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31st of December, 1870.

PASSING-Swiftly passing,
From human sight away,—
Down to the grave of Ages
The Year must go to-day!

He lies upon the earth,

Looking toward the sky;
One by one, the hours advance
Bidding him good-bye.

He has fought his battles well;
His race is nearly run;

He has finished what he came for,
Let him rest-his work is done!

It was such a night as this,

Half way 'twixt dusk and dawn,-
The winds sang out, "Hurrah!"
And by light of moon and star
I saw the New Year born.

We gave him a joyful welcome,

We offered him costly cheer,

We wrung all bitterness from our hearts, To greet his advent here;

And solemnly said, with bended head, "God bless the New-born Year!"

He came and brought us gifts;
A crowd of hopes and fears,
Bright fancies, dull realities,

Some smiles-and many tears.

He showed us a shadowy future,
Set in his magic glass;

And we thought we heard him whisper, "It will surely come to pass."

The days that were his servants,

Carried him through the spring,

To the summer crowned with crimson flowers,
And autumn rich with harvest hours,
Making the valleys sing;

And the days that were his masters,
And would not let him stay,
Hurried him over those pleasant times,

And beyond the sound of the Christmas chimes.
And we watched them speeding away;

And as the sun was setting

From a misty evening sky,

The Old Year saw with a sudden start
His last remaining day depart,

And he felt the frost within his heart,

And knew that he must die.

And now we keep our vigil,
That he may not pass alone;
And while his last hours linger
He points with solemn finger

To all that he hath done;

All the sorrow that he brought us,
Which at last hath made us know,
That out of our days of heaviness
And nights of silent woe,
And from every grief borne patiently
Wisdom and strength shall grow.

And we think of how we welcomed him
With many a hopeful prayer;
And looking back on the troubled past,
And the things that are, and were,
We softly thank him ere he die,
And still may say, most reverently,
God bless the good Old Year!

Look out the burning stars

Light up the midnight sky—
The torch-lights for the dying Year-
And like plumes on a warrior's bier,
The trees wave solemnly.

On the distant northern hills

Is spread a cold white shroud, And in the far horizon

Rises a pall-like cloud.

Listen the warning voice
Proclaims his time is come;
And the minutes in mute procession
Are waiting to bear him home.

Now the deep bells toll out

His knell to the listening earth;
A moment more, and they shall sweep
Booming through his eternal sleep
For the new-comer's birth.

Passing-swiftly passing,

Now-the last stroke is gone!

And through the hushed and shivering air
Echoes a long, faint moan.
Silence!Lay down his head
Where ashes and dust are spread:
God rest the Year that's dead!

C. F. B.

TEMPLE BAR.

FEBRUARY 1871.

Ought we to Visit Her?

A NOVEL.

BY MRS. EDWARDES, AUTHOR OF "ARCHIE LOVELL," ETC.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BOOK OF MARTYRS.

HERE has not been time it seems for Theobald and de Lansac

THE

to finish their cigars; the room, at all events, is decidedly fuller of tobacco-smoke than a lady's sitting-room should be, when Rawdon and Jane arrive; wine, brandy, and seltzer-water are on a table at Mr. Theobald's side. De Lansac, removing his cigar from his lips and approaching Jane, says, "Madame, you permit ?”

To which Jane answers gravely, "Yes, monsieur, I permit one cigar after midnight."

But Rawdon can detect that this is a little bit of comedy, got up, doubtless, in compliment to himself as a stranger. It is a rule of the house-I use the phrase figuratively; the Theobalds never have a house-that men shall smoke in Jane's presence and Jane take no umbrage.

She moves across the room to Theobald's side and coolly drinks about a third of his brandy and seltzer at a draught, then looking back at Rawdon (graceful always, Jane has a trick of looking back at you across her shoulder which is simply irresistible) and asks him what he will have?

“Oh, thank you, you are very kind," says Rawdon, following her and speaking in his stiff young British manner, "I don't think I want anything at all at present.'

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"Rubbish! After the pace of those two last dances, and nothing but a glass of sugar-water for support! Take some brandy and seltzer like a rational being, and do drop all those absurd airs of superiority."

VOL. XXXI.

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Saying this, she prepares him a glass of the mixture, with a hand accustomed to minister to Francis Theobald, and therefore less sparing of the alcohol than of the dilutant, and Rawdon receives it obediently.

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"You may smoke if you like. What, 'no thank you' again! Do you always say no, thank you,' to everything, Mr. Crosbie? Well, then, make yourself at home in any way you prefer. Theobald," looking through the open window near which she stands, "here is little Molenos coming up the street. Oh, I know what that means: écarté. I shall go to Blossy."

"Madame Theobald, do you think we can want écarté when you are here?" asks de Lansac. He speaks English with thorough fluency, scarcely more than the invincible stumbling-block of the th, indeed, marking him as a Frenchman at all. "Do you think, in your presence

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"We could presume to smoke our cigars, and drink our brandy and water, and play our écarté and forget Madame Theobald's existence?" Jane interrupts him. "No, Monsieur de Lansac, I know you too well to suspect you of such infamous conduct."

"But if we play, you will promise not to forsake us altogether?" de Lansac asks, laying his hand upon her wrist.

"Yes, I'll promise not to forsake you-because Mr. Crosbie is here and will talk to me; for nothing else."

Thus speaking she takes a light from a side table and disappears into the adjoining room. Jane disappears, and almost at the same moment the outer door opens, and unannounced, unceremoniously, like everything else that has to do with the Theobalds' life, another person enters.

"Ah, Molenos, old fellow, here you are," cries Theobald, cordially, but without stirring from a sofa on which he has thrown himself full-length. "Crosbie, let me introduce you to my friend Molenos. He doesn't understand a word of English, and no one in Spa can find out what language he does understand; but he is one of the best fellows living. Have some brandy and seltzer, Molenos? Cognac and zel-sare. De Lansac, convey to our friend, if you can, that my intentions are hospitable."

Molenos is a rich young Mexican merchant, speaking not one syllable of English, and only about a dozen words of French, but with whom, through the universal language of écarté, Theobald and de Lansac have succeeded in becoming intimate. He bows, with an instinct of having been introduced to Rawdon, and looking round the room exhausts a quarter of his vocabulary by remarking, “Madame pas ici ?"

"Madame will be ici directly, tout de suite," says Theobald.

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