see him in something better than an imitation of his late father, which only calls up painful recollections, for which the author and the management rather than the actor should be held responsible, and which, we think, should have been studiously avoided; however, the public go out of curiosity to witness this unpleasant exhibition, which must be equally disagreeable (as it is unfair) to the poor young man, for whom we perceive that a farce by Maddison Morton is underlined, in which we hope Mr. Robson will strike out a line for himself, and that "Ulysses" will be withdrawn, since beyond the painful performance of the hero, great poverty of invention is displayed by the author. Minerva is decidedly not improved by being transplanted from the New Royalty, where the original notion was a humorous one; and Miss Charlotte Saunders, the only legitimate successor to Mrs. Keeley, is obliged to fall back upon her imitation of Napoleon I., out of a Strand burlesque by Byron, which is, on this occasion, amalgamated with one of the present Emperor, and to indulge in the everlasting "break down" of which we confess we are beginning to get a little weary.

We have often wondered why it should take two men to write a slight farce or piece de circonstance, and the dramatic critic of the Morning Star in noticing a similar production at the Strand, owns that this passes his comprehension, "unless," as he suggests, "one of them put

in some fun, and the other subsequently took it out again."

We would allude to the opening of the New Alexandra Theatre, Highbury Barn, where a burlesque by William Brough, entitled "Ernani," is nightly enacted; and we would also refer to two forthcoming events, one being the compli mentary benefit to Mr. Leigh Murray, on the morning of Tuesday, the 27th June, at Drury Lane Theatre, under distinguished patronage; the other, that Mrs. R. Honner will shortly take her farewell of the stage. Mrs. Honner often played Black-eyed Susan to the William of the late Mr. T. P. Cooke, whose custom it was, of late years, to appear on the occasion of her benefit, to mark his regard for an old favourite; and now that she is about to retire from the profession she has so long adorned, we trust that the public will not be slow in responding to her final appeal.

Immediately after sending in our present com. munication in this anything but theatre-going weather, we are afraid that a friend will have sufficient influence to induce us to accompany him to witness "Brother Sam's" first appearance, particularly as we shall have to go early, and there is "Our Mary Anne" first. Under such depressing circumstances we are sure that your readers will cease to wonder at the extreme irritability of

YOUR BOHEMIAN.

THE FLOWERS IN THE WINDOW.

BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.

A little, thin, tired, wistful face, looking out of the window-the back window of the tall, narrow, gloomy old house in Water-street.

Certainly there was nothing pleasant or attractive in the view which presented itself, nothing which could awaken any light in the sorrowful face of the child who looked at the scene. There were the back yards, with the little strips of sodden clay soil, where the pale sickly-looking grass grew sparse and scattered; and then there were the backs of the houses, close and frowning, and mouldy with age and neglect.

You had to stretch your neck to get a glimpse of the blessed sky from the window. There were no soft green vines to clothe the barrenness and decay; no flowers whose hearts thrilled out into bloom and fragrance for a living joy and beauty, as flowers always are. The old houses leaned over, with their rattling windows and broken blinds, with their dead-brown faces, dreary as any prison wall, and I think that the face of this little girl grew drearier as she gazed.

She was hardly out of her eleventh year, and her face looked pallid and sickly, with large brownish eyes that held some trouble in them, and seemed old beyond their time; and the

mouth had lost its trick of smiling, if it ever had one, and had settled into a kind of sorrowful patience that is very pitiful to see in children's faces.

Hope Loring was an orphan. Two-thirds of her life had fallen to her in the country. She was a delicately-organized little creature in soul and body; shy, sensitive, susceptible.

She would never have gained her tenth birth day, if it had not been for the free, careless, outdoor life of the woods, and hills, and meadows, in which her widowed mother had allowed her only little daughter to run at her own sweet will, while the mother stayed at home, as mothers will, toiling early and late to keep that wolf, so terrible to a woman, from the door.

For the strong arm and the loving heart that would have made "sweet home" for the mother and child, were under the grass of summer, of snows of winter. And at last, the mother's was there too; and with her seventh birthday Hope Loring was an orphan.

So she fell into the hands of her mother's only brother, a poor man-a hard-working, but not unkindly one, who had more mouths to feed than he could well afford; but he could not let his only sister's only child go starving and shelterless out into the cold of the world. So, the little onely, wistful-faced country girl came to live within the thick, close walls of the great city.

She dwelt an orphan and an alien in her uncle's family. Nobody there meant to be unkind to her; in a certain sense each member was sorry for the little homeless, fatherless, motherless child; but after all, none understood her. Poor people these were; cramped, and fretted, and soured, and oppressed by poverty. The long, wearisome hand-to-hand struggle with toil had worn iuto the soul of Hope's uncle and aunt and hardened and made them somewhat coarse. And the children were coarse too-boys and girls ranging down from their teens into babyhood; quarrelsome, selfish, dissatisfied with their lot and not knowing how to make it better-to be pitied certainly.

And into this atmosphere, with all its discordant elements, in the heart of the hot, noisy, crowded city, came little Hope Loring.

She had carried the home-sickness at her heart, in her face ever since. How she thirsted and starved for a sight of the cool, green meadows, with the dandelions winking golden among them! What visions haunted her, of fields of red, fragrant clover, with the fresh dews shining all over them!

How her heart grew sick, thinking of the singing birds in the great white roofs of apple blossoms! and the little brook which wound its skein of blue waters among the stones, and then cleared itself out, broad, smooth again, and went on, singing and triumphant, to the river; and the shady country lanes, and the old brown roads wandering past the mills, and up the hill, and round the creek, and back ofthe meadows! O, hungry eyes! oh, hungrier soul of little Hope Loring, that went aching and crying for these lost joys, in the dark, high chambers crowded betwixt the thick walls where your life had fallen to you!

But suddenly, as the pale, wistful face looked out of the window, a change came over it like a burst of sunlight. A little colour warmed the thin, pallid cheeks. The brown eyes grew dark and warm with a quick amazement and joy. "O-h! see there!" burst in a quick cry from the tremulous lips.

And there, in the window of the opposite house, stood a small glass pitcher crowded with flowers; roses in rich bloom, and fragrant mignonette, and trailing sprays of honeysuckle, and fuchsia; all these, some hand-a small white hand-had just placed in the window opposite.

Hope knew in a moment that it was a stranger's, some visitor's probably, for she had heard that the widow woman who did work on the sewing machine had been ill. The lady down there must have caught the child's exclamation, for she stepped to the window and looked up, and saw the small, eager, delighted face above her. She was a lady to whose heart the way was short and easy. The sight touched her.

"Do you love flowers, my child?" she said to Hope, and the smile with which she said it was beautiful to see.

"Oh, yes, ma'am !" said Hope Loring, and

something in her voice doubled the assent in her words.

"Well, come down here, and you shall have some of these."

And Hope went, and her heart and feet were light, as they use to be, going down to the meadows for dandelions and daisies. And the gentlefaced and sweet-voiced lady gathered from the glass pitcher some of the fairest blooms, and placed them in the thin hand of the child while the woman who "worked on the sewing machine" lay asleep on the bed.

"Oh, they are like the roses round our back porch!" cried Hope, bending down and drinking their breath, sweeter than wine.

The old fragrant scent was more than she could bear. She broke down in a great storm of tears. The small, thin figure shook under the sobs which heaved it to and fro. All the pain and home-sickness, the hunger and bitterness of years were in those sobs.

"Poor child-poor little girl," said the lady, and she smoothed Hope's hair with hands like the dead mother's that were gathered to the dust; and then, when the child had grown calmer, she made her sit down on the little stool at her feet, and won from her the story of her life.

Hope held nothing back. She found comfort telling it all, in her simple, straightforward child's way, little dreaming what a wonderful pathos her words gave her story, and how the listening lady almost shuddered, as she felt the chill, and gloom, and home-sickness which the child described, stealing, in a sort of magnetic sympathy, over her own soul.

This lady had money, and all life's ease and luxury at her command. She was in mid life and had but two children, and these were boys, a little older and a little younger than Hope.

The home of Mrs. Hastings was in the city, but she usually passed about half of the year with her sister, who had a charming cottage, home in the country. And it entered into the heart of Mrs. Hastings, at this moment, to take the little, lonely orphan girl with her, and with a swift impulse she said to her

"Next week I am going into the country, to pass the summer amid the hills and birds and flowers. My child, would you like to go with me?"

"Oh, ma'am !" said Hope; I believe—” She stopped here.

**

implore his pardon. Suddenly an awful cracking is heard: the ship is already on the breakers: a horde of Indians rush on deck, and kill all that come within their reach. Vasco and Inès are saved by Selika, in whom the savages recognize their queen. In the fourth act we are in India: Selika is re-established queen. Vasco is the only stranger that survives: Selika to save him has declared that he is her husband, which Nelusko, in spite of his jealousy, confirms. The High-priest celebrates the marriage, and Vasco seems to forget Inès in the arms of the Africaine. In the fifth act Selika, after a short glimpse of happiness, perceives that Vasco still loves Inès, and, by a supreme effort, she determines to render him to her rival; she will go and sleep under the mortal manchineel tree. This last act is acknowledged to be a chef-d'oeuvre of genius, love, and melancholy. A manchineel tree stands in the middle of the stage, a fiery evening sky dies the rolling waves around with blue and crimson, accompanied with such music as no mortal ears ever heard before. The effect is electrical, and is encored with peals of enthusiasm, enough to make Meyerbeer himself leap in his grave. I have enlarged a little more than usual on this opera, but I thought you would like to know something of a work so much talked of. When, as usual, the author's name was asked, a bust of Meyerbeer, alas! could only reply.

There has been another great hit, one that has caused wonderful gossip in the dramatic world, it possessing two fathers, and neither consenting to own it. After its success, however, both claimed it, and a procès is pending. "Le supplice d'une femme" was first conceived by Monsieur de Girardin, who presented it to the Theatre François. After a reading it was pronounced "unrepresentable," there being many nadmissible positions, even for a French audience. Alexandre Dumas fils was present at the reading, and offered to render it representable, which M. Girardin accepted. He changed everything, leaving only the first idea. Le supplice d'une femme (a woman's torment) is her lover, by whom she had been seduced seven years ago, although she had the most perfect husband under the sun. She now fears and hates him, but is obliged to submit to him, or he will divulge her secret. The crisis at length arrives: she receives a letter from the lover, in which he tells her that her husband will soon know all; her only resource is to fly with him and her little girl, seven years of age, to whom he is god-father. The husband, far from suspecting anything, is as happy as husband can be, and enters the instant after the frail lady has read the letter. In a momentary paroxysm of despair she gives him the letter: then follow such scenes, that we are all, both men and women, ob iged to wipe our eyes, in spite of ourselves. The piece was so changed that M. Girardin would not own it; on the other hand, Dumas would not, as the first idea was not his. In vain the public called for the author after the first representation: both remained silent in their box

angry with each other. The success augments at every representation, and now both claim the orphan. Girardin sold the manuscripts to a publisher for 5,000 francs, and en grand seigneur sent the money as a present to the actress, Mille. Favart; which Dumas hearing, immediately went to a printer, and ordered a thousand bills, in which he puts up for sale M. Girardin's house, saying that he promises to give the money it is sold for to Mdlle. Theresa or any other actress; so you see there is a pretty kettle of fish, which ought to end in a duel, or where will the fun be?

We have also been edified with another kind of procès, in which his Highness the Duke of Brunswick was defendant. His Highness has been conspicuous lately in the courts of justice, first as plaintiff, now as defendant: perhaps the first case, in exposing his numberless diamonds drew on him the second. It appears that in 1824, the Duke (being then twenty-two, rich and handsome, with a tender heart) was on a visit to England, and there fell in love with Lady Charlotte Colville, a beautiful orphan of seventeen according to the plaintiff, but with plain Charlotte Munsdon, a London beauty of the neighbourhood of Drury-lane according to defendant. After enticing the fair damsel, by the promise of a Morganic marriage, into Germany (where she held a kind of court in one of the Duke's palaces), a daughter was born to him, who was baptized with all the honour due to her rank as a legitimate child, and received the name of Wilhelmine, Countess of Collmar. A year after, mother and child were sent to England: the child was educated partly in that country and partly in France, at the Duke's expense. At sixteen she abjured Protestantism, after listening to a sermon of Père Lacordaire, who baptized her in the Roman faith, pompously displaying all the titles that would belong to her had her mother heen her father's wife. A little while after she married the Count Civry. Her mother was married to an Indian officer, from whom she eloped with number three; and has since strayed to California with number no one can tell. Madame la Comtesse Civry then sued her father for support. The Duke pretends to have nothing to do with her, and asserts that French justice has no business with the affair. The judges are not of his opinion, but have not yet settled the question.

The public have been admitted to the Mornygallery at the Corps Legislatif. The collection of pictures is said to be all chef d'œuvres, and are estimated at a very high price.

Picture-sales seem to be quite the order of the day: those belonging to the Duchess de Berry, from one of her Italian palaces, did not realize as much as was expected.

De Morny is to have a statue erected at Deanville, the place that he himself created.

They say that Mr. Walewski is to replace the Duke in his presidency: "chassé le naturel il revient au galop," says the malicious Gaul, when discussing the birth of the last and future president.

BB

66

A little while ago Liszt, the pianist, was to be married; and Mouravieff, the danseuse, was to enter a convent. Now the danseuse is to be married, and Liszt is a priest. Is this the last attitude the public is to be favoured with? Fancy how Madame d'Agout must laugh when she hears Liszt's piety lauded "piety from his earliest youth!" but there are avec le ciel des accommodements." Besides, are such peccadillos as running away with another man's wife worth noticing? Decidedly the great musician has a taste for second-hand goods. The Princess Witgenstein is also a married lady, but divorced. Numerous anecdotes are passed about of Liszt, who, for the last two years at least has been a devoted admirer of monks and priests, having taken up his abode in a convent near Rome. One day he entered an atelier of a known artist, and there he saw a magnificent monk, witth a long beard, conversing with several persons present. Liszt immediately ran to him, seized his hand, and kissed it devoutly, to the astonishment of all-particularly of the mock monk, who was simply a model, sitting to the artist, and whom Liszt had taken for the general of the Jesuits.

The friends of M. Renan are very much disgusted with the Marquis de Lorency-Charros, who, at a soirée given by the Count Sponnek in Athenes, refused to shake hands with the author of the "Vie de Jésus." It seems when the Marquis was introduced to him, he changed countenance and exclaimed: "What I, the Marquis de Lorency, a catholic and devoted son of the Roman church, I press the hand that wrote so blasphemous a work?-never!"

Paris is very beautiful just now. The streets are lined with strangers, while the Parisians are gone or going. The sun is so lovely! I think I never saw so charming a spring. It is true we have had many thunder-storms, and in one a poor man was struck dead with lightning last week-a very rare occurrence here. The races continue very fashionable, and the toilets magnificent. At La Marche, the other day, there was quite a change in the scenes. No more long dresses for walking or out-door pastime; so ladies may cut at least a yard off theirs if

they wish to be à la mode. Long trains are to remain exclusively for the theatre and soirées. Imagine what delight for those awful miserly husbands, who grudge one a few yards of silk for sweeping the streets and people to walk on! I could see how their eyes glistened as they gazed and called one's attention to the fact. If they could but demolish the crinoline also! Here and there an élegante du demi-monde, to attract attention, may be seen cageless; but the effort does not take, in spite of all one has to say on the subject. Lace cloaks and lace shawls are quite the rage, and the steel ornaments on every part of the costume render ladies dazzling to behold.

Her Majesty is playing the monarch during her august husband's absence, and is truly amusing, with her title of Regent, presiding at the council-board, &c., &c.; business, however, does not make her forget dancing, and every Monday there is a reception at the Palace.

The Emperor is reaping harvests of "Vive l'Empereur!" in Algiers. The Monitor can scarcely find words to express the enthusiasm with which he is received. He visited a convent of trappists the other day: the Superior ordered a monk to show him the boiled vegetables, the only food allowed the brethren; "But," said the Superior, "our brothers are so used to prepare the dishes, that although pepper, salt, and water are the only savouries permitted, yet I as sure your Majesty it is not bad." The Emperor smiled, and turning to the Bishop of Algiers (who accompanied him), "Have you tasted it?" said he. "Yes," replied Monseigneur, “once, and that was sufficient."

Several ladies have lately formed a committee, under the presidency of Madame Laboulaye (the wife of the great American admirer, Mr. E. Laboulaye, of the Institute, who proposed it), to collect as much money as they can for buying clothing to send out to the liberated slaves in America. Most of the ladies' names on the list are Protestants. Adieu for another month. Yours truly,

S. A. PS. The swallows are back; so the world is again safe for another year.

THE BATH TATTING Book. By P. P. (London: Emily Faithfull, 83a, Farringdonstreet, and 14, Princes-street, Hanover-square.)—Clear, concise, and efficient, we have great pleasure in recommending this little manual of the art and mystery of tatting; an accomplish. ment old as the time of Mrs. Pendarves, and one of those feminine handicrafts, in which, amongst many others, the ladies of the early days of Queen Charlotte were adepts. The directions are so fully given and so clearly expressed, that we fancy any lady may learn the secret of tatting in a forenoon; while the patterns are so pretty and so much more lacy

looking than crochet, that we suspect a revolution in the fabrication of D'oyleys &c. very likely to follow, and the tatting shuttle and pin take the place of the crochet hook. Great care has been taken in engraving the patterns of D'oyleys, edgings, and insertions with which this little book is illustrated, and together with the instructions leave nothing to be desired on the part of the learner.

AN APPEAL TO ALL CHRISTIANS AND THE JEWISH NATION, TO LIBERATE JERU salem. By Chas. F. Zimpel, F.M.D. (London: G. J. Stevenson, 54, Paternoster Row).-We have read this rambling ill-written, and worse