6

Stella had a very fair complexion and quite fine eyes, the brows just a leetle trimmed off and shaded with antimony, but the whole considerably striking. Her hair, of curly brown, had been shaved or depilatoried up in the part in front, which made the forehead, I believe, graceful and interesting,' by running it into a blue stem; though I do n't quite see where the beauty of the arrangement comes in. The said hair was very carefully worked in scollops from the part' to the temples at great expense of stiffening applications, and then plaited in immense braids, something like fancy basket-work, and dread-ful fancy at that, the extremities behind being secured with a gilt comb and several furious red rosettes. Her stately figure was done up in a liberal allowance of blue and orange-colored mousselin delaine flounced to the waist, with crimson silk bretelles, extensively pinked and supported on each shoulder by a highly ornamental loop. Such was the general rig of Stella,' the fair decoy duck of the Cold Wittles-ites.'

'Here in the Temple,' says she, we are all friends. Brother, thou art welcome. Are thou not glad that thou hast come in among us?'.

I should be uncommon hard to please if I was n't,' says I, looking at her as if she was just served up on the half-shell, and turning round so as to give the balance of the look to the other sisters. 'Awful hard.' 'Thou must a had affinities which drawed you here,' cried the Alderman Buster sister. Didn't you feel 'em, Brother, prumpting you and giving thee no rest till thou was here among harmonious souls? Did n't you feel as if thou was drawn?'

'Yes,' said I, 'there was the feeling of a draw on me all along, and I could n't resist it. Then I came along just like a thief being dragged to the Tombs by a star.'

The spirits

'Oh! how sweet thou talkest, Brother,' cried Stella. the blessed, blessed, blessed spirits have done a great work in thee. They have led thee here a noble, and angelic, and good-looking man, to find thy affinity. Is thy eyes not opened?'

'Yes, indeedy,' says I; 'it wouldn't be easy keeping of 'em shut with such beauty as yours, and these other ladies, goin' on around. It would make any thing open its eyes to see you.'

'He is finding his affinities he's findin' 'em,' buzzed several around.

Follow the Harmonies, Brother,' observed Stella. 'When thy heart says to you Go,' you should goeth, and when it says 'Come,' thou should cometh. But thou has now got a new life and must speak the language of love and bear a new name.'

'Let him be na-a-med a-anew!' said the Prophet, drawing near. From this hour thou art devoted to follow thy Affinities here among us, and art called RINORDINE. Brother, bow thy head.'

And Mace Sloper bowed his head and received a sisterly kiss on his noble brow or rather two of them. - one from Stella and another from his plump friend, as also an embrace from each, which left a smell of tremendous mixed Patchouly and American Millefleurs on his coat for four days. I need not describe the soirée which followed, or the quick streak which I made in the Harmonies or with the Affinities; the great dodge in my rapid progress in the mysteries of the True Religion

being due to the fact that after the congregation had been reduced to a select two dozen, I ordered up unlimited oysters and sundry bottles of awful wine, or what they had the cheek to sell for wine, and which the Affinities' and even Prophet Wytles seemed to have no doubt was a very extra sort of tipple. And the Holyites did pile it on pretty tolerably loud. Sister Buster (her real name in the flock was Clementine) worked away at the harp; Miss Stella and another young lady gave us the grand spirit dance with some excessively tall variations; the rest of the sect present sang; and the Prophet, who seemed pretty far gone, treated us to a mess of preaching, praying, prophesying, quite brilliant to behold. 'Go it, Buster!' cried I, Mace Sloper, as the young lady woke up in fast time on a little more cider too, all freed from earthly sin, O Ole Bob Ridley's come to town and the saints will count us in!' And 'Go-it-Sister!' echoed the Prophet, very much illuminated indeed; 'ye na-aver was so speretual befo-ore in ye'r life.' And twinkle-ty twang went the harp; woo-a-wooh!' sang the disciples; round and round spun Stella and the Sisters in the dance, and pop went the corks. And through it all, calm as a clam, Smash Hat went moving round, putting every thing in the right place, and the old unmoved twist of his right eye unmoved to the last. Only when Mace Sloper, when the bender was at its height, slipped quietly out, unseen by any body, did Smash Hat show a trace of humanity, for he then bid me good-by in a tone which seemed to indicate that he knew a gentleman and had Mace Sloper on the list.

6

There are queer things in New-York, and some people when they read about Wytles and his flock, will allow that Mace has drawn it mild in his description of their carryings on. Not being one of your 'cute sort, I haven't piled the agony on as I might have done, or described the little movements, fascinating and wolloping glances, aërified motions and other machinery which the regular pot-boilers keep by them in printed strips, and stick into the manuscript whenever they come to check-apron gorgyousness, three dollar champagne, and battleaxe brilliancy. For, in plain truth, Mace Sloper sees such stuff as a looker-on, and a rather disgusted one at that, and, though not one of the 'cutest men in New-York, still trusts that he is n't so far gone as to mix up cheap outsiderism with luxury, splendor, and wanton magnificence.'

A MEMORY.

BY MARY WINIFRED STANLEY GIBSON.

L

SOMETIMES I see him in my dreams,

His fair hair crowned with wreaths of flowers; Such as I wove by murmuring streams, For him, in those young days of ours.

II.

And then this ceaseless cry grows still,

This lonely heart forgets its pain;

I close my eyes, and taste at will
The bliss of being loved again

III.

I marvel at the love that lives

When all that gave it birth is dead; That nothing asks, yet all things gives; And nothing speaks, yet all is said.

IV.

O heart! be faithful to thy trust:
The lovely things of memory,
That now are but a heap of dust,
Yet once were all in all to thee.

I.

An inward touching of my pain,
A dream of all I should forget;

Thy dear face rising up again,

And so my downcast eyes are wet.'

II.

O vision of my early years!

O hopes, that bloomed and died too soon!

I give ye nothing but these tears,

For at my morning it is noon.

III.

As gently as a child might lay
Its hand upon its mother's breast,

Ye feel around my heart to-day,

And seek in vain to give it rest.

IV.

On! strange and sweet that Love should come

To comfort where it struck the blow:

And seek to raise a happier home

O'er homelike virtues lying low.

LITERARY NOTICES.

BOTHWELL: A Poem: In Six Parts. By W. EDMONSTONE AYTOUN, D.C.L. Author of 'Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers,' 'BON GUALTIER'S Ballads,' etc. AND FIELDS.

Boston: TICKNOR

Ir is singular how few poems have been written upon MARY, Queen of Scots, when we consider how great dramatic interest, and what a wondrous amount of human passion and pity are contained within the story of her life. The death of her gallant father within a few hours after her birth: the mighty turbulent barons, who were beginning to be corrupted by the gold of England, and to lose all of their rude Scottish manhood but its stormy roughness, come before us, contrasted with the gay and polished court of. France in which her youth was passed, and over which she ultimately reigned as queen.

Then comes her own life, sorrow, misapprehension, merciless persecution, religious and civil; the always beautiful picture of rare fidelity in the midst of almost universal treason; isolated truthfulness in a time when only not all men lied; the career of pain through which the loveliest woman of the age had to run, from the day that she landed amid the vexed waves, and in the dreary gray mists at Leith, until she laid her martyr's head upon the scaffold, to pay the price of her brother's treason, and to satisfy the bloodthirst of the licentious she-wolf, ELIZABETH.

AYTOUN takes for his subject only a portion of her life, that portion upon which the brutal shadow of BOTHWELL was cast; and into the mouth of that ruffian Liddlesdale lord he puts the words of the poem. The scene of the monologue is the Castle of Malmoc, the Danish prison in which BOTHWELL was confined, and embraces all the events from the horrid butchery of DAVID RICCIO to the parting of MARY and the Earl at Carberry Hill. The history of the time is quite faithfully rendered the steadfast enmity of the MESSALINA of England - the visit of the Queen to her wounded servantthe murder of the petulant baby, DARNLEY- the abduction and forced marriage are not imaginary scenes but true copies of history.

You watch the grim, grave, unscrupulous treason of MURRAY the Pious, the falsest villain that ever Scotland bred:'

'FALSE to his faith, a wedded priest;

Still falser to the crown:

False to the blood that in his veins
Made bastardy renown.
False to his sister, whom he swore
To guard and shield from harm:
The head of many a felon plot,
But never once the arm!
What tie so holy that his hand
Hath snapped it not in twain?
What oath so sacred but he broke
For selfish end or gain?

A verier knave ne'er stepped the earth
Since this wide world began ;

And yet he bandies texts with KNOX,
And walks a pious man''

You hear the hissing of that arch-snake, MAITLAND of Lethington, the querulous falsehoods of CHALELHERAULT and idiotic ARRAN. You see sleek, backstair, venal BUCHANNAN; and wily RANDOLPH, crafty CECIL's tool; and over all their whisperings, and prayings, and loud nasal chanting of discordant psalms, we hear the roar of the chained wolf in his Danish den, hoarse above the voice of the seas that wash it forever. There he lies, fretting at his manacles, howling, grim, gaunt, and in despair:

Alas! when this

'COLD, cold! The wind howls fierce without,

It drives the sleet and snow;

With thundering hurl the angry sea
Smites on the crags below.

Each wave that leaps against the rock
Makes this old prison reel.

GOD! cast it down upon my head,

And let me cease to feel.

Cold, cold! The brands are burning out,

The dying embers wane;

The drops fall plashing from the roof
Like slow and sullen rain.

Cold, cold! And yet the villain kernes
Who keep me fettered here

Are feasting in the hall above,

And holding Christmas cheer.

Ay, howl again, thou bitter wind,
Roar louder yet, thou sea,

And drown the gusts of brutal mirth
That mock and madden me.

Ho! ho! the eagle of the North
Hath stooped upon the main !
Scream on, O eagle! in thy flight,
Through blast and hurricane.
And when thou meetest, on thy way,
The black and plunging bark
Where those who pilot by the stars
Stand quaking in the dark,
Down with thy pinion on the mast,
Scream louder in the air,

And stifle in the wallowing sea
The shrieks of their despair!'

reckless, fearless, cruel, brutal JOHN HEPBURN was her friend, what were poor MARY's enemies? One virtue this man had, that none of her own kindred and trusted servants could claim he was not a traitor.