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with a post which he will fill, not for a day- for rumor is fond of additions- but for a month, some even say six weeks; and at eleven o'clock the next day, when he comes down to the office, M. Tartine finds a whole throng of affectionate friends, who, knowing his benevolent disposition, shake him by the hand, offer him their assistance, and meanwhile would be much obliged if he would render them some little services which they will explain if he will just give them each five minutes in private. Truth to say, M. Tartine has slept as soundly as did the great Condé on the eve of Rocroy. Intrepidity is his characteristic. He accepted the functions delegated to him, expecting nothing and fearing nothing; and the levée of suitors takes him a little aback. Nevertheless, he rallies on recognizing in one a popular novelist, in the other a fluent debater, in a third an enterprising money man, and he gallantly leads the way into the editor's room, whither the novelist follows him, shutting the door to exclude the other two. He has not much to ask, has the man of fiction; he simply wants the Cigare to announce a novel of his that is coming out. "Oh, certainly; with pleasure," says M. Tartine; "what is the title?" "Oh, there's not much in the title!" answers the author, modestly. It's Les Chevaliers du Boudoir;' but the scope of these works often needs to be explained to the public beforehand so that they may not go away with wrong impressions. This is a realistic study of life. Perhaps something in this style would do," and he draws a paper from his pocket. "I didn't write the paragraph myself, it was a friend did it. Thank you; I know I may rely upon you; good morning," and he vanishes, leaving M. Tartine to read: "It is with immense satisfaction that we announce a new work from the pen of M. A—, the gifted author of 'Les Péches Roses,' 'Le Scandale de la Rue X-,' and other delightful books. Any thing more piquant in style, more interesting in plot, or more thoroughly artistic in conception than this new novel, into which M. A has thrown all his minutely realistic powers of description, his ” - "Yes, but stay," cries M. Tartine, "this reads like an advertisement; " however, he has no time to move, for the door opens again and in rushes the fluent debater, distancing the money man by a head. "My dear M. Tartine, look at this!" he ejaculates, displaying yesterday's Cigare; "here is the parliamentary report, and, to begin with, my speech, as you observe, is most humiliatingly curtailed; but I shouldn't complain if it were not for this passage. See, I have a discussion with a member of the Left, a Radical, and you give him the best of it, for after his joke at me-a miserably small joke you add, hilarity on all the benches,' just as if I had made no repartee." "But did you make one?" asks M. Tartine. Why, of course,' answers the fluent debater; "at least, if I hadn't, you know, it ought to come to the same thing; for if the Cigare, an orderly journal, gives the palm to men of that sort - Red Republicans, Communalists, and destroyers of society — what are we to expect? I think, perhaps," (here a paper is extracted from the waistcoat), "if you would kindly insert this little note- I didn't write it myself: it was a friend who did it. Thanks. I know I can confide in your courtesy. Good morning." And he, too, disappears, yielding his place to the money man, who enters just as M. Tartine has read this much : "By a printer's error in our yesterday's impression, the brilliant witticism by which M. B- the eloquent member for utterly pulverized M. C- the Radical deputy who interrupted him, was omitted. M. C— said' "Pardon me, my dear M. Tartine," interposes the money man, "I am aware how valuable your time is. I shall not be a minute. Here is the Cigare's money article of yesterday. Do you see these lines? They may prove the death of the Oyster-shell Joint-Stock Utilization Company,' in which the savings of thousands are invested; and I am convinced nothing can be further from your thoughts." "Nothing," assents M. Tartine. "Well, but look," groans the money man. "You say there is a depression on our shares. Only think of the immensity of the undertaking on which we are embarked! Picture to yourself the millions upon millions of oyster-shells that formerly lay about idle, but which now,

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hrough our instrumentality, may be the means of pouring gold into the homes of the penurious. Ours is no mere speculation, it is a patriotic enterprise; and surely a journal like the Cigare ought to encourage it. Oh, I know what you were going to reply; but even supposing it to be true that the shares were depressed, will the saying so in your paper tend to make them go up again? Remember, it is in the interest of our shareholders - our trusting shareholders, not in my own, that I am urging this, and" (here some fumbling in the pocket), "I think if you were to intercalate this in your next money article, it would spare you a pang or two of remorse should our company ever unhappily col lapse which, mind, I am certain it never will." Yes, but - one moment!" ejaculates M. Tartine. "Yes, as many moments as you like," answers the money man; " and if you like I will explain you all the workings of our company. I have, thoughtfully, brought the prospectuses with me." And he sits down.

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It takes half an hour by the clock before M. Tartine can dispose of the money man, who has plied figures with an energy of lung which drives his hearer stark desperate. He is compelled to surrender at discretion, and the money man then makes his affable bow, vowing that conversation with M. Tartine is quite a pleasure and a profit. He is scarcely gone when the office-boy enters to say there are three more gentlemen waiting to see the editor, and two ladies; and at the same moment comes the printer-a French printer, brisk, discursive, and by alternate fits despondent and oversanguine to say that there is no copy in hand, that half the paper ought to be made up by this time, and that every thing will to a certainty be late. But what am I to do?" ejaculates M. Tartine in frenzy. "I can't write the whole paper." But has monsieur read his letters?" inquires the printer. "What letters?" asks M. Tartine; and here his eye lights for the first time on some three scores of unopened envelopes arranged symmetrically before him. "Tell everybody that I am busy!" he roars to the officeboy, "let not a soul come in." "But the gentlemen and the two ladies?" remonstrates the boy. Let them be-! let them come to-morrow when I am not here," yells M. Tartine; and feverishly he breaks open the envelopes in rapid succession : – To the editor of the Cigare. Sir, One of your contributors asserts that Remus died in the year 753 B. C.; the correct date of that historical event is-." "Sir, I am surprised to see one of your contributors, in alluding to the death of Remus, appears to pat faith in the existence of that personage. Surely he must be aware that.” "Sir, That the long-exploded fallacy as to the death of Remus should have found a place in your columns strikes me as being in every way deplorable.” “I wish to heaven," breaks out M. Tartine, "that Remuswhat's the matter now? This is to the office-boy, who has come back scared, to say that the gentlemen outside refuse to go away, and have sent in their cards. M. Tartine glances at the pasteboards; they are those of officers on the staff, and the words, "affaire d'honneur" are pencilled in the corner of one of them. Needs must when honor drives, and the gentlemen are introduced. "In these delicate matters it is better to speak plainly and at once," begins the bluffest of the military men in a voice that makes the window-panes rattle. "An insult has been offered, and either a full apology or a reparation by arms must be the alternative." "But what insult has been offered?" inquires nonplussed M. Tartine. "Do you call this no insult, sir?" sings out the military man, thrusting a back number of the Cigare under M. Tartine's face and flashing lightning from his eyes; and he reads: "There is no disguising that ever since they have been put into their new jackets with fur round the collars, the officers of the staff display an unfortunate likeness to a tropical red-legged and ruffy-bird, called the Soudan goose." "But I didn't write that," protests M. Tartine. "But you're the editor, sir, and at a moment when the army have just saved society by stifling lawlessness and plunder, you deserve to be held respons ble for all statements calculated to bring the service into ridicule."

"Well, then, I am responsible," retorts M. Tartine ex

sperated. "Let it be what you please swords, pistols, r blunderbusses; my friends are M.M. Plumeau and de inéa, whom you will find in the next room, but, for paience' sake, let me alone till five o'clock." "We are not ent upon a duel," puts in one of the officers - he is louder f speech than the other; "an apology will serve us." No," shouts M. Tartine, impatient more at the tone of his terlocution than at the demand, "I will retract nothing; indorse to the full all my friend's sentiments about the Soudan goose. It was well said, gentlemen, and I make a ersonal matter of it. I wish you a good morning." After his there remains nothing but to make freezing bows all ound, which is done, and M. Tartine is left once more lone. But not for long. Once again the printer appears: It is one o'clock, sir, and we really must have some copy." 1. Tartine, with glaring eyes, makes a dart at a blue enelop. "This is from Jules Sifflot; I know his hand, and t's his turn to write the chronique to-day." He breaks he seal and reads: "My dear Tartine, I am extremely orry, but the sudden illness of an aunt (I am her heir, vhich makes it important) calls me out of town for a day r two. Try and do without me to-day if you possibly can. motion prevents me from writing a single line other than hese few to acquaint you with my misfortune. Yours," &c. This is pretty business," moans M. Tartine, and wildly he natches up one after the other all the envelops that are of bulky aspect. In quick succession the parcels of in copy hem litter the floor; until at last M. Tartine, whose blood s at two hundred and twelve degrees, Fahrenheit, lights pon the article of a gentleman who evidently wrote his effusion in a vein of coolness nearly similar. "Prætorianism" is the title, and it begins: "Is it conceivable that we should have waded through half a dozen revolutions to ind ourselves now more than ever under the spurs of an rrogant soldiery, who" "Yes, that's it - arrogant soldiery!" exclaims M. Tartine, delighted; "that's the very term. This man's article goes in where Sifflot's chronique should have stood. Here, off with it to the press." And he hands it fluttering to the printer. That functionary examines the last page. "No signature, sir, and I don't know the writing." "Neither do I," says M. Tartine, burrowing among the papers on the floor; "there was a letter with it, which I can't find. But what matters? I'll sign it myself; I honor the man who penned it." he does sign. The printer shrugging his shoulders, departs, and makes room once again for the office-boy. "If you please, sir," snivels that youth, keeping half his body behind the door, for the editor pro tem. is really looking fero"if you please, the ladies outside say they won't go, and both of them are coming in!" M. Tartine starts up with an expletive which there is no necessity to recall; but at the same instant he stands silent and admiring, for the foremost of the two ladies has thrown up her veil, and he has recognized one of the fairest actresses in Paris. That lady, however, seems by no means so pleased with him as "M. Tartine," she gasps, "you have a dramatic critic who is not worth the rope it would cost to hang him. Did one ever see such a passage as this, printed yesterday- yesterday, I say! Do you hear me?' And tearing the paper in her eagerness to unfold it with her tightly gloved little hands, she screams: "He accuses me of having false hair, and farther on he suspects my teeth are sham. False hair and teeth! Nothing less. Ah, now just you look!" And before the dumb-stricken M. Tartine can divine her intention, off goes her bonnet and down streams her hair in brilliant cascades over her shoulders. "Is it false?" she cries in triumph, catching hold of the journalist's hand and thrusting it into the silky masses. "And these, are they false?" adds she, pressing his fingers to her teeth. "Will you answer, sir? are they false?" "No," cries M. Tartine, I would swear it before all the world." then, sit down there and write a handsome apology, to be printed this very day," says the actress, as she begins to do up her hair half-laughing, half-angry; and seeing M. Tartine sit down, she adds with coaxing peremptoriness: "And, look here; you can point out what a curmudgeon my manager is in giving me such a small salary, and warn him that the

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Russians will be bidding for me, or the English, and winning me, too, if he is not more liberal."

The next day the editor returns, and on going down to the office M. Tartine finds him, pale but evidently resigned. A writ has just been brought in from the Governor of Paris interdicting the sale of the Cigare in the public streets in consequence of an article headed "Prætorianism." Notice of an action for libel has just been sent in from the manager of a theatre; and the Cigare has been accused of venality by three morning papers because of a paragraph on the "Oyster-shell Joint-Stock Utilization Company." "And that is not all," remarks M. Tartine grimly, when this chapter of woes is unfolded to him. "To-morrow I fight Capt. Spadasse, of the staff, with swords. When next you go out of town pray don't ask me to edit the Cigare. Once in a way's enough." "I think so, too," answers the editor.

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THE Hibernian attempt to shoot the Queen with an unloaded pistol is amusing at this distance.

ANOTHER "Life of Charles Dickens" is to be published in All the Year Round.

ROBERT BROWNING has a new poem in press. He handles the woman question this time.

MR. FECHTER has been engaged to appear at the Adelphi Theatre, London, for twenty-four nights.

A NEW Weekly German paper entitled Die Gegenwart, on literature, art, and public life, has been established in Berlin, under the editorship of Herr Paul Lindau.

MADAME MOSCHELES, the widow of the eminent composer, is at present engaged in writing the life of her husband. The work is to appear, if possible, simultaneously in English and German.

THE Parisian savans are still seriously bent on constructing a machine that will navigate in any direction in the air. A paper on this subject was lately read before the Academy.

MISS JULIA TRELAWNEY LEIGH-HUNT HUNT, whose death took place last month, was the eldest surviving daughter of Leigh Hunt, the youngest daughter being still living.

MADEMOISELLE MARIE MARIMON is said to have received most flattering offers of engagements both from Russia and America. These offers have reached the enormous sum of seven thousand francs ($1400) per night. This is the largest sum, without exception, ever paid to any prima

donna.

MR. AUGUSTUS HOPPIN'S delightful sketch-book of foreign travel, entitled "Ups and Downs on Land and Water," the pictorial sensation of the year in this country, has attracted so much attention in England that Messrs. Sampson, Low & Co. have made an arrangement with Mr. Hoppin to issue a London edition of the work.

THE largest and heaviest woman in Paris has just died. Her name was Madame Genoit, and she was a widow; also a pork butcher. Her weight was five hundred and fourteen pounds. It is on record that in 1848 Madame Genoit appeared at a national fête in the character of Liberty, and was then a thin one. Time rolled on, and she with it.

A LONDON correspondent recently, by accident, instead of his correspondence, sent his tailor's bill (with impressive reminder at the bottom of it) to the telegraph-office to be "wired" to a north country paper. It was done; and the first impression being that it was another Russian mystery,

it was on the point of finding a place in the columns, when the bright idea flashed across the mind of the editorial cabinet council that it might be a mistake.

WE shall be dead to all patriotic pride when we fail to reproduce from the foreign papers so touching a statement as this: "The well-known American dentist, Dr. Thomas W. Evans, was called in recently to attend on the Prince of Wales, and relieved him of a bad neuralgic affection of the face."

THERE has lately been established in England a “Theological Translation Fund," for the purpose of procuring the translation of foreign "theological literature of a more independent character, and less biassed by dogmatical prepossessions" than the works of Hengstenberg, Hävernick, &c., that have been already translated into English. The works to be now undertaken are those of Hupfeld, F. C. Baur, Zeller, &c., in Germany, Kuenen, Scholten, and others, in Holland, &c.

THE papers announce the death of the widow of John Herapath, the mathematician, and one of the last associates of a circle which, half a century ago, included among its members, Davy, Herschel, Young, Wollaston, Brougham, and Gilbert. Herapath, unmarked by the public, was yet a remarkable man. The two volumes of the unfinished "Mathematical Physics," constitute one of the bases of the new philosophy now being worked out by the present generation of mathematicians. The promised publication of the fragments of the third volume of the miscellaneous works, and of a biography, remains unperformed.

Ir has been said of Alexandre Dumas, fils, that, in his double capacity of dramatist and moralist, he may be compared to a doctor who first poisons his patients and afterwards tries to cure them. His next poisoning operation will, it is reported, be the production of a dramatic version of "L'affaire Clémencau," under the title of "La femme de Claude." Readers who occasionally take poison may remember that in this unhealthy story a husband kills an unfaithful wife, not on account of her infidelity, but because, knowing her to be unfaithful, he at the same time cannot help loving her, and fears degradation, to which his blind passion for her would soon reduce him. "La Femme de Claude," in which the faults are all on the wite's side, is intended as a companion picture to “ La Princesse Georges," in which they are all on the side of the husband.

Ir appears that an interesting work is about to be put up for sale at the Hotel des Ventes, Paris, and is likely to be knocked down at a high price. The literary treasure is nothing less than the "Constitution of the French Republic of 1794," bound in human skin. The volume is supposed to have issued from the Meudon tannery, which the journalist Galetti denounced to the Convention. That humane body at once directed Fouquier-Tinville, who must have been the means of furnishing a good deal of the raw material, to prosecute the tanners. However, it is nowadays a subject of controversy whether this imfamous manufactory, mentioned with indignation by an English historian, ever existed. According to the grave-digger in "Hamlet," a tanner's skin is more durable than that of other people, and if the human tanners ever existed, it is to be hoped they soon found it out and flayed each other.

MR. E. L. BLANCHARD writes of the late Mr. Poole : "When Charles Dickens died, the author of Paul Pry lost his one remaining friend. For a considerable period Poole had been residing in Paris, where he would seize every opportunity of gathering information from chance literary excursionists, but at last the rapid progress of the world outran his means of keeping pace with it, and when he returned to England about ten years ago he always kept a series of questions ready numbered, from which he sought replies from the only visitor he had. When Mr. Dickens called, this constantly renewed catalogue of interrogatories would be brought forward, and the various difficulties of

explaining what was an Albert chain, the meaning of croquet, the precise significance of all modern phrases, and the exact nature of each recent invention, had all to be succes sively encountered."

THE Nürnberger Korrespondenz gives a short biography of Dr. Heinrich Schliemann, whose touching enthusiasm for a particular theory of Trojan topography takes the practical form of excavations. He was the son of a small shopkeeper, went to sea, was wrecked, and took a clerkship in an Amsterdam house of business. Half his salary (eight hundred francs) was spent in learning languages, which he mastered at the rate of six weeks a piece. In 1846 he went to Russia, and gradually grew rich; and in 1856 allowed himself the pleasure of learning Greek (ancient and modern) in three months: he ead been afraid before, lest the interest of the pursuit should be so absorbing as to interfere with his business engagements, from which he withdrew in 1863 to spend a well-earned fortune in travel and the indulgence of his archæological tastes.

THE Court Journal tells the following anecdote. If it is old its neatness will be an excuse for its age. An officer who was more distinguished for gallantry in the field than for the care he lavished upon his person, complaining, on a certain occasion, to an Irish judge, of the sufferings he endured from rheumatism, the judge undertook to prescribe a remedy. "You must desire your servant," he said, "to place every morning by your bedside a tub three-parts filled with warm water. You will then get into the tub, and having previously provided yourself with a pound of yellow soap, you must rub your whole body with it, immersing yourself occasionally in the water, and at the end of a quarter of an hour, the process concludes by wiping yourself dry with towels, and scrubbing your person with a flesh-brush." "Why," said the officer, after reflecting for a minute or two, "this seems to be neither more nor less than washing one's self." "Well, I must confess," rejoined the judge, "it is open to that objection.”

THE great geographer, Herr Petermann, in a letter to the Ostsee Zeitung, expresses himself satisfied by the latest report of the German explorer, Herr Carl Mauch, that the diamond-fields in east Africa are identical with the Ophir of the Bible, from which King Solomon is said to have conveyed gold and ivory and precious stones to Jerusalem for the construction of the Temple. The whereabouts of the ancient Ophir has long been a disputed point. The Portuguese, on taking possession of Sofala, invested that colony with the Biblical character. Legends were affirmed to be current among the natives that the rich gold-mines and the buildings of which ruins were still visible, owed their origin to the Queen of Sheba, and Lopez even asserted the exist ence of ancient documents proving the removal in ancient times of gold and precious stones to Jerusalem. These assertions cannot, however, in Herr Petermann's opinion, stand beside the discoveries made by Britton and Mauch. Merensky and Grützner. Zimbabye is the place. Its neighborhood is rich in alluvial gold, precious stones, and diamonds. It possesses ruins of extensive piles of buildings, the structure of which shows them to be of unques tionable and remote antiquity. Ornaments and instruments are still found that could not possibly have been made by the natives, but might well have been left there by Phonicians. Three days' journey from Zimbabye similar ruins have been found, and the surrounding country is rich in all that favors agriculture. The present inhabitants have been in possession only about forty years, and they regard the ruins and relics with a certain awe, due to tradition, which invests them with a sacred character. The geography of the place tallies admirably with the indications given in the Bible. Phoenician vessels would naturally sail along the eastern African coast for the Red Sea, and proceeding by this route they would be about three years coming and g ing, as stated in the Bible. Herr Petermann concludes with a cut at the " practical sense of the English, who "with the most naïve coolness" have annexed the valuable

rritory, and winds up with the exclamation, Vivat sequens a recommendation, probably, to his own Government to low the example.

THE Swiss Times alarmed half the world the other day threatening us with that particular form of sensational gy, which, because it has a quasi scientific authority, inires a great deal more alarm than any of the modern feats prophecy, namely, a comet, which was to come into llision with the earth somewhere about the 12th of next Au

ist. The threat was not, says the Spectator, a very well-au

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enticated one, as it was attributed to a Genevan astronomer, rof. Plantamour, who does not profess comets,—and in these ys of the extreme division of labor, every astronomer has special department of his own, - and no doubt falsely asibed to him, as no new comet of any magnitude has been tely discovered at all, and if it had been, the elements of s orbit could not have yet been calculated so as to know e exact period of its crossing the ecliptic. Finally, the ablic ought to know by this time that a comet is composed matter so rare that if it did cross our terrestrial path, 3 many a comet has done, it would at most only make he difference which a whiff of steam makes to the course of cannon-ball. But in spite of all this, the Swiss Times felt he utmost confidence that its somewhat imaginary news ould be read with a certain gush of horror all over Europe, nd so it was. Under the head of "A Pleasant Prospect,' , was studied by thousands of newspaper readers with a omantic mixture of excitement and fear; an excitement nd fear which would not have been demonstrably groundess it, instead of being founded on a supposed collision etween the earth and a comet, they had been aroused by peculations on the extremely disturbed and volcanic state of our own sun. A body that indulges in flaming hydrogen yclones, some of which appear to mount almost as far rom the surface of the sun as the moon is from the arth, must be subject to eruptive forces of fearful magtale; and these, for any thing we know, might end n such a shattering to fragments of the stay and prop of our system as appears to have happened before dow to other suns of probably not less importance and magnitude. A shock of that kind would certainly put an end to the history of man on this globe, while a chance encounter with cometary vapor would not be likely to hurt us at all; and accordingly the former is the most plausible of the various scientific forms of the cry of "wolf" by which we are liable to have our nerves tried in the present day. The order for winding up, if it does come from this side, is much more likely to be due to some unexpected violence of the sun's, than to any of those highly inconstant and mobile travellers of the celestial spaces which there is any chance of our encountering without previous preparation.

THE Vienna correspondent of the Times writes as follows touching the Austrian poet Grillparzer :

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In one of the narrow streets of the inner town, the Spiegelgasse, stands one of those four-storied houses of the old type, a sort of human beehive, divided into ever so many separate apartments, each the home of a family. No stranger would notice it, for it looks very much like its neighbors; but no real Viennese would pass it without casting a glance at the windows in the fourth floor, where, if it was early enough in the day, he might catch a glimpse of an old gentleman with bushy gray hair, and stronglymarked and rather heavy features, looking down into the But on certain anniversaries above all, on the 15th of January the unpretending old house was quite a point of attraction for all that is prominent in any sphere of life in Vienna. Numerous wreaths and flowers were sent up to that fourth floor, and visitors followed each other in rapid succession to bring their yearly tribute to Grillparzer, the first living poet of Austria.

street.

Gay and lighthearted as the people of Vienna are, they are capable of warm and lasting attachment to their favorites, and there were few such general favorites as that rather rough and capricious old man. On those rare opportunities when he appeared in public, as, for instance, in the final debate on the confessional laws in the Upper

House, of which he was a member, that gray head attracted more attention than any of the figures in brilliant uniforms covered with stars and crosses. There was something instinctively felt that there was a whole romance hidden in attractive in the very seclusion in which he lived; it was. it. There was some very strong link between the three old maids who owned the house and their lodger. For more than fifty years the poet had been engaged to one of them, whom he named his eternal betrothed. When in early life he wished to marry her, there were pecuniary difficulties in the way of an union between the small functionary, the poor, unknown poet, and the maiden, who had a hard struggle to gain her livelihood by giving lessons. But why was the union not celebrated later, when, though not rich, both had gained the modest competency which would have been sufficient for their wants? This was the romance of the poet's life. Love changed into warm friendship which lasted up to the end. In 1848, the friends of the poet, who feared for him, lonely as he was in those troublous and dangerous times, induced him to become a

lodger of the three sisters. Their mother had just died, and he took the rooms in that fourth floor which had become vacant by her death, and where he himself breathed his last on the 21st of January, a few days after his eightyseventh birthday.

Austria has thus again lost one of her celebrities. Every year seems to demand its tribute. Last year it was Tegethoff the sailor, the year before that Hess the soldier, and this year it is Grillparzer the poet. Great as the loss will be felt as far as the German tongue reaches, it is softened by the thought that death has cut the thread of that precious life only when it had long outrun the allotted span the clouds which so long obscured his star, and to take up of threescore years and ten. It left him time to chase away his position as the first living poet in the German tongue, and, perhaps, the greatest poet Austria can boast of. More than any one else, it was he who kept up that spiritual link dramatic and lyric breathe enthusiasm and affection for which connects Austria with Germany, and all his worksthat particular Fatherland. He loved his country with all the fire of youth and the tenacity of old age this Austria, an outpost, as its name indicates, of Germany, but still living a life of its own. For preference, he chose the episodes of Austrian history as the subjects of his dramatic muse, and even the three posthumous dramas which he left Libussa, the Czechish Queen, and the Fraternal Strife in the House of Austria - indicate that up to his last moment he remained true to his earliest aspirations of being the Austrian poet par excellence.

All Vienna followed him to his grave, which lies close to that of Beethoven, and between that of Schubert and Wribbhold, in the cemetery of Währing, where rest the remains of most of those who have made Austria illustrious. Those numberless wreaths and flowers which were sent to decorate the coffin of the poet, and those hosts of mourners who came to have one last look at his cold features, only faintly represented the deep interest which was felt all over the town; it found its expression in the thousands who lined the road along which the funeral cortege proceeded. It went first to the Church of St. Augustin, where the religious ceremony was performed, and thence by the ring or boulevard out to the churchyard. It was but the author of some poems and dramas that was buried, and yet a hero and king might have envied him this last popular tribute. At the grave, Dingelstedt, the director of the Court Theatre, the scene of so many triumphs of the author, and Lanbe, his predecessor and an intimate friend of the poet, addressed the assembled crowd; the first to take leave of the Austrian poet, the second to say a last farewell to the man. Yet, eloquent as both these addresses were, the sobs of the poet's old servant were, perhaps, still more impressive. Like Molière, who read his plays to his cook, the poet had been in the habit of sending her to the theatre whenever his dramas were played to report upon them. Sensitive as he was, he never went himself, but, as it were, kept up the connection between himself and the public by this method.

AN OLD COLONEL ON FASHIONABLE POETRY.

YES, Locksley, fifteen years have fled,
This day, since you were born,
And grandfather will wish you joy
Upon your birthday morn.

And this is Aunt Selina's gift,
Selected from the rest,

To show to grandpapa with pride,
Because you like it best.

Rossetti's Poems,"-wonderful
I'm sure that they must be,-
Your aunt raves of them in a state

Of perfect ecstasy.

But old men's joints are stiff, you know,. And somewhat slow to move;

And old men's thoughts of eighty years,
Will hardly quit the groove.

And she, indeed, is very kind,
And lets me ramble on,"

With sugar-candied smile of scorn
For one whose day is gone.

She tells me all the poets' names,
And what they sing about,
And how the famous artists bring
Their flashing splendors out.

I find that over those old times
In which my youth was cast,
For British hearts and British minds, -
Oblivion's brush hath passed.

No poet now would deign to waste
A word on themes so dead;
No painter on his canvas lay
One touch of British red.

To other subjects, other lands, Their genius soars sublime; With sympathies cosmopolite They link the golden rhyme.

They sing of Atalanta's race,
Medea's witchcrafts evil,

How Lilith, Adam's slighted flame,
Proposed to play the devil.

The wild-boar hunt in Calydon,
Bull-gods from Nineveh,

What Helen said at Venus' shrine
In Troy above the sea.

And those old times in which I lived
Are as much out of sight

As history of orbs that fringe
The utmost skirts of Night.

But that they're something still to me
Can scarce a fault be reckoned,
To one who marched for forty years
In the fighting Forty-Second.

Well, well, - we did it not for hire,
Or praises false and rotten;
And yet,
and yet,
I wonder too
To find those days forgotten.

For, Locksley, that was real work :
Be sure of this, my boy,
No braver, tougher work was done
Around their windy Troy.

Ah, yes! that was a bit of work,
Upon yon gray hill-side,

Through all the burning summer day

Until the even-tide.

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