STEREOSCOPIC GLIMPSES.

BY W. CHARLES KENT.

VI.-JOHNSON AT STREATHAM.

THE mellow radiance of a lamp contending
With ruddy flickerings from a clean-swept hearth,
Reveals before a littered table, bending,

A strange but reverent form of ample girth.
Across the curtained pane the March wind clashes
Without, through twilight's shade, the mournful shower;
Within, above the trim-ranged teaboard, flashes

The silver urn, that tells day's homeliest hour:
It flashes where the fire-gleam leaps and trembles
On tiny painted cups in tongues of flame,
That welcome here the group eve's gloom assembles
To share wise converse with yon Sage of Fame.

As yet, of all the scattered household, only

This honoured guest obeys the clock's shrill chime-
Where, finding soon its stealthy pulse sound lonely,
He strives to fledge the moulting wing of Time.

His potent tribute to that flagging pinion,
The pen, that wafts aspiring souls afar-
Far ev'n beyond the poet's vast dominion,
Through rapt religion's realm from star to star.

Yet not for once the bard's etherial vision,

Nor yet the dreamings of the Christian sage,
Now summon onward, as through fields Elysian,
The golden fancies of that silvered age.

Intent alone upon some friend's affection,
His pen hath writ but now the passing date-
At which slight touch, ah! chords of dead dejection
Thrill back th' inexorable tones of Fate.

Another eve of March his heart remembers,
Beyond sad years of pain long past and gone,
When burnt within that heart what now are embers,
That still his loving memory broods upon.

He thinks of one to his blurred sight as charming
As though the gift of beauty were her dower,
Whose coming Death, his inmost soul alarming,
Enhanced for him the dread Destroyer's power.

Alike the day and hour-alike the weather

Then lashed with sobs of wind the clattering pane, When Death last brought their loving lips together, While fell hush'd tears 'mid th' resounding rain!

Responsive echoes, as of groans, reviving

That awe-filled moment when he wept alone, Recal the Night when, with God's Angel striving, Rebellious grief by prayer lay overthrown.

And as, with teeming rain-floods reassembling,
Come phantoms of forgotten pangs of woe—
See, slowly, to those dim eyes brimming, trembling
Large drops from anguish wrung-long, long ago!
Till down that visage, scarred in Life's grim slaughter
By fell disease, and toil, and sorrows dire,

Roll sacred rills of Nature's holy water

The dews that quench the soul's own purging fire.
O faithful heart! no less sublime than tender:
O truthful nature! grand in humble trust:
Thy love that lowly tomb a shrine can render,
And bloom like deathless lilies from her dust:
Yon strangest symbol of the fair creation,

Still sheltering 'neath the shadow of thy name-
Thy frequent prayers and tears the consecration
That bids her hallowed memory share thy fame.
Here-as when through the harvest gleams the sickle—
Before thy faith the ripened sorrows fall;
And while these scanty, faltering tear-drops trickle,
The balm of heavenly solace floats o'er all.
It fills with Eden air the homelit chamber,

Fills it with breathings of ambrosial flowersSounds as of tinkling feet on floors of amber, Heard in the rush of the harmonic showers! Repinings vanquished thus, the sage serenely,

With cumbrous finger, guides the lagging pen:
No Muse inspires the strain with aspect queenly,
But manly Friendship prompts the speech of men.
Slow moves the chirping quill across the paper,
Fast streams in outer gloom the liquid storm,
From shining urn still curls the genial vapour,
While chequered fire-gleams grace that burly form—

Now flicker on the ample wig's dimensions,
Now o'er grand features cast in classic mould,
Now twinkle downward, by abrupt declensions,
Upon the broad shoe-buckle's rim of gold-

Throw fibrous shadows through the crumpled ruffles,
And tint with red the raiment's sombre brown,
Flame fitful-while his nervous foot yet shuffles-
From scarlet heel to greyly silvering crown!

Oft thus, upon familiar threshold lingering,
My Fancy loves such visions to prolong:

Tears in her voice, she sings, while artless fingering
Her votive timbrels to the Lords of Song.

THE FATE OF THE PRINCESS SOPHIE.

BEING THE SEQUEL TO CHARLOTTE FANDAUER'S GHOST.

FROM THE GERMAN OF HAUFF.

By E. M. SWANN.

I.

THERE were times when Major von Larun found it difficult to recognise his old brother-in-arms, who was one day the life of all around him, and on the next saturnine, gloomy, and ready to interpret light and innocent jests into personal insults. The major was Zronievsky's constant companion, and had a certain power over him, which he frequently used to prevent these outbreaks in the presence of others; but after such restraint the count's passion was the more violent when they were alone.

One day the major had only succeeded in concealing one of these outbursts of temper from the whole court by pleading an engagement which he and the count had made. They had hardly arrived in Zronievsky's rooms before the latter cried out: "Am I not a miserable reprobate thus to tread every duty under foot, to throw away the truest love, to martyr a heart that is so entirely mine? I have wandered thoughtlessly through the world, trifling with my happiness, because in my madness I fancied myself a Kosciusko-whereas I am nothing. What have I to give in return for so much love and such a sacrifice?"

Major von Larun tried to console him, but in vain. "The princess does not expect any other return than that which circumstances allow." "Ah!" cried the unhappy man, "of what do you remind me? Yes, even she is fallen a prey to my infatuation. How child-like, how happy was she, till I, accursed that I am, crossed her path. When I saw her radiant in lovely innocence, I forgot all my good resolutions-I forgot to whom alone I belonged; I silenced my conscience, and allowed myself to be carried away in a whirlpool of delight. It became impossible for me to leave her, for I read love in every varying expression of her exquisite features."

"It is indeed sad," said the major, "but where could you find a man who could withstand such sweet temptation?"

"And when I dared to tell her how I worshipped her, and she proudly confessed her love, how I longed for one glance from her beautiful eyes, one slight pressure from her fairy fingers; how cheerfully I have waited for days for the chance of seeing her alone, though it were but for a few seconds, and how precious were those moments-could I then fly ?"

"Who could expect such heroism?" his friend rejoined. "It would

have been cruel to forsake one who offered such sacrifices on the altar of love. I would that you had been more cautious, but all is not yet lost!" The count continued, without heeding his friend: "And when she, with graceful hesitation, told me where I might seek her alone-when those lips, whose slightest words were laws to a loving people, met mine, and the greatness of the princess was lost in the confiding whispers of love, was I then to leave her ?"

Aug.-VOL. CXVI. NO. CCCCLXIV.

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"But if you are happy you can defy the whispers of the world, for there is nothing sinful in loving such a being."

The colour deepened in the count's cheeks, and he almost ground his teeth as he said, in a hollow voice, "I do not deserve so indulgent a judge, for I am a criminal whom you ought to shun. Would that I could purchase forgetfulness, that I could blot out from my memory the events of past years. But I will forget, I must forget, if not I shall grow mad. Comrade, give me some wine; let me drown the remembrance of my guilt."

The major listened quietly to these bursts of despairing self-condemnation, and said to himself: "I always knew him to be a harebrained, passionate fellow, and such always rush from one extreme to the other; he now looks upon his love as if it were a great crime, because it may bring the princess to misery, but in a few moments he will regard it in quite different light."

Zronievsky, meanwhile, had tossed off two or three glasses of wine, and was now walking impatiently up and down the room. "Major!" he exclaimed at last, "what do you consider the most wretched of all feelings ?"

After thinking for a few moments, the major replied, "Decidedly that of injured honour."

The count smiled grimly. "Comrade, your psychological studies have not availed you much if you suppose that injured honour is the most miserable feeling of the human breast, for he who is injured can revenge himself upon the offender; and there is still a hope that his honour may reappear pure and spotless as before. Brother," he continued, seizing the major's hand convulsively, "you must dive deeper into the mysteries of the soul, and search for a still more horrible feeling than that."

"I have heard of one other," replied the major, "which men like you and I, Zronievsky, cannot be acquainted with-that is, self-contempt." The count trembled and turned pale, and for several moments gazed silently at his friend.

"You are right, comrade; that lies deeper still," he said at last; "men like you and I do not generally know what that is; but the devil lays cunning snares for us sometimes, and before we are aware of them we are caught. Do you know what it is to be undecided, major?" "Heaven be thanked that my path of duty has always been clear and straight."

"Clear and straight! How fortunate for you! But do you not remember the morning when we rode from the gates of Warsaw? Our feelings, our very senses were enchained by the great master-spirit of the day. To whom, then, did the hearts of the Polish Lancers belong? Our band played the Polish airs and songs that inspired us, even when boys, with a love for our fatherland; the well-known sounds penetrated our breasts. To whom, then, did our hearts belong, comrade ?"

"To our fatherland," said the major, with deep emotion. "Yes, then indeed I did hesitate."

"Well is it for you if that is the only time you have given way to indecision. But the devil is a subtle tempter; he allows us to feel happy in what we have, while he paints in more brilliant colours the happiness we have not."

"Very likely; but surely man has the power to hold firm to his determination."

"True," cried the count, who seemed overwhelmed by his friend's reply. "Why, then, should I appear better than I am? Comrade, you are a man of honour, avoid me as you would the plague. I am dishonourable and despicable. You are firm, and must, therefore, despise me. I despise myself, for know that I am

"Hush!" cried the major, "somebody knocks. Come in."

II.

"I AM extremely sorry if I interrupt you," said the manager of the Opera, entering the room with a low bow.

May I ask what brings you here?" replied Major von Larun, who recovered his self-possession sooner than his friend; "pray be seated, and while you tell us what has given us the pleasure of this visit, allow me to pour you out a glass of wine."

"Gentlemen, I fear it is now impossible to prevent Othello from being performed. Nothing more can be done. I made the company study the opera, and the prima donna gave me her solemn promise to be too hoarse to sing; but, as ill-luck would have it, Signora Fanutti arrived here yesterday, and she having petitioned the directors of the theatre for a part in one of the operas, they gave her that of Desdemona. I nearly wept when it was announced, for I have a presentiment of evil." "Let me persuade you to give up that foolish superstition," cried Zronievsky, who was quite himself again. "I assure you not a hair of the royal family shall be hurt, for I will myself go to the churchyard, find out the grave of the murdered Desdemona, and entreat her this time to kill me instead. It will certainly be only the blood of a count that she will shed, but one of my ancestors did wear a crown, of which fact I will take care to inform her."

"For Heaven's sake do not jest on this subject," said the old man ; "you know not what fate may have in store for you. Last night I saw in my dream a long funereal procession by torchlight, such as generally follows a royal corpse to the grave."

"Perhaps you had taken a glass more than usual," laughed the major; "and it is but natural that you should dream of such nonsense when you think of nothing else all day."

"You, of all people, should not mock me, for though I never saw you till you visited me with the count, yet last night you walked by my side and wept violently; but what God wills must happen, and perhaps you will then wish that it were but a dream. But, gentlemen, I have forgotten that the principal reason for my troubling you was to invite you to be present at our rehearsal, and I will introduce you to our company, and particularly to our new singer."

The friends willingly accepted the invitation. The count, as usual, evidently repented his violence, therefore this diversion was opportune, and the major felt saddened by the self-reproaches of his friend, and wished to put off any further explanations for an indefinite period.