should walk in but Mr. Lemuel Skrymegour himself, punctual to his engagement at the supper, after which his happiness was to be decided by the final arrangements for his marriage with Miss Fanny Vane. He, conscious of his right of way, rang the bell lustily, and passed on without taking any notice of the four persons so deeply implicated in the affair, and proceeding to the door of the house, which gave, equally with the drawing-room windows, to the lawn, found it instantly opened by a servant with a candle in his hand. In the hall was Vane ready to receive him, and Mrs. Vane was not far behind her husband; the candle, however, threw so strong a light upon the white drapery of Fanny, that she could not effect a retreat, while the three lovers, feeling no disposition whatever to flinch from the dénouement, maintained their ground steadily.

The old gentleman was warmly welcomed, and having received the accolades of Mr. and Mrs. Vane, turned to look for his intended, when, to the dismay and consternation of her astonished parents, there she stood outside the door, attended by the three complaining suitors. "What is the meaning of this, Miss Fanny ?" said Vane.

"What

are you doing in the garden at this time of night, and who are these,— eh ?"

66

Friends," said Skrymegour.

Fanny, Fanny!" said Mrs. Vane, holding up her hand fist-wise.

"That's it," said Skrymegour, taking her by the hand.

"Leave me alone, Sir," said Fanny.

"Sulky?" said Skrymegour.

"No," said Fanny, sobbing.

"Shy?" said Skrymegour.

"You should be too happy," said Vane.

"So I think," said his wife.

"I say nothing more."

"Take Mr. Skrymegour's hand, Miss," exclaimed her mother; "or-"

"Don't flurry Miss Fanny," said Sunderland.

"Miss Fanny will obey you," whispered Amesbury.

"We'll retire," said Clifton.

"Eh!" said Skrymegour.

"Oh! pity, pity!" exclaimed Fanny, bursting into tears. "I will do anything you wish-and die!"

Saying which she rushed into the house, followed by her mother. Skrymegour, in his quaint way, entreated the three beaux to come in and join them,—much to Vane's horror, lest they should accept the invitation, of that, however, there was no fear. The coquette had been unkennelled, and the dupes of her fickleness beat a retreat-Captain Clifton indulging himself in a flourish upon his horn, which must have sounded disagreeably ominous to the old bridegroom elect. On that very day fortnight, Fanny became Mrs. Skrymegour.

"A just illustration," said Captain Clifton, " of the French Proverb QUI COURT PLUSIEURS LIEVRES, NE PREND QU'UN RAT.'"

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HEMANS.

"The rose-the glorious rose is gone."-Lays of Many Lands.

BRING flowers to crown the cup and lute,

Bring flowers, the bride is near;
Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell,
Bring flowers to strew the bier!

Bring flowers! thus said the lovely song;

And shall they not be brought

To her who linked the offering

With feeling and with thought?

Bring flowers,--the perfumed and the pure,—

Those with the morning dew,

A sigh in every fragrant leaf,

A tear on every hue.

So pure, so sweet thy life has been,
So filling earth and air
With odours and with loveliness,

Till common scenes grew fair.

Thy song around our daily path
Flung beauty born of dreams,
That shadows on the actual world
The spirit's sunny gleams.
Mysterious influence, that to earth
Brings down the heaven above,
And fills the universal heart

With universal love.

Such gifts were thine,-as from the block,

The unformed and the cold,

The sculptor calls to breathing life

Some shape of perfect mould,

So thou from common thoughts and things
Didst call a charmed song,

Which on a sweet and swelling tide
Bore the full soul along.

And thou from far and foreign lands
Didst bring back many a tone,
And giving such new music still,
A music of thine own.

A lofty strain of generous thoughts,

And yet subdued and sweet,—
An angel's song, who sings of earth,
Whose cares are at his feet.

And yet thy song is sorrowful,

Its beauty is not bloom;

The hopes of which it breathes, are hopes

That look beyond the tomb.

Thy song is sorrowful as winds

That wander o'er the plain,

And ask for summer's vanished flowers,

And ask for them in vain.

Ah! dearly purchased is the gift,
The gift of song like thine;
A fated doom is hers who stands
The priestess of the shrine.
The crowd-they only see the crown,
They only hear the hymn ;—
They mark not that the cheek is pale,
And that the eye is dim.

Wound to a pitch too exquisite,

The soul's fine chords are wrung;

With misery and melody

They are too highly strung.
The heart is made too sensitive
Life's daily pain to bear;
It beats in music, but it beats
Beneath a deep despair.

It never meets the love it paints,
The love for which it pines;
Too much of Heaven is in the faith
That such a heart enshrines.

The meteor wreath the poet wears

Must make a lonely lot;

It dazzles, only to divide

From those who wear it not.

Didst thou not tremble at thy fame,
And loathe its bitter prize,
While what to others triumph seemed,
To thee was sacrifice?

Oh, Flower brought from Paradise

To this cold world of ours,
Shadows of beauty such as thine
Recall thy native bowers.

Let others thank thee-'twas for them
Thy soft leaves thou didst wreathe ;
The red rose wastes itself in sighs

Whose sweetness others breathe!
And they have thanked thee-many a lip
Has asked of thine for words,

When thoughts, life's finer thoughts, have touched
The spirit's inmost chords.

How many loved and honoured thee

Who only knew thy name;

Which o'er the weary working world

Like starry music came!

With what still hours of calm delight
Thy songs and image blend;

I cannot choose but think thou wert
An old familiar friend.

The charm that dwelt in songs of thine

My inmost spirit moved;

And yet I feel as thou hadst been

Not half enough beloved.

They say that thou wert faint, and worn

With suffering and with care;

What music must have filled the soul
That had so much to spare!

Oh, weary One! since thou art laid
Within thy mother's breast-
The green, the quiet mother-earth-
Thrice blessed be thy rest!
Thy heart is left within our hearts,

Although life's pang is o'er;
But the quick tears are in my eyes,
And I can write no more.

L. E. L.

THE ENGLISH ORCHESTRA.

THE PHILHARMONIC SOCIETY.

THE Country musician, when he arrives in London, goes first to the Opera, and is enchanted by talent of a foreign growth; next to the English theatres, where he is disappointed by the inferiority of native singers and music, and finally flits from concert to concert, in the thick of the season, to feed on the stimulating music of Italy, tempered now and then only by a solo from one of our great instrumentalists. He returns to his home year after year to descant upon the merits of the Malibran or Grisi of the season, and to deplore the mediocrity of his countrywhen chance, or rather good fortune, introduces him to the Philharmonic, and he finds himself suddenly transported into the true sphere of his country's musical excellence-into an inspired realm of which he scarcely suspected the existence. He mixes with an audience whose real incentive for being present is their fondness for music, he hears an orchestra whose sole cause of combination was zeal for the noblest interests of art, and he feels all the elevating enjoyment which genius and enthusiasm rightly and successfully applied are capable of bestowing, as well as that species of commendable patriotism which exults in the supremacy of native talent.

The Philharmonic Society, though of short life-comparatively but little known, and not at all appreciated, out of London-has been at once the nursery and the theatre of instrumental music in England. It is not, strictly speaking, a public concert, as the number of its members and subscribers are limited. Yet we feel we shall be pardoned by its supporters for disclosing some of its details, with a view to adding our mite towards the diffusion of the love of art in the best sense, which they have done so much to promote.

The great schools and institutions of the Continent have, in most cases, been established by Government itself, and superintended by men of veteran talent and celebrity. The Philharmonic, on the contrary, originated with a few individuals, and has been fostered into its present state of maturity solely by the warmth of their enthusiasm, and the sacrifice of their time. Previous to its formation, instrumental music had been long in a languishing state. The following is the opening paragraph of the first prospectus :-"The want of encouragement which has for many years past been experienced by that species of music which called forth the efforts, and displayed the genius of the greatest masters, and the almost utter neglect into which instrumental pieces in general have fallen, have long been sources of regret to the real amateur and to the well-educated professor; a regret that, though it has hitherto proved unavailing, has not extinguished the hope that persevering exertions may yet restore to the world those compositions which have excited so much delight, and rekindle in the public mind that taste for excellence in instrumental music which has so long remained in a latent state."

The framers, however, of this resolution were far from perceiving that they were paving the way for the reformation rather than the restoration of instrumental music. The works of the old masters were, however beautiful of their kind, beginning to be felt as highly-wrought fetters to July.-VOL. XLIV. NO. CLXXV.

X