THE RITUALIST.

BY A COMMUNICANT OF "ST. JAMES'S."

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we

met;

A stole and snowy alb likewise: I recollect it yet. He called me "daughter," as he raised his jewelled hand to bless;

And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, "Would I confess ?"

O mother, dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees

I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise ; Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the

рух,

I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.

The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak,

And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct "cheek;"

And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry

quotes,

May term his mixèd chalice "grog," his vestments, "petticoats."

But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's

hope

On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and

cope.

Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they

profess:

"His can't be wrong" that's symbolized by such becoming dress.

A MORAL VINDICATOR.

IF Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B.,

Had one peculiar quality,

'Twas his severe advocacy

Of conjugal fidelity.

His views of heaven were very free; His views of life were painfully Ridiculous; but fervently

He dwelt on marriage sanctity.

He frequently went on a spree ;

But in his wildest revelry,

On this especial subject he

Betrayed no ambiguity.

And though at times Lycurgus B.
Did lay his hands not lovingly
Upon his wife, the sanctity

Of wedlock was his guaranty.

But Mrs. Jones declined to see
Affairs in the same light as he,
And quietly got a decree
Divorcing her from that L. B.

And what did Jones, Lycurgus B.,
With his known idiosyncrasy?

He smiled, a bitter smile to see,-
And drew the weapon of Bowie.

He did what Sickles did to Key,—
What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he ;

In fact, on persons twenty-three

He proved the marriage sanctity.

The counsellor who took the fee,

The witnesses and referee,

The judge who granted the decree,
Died in that wholesale butchery.

And then when Jones, Lycurgus B.,
Had wiped the weapon of Bowie,
Twelve jurymen did instantly

Acquit and set Lycurgus free.

SONGS WITHOUT SENSE.

FOR THE PARLOUR AND PIANO.

I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL.

AFFECTION'S charm no longer gilds
The idol of the shrine;

But cold Oblivion seeks to fill

Regret's ambrosial wine.

Though Friendship's offering buried lies

'Neath cold Aversion's snow,

Regard and Faith will ever bloom
Perpetually below.

I see thee whirl in marble halls,
In Pleasure's giddy train;
Remorse is never on that brow,

Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.

Deceit has marked thee for her own;