down, but Henry would not permit her. Taking her hand kindly, he said, with the same earnestness with which he had spoken throughout, "Thou hast ever been an obedient wife, Kate, and in all things conformable to my will. Thou wilt not, therefore, I am well assured, disobey my last injunctions. This pretty boy has never known a mother's love. Be thou a mother to him. Thou hast no child to wean thy tenderness from him-give it him all.”

"He has it all already, sire," replied the queen. "Dost thou not love me, Edward?"

"Ay, madam, as a mother," replied the prince, affectionately. "That is well," said Henry; "but you must not humour his every whim, Kate. I hear he is somewhat wilful."

"Those who have said so to your majesty, wrong him," rejoined the queen. "Edward is ever good and gentle-yea, most tractable." "If he continue so, it shall be well," said Henry. "Thou lov'st thy sisters, Edward? Speak the truth, boy!"

"I ever do speak truth, sire," replied the prince. "I love them dearly. But I love Elizabeth best," he added, in a lower tone, to the king, "for Mary is sometimes sharp and peevish with me, but Elizabeth is ever merry and ready for play."

"Elizabeth is nearer thine own age, boy. Thou wilt find out Mary's merits as thou growest older," replied the king. "I would have ye all dwell together in unity-ha!"

"What ails your majesty?" cried Catherine, alarmed by the sudden alteration of his countenance.

"A spasm-it is gone," rejoined Henry, with a groan.

"Father-dear father! you look ill," cried Edward, terrified. "Take him away," said the king, faintly, sinking backwards as he spoke.

All was now confusion and alarm, apprehension being generally entertained that the king was dying. Advancing quickly towards his royal patient, Doctor Butts placed his hand upon his pulse, and watched his countenance with great anxiety.

"Is he gone, think you?" asked Gardiner, anxiously, and in a low tone, of Wriothesley.

"It would seem so from Butts's looks," replied the other. "If he be, Norfolk's life is saved, for they will not dare execute him." "Heaven grant it!" ejaculated Gardiner. "Mark you not Hertford's trouble? Something has been left undone."

"All may have been left undone," rejoined Wriothesley. "I do not think the will is signed."

"That were indeed a gain for us," said Gardiner. "But I dare scarcely hope it."

"How fares it with his highness?" inquired the Earl of Hertford, whose countenance displayed much anxiety, as the physician moved away his hand.

"The king will live," replied Butts. "Let the chamber be instantly cleared."

"Ye hear, my lords?" said Hertford, evidently much relieved. "Doctor Butts declares that his majesty is in no immediate danger, but he prays ye all to depart at once."

Thus exhorted, the assemblage began instantly to disperse.

Prince Edward, however, still lingered, though the queen, who was moving away, beckoned him to come with her.

"May I not stay with the king, my father?" said the prince, plucking Doctor Butts's robe.

"It grieves me to refuse your highness, but it cannot be," replied the physician.

"Come with me, Edward," said Sir Thomas Seymour. "The queen waits for you. This is a scene unmeet for eyes like yours." The young prince took his uncle's hand, and allowed himself to be led out of the room, looking wistfully at his father as he retired. He never beheld him more.

"You are sure he will revive?" inquired the Earl of Hertford of Doctor Butts, as they were left alone with the still inanimate monarch.

"I am certain of it," replied the physician. "But I will not answer that he may live many hours. You look uneasy, my lord. What remains to be done?"

"Everything," replied Hertford. king hath not signed his will."

"Norfolk still lives-and the

"He spoke as if he had," remarked Butts.

"All think so, and I would not have them undeceived," replied Hertford. "The will has been well considered and debated, as you know, and is fully prepared, but he ever puts off the signing of it. All my persuasions have failed with him."

"Obstinate as he is, he shall sign it," replied the physician. "But hush!" he added, with a gesture of silence; "he stirs! Retire, my lord. And send Ferrys, the king's chirurgeon, to me with all despatch."

SPARKLING MOSELLE.

A LEGEND.

AH! this is the wine I would cherish,
Though all other vintages perish,

'Tis this makes my very heart swell;
Its perfume how subtle and fragrant!
Zephyrs rose-scented, lingering, vagrant,
Rise up from this Sparkling Moselle.
Away with your Port and your Sherry,
For me all my cares I will bury

In this crystalline, nectar-filled well;
Deep down in my glass I can follow
The bubbles to that peaceful hollow
Where wanders the Sparkling Moselle.
I see on the hill an old castle,
Deserted by baron and vassal,

Where the bat and the owl only dwell;
I see down below the sweet village,
By industry cheered and by tillage,
The home of the Flower of Moselle,

Very rich was the sire of the Flower,
And able to give her a dower,

As the youths of the village knew well;
But he vowed, the unfeeling old sinner!
She should marry the man who should win her
By a goblet of Sparkling Moselle.

One vineyard there was which the maiden
Had ever considered was laden

With a grape which none else could excel;
The owner his soft vows had spoken,
And the fair one bestowed a love-token,
On the banks of the Sparkling Moselle.

Now came the stern moment of trial—
The young man much feared a denial—
But the damsel, his fears to dispel,
Sipped the wine ere she gave it, all trembling,
To her father, who, nothing dissembling,
Drained the goblet of Sparkling Moselle.

The goddesses, fairies, and powers,
Who watch over girls and their dowers,

All favoured the young village belle;
To the touch of her lips they gave magic,
And her sire, in tones clearly not tragic,
Cried, "This is true Sparkling Moselle!"
She married her own chosen lover;
So the Legend is ended and over,
And a mild one it has been to tell:
It is time renders everything mellow;
And, SMITH, I say, tell me, old fellow,
What's the price of this Sparkling Moselle ?

F. H.

PARIS OF TO-DAY.*

IN 1821, a youth of diminutive stature, but quick susceptibilities, arrived in Paris from the provinces. A reputation for ability had preceded him, and his society was cultivated in the metropolis where he came to establish his renown and to make his fortune. The first question that was put to him as a provincial by the Parisians, more insatiable of praise than the parched desert is of water, had reference to the city of cities.

The promising youth scribbled as follows on an album:

"When venturing into the streets, the impatient stranger scarcely knows in which direction to go. If he inquires his way, a carriage comes upon him before he can get an answer; he steps aside, only to be threatened by another; and pulled up between two wheels, he is only saved from being crushed by a miracle. He sees on all sides pictures, statues, and immense palaces, but not yet finished. In the midst of his rambles, he meets a colonnade, chef-d'œuvre of grandeur and harmony; it is that of the Louvre. He steps back in order to contemplate it to greater advantage, and he stumbles against dark and dirty huts, and cannot obtain space to enjoy the magnificent view. On déblayera ce terrain' is the only comfort he gets.'

This small young man, with so much precocious intelligence, was M. Thiers. Minister under Louis Philippe, he put the last stone to some "immense palaces" and to some great monuments, and he surrounded Paris with fortifications, but it was not he who finished the Louvre, that chef-d'œuvre of grandeur and harmony; nor did he even sweep away the rubbish that encumbered the approaches to it. How many must remember the petty dealers and book-stalls that lined what was once a thoroughfare, from the Palais Royal to St. Germain l'Auxerrois, to which a new tower and a mediæval-looking mayoralty now gives completeness by adding another wing! To the right, going from the Rue de Rivoli, were high, ruinous walls, patched with red, white, and black, with giant inscriptions, and below were some little men in red breeches and thin caps, as if they had put their pockets on their heads seated by infinitesimal marble slabs, their feet in the gutter, in front of a café-billard. In the centre, in a site fit for a work of art, was one of the few monuments of Parisian industry that are not intended to gratify the senses; while to the left were nothing but ruins, an indescribable alternation of brick and mortar, carpentry, and shreds of paper-hangings; and below, poodle dogs for sale, stalls with sweetmeats, succeeded by a bandaged leg, the owner of which was begging from behind; and then a more grandiose affair, with shelves in the background and an extended front, in which the Cours de Littérature de La Harpe played the most prominent part. What a triumph for the renowned M. L. Véron, once-but we will not infringe upon the past-now deputy and member of the council

Paris en 1860: Les Théâtres de Paris depuis 1806 jusqu'en 1860. Par M. L. Véron. Paris: Bourdilliat et Cie.

Almanach de la Littérature, du Théâtre et des Beaux-Arts, avec une Histoire Dramatique et Littéraire de l'Année. Par M. Jules Janin. Paris: Pagnerre.

"The very

general of the Seine, to turn to the Louvre as it now is! morning after the republic," we are told, "the emperor (for with the empire it is the day after the republic) felt that work appeased and calmed, that work is eminently civilising, and, in his great liberty of action, he conceived the most comprehensive, the most useful enterprises; not only did he sweep away the rubbish from the approaches to the Louvre, but he did better, he completed it." This is undeniably great : the fixtures of living mutilation, the paper-clad Voltaires and Corneilles, the dead walls, the little soldiers, the ostentatious cabinets-those persistent eyesores are all gone, and the "chef-d'œuvre de grandeur et d'harmonie" is completed! It is a glorious thing when interest can be brought to harmonise with useful and agreeable results. A disquisition as to how much more the calming and appeasing effect of employment had to do with the completion of the Louvre than the love of art, is as much out of place as it is uncalled for. The thing is admitted, but the results are not the less to be admired and rejoiced in. Ardent lovers of liberty as we are, we would succumb to a year or two of despotism, if it would embank the Thames on both sides, from one end of London to the other, open a new spacious central thoroughfare from west to east, and purge and drain the whole of this vast metropolis!

M. Véron declares, contemplating Paris as it at present exists, that in a few years Napoleon III. has, if not finished, in reality remodelled the whole city. And he is justified in such a statement by the facts of the case. Look at the suburban zone, added by the demolition of the walls and octroi gates alone. Paris will soon be no longer fringed with villages, into which we are told "civilisation seems never to have penetrated," but it will spread out to its newly-acquired proportions. In this respect London is in advance of Paris, and civilisation is not limited to any particular centre. It was not, then, a bad idea, as the Parisians would not civilise the suburbs, to bring the suburbs into Paris. Napoleon has proved himself, in this respect, to be a modern Muhammad. "This immense city, stretching out to the foot of its fortifications, surrounded by large military roads, will become an inaccessible rampart, against which the efforts of an enemy, however powerful its army may be, will exhaust itself" (viendraient se briser)! "Hors de Paris, point de salut," said one of the brilliant contributors to the Figaro (Auguste Villemot, in his "Vie de Paris"), and the principle seems to be adopted for good for ever. The provinces have contributed to the expenses of rendering Paris the finest city of the world, and so long as it is impregnable the same provinces may take care of themselves. It would, no doubt, have been designated by the same high-flying panegyrist the maiden city, but for certain historical reminiscences which do not date so very far back, or from intrusive thoughts of another class, and which are best explained by reference to the anecdote related of the Prince de Conti, who, when Louis XIV. wished to give a ball to the young Princess of Savoy, declared that the ladies of the court should be alone admitted, and that by tickets, and that the ladies of Paris should not be there, as he would have none but honest women present. "Then," said the prince, "the king may give his ball on the stand of a candlestick." In this country the provinces decline to contribute towards the improvement of the metropolis, albeit their comfort, convenience, and their national glorification is concerned.