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say, from the north, is a perfect bit of Dresden or Sevres-piquante, petite, mignonne-a fairy, a cloud of floating muslin: so that in this greenhouse, every human horticulturist can suit his taste admirably. Here is the Eblana Belle, en titre-here is her rival. Uniforms, too. There is a camp within an hour's drive-there are barracks in a dozen quarters of the city, so we can be glutted with every variety of shape and colour, cavalry, foot, and military train, and what must surely be the uniform of that exceptional corps, the chevaux marins; for there are mysterious garments, too, not known to Planche or even Nathan-uniforms of a local pattern --officers associated with the administration of counties, who are splendid as French senators. These entities gorgeous in green and gold, and general braiding, far more sumptuous than riflemen-are police. We have our household uniform, Windsorial in a degree, and the flashing aides-de-camp resplendent in bullion. As an alterative, there is a gush of the element clergymanical, whose bands and black gowns have a rather mortuary and quieting effect. Also the high judicial functionaries in decent black velvet, and the bishops in the incomprehensible apron. All this while the company has been slowly filtering through. There is a polite "pen" at the end of the room, over which gigantic sentries keep guard, and admit a few at a time. There is a fierce competition to reach this sacred enclosure, and some of our flowers get sadly frayed and tossed, losing a few of their petals in the process. But once in the secure enclosure, refitting and arrangement takes place. For already, though the door be forced, is heard the official chanting the monotone of names sung from afar. Now, the moment; and blooming Miss Magnolia sees through the door the long, glittering line, with its conspicuous centre figure, along which she must pass. Menials specially deputed to that object, take from her trembling arm the rustling train, and spread it out with suitable effect. Before her eyes is a flood of light, and a terrible open space, across which she must travel, alone and unsupported, running the polite gauntlet as it were of that glittering line, with a hundred

eyes watching her progress. But, most trying ordeal of all, when at the centre, and making profoundest and most graceful obeisance (rehearsed, say, gentle Magnolia, how many times in the drawing-room at home, mamma playing vice-king for the nonce, and the junior branches of the family supporting the parts of members of the court), out steps the Vice-King, and exacts that sort of feudal tribute, which is of the royal prerogative. Enviable proconsul-blissful prerogative-sweet monopoly! Mark how the rights and privileges of the famous office have been gradually cut down-imperceptibly dwindling-but to this sacred right have all vice-monarchs clung desperately, come weal, come woe; nay, might it not be reasonably suspected that the seduction of this labial impost might have such charms as actually to avert the doom of utter abolition, which at times has menaced the viceregal throne. Only conceive it! Take it in a rough way, at from six to eight hundred- a procession of lips, through the whole night, and all for one Being, who is not a Heathen God, but a simple mortal. A sort of practical judgment of Paris, going on for hours, only with more satisfactory means of testing comparative merit than was allowed to the Homeric gentleman. And consider-consider yet more emphatically-the wretched minor actors in the piece, who must stand by and look on patiently, and suffer all the raging torments of Tantalus. Wonderful that, towards the end of the ceremony, these unhappy men, goaded to fury, do not abandon all sense of restraint, and rush in for their share of the universal osculation. Poor, famished souls! they would not be so accountable after all!

Still, by the happy law of nature, there is compensation in all things and if there is unrestricted right of salutation over these blooming pastures, so are there over stony and arid patches, which must be accepted on like conditions. With twenty per cent of the six or eight hundred, it resolves itself into a question which nothing but a stern sense of duty can carry him through. And yet it may be considered an agreeable alterative

olives before the strawberries. The osculatory bill, is, as it were, discounted after the fashion of ordinary

usurious dealings-one third, old wine; one third in paintings; and one third in bright, brilliant gold and silver. Here are long rooms with pictures, and pillars, and tapestry, and much gilding; all with a flavour of state. And here is the grand hall state ball-room, with galleries at each end, into which the presented crowd gushes furiously. There is something of the Grand Monarque air about the look of the whole--the plumes and feathers, the trains, the jewels, the uniforms and colours of the gentlemen of a remote period, all crowded together in the hall. By-and-by the musicians in the gallery strike up "God Save the Queen," and an avenue opens down the centre, through which Vice-King, followed by a gorgeous train of household lords, ladies, and gentlemen, advances splendidly. Professional cynicism may talk of its Court Calendars, and "sham Court Calendars," but when we take up our journal next morning, and spread the news upon our palates, as we would butter our toast, we read what a throng of earls, countesses, barons, lords, lordlings, bishops, judges, and untitled talent of all degrees, has been circulating about us. It is as genuine a Court Calendar, and Royal Red Book, as could well be published. For a "sham," if sham it be, it has a wonderful vitality. But this ceremonial is but the herald to other joys. The capital is full. The rustic nobility-constitutional supporters of the existing ministryare now in town, sojourning at the decent, dear, and dingy hostelries, which are favoured with their patronage. These does viceregal Majesty delight to honour. And so, after a day's interval, cards flutter forth for A BANQUET!" A banquet, strictly speaking; and known by that denomination-legitimately entitled to that splendid title. The great hall is again laid out, and a hundred and twenty guests sit down--the elements of selection, rank, and beauty. And this, besides, no vile, civic feast, or splendid scramble for victuals, but a calm dinner party. There are things to see and remember; and a succession of these enliven the festivities of Eblana Castle during the season.

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Balls, too! Yes, where the lieges assemble thirteen hundred strong. These, too, are festivals worth see

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ing, purchased, however, by wholesale compression. Most notable of all, the ball on the night of the Patron Saint of the kingdom, where all the company-say sixteen hundred strong, as before-arrive in court dresses, feathers, trains, and the rest of that gear. Where, at ten o'clock punctually, according to immemorial usage, a monster country-dance is formed, and Vice-King leads off down the fatiguing ranks of innumerable couples, to the famous tune of " Giga,' consecrated to, and called by the name of, the patron saint just mentioned. A curious spectacle, with something of the Louis Quatorze flavour, to see gentlemen of the Johnsonian era, and in the habiliments of that great lexicographer, flying round in the measure of a nineteenth century valse, and perfectly reckless of the incongruity. When there is universal courtesying, at a particular crisis of the measure known as "The Lancers," as by statute in that case made and provided, and corresponding graceful bowing on the part of innumerable Doctor Johnsons-the whole effect is something in the nature of a dream of the Grand Court, with a soupçon of the minuet.

But if there be a specialité on which Eblana prides itself, it is on its flood of amateur music. This is irrepressible, and breaks out in a thousand shapes. Tenors, usually scarce and precious as black swans, are here in a welcome profusion. The spectacle of a human being standing up before a mixed company to distend the human uvula, in a rude and uncultivated state, is common enough everywhere-all mortals, with the most humble gift of vociferation, thinking they have "a call," to disturb their fellow creatures in a drawing-room. But here is a host of fine voices, and abundance of cultivation; and the result is an almost business-like organization which confounds strangers, and is very different from the feeble and disjointed efforts of the common run of amateurs. Eblana has its own Royal Academy of Music, which dates back to nearly a century and a-half ago; and this institution serves, happily, as a sort of neutral ground for getting together all amateur elements. And every year a kind of festival concert takes place, in aid of its funds, on the night of which is presented a spectacle, per

haps unique in these kingdoms. An opera is chosen to be recited-Verdi, Rossini, or Bellini's-and there is no difficulty in finding suitable performers for the leading parts. But the orchestra is worth coming many miles to see. For there is seen, clustered together, rising in circular row above row, a cloud of the freshest and most captivating belles that Eblana can boast, mostly from the very first rank, and who, by some mysterious law, seem to have the gift of good voices, in addition to their other charms. All are in white; all have wreaths of the same pattern; all have bouquets; and all have a sort of narrow tricolor ribbon crossing their shoulder to the waist. And the effect, heightened by brilliant lights, and the shape of the orchestra, is that of a charming bouquet. "Ernani," "La Sonnambula," I Puritani," and many more have been "recited" in this attractive fashion; but it is to be suspected the audience are more busy with each item of the chorus than with the music of Verdi or Bellini. The same spectacle may be seen in Rome the Eternal, and other Italian cities, only scarcely on so large a scale. Sometimes this charitable assistance was taken in the shape of an opera acted, with suitable dresses and decorations; and only a few years back, the "Maritana" of Mr. Wallace was excellently given, with this accomplished band of sirens for chorus. These refinements lift us out of the dead level of dull insensibility; and the more we can draw near to the happy models found in foreign cities, the more wholesome the influence. In Eblana the Dagon of business does not devour his children.

In most private houses music is supreme; but there are special mansions where she is at home. That is a thing as of course-a necessary of life-and the onus lies upon those who are inharmonious.

They labour under disability. It is a round of musical parties, and of morning matinées; which latter, at certain seasons, come so thick, that for many afternoons, successively, an eager dilettante may wander from house to house, and see his friends, and be entertained by most marvellous music. There he will hear rich, deep contraltoes, florid sopranoes, hurrying over the grand hunting country of vocali

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zation, taking the rasping fences of demi-semi-quavers smoothly, and keeping their seats easily, like their sisters in the open field. Here are barytones, very precious," as Mr. Ruskin would phrase it; and, as of course, a satiety of those cheaper organs the rude, disorderly basses. Over all is that smoothness which familiarity with Italian music and Italian singers is sure to give.

Balls! Eblana is insane upon balls and dinner parties. The roysterer coming home late at night, and wandering through Irish Belgravia, sees files of carriages drawn up, waiting patiently until four and five in the morning. From the surrounding darkness that festive mansion stands out, with its windows all ablaze. From within wind forth the cheerful horn, and encouraging viol; while on the blinds are projected fitful shadowsfor the "Galop des Démons" is now raging, and Eblana's sons and daughters are crushing round like possessed dancing dervishes.

These festivals are pleasant things to see; for they do not crowd their company in a sort of fashionable Calcutta Black Hole, as in great Babylon. A stream of fresh faces, and fresh dresses, and of brisk, vigorous dancers

the whole copiously seasoned with the fighting, scarlet element, who, in many respects, are indeed the salt of a ball-for such is Eblana, the happy hunting ground-that city being a huge garrison. And yet this heaven has its drawbacks. As there are faggots and faggots, according to the French maxim, so are there fighting men and fighting men. Recent courtmartials have let us into the secret, of what low, degraded elements have latterly stolen into the ranks of the British army; and this is traceable in the mob of soldiers which inundates our Eblana ball-rooms. 'Scrape a Russian," said Napoleon, "and you will find a Tartar underneath.' And so, in certain instances, if you scrape away the scarlet plating, patches of "the cad" break out-manners that are positively ungentlemanly; deportment that is familiar, and conversation tainted with low slang.

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Dinners, too! We abound in banquets, and feast each other all the year round. There is a succession of what is known, in the waiting interest, as State Dinners."-twenty

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four, and twenty-six, the golden numbers. The baked meats are choice, and do not by any means so coldly furnish forth the table." The "service" is admirable, and the vintages unsurpassed. There are sherries and Madeiras, and clarets slumbering in certain "caves" of Eblana, that would make a connoisseur's heart glad.

Clubs! Eblana abounds in clubs. Beginning with the great Conservative House of Call, which has on its books every substantial name of rank, of consideration, in the country, sprinkled all through, copiously, with English peers and statesmen-for Eblana is indeed a sort of Hotel de Europe for the British islands. Everyone has passed through and staid a night in his life; has been quartered there; has been drawn over on some pretext or excuse; has friends or relations who are, or have been there. The "wild Irishmen" are perpetually bringing down hordes of the perfidious Saxons. As in the little watering-places abroad, so is there here a daily list published of arrivals and departures, and we may see how the Marquis of Steyne, Lord Bareacres, Viscount Cinqbars, Captain de Boots, and other familiar names, whom we have met at the booths of Vanity Fair, have just come over. arrive the select cohort of cricketers, known as The Gipsies, who put up at the Viceroyal hostelry, and are entertained sumptuously.

*

Now

Eblana has its opera season; which runs, off and on, say for nearly two months in the year. A facetious peer described Eblana as the "most cardrivingest city in the universe;" but on this musical advent the ranks of the Mezzo Ceto become insane temporarily. I suppose the Royal Eblana Opera House, is about the prettiest edifice of its kind in the kingdom; and, when filled from floor to ceiling, has a specially brilliant aspect. But on the last nights of the engagement of the little piquante Squalacci, the famous soprano, and of Chestini, the robust tenor, and Growliani, the notorious basso-profundo, we have scenes of uproarious admiration, which confound the wandering stranger. We have letting down of flags, of singing

birds, of superbly-bound books, of wreaths, in fact of anything that can by human ingenuity be let down, which results sometimes in "La Picciola," which is the pet diminutive name of the Squalacci, coming to the footlights, and making a pretty little speech of grateful sympathy, but imperfect English, to this effect, "I loaf you all ver moche," a declaration as may be well imagined, received with screams of delight. Sometimes, too, this gentle response has taken the shape of a cantata, entitled, say, "The Praise of Gain," the words by the grateful Chestini, the music by Bâtonini, the accomplished chef d'orchestre, who is strangely popular (for no apparent reason beyond kid gloves, waving his implement of office gracefully), and has his own little ovation as he enters the orchestra. Once indeed the charming little Squalacci wrote us (that is pit, gallery, and boxes), a letter from Spezia, or some such place, which is here reproduced "textuellement"-

"19 October, 1859. "MESSIEURS,-I have been favoured with a handsome and elegant Copy of the Don Giovanni. Should heaven accord me the power to revisit the city of my sympathy, that dear in words, better than in these hasty Eblana, I hope to be able to express lines, my lively sense of gratitude. I could, my dear Eblanesi, knew that I sympathy they have given me; and can never forget the proofs of kind that neither time nor distance can ever obliterate them from my recollection.

"MARIA SQUALACCI.”

Maria is now married to an Italian Count, and living happily by an Italian lake.

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These, with many more, are the delights of Eblana. One thing more remains to be said, which is a pregnant text in itself. In these days of what Mr. Carlyle calls general cotton confusion" and money worship, there are to be seen in the open streets of Eblana two statues to two poets--to Goldsmith and to Thomas Moore.

*For a description of a night at this Lyrical Temple, see "Temple Bar." March: 1862.

YAXLEY AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.

CHAPTER I.

THE FATHER, THE CHILD, AND THE PUPIL.

Ir was one of those winter nights common to our climate; the sky deep blue; myriads of stars twinkling down upon the hard earth; frost thick upon window-panes and white upon roadside hedges; street puddles frozen -ice everywhere abroad. Many a tender garden plant was that night meekly receiving its death-stroke, while others more hardy drooped their leaves under the crisp coating they had received; the snail and the worm had hidden themselves away deep in the earth's bosom; vegetation was at a stand still; servants were busy renewing great fires in comfortable sitting-rooms; elderly gentlemen rubbed their hands together pleasantly, and said the cold was delightfully bracing; boys thought they would skate next day, if the frost continued; the very aged, bed-ridden in rooms, whose heat was stifling to their younger companions, felt the ice. stealing to their heart's core, pressing heavily on their breath; young ladies drew near the fire, with their books or needlework; vagrants in the streets muttered imprecations upon the weather, and drew their scanty covering closer round them; appetites were sharpened, luxury was enjoyed; starvation and want were engendering despair; children with merry eyes and rosy cheeks were laughing in the homes of the well-fed-children with pinched features and pale faces were crying in the garrets of the hungry.

Upon that night the town of Yaxley was very quiet, few people were going through its streets. No one liked being out long, and any that were obliged to encounter the cold, hurried by, with coats buttoned to the throat, and noses dyed to the deepest hue of purple. In a little cottage of the suburbs of the town a weary man sat in a barelyfurnished room, stirring the halfexpiring fire and as he looked into its embers, thinking of life's spark dying out too. He was a small man, of meek aspect, not old in years-yet his hair was thickly besprinkled with

white, and lay in thin streaks on his temples. The worn features of his face might have struck any observer with a feeling of interest, if not of pain; the hands were thin, too, very thin and pale, and his clothes, as if they laboured under the same complaint as the wearer, were thin, threadbare, and faded. All was worn outmind, body, and apparel. Despair has different depths of shade--all are dark, but some are blacker than others. The shadow it was casting in that humble little room, with its scanty furniture, its bare walls, its lonely aspect, was gradually deepening from the dusk of twilight to the thick gloom of night. The occupant of the room was not alone; two earnest eyes watched his face with wonder and inquiry, a tiny hand was laid upon his knee, the little figure of a child stood beside him. "Papa.'

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No answer.

"Papa, speak to me."
"What shall I say, missy?"

"I want to know something," said the child, heaving a sigh, and pausing for a second or two.

"When shall we go home?"

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'Home, my darling? Is not this our home now?"

"I think it is not. Home was not like this."

"Then you would like to leave me, Lizette, and go back to your old home?"

"No, papa, not without you. We must both go together, and look for mamma."

"Nay, my child, but I shall go first, and leave you here with good old Margaret. Will not that be a better way? You will be satisfied to let me go to your mother, and stay here, like a good child, behind, till you are sent for."

The great dark eyes of the little Lizette burned intensely-something of distrust appeared in their expression. She did not reply.

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'Why do you not speak, missy?"

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