THE BELLE OF THE BALL

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams

Had been of being wise or witty,
Ere I had done with writing themes
Or yawned o'er this infernal "Chitty,"
Years, years ago, while all my joys,
Were in my fowling piece and filly,
In short, while I was yet a boy
I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at a country ball

There where the sound of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet, in that old hall,

Of hands across and down the middle; Hers was the subtlest spell by far

Of all that sets young hearts romancing. She was our queen, our rose, our star,

And when she danced, oh heaven, her dancing.

She talked of politics or prayers,

Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets. Of battles, or the last new bonnets, By candle light, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a little, If those bright lips had quoted Locke,

I might have thought she murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal,

I spoke her praises to the moon,

I wrote them for the Sunday Journal.
My mother laughed, I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling.
My father frowned, but how should gout
Find any happiness in kneeling?
She was the daughter of a dean,

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother just thirteen,
Whose color was extremely hectic;
Her grandmother, for many a year
Had fed the parish with her bounty;
Her second cousin was a peer,

And lord-lieutenant of the county.
But titles and the three per cents

And mortgages, and great relations And India bonds, and tithes, and rents Oh what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks,

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketched the vale; the wood, the beach Grew lovelier at her pencil's shading.

She botanized, I envied each

Young blossom in her boudoir fading;
She warbled Handel; it was grand,
She made the Catalini jealous;

She touched the organ, I could stand

For hours and hours and blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,

Well filled with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome;

Patterns for trimming Persian stones; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo;

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter,

And autographs of Prince Le Boo,

And recipes for elder water.

And she was flattered, worshiped, bored,

Her steps were watched, her dress was noted,

Her poodle dog was quite adored,

Her sayings were extremely quoted,
She laughed, and every heart was glad,
As if the taxes were abolished;
She frowned and every look was sad.
As if the opera were demolished.

She smiled on many, just for fun

I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one,

Her heart had thought of for a minute

I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase that was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh! How neatly all her notes were folded.

Our loves were like most other loves
A little glow, a little shiver;

A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And "Fly not yet" upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir;

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair;

The usual vows, and then we parted.

We parted, months and years rolled by,
We met again some summers after;
Our parting was all sob and sigh!

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter!
For in my heart's most secret cell
There had been many other lodgers;

And she was not a ballroom belle,

But only Mistress - something - Rogers! MACKWORTH PRAED.

An anecdote anent this poet's name seems to be in order here. A young lady of Boston culture was showing her library to her unsophisticated country cousin and asked, "Do you not adore

Browning?" "Yes, but I cannot understand a word of it." Shocked to the very core of her cultured mind, the hostess sought to change the subject, and thinking that vers de société might be more within the scope of un-Browningized comprehension, she asked, "Have you Praed?" and received the unexpected reply, "I have, but it didn't do any good."

Canterbury Bells.— The pilgrims who had visited the shrine of Thomas a Becket in Canterbury Cathedral, made haste to decorate themselves and their horses with the Canterbury bells. These signs of peculiar holiness were worn sometimes on the breast, sometimes on the hat of the pilgrim and were cherished as a charm against evil of all kinds, especially accidents on their homeward journey. The bells were inscribed Cam