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landic MSS. of great value, and many curious records, with brilliantly-illuminated characters, said to be as early as the ninth century. The first newspaper ever published in Copenhagen is also to be seen in its very small octavo infancy, until it reached man's estate in the form we now get it.

from the remote periods of flint and stone up to the present era of progress and development. It has a glorious collection of weapons of all kinds, and ornaments of quaint device and workmanship, too numerous to be mentioned here. The librarian was my cicerone in going over the University Museum, which contains magnificent salons; one of these is elaborately decorated. The roof is vaulted, and painted blue, with white and gold divisions. The walls have exquisite carvings of fruit, flowers, birds, fish, and cereals. To my mind, the greatest curiosity the library contained was a book bound in antique fashion, in wooden black boards. The leaves were of vellum, and in-mount guard over the effigy, which was saluted scribed throughout with Runic characters, about by the courtiers with genuflexions. Poor armthe sixth of an inch long. It is the only book chair at Herrenhausen ! your occupation is of its kind in existence. There were also Ice- quite gone now! M. C.

Hamburg is the next place to be visited, and from thence to the city with palaces, but without a king, where formerly, when his Britannic and Hanoverian Majesty was away at Kensington, they used to stick his picture in an arm-chair, under a canopy, at Herrenhausen. Chamberlains had to stand by the side, and halberdiers

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CORRESPONDENT.

The plan for the reorganization of the French army has put our rural population in great commotion. It has been stuck upon the "Mairies" of every village, as if our Imperial master wished to try the ground before venturing too far, and our peasantry are in great alarm; for remark, in spite of all that our journalists have to say on the subject, the people -those who cannot pay a substitute-hate the conscription, and employ every means to escape the honour of "mourire pour la patrie." It seems this new plan frustrates all combinations to that effect for all the valid; if a man buys a" remplacant" in one way, he can be taken in another, until the age of fifty-so that, no matter how much a poor fellow dislikes leaving his wife and children for the field of battle, he must go, if his Sovereign takes a fancy to his neighbour's domains. This Prussian system may be good for the Prussians, but whatever does Napoleon want to introduce foreign systems for? Have our soldiers proved themselves so inferior of late years that they require a new reorganization? And if he has been baulked by M. de Bismarck in his designs on the Rhenish provinces, do we want a rain of soldiers to revenge us? I cannot believe that the Corps Législatif will dare to accept such an unpopular measure. Many here are persuaded that we shall go to war with Prussia as soon as the Exhibition is over.

It was reported that the Empress intended to pass Christmas in Rome. The august lady sadly wants to play a part in the world's affairs. I suppose she imagines that her presence would reassure the Pope: I should think that she would be rather misplaced beside the fallen Sovereigns that surround the Holy Father and

it would be far wiser to stop at home, though it is affirmed that the journey is only postponed.

The season at Compiègne was not so brilliant as it generally is; the excessive wet weather prevented all out-door pleasure, and their Majesties' guests were debarred, almost entirely, the excitement of the hunt. The actors of the "Comédie Française" played before the Court the last night, when Lord Cowley was noticed to occupy a seat at a short distance behind the Empress. Her Majesty wore a tulle dress, spangled with gold, a red sash, black lace as usual, charming. "peplum," and diamond head-dress, and looked,

Apropos of the Pope, a short while ago the priests in the country received orders from their different bishops to do a neuvaine (offering of prayers during nine days) in all the Roman churches for the Pope to abandon the temporal power, and the parishioners appear to relish the thing uncommonly-even where a little while ago such a proposition would have been repulsed with indignation. This makes one think that the temporal power is losing ground amongst the most faithful. Some say that the Pope intends to go to America. speed him!

God

The Parisians complain sadly at the stagnancy of affairs. Commerce is dreadful; nothing doing in the way of business; and yet we are now in the good season, as all our usual winter gaiety has begun again-the balls at the opera, at the Hotel de Ville, and at private houses, without counting the gambling parties (if that can be considered a gaiety), where, they say, immense quantities of money are lost and won, and that in private houses; 'tis, true, mostly in the " demi-monde," for that

is the prevailing occupation amongst the frail; begged to inform Monsieur Carot that the picfair in that class of society. ture was in his possession, waiting to be claimed by the owner.

As for the theatres, there is nothing much to be recorded. I have already mentioned all the pieces of note, which continue to attract. Sardon's last comedy, "Maison neuve," takes, in spite of its half success at the first representation, and all Sardon's enemies have had to say on it; and there has been attack on attack in the papers, and replies on the part of the author, for Sardon's reputation is a great thorn in the side of his compeers.

The Lyrique Theatre has just brought out again “ Der Freischutz," which is a great treat. By-the-bye, it seems that the director of Her Majesty's Theatre in London is on the point of taking from us our charming Nilsson, the nightingale of the Lyrique Theatre. Report says that she has signed an engagement for two years with that person, for which we are very sorry. However, you will not have her before April.

Your famous Stodare has not succeeded: it seems that his tricks are old ones, known long ago by the Parisians-if you except two or three passable ones-so he is reduced to an engagement in a "café chantant."

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My young love is sweet as a June rose's blushes,
When 'neath the sun's splendour the young bud first
flushes;

Her footsteps are light as the fall of the snow-flake,
As it softly descends on the breast of the broad lake.

I love the bright stars, when at midnight I view

them;

We have had an exhibition of cheeses and fat fowls in the Palais de l'Industrie. The gruyère has carried off the prize. The fatness of the fowls has excited great disgust amongst the delicate, who pretend that lean meat is the best; fat things are generally little appreciated by the Parisians, without you except fat ladies, for whom the French, in general, When it first greets the banks 'tis to flow through for have a great predilection.

Monsieur Louis Veuillot's attack on all the French journalists, in his "Odeurs de Paris," has kept us in a general state of alarm, not knowing whether he would not have to terminate the quarrel by a duel with each, that mode being the fashion now to re-establish peace amongst our public writers; but it seems that, after a few gracious epithets scattered here and there, their wrath is subsided. Several answers were very amusing, and I should think made the ultra-Catholic gentleman think that he would have done as well had he been more circumspect. Sarcey, of the Opinione Nationale, gave him a dish that he did not well relish.

Have you heard that the famous Cardinal Richelieu's head has been found out, and brought to the chapel of the Sarbonne? It was transferred the other day, with great ceremony, to its mausoleum, the Archbishop of Paris presiding. The cardinal died in 1642. It was he who founded the Sarbonne.

The Princess Clotilde gave birth to a Princess on the 19th; it is her first daughter: the other two children are boys.

Monsieur Carot, our landscape painter, has been in quest of a picture lent to an exhibition in the country; he could not remember to what town he had lent it, and wrote to every place he could think of, but received an answer that it had not been seen. The other day, having advertised in several papers, a piicture-seller

The green branching trees, when the moonbeams peep through them;

The clear gladsome voice of the pure new-born river,

ever.

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Now her brown eyes' beauty sweet shyness enhances;
Now mirth sparkles forth in her gay, laughing glances,
As I watch the smile that, half-arch and half-simple,
Plays over her soft cheek and deepens its dimple.

The pink wreathed shells on the sea's broad edge
seeking,

The white-crested waves on its shallow shore breaking;
These the hues that unite in her fair rose-tipped
fingers,
The touch thrills my heart when their clasp on mine
lingers.

No crystal stream flows, there is no depth in ocean
More pure or more deep than my fond heart's devo-

tion;

Were I dead in my grave, and aught ill had marr'd her,

of itself would my arm arise boldly to guard her.

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AT HOME.

"It is impossible for you to go out this morning," said Ethel, as she stood at the study window, looking out upon the snow. "A few hours can't make much difference."

"It makes all the difference when anyone is ill," answered Ida, “and Dr. Wharton says that it will do Miss Mordaunt no harm to be read to, although he wishes her to be kept as quiet as possible."

"A very good excuse for your not going.” "I don't want an excuse! How unkind, Ethel. If you had no father or mother and were ill, how would you like to be left alone so long? Ten minutes' walk in my waterproof and goloshes will do me no harm in the snow. Miss Mordaunt likes to hear the Psalms and Lessons in the morning, and I am sure it wouldn't be right to sit down and amuse myself when she may be expecting me."

Ethel felt this piece of self-denial on her sister's part to be a reproach to her unwilling ness to accompany her; but she was too proud to say a word, and very quickly overcame her annoyance and sat down to her "Illumination," which had engrossed the greater part of every day for the last week.

Ida made her way through wind and snow, bending her head that she might not be blinded by the large flakes which came pelting under her hat. But she struggled bravely on, and at last reached the door of a tiny cottage, in which were the apartments of the invalid, of whom we last heard in her accustomed place at the Parsonage. It was the old, old story one meets with in governess biography-that of an orphaned child, bereft of home, money, and friends, and who had been forced to enter on life's hard battle at the age of eighteen, having to guide others whilst feeling that she herself needed guidance, having none to share her sorrows with her, and without a relation in the world.

Ida was shown up-stairs into a small sittingroom, where Miss Mordaunt was resting on a

couch near the fire. In appearance she was greatly changed: there was scarcely a vestige of colour in her face, and her pale sunken cheeks made her look perhaps worse than she really was.

Ida was much moved when she approached, and kissed the marble brow, and took the thin hand in her own: she choked down her tears, but could not utter a word.

Miss Mordaunt read her thoughts at a glance, and said, in a quiet voice, "You scarcely expected to see me so much changed. Don't vex about me, dear, I'm not in pain, and you are all so kind to me. I have been thinking to-day of those lines of Keble's

'New mercies each returning day

Hover around us while we pray:
New perils past, new sins forgiven,
New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.'

And I hope I'm very thankful for the mercies I daily receive. Will you read the lessons for the day, and the fourteenth chapter of St. John?"

"Thank you, darling; now tell me about Ethel. Is she trying to do her lessons alone, as her mamma wished? When I am stronger perhaps she will come to see me, and let me tell her how kindly I feel towards her, alhough she often thinks me so cross. I scarcely expected you on such a morning, but I'm so glad you have come; for I remembered that Ethel had not been allowed to join your evening 'talks' lately; and I wanted to ask your papa to permit her to do so to-night. You must try to get an influence over her, Ida; not by yielding when she gets angry, but by trying to draw her away from herself, and getting her interested for others: this will teach her kindness and consideration, and by patience and forbearance we shall in time, I trust, correct her faults of temper and indolence."

After sitting down for a few minutes, Ida busied herself in arranging some pretty flowers Mrs. Pemberton had sent from the greenhouse,

and placing a bunch of grapes on the table within Miss Mordaunt's reach, together with her favourite books, and then taking an affectionate leave of the invalid she returned home abundantly rewarded for the pleasure she had

been able to confer on her friend.

A month had elapsed since we last saw the family party assembled in the library at the Parsonage, where they had again met this evening.

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Ethel, my dear," said her papa, "I cannot refuse Miss Mordaunt's request; but before we go on let me tell you that the continnance of this pleasure is entirely owing to Miss Mordaunt: with her originated the idea of the little note-book, which stimulates our inquiries, and gives us so much variety in our conversation. It is sad to think of the change that has come

over her in so short a time."

"It is not so sudden as it appears, my dear," said Mrs. Pemberton. "Dr. Wharton told me that, from all he can learn, she was sadly overworked the two years before she came to us; and the evil has been great on a delicate constitution; sooner or later he fears consumption will end her sufferings, meanwhile we must all strive to do what we can to alleviate them, and be thankful that God has given us the means to help her."

"Do you really think she will die?" asked Ethel, anxiously.

"Dr. Wharton gives very little hope of her recovery."

"I wish I had been to see her before I heard this," said Ethel.

"And you have not been?"

Two large tears rolled down the cheeks of the wilful, impulsive, yet withal affectionate girl; but she dashed them quickly away.

Mr. Pemberton took no notice, believing that her own heart reproached her, and hoping that it would be a faithful monitor in her future behaviour; whilst Ida asked for an explanation of the word "Allegory."

PAPA. Allegory is the continuance of a metaphor (by which I mean when we borrow a word to express our meaning because of its resemblance to it) through a whole book it may be, or sometimes through one or more sentences only, as in Shakespere—

"There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in misery."

Esop's Fables, the Iliad, and the Odyssey are
mostly written in allegory.

IDA. Thank you, papa, I understand now the meaning of the word; but what are the two last books about, that you have just named ?

PAPA. The Iliad is an account of the Trojan war, showing the terrible effects of discord and public quarrels. It was written by Homer. The Odyssey describes the adventures of Ulysses on his return from the Trojan war to Ithaca. Parables, allegories, and metaphors are so much used by the. Prophets in the Old Testament, that it is often very difficult to understand them, on account of allusions to customs with which we are unacquainted. Their figures were generally taken from Nature, such as the sun, moon, and stars, which may denote kings, queens, and rulers; stately trees, as cedar, fir, and oak have the same significance. Birds and beasts of prey were emblems of oppressors, tyrants, and conquerors; heavy rains, floods, and fire the grievous judgments of the Almighty: dew and gentle rains the blessings of the gospel,

IDA. I did not see this other book in the corner-the Lusiad is it, papa ?

PAPA. Probably. It is an epic poem written by Camoens, on the establishment of the Portufor it. guese government in India; you would not care

IDA. What are Cyclones? I heard a gentleman from India talking about them.

PAPA. It is a technical term given by navigators to hurricanes which occur most frequently between the equator and the tropics. Their course describes a curve; they sweep round and round, and the narrower their limit the greater the whirl. The word is derived from the Greek kuklos, a circle or wheel.

RICHARD. Another book, papa-Hudibras ? PAPA. It was in the mock heroic style, and author was Samuel Butler, and it was written was published in the reign of Charles II. Its to caricature the Puritans.

ETHEL. Papa, you can give it to Dike for his next birthday present.

RICHARD. I thought you were asleep, Ethel, I don't believe you've heard one word to-night.

ETHEL. Then allow me to say you're mistaken. I'm dying to ask a question, only you always have so much to say. Please, papa, who was the odd man Tennyson wrote such a queer poem about?

PAPA. You must give me something more defined than that before I can help you, my dear. ETHEL. I think he lived on the top of a pillar.

PAPA. It was Simeon "Stylites" (from a Greek word signifying pillar). This fanatic lived in the 4th century, and took up his abode on the summit of a pillar, where he lived forty years: he died at Antioch, at the age of 69. There were "pillar saints" until the 12th

century.

MEMS OF THE

Work at Christmas! Surely that has an unwonted and un-jovial sound. Work! whilst the very word is suggestive of holidays and merry-making. Work! while it is supposed to be a season of unlimited goodwill and geniality. Work! when one ought, according to tradition, to be burning yule logs, eating roast beef, drinking wassail, and kissing pretty girls under the mistletoe. Nevertheless it is a true and a sober fact that work at Christmas exists, and in a hard and unrelenting form. No doubt this may appear strange, especially to the sturdy little boys and fresh-coloured golden-haired girls, just come home from school, aud believing implicitly in Christmas and the fairy-land of the pantomime. What do they know of the hard work the downright slavery that has to be gone through before the spectacle designed for their especial delectation has been accomplished? How little they dream of the steady labour and anxious thought required before the "Golden Groves of the Galaxy of Glory" can be presented to their astonished eyes? Or what do they know of those poor shivering infants-not older, and often not so old as themselves-suspended from the "flies" amidst an atmosphere redolent of gas and the fumes of red fire, at a time when they should be quietly slumbering in their little cots ? I often think of this when seeing innocent faces laughing with joy, and fat mottled hands applauding the fairy-like splendour of the "Home of Prince Bon-bon in the Haunt of Perpetual Sweetmeats," and picture to myself the poor pale child, almost exhausted after the performance, taken shivering home through the cold, slushy streets, to some poor lodging, possibly miles from the theatre, and there regaled on a supper which is sure to be unwholesome if, indeed, the poor child is fortunate to get any at all.

For the well-to-do child, there is no doubt, Christmas is a happy season. Passing one of the bazaars the other day, Your Bohemian happened to run against a dear old British mother, who was conveying to her cab a perfect brood of children. My! What happiness was depicted on their smiling faces, and what a quantity of brown-paper parcels and packages of greypaper-a paper, I believe, peculiar to the toyworld-were stowed away in the cab! How Miss Dolly would show her legs to the world of Soho through that gauze paper, and how the red roof of that Noah's Ark would protrude through its covering! Then came the reverse of the picture: a poor, half-starved boy went to open the door of the cab, and looked wistfully at the merry party it contained. He had no spirit to enter into their light gaiety, even though it was the "festive season." His object was to get a copper or two: for, bless you, he had looked at matters in a "business-light" for years--he was obliged to, poor fellow, The cab

MONTH.

was just driving off, when a plump, dimpled, laughing school-girl of the party who was rt enough at school, and probably caused her teachers an infinity of trouble-apparently touched with the mournful expression of the poor ragged boy, routed in her pocket and pulled out a shabby little purse, and turned out the only shilling it contained, and placed it in the boy's hand. Bless that little school-girl! I should like to have kissed her for her charity and true womanly sympathy. But then, you see, it was a proceeding that might have scandalized that grave and proper beadle of Soho-square, to say nothing of the young lady and her friends

'The name of the workers at Christmas is Legion, and they have to labour incessantly to promote the extra enjoyment of their fellow-creatures. It is impossible to enumerate one-half of them in a few paragraphs, but one may mention incidentally dressmakers and tailors, who have to sit up all night and work their fingers to the bone for garments wanted in unreasonable haste; one may think, too, of the "young person" who goes out to play dance-music at ten shillings a night, and frequently at less, out of which she has to find herself gloves and wreath, so that she may look like "one of the company," which she generally does, the only difference being that she is often more agreeable and infinitely better educated than anyone present. One can also give a parting glance at the labours of cab and omnibus men, of fly-drivers, railway-guards and porters during this "festive season."

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But there are other kinds of work that we should consider at this time-works of charity

especially at a period, when giving away becomes a duty. The melancholy colliery accident at Barnsley, and the utter destitution into which so many poor families have been plunged, demand our deepest sympathies. In the last number of Fun there is a touching cartoon anent this matter. The sentiment there embodied, namely, that Britannia cannot sit down by her Christmas fire until she has done something for Barnsley, is admirable, and it is to be hoped that every one will give their mite according to their means, in order to swell the fund for the sufferers.

"The Savage Club Papers" is a book that should find its way into everyone's hands, inasmuch as it is one of the best gift-books of the season. It is true it does not possess a very gorgeous binding, nor is it overdone with expensive tooling or gilt blazonry. So much the better. I like a book that I can take and read by the fireside. The volume itself contains some of the best writing of the young but welltried pens of the day. The illustrations are charming, and capitally engraved. It is indeed cheap, even as a book; but when it is known that the proceeds of its sale are to be devoted

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