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She dwelt an orphan and an alien in her uncle's family. Nobody there meant to be unkind to ber; in a certain sense each member was sorry for the little homeless, fatherless, motherless child; but after all, none understood her.

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Poor people these were; cramped, and fretted, and soured, and oppressed by poverty. long, wearisome hand-to-hand struggle with toil had worn into 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.

something in her voice doubled the assent in her words.

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

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

And Hope went, and her heart and feet were light, as they used 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.

*

Four days had passed. Mrs. Hastings had seen Hope's aunt and uncle, and obtained, with no difficulty, their conseut to take the child with her. They considered the offer of Mrs. Hastings an especial "godsend," for they had felt it was high time their niece should do something to help herself; but she was such a small punything, that they had'nt the heart to put her

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at it."

So, one afternoon Mrs. Hastings called with her carriage, intending to take Hope home with her, and make some improvements in her wardrobe before she should accompany her to the

country. Hope's aunt met her at the door with a face singularly troubled and solemn.

!

me all the time. I am going to God and my mother." And the gentle lady and the weary, toiling aunt wept to hear her.

And Hope turned to the lady, and her parched lips smiled joyfully

"There are no brick walls there," she said. 'And I shall have the green fields and the flowers always. It is better, even, than to go with you; though that seemed Heaven enough before. But I shall not forget you; and some time, perhaps, I shall know you again-the lady who set the flowers in the window!"

Mrs. Hastings watched with the child the rest of the day. That night, the little, tired,

A swift light flooded the weary eyes. "Oh! yes, ma'am; you are the lady who had overburdened soul went out on that long path the flowers in the window." which we must all walk-one by one.

"The child has been very ill," she said. "The doctor says it is a bad case. She must have had a slow fever in her veins for a long time; and a shock and excitement of some kind, too great for her weak, overwrought system, has utterly prostrated her."

So Mrs. Hastings went up the stairs to the small, dark chamber where the child lay, with her little, thin face paled and sharpened terribly. "Hope, don't you know me?" asked Mrs. Hastings, tenderly.

"Well, my dear child, you must make haste and get well, so as to go with me where you shall have birds and flowers at every window." Hope put out her thin, hot hands, and shook her head.

"No, I shan't go with you," she said. "I am going where I shall have flowers prettier than those in the window, forever. I shall see them, and walk amongst them, and they will shine on

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They gathered about the little, still, dead face just as the joy and happiness had fallen into her with tears, and murmured that it was too bad," life, that she must die.

They did not know what they said. Hope had gone to the warmth and bloom of the eternal summer, to the little children's best home, the peace and freedom, the care and love of God and His angels, and these are wiser and tenderer than even a mother's.

OUR PARIS CORRESPONDENT.

MY DEAR C

The great event of this month is the apparition at last of the famous " Africaine" opera, in five acts: words by Scribe, music by Meyerbeer; a work of twenty years' labour. Of course the critics are very divided in their opinion-some place it over everything that has yet appeared, others declare it second-rate; but, in general, enthusiasm is at a high pitch amongst the dilettanti, and "What do you think of the 'Africaine'?" is in everyone's mouth. Their Majesties honoured the first representation with their presence; the happy few could only gain admission then, and, as yet, the common of mortals are still excluded, so great is the concourse of "amateurs," in spite of the decline of the season. The curtain rises on the councilchamber in the King's palace at Lisbon. Inès (Marie Batta), the daughter of Dom Diego, is there, full of strange presentiments. Her fiancé, Vasco de Gama (Naudin), has been gone for two years with Admiral Diaz, on a discovery expedition, and no news has yet been heard of them. While Inès is reflecting on her lover's destiny, her father arrives in the councilchamber, and tells her that it is his Majesty's and his pleasure that she marries Dom Pedro, a rich and powerful lord. Vasco is only an obscure adventurer, who most likely is drowned with the Diaz expedition; indeed a sailor, escaped by miracle, has just arrived, and announced the catastrophe. The sailor is introduced before the council-board: it is Vasco himself. He has with him two slaves-l'Africaine Selika (Madame Sage) and Nelusko (Faure),

purchased by him in Africa, and belonging to no known race, and who refuse to betray their country. Vasco asks for means to find it. Then follows a grand discussion in the council. In the second act Vasco is in prison, with his two slaves; he is asleep. Nelusko advances with a poignard to kill him, but is prevented by Selika, daughter of his fallen king, but queen in his eyes. She awakes Vasco, who returns to his map, and with his finger tries to trace the road to the unknown region. "No, not that way, this way," and the enamoured Selika has betrayed her secret. Inès arrives in the prison, and sees Vasco loading the slave with caresses, in order to gain further information. To calm Inès, Vasco makes her a present of the two slaves; but, alas! Inès is already married to Dom Pedro, the only means in her power to gain Vasco's liberty; Dom Pedro has also obtained the command of the fleet destined for Vasco. In the third act the famous ship appears; Inès is in her hammock, Selika her slave at her feet. The obstinate Dom Pedro has chosen the elave Nelusko for pilot, in spite of his lieutenant's advice. All imagine that they are near the land of promise: Nelusko alone knows that he is leading them to death. At that moment a bark, coming from a Portuguese vessel, approaches, and a man leaps from it into the ship. It is Vasco: he has preceded the expedition in a ship_armed at his own expense, and comes to tell Dom Pedro of his danger: one of his vesssels is already gone down. Dom Pedro disbelieves him, and orders him to be tied to the mast and shot. In vain Inès and Selika

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 admissible 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

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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, Mdlle. 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.

B B

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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.

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

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."

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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.

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

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composed farrago, and arrive at the conclusion that the doctor is a disappointed man, whose grievance is not so much the condition of the Holy City, as the failure of his scheme for the building of a safe harbour at Jaffa, and a railway thence to Jerusalem. His pamphlet is at once a vehicle of abuse of Fuad Pasha-whose personal misfortunes he has the bad taste and the supreme and silly arrogance to write of as the judgments of the Christian Allah, in consequence of the non-concession of this railway scheme. "You are gone," he says of himself, quoting a letter of a friend from Constantinople, and the vengeance of God has manifested itself. The day of your departure (Saturday, Dec. 10, 1864, by Lloyds' Steamer for Trieste), a terrible fire broke out in the very bed-room of the grand vizier Fuad Pasha. He had hardly time to save his life. The flames comsumed his entire palace, with all the furniture, diamonds, and decorations, and even the seal of the Empire, all became a prey to this terrible element. What a lesson to the ungodly! The sultan has offered him another palace, and several millions to furnish it. But is it possible to deceive the Eye-divine? and I therefore continue my former address to this terrible man: 'Did I not tell thee already, one year ago, that our Allah would bless thee if thou wouldst grant this railway concession, which I did solicit in His name and in the most humble straightforward and honest manner, which of course involved the contrary by a refusal?'" If this be not the language of fanaticism, we know not what it is. Everywhere we find Dr. Zimpel bearing testimony to the reality of his christianity with a pharisaical blowing of his own trumpet, which he means to sound farther than Marylebone. His appeal in favour of wresting the "half savage province of Palestine" from Turkish rule numbers 100,000 copies in different languages, and multiplies by so many the advertisements of his works; of which if the brochure before us is an average specimen, we do not wonder if they remain on hand. The mixture of religion, commercial disappointment, and prophetical denunciation, which form the text of this preacher of a new crusade, is not likely, we think, to lead to the liberation of Jerusalem.

[POEMS by M. Barr in our next.]

EXHIBITION OF THE INSTITUTE OF PAINTERS IN WATER COLOURS,

PALL MALL.

A note-worthy exhibition, whether we regard the brilliancy of the colouring, the pleasing variety of the pictures, or the honest work in the majority of them.

Absolon, McKewan, G. J. Rowbotham, and J. W. Whymper, are the largest contributors this year. The first artist has several figurepictures finished more carefully than usual, and in his happiest style: "Our Wedding Tour" on the first screen (319), and "Sauntering" (322),

are pleasant illustrations of his cheerful colouring and genial compositions. Since we have begun with the first screen, we may as well draw our reader's attention to Edmund G. Warren's "Amid the New-mown Hay" (321), and "In the Sweet Spring-time of the Year" (323), two delicious transcripts from nature, fresh, succulent and flowery. Edwin Hayes' "Dutch Boats near Dordt, evening" (321), is another praise-worthy picture, well composed and delicately painted. "Windermere, looking towards the Ferry Hotel, from Bisket, How Bowness, Westmorland" (15), by Philip Mitchell, is vigorously drawn. "The Arrival of Rebekah" (22), is in Mr. H. Warren's best manner; camels, on a long ridge of sand, a shepherd with his flocks in the hollow, and a crescent moon above. Mrs. Margett's "Greenhouse Flowers" (24), show a marked progress in this lady's style. Mr. J. C. Reed's "Conway Valley, looking towards Corwen" (29), is a charming picture, solidly painted, and full of pictorial beauty. "Windsor Castle_from Eton College Meadows, moonlight" (35), John Chase, is effective though sombre. "Caudebec, Normandy" (36), S. Prout: brown, crumbly, and picturesque, affords precisely the materials which this artist loves to deal. Conspicuous amongst the figure-paintings are Mr. Henry Tidey's illustrations of Byron and Longfellow (40) and (53), which, charming in other respects, are certainly far from satisfying one's ideal of feminine beauty. In the first the face of the Greek lady is nauseous, in the other the gentle savage is simply weak. H. C. Pidgeon takes us to the coast: his "Peep into the Cove, South Devon" (50), is a lovely bit of sea-side scenery, just a stretch of blue sea, an indented clift, and the shelving sands beneath, on which we almost hear the wash and ripple of the lazy summer waves. Mr. W. Luson Thomas has crossed the Channel to some purpose: his "Homeward Bound Boulogne Sands" (59), and a companionpicture on the other side of the room, "Sunday Evening, Boulogne" (260), are full of freshness, fidelity, and vigour. The same merry trio fill both frames, and prove that the daughters of St. Peter's have not deteriorated since we last saw them crossing the sands, laden with baskets, and nets, and such like coil, their day's work ended, light-hearted, joyous, strong, as Mr. Thomas shows them to us, or in lieu of the evening's Ducasse promenading the port, in all the gay coquetry of their Sunday toilettes. "In the Shade" (64), Geo. Shalders, a picture of cattle and spreading trees, with a true feeling for nature in its treatment; his fleeces in "Collecting the Flock" (247), are wonderfully true. Louis Haghe is great as usual in old Flemish interiors, and the figures in buff jerkins, and mediæval armour, that in the hands of this artist specially appertain to them-drinking, fighting, roystering, card-playing soldiers, or the equally useful for pictorial purposes city "Night Watch." Mr. Haghe has two pictures of which this melodramatic force' forms the subject, "The Night Wateh-The Guard Station" (66), and

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