason keener than his sword:
'Twas yesterday that I refused to yield

To force, to-day I come to keep my word."
The lines are there in iron, countersigned

By Manuel, who assailed the people's wrongs;
With his, some happy choice has intertwined
The memory of him who sang their songs.

Béranger, bard of cottage homes and king

Of cottage hearths, around thy shrine are
hung

Their votive wreaths, the village maidens bring
The wild spring flowers I see so sweetly

strung.

Old men and youths pay homage to thy name,
And every hamlet must its offering send;
This little crown is worth all Cæsar's fame-

"A poor man's tribute to his father's friend."
Dost thou look down, from some serener shore,
Dear poet, on this gentle spot of carth?
Is it not something to be held in store

Forever by the land that gave thee birth?
And here, where yet the weeping willows wave,
And many a tear bedews the mossy bed,
I muse on memories of the double grave,

On great deeds done and great things nobly
said.

Peace to the ashes of the good and brave!
Remote from change they rest, whate'er be-
tide,

Beneath the soil they lived to grace and save,
The soldier and the singer side by side.
-Spectator.

J. N.

THE LAST DAY OF OCTOBER, 1862.
THE sea is calm and beautiful to-day,

As if fair Summer still o'er land and wave
Wielded her sceptre, and the south winds play

Among the withered leaves, and seem to crave
The beauty that lies low in many a floweret's
grave.

The summer sunlight fell and pierced their vine-clad bowers.

Pours its vast flood and gently ebbs and flows, Unvexed by storms, while heaven above it. smiles,

And earth looks on wrapped in its own repose,

Unheeding how they lie, dead violet and
crushed rose.

Welcome calm Autumn days, whose hours distil
Immortal essence for the undying soul!
How should we bear life's varied good and ill,
How strive these deep heart-yearnings to con-
trol,

Were Nature's chalice drained-her page an
empty scroll!
-Transcript.

A DRIFTING LEAF.
FROM THE ITALIAN.

H. J. L

"EARLY torn from thy tree,
Faded emblem of grief,
Whither goest, poor leaf?"
"'Tis a mystery to me:
"Ever since that wild day

When the hurricane broke
From my home, the huge oak,
Mighty branches away;
"The north wind, or west,

From the hill to the plain,

From the mead to the main,
Whirl me where they like best.
"With my fate need I quarrel?
I go where all goes,-
With the leaf of the Rose,
And the leaf of the Laurel."

HOPE.

—Spectator.

WHEN I do think on thee, sweet Hope, and bow,
Thou followest on our steps, a coaxing child
Oft chidden hence, yet quickly reconciled,
Still turning on us a glad, beaming brow,
And red, ripe lips for kisses; even now

Thou mindest me of Him, the Ruler mild,
Who led God's chosen people through the
wild,

And bore with wayward murmurs, meek as thou
That bringest waters from the rock, with bread
Of angels strewing carth for us! Like Him
Thy force abates not, nor thine eye grows

dim;

But still with milk and honey-droppings fed,
Thou leadest to the promised country fair,
Though thou, like Moses, mayst not enter
there!

It seems to myself that the notion was clever,
(It came as I wandered by ocean, apart)
Thy fibre to take, and to make the endeavor
To give drooping labor another fresh start.
Zostera Marina, though Manchester slumbers,
And sneers apathetic my labors requite,
I'm happy to know that inventors in numbers

Believe that my notion's substantially right.
So, Zostera Marina, though wise folks are calling
My project a thing that can never succeed,
He'll never climb high who's too frightened of
falling:

The proof of the pudding's in eating, my weed.
-Punch.

COCKNEY CRITICISM.-Among the notices of new music wherewith some of our contemporaries at times delight the world, we see it said of one morceau pour le piano," that"The sparkling roulades of the birds are rendered with great effect."

in the heading to this letter. There is a set of
benevolent-at least nobody is benevolent-but
there is a set of sensible people who call them-
taken photographs, capital ones, of all that is
selves the Stereoscopic Company. They have
worth seeing in Fowkeria, and you can just buy
these and a stereoscope, and in a few minutes
you know all about the Exhibition, and a good
deal more than most people who have tried to
see it. Then there's the delicious quiet, and
you can look as long as you like at the Venus or
the Reading Girl, without being shoved, and
without hearing the various idiots, of all ranks,
emitting their noises. You are not irritated by
the swell's "Pon m' word, not half bad,' the
artist's Ah! now that color is not conscien-
tious,' the snob's 'Spicy party that,' or the
clown's 'Be that Venice?' And no abomina-
ble organs and bands, and no bother about get-
ting away-you lay down your stereoscope and
you are again in your arm-chair You may
print this, if you like, in the light of a testimo-
nial, and I don't care whether you do or not.
"Your subscriber,
"ANTIBABYLON."

"NEWS FROM THE STYX."-The mandate of fashion has gone forth, and as may be read in the Follet, and seen at certain French and Eng lish watering-places, a lady is henceforth, if she Sparkling roulades of the birds!" Well, wishes to be considered as completely furnished, what next we wonder! We suppose we shall to carry a stick. We see no objection to the soon hear of the vibrato of the nightingale, and arrangement, indeed we suppose that it is a logithe sostenuto notes of the blackbird or the thrush. cal necessity consequent upon the increase in Or we may live to see it said of a Prize Canary crinoline. As it is now impossible for a propShow, that such and such a feathered songster erly dressed lady to reach a friend with her hand, had an exquisite organ, and won repeated plau- she is supplied with the means of giving him a dits by the vehemence and clearness of its ut de poke with a stick when desirous to attract his poitrine. Song-writers may, moreover, be catch-attention. All we venture to hope is, that the ing the infection, and may speak of sylvan har- stick is to be blunt at the end, and not armed mony in the jargon of the concert-room, and with a tiny spike, as in the latter case a shortapply to nature the hackneyed terms of art. In-sighted Lord Dundreary, with a large circle of stead of the simple unaffected,

"Hark, the lark at Heaven's gate sings,"

lady-acquaintances eager to speak to him might, on returning home to dress, find himself unpleasantly covered with scars and spots. On

we shall be hearing some such stilted stuff as the whole there is more sense in this new conthis:

trivance than is usually to be found in the conceptions of the tyrant-milliner.-Punch.

The boshiness of ballad-writing long since has A SMOOTH WAY OF GETTING OUT OF IT. disgusted us; and nonsense such as this would-A poet, who is prematurely bald, excuses it be really scarce more silly than much of the fine language we have lately seen in verse.

-Punch.

in this ingenious and complimentary manner: Baldness," he says, "is only a proof of politeness paid to the beautiful sex. Is it not the duty of a gentleman always to uncover his head in the presence of the ladies?"-Punch.

HOW TO SEE THE EXHIBITION IN TEN MINUTES. "The Albany.-My dear Punch: I hate sensations, and I hate most of my fellowcreatures, and I hate trouble of all kinds. If FORGIVENESS OF INJURIES.-So an amnesty there are any other folks who entertain similar is granted to Garibaldi. Very good. In Eng feelings, I think they will be as grateful to me-land when we have trodden on the toe of a great pooh, nobody is grateful-but I think they ought man, we beg his pardon. In Italy you pardon to say I have done them a civil thing in telling him when you have shot him in the ankle.them that I have made the discovery announced Punch.

1. Chronicles of Carlingford. Part 10,

2. The Water-Babies. Chap. 3. By Prof. Kingsley, Macmillan's Magazine,
3. The Supernatural,

4. Lady Diplomatists,

5. Specie Payments.-National Currency.-Sinking
Fund,

PAGE.

Blackwood's Magazine,

482

495

Edinburgh Review,
St. James's Magazine,

506

518

POETRY.-The Widow and Orphan's Friend, 517. The Beauty of Winter, 517.

SHORT ARTICLES.-Expenditure of Silver in Photography, 494. Lady Physicians, 494. Cod Liver Oil for Fattening Cattle, 494. Turkey Braised, 505. A Swiss Soup, 505. Charade, 526.

THE WAR Powers of the PRESIDENT, and the Legislative Powers of Congress in Rela tion to Rebellion, Treason, and Slavery. By William Whiting. Boston: John L. Shorey. [From the vigor and clearness we have admired in a Speech of Mr. Whiting, we doubt not the ability with which this book is written, and commend it to our readers.]

THE REBELLION RECORD: Part 24. Edited by Frank Moore, and published by G. P. Putnam, New York. This part contains portraits of Gen. Mitchel and the rebel Gen. Robert Loe. A stern expression is on Gen. Mitchel's face, instead of the bright smile which dwelt upon it when he was lecturing upon the peaceful stars.

THE SIEGE OF RICHMOND : a Narrative of the Military Operations of Major-Gen. Geo. McClellan in May and June, 1862. By Joel Cook, Special Correspondent of the Philadelphia Press. Philadelphia: George W. Childs.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON.

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PART X.-CHAPTER XXXII.

"You!" she cried, with a shrill tone of ter

not nearly enough. How do you think I can keep still when nobody sends me any news? How long is it since I saw you last? And I have heard nothing since then-not

BUT while Mrs. Vincent sat in Susan's ror and confusion in her voice, "I did not sick-room, with her mind full of troubled look for you!" It was all her quivering thoughts, painfully following her son into lips would say. an imaginary and unequal conflict with the The sight of her had roused Vincent. wife of the rebellious deacon; and while the "You were going to escape," he said. "Do Salem congregation in general occupied it- you forget your word? Must I tell her self with conjectures how this internal divi- everything, or must I place you in surer sion could be healed, and what the pastor custody? You have broken your word." would do, the pastor himself was doing the "My word! I did not give you my word," very last thing he ought to have done in the she cried, eagerly. "No. I-I never said circumstances-lingering down Grange Lane and," after a pause, "if I had said it, in the broad daylight with intent to pass how do you imagine I was going to escape? Lady Western's door-that door from which Escape! from what? That is the worsthe had himself emerged a very few minutes one cannot escape," said the miserable before. Why did he turn back and loiter woman, speaking as if by an uncontrollable again along that unprofitable way? He did impulse, "never more; especially if one not venture to ask himself the question; he keeps quiet in one place and has nothing to only did it in an utterly unreasonable access do," she continued after a pause, recovering of jealousy and rage. If he had been Lady herself by strange gleams now and then for Western's accepted lover instead of the hope- a moment; "that is why I came out, to esless worshipper afar off of that bright unat-cape, as you say, for half an hour, Mr. Vintainable creature, he could still have had no cent. Besides, I don't have news enough— possible right to forbid the entrance of Mr. Fordham at that garden gate. He went back with a mad, unreasoning impulse, only excusable in consideration of the excited state of mind into which so many past events a syllable! and you expect me to sit still, had concurred to throw him. But the door opened again as he passed it. Instinctively Vincent stood still, without knowing why. It was not Mr. Fordham who came out. It was a stealthy figure, which made a tremulous pause at sight of him, and, uttering a cry of dismay, fixed eyes which still gleamed, but had lost all their steadiness, upon his face. Vincent felt that he would not have recognized her anywhere but at this door. Her thin lips, which had once closed so firmly, and expressed with such distinctness the flying shades of amusement and ridicule, "We agreed that I was to stay with Alice," hung apart loosely, with a perpetual quiver she said. "You forget I am staying with of hidden emotion. Her face, always dark Alice; she-she keeps me safe, you know. and colorless, yet bearing such an unmistak- Ah! people change so; I am sometimes— able tone of vigor and strength, was haggard half afraid-of Alice, Mr. Vincent. and ghastly; her once assured and steady step furtive and trembling. She gave him an appalled look, and uttered a little cry. She shivered as she looked at him, making desperate vain efforts to recover her composure and conceal the agitation into which his sudden appearance had thrown her. But nature at last had triumphed over this woman who had defied her so long. She had not strength left to accomplish the cheat.

because I have given my word? Besides," after another breathless pause, and another gleam of self-recovery, "the laws of honor don't extend to women. We are weak, and we are allowed to lie."

"You are speaking wildly," said Vincent, with some compassion and some horror, putting his hand on her arm to guide her back to the house. Mrs. Hilyard gave a slight convulsive start, drew away from his touch, and gazed upon him with an agony of fright and terror in her eyes.

My

child is like her-my child-she did not know me!" cried the wretched woman, with a sob that came out of the depths of her heart; "after all that happened, she did not know me! To be sure, that was quite natural," she went on again, once more recovering her balance for an instant," she could not know me! and I am not beautiful, like Lady Western, to please a child's eye. Beauty is good-very good. I was once

"Not till you have returned to the house; and given me your word of honor," said Vin-"I promise on my honor," she repeated, cent, "not to escape or to attempt to escape; or else I must tell her everything, or place you in surer custody. I will not leave you here."