of water also to play the fountains. But it is not given to any human enterprise to be complete all at once, and in their tour round the building the illustrious visitors must have seen more than enough to satisfy them with what has been accomplished in the mean time. Their return to the grand transept was welcomed by its favoured occupants with loud acclamations, which the musicians, waving aloft their books, swelled into a perfect paan. Then the Hundredth Psalm was performed that simple but sublime example of sacred music, impressive and touching alike wherever it is heard-in the obscure village church, or in the stately cathedral, or even, as on this occasion, in a building the nave and transepts of which are not the only appeals to the devotional element of man's nature. At the close of the psalm, his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury, standing forward on the left of the throne, offered up a prayer.

The orchestra then performed the Hallelujah Chorus with immense effect, and, when its triumphal music had ceased,

Her Majesty, through her Lord Chamberlain, the Marquis of Breadalbane, declared the Crystal Palace open.

Once more the notes of the National Anthem swelled through the building, and then the Queen retired, followed by the cheers of thousands of her subjects.

The barriers which had kept the nave and transept clear having been thrown open, the public were allowed to circulate freely throughout the palace and park, and of this privilege a large proportion of those present availed themselves, for it was late, and evening was closing in before all had departed. Admirably as on most occasions of the kind, the metropolitan police discharge their arduous duties, we have never seen their effectiveness in maintaining order so successful, and that under very difficult circumstances. Both within and without the building their arrangements were entitled to the highest praise. The force was under the chief direction of Superintendent Pearce, whose services in Hyde Park are well remembered by the public; and he was ably assisted by Superintendent Lund, of the local division, and other experienced officers. Before concluding our account of the opening, we must not omit to mention the absence of two men on the occasion, whose names are inseparably connected with the new social movement, of which the Exhibition in Hyde Park was the first great development, and of which the Crystal Palace is, we hope, destined to be a permanent and successful type. We allude to the Duke of Devonshire and Mr. Dargan. The former was not sufficiently recovered from his recent illness to be present, and the latter, though he had come to town for the express purpose, with Mr. Roe, and the other members of the Dublin Committee, was prevented from attending by the death of a near relative.

The inauguration of the Crystal Palace, it will thus be seen, has been attended with every circumstance that could render it brilliant and auspicious. The directors of the company start with a fair rental from exhibitors, and a good round sum realized by season tickets.

It is clear that the public are well-disposed to back up the undertaking, and therefore all that it now requires to insure success is a stringent, and vigorous management.

WOMAN'S RIGHTS.

A WOMAN's rights, say, what are they?
The right to weep, the right to pray;
To wipe the tear from sorrow's cheek,
And words of comfort softly speak;
To watch beside the bed of pain;
The fainting, drooping heart sustain;
In tears receive the parting breath;
The last to leave the couch of death.
To weep is hers, the better part,
O'er wasted riches of the heart,
On "broken reeds" pure love to pour,
And wake, to find her dreams are o'er-
Then fold her bosom's inmost leaf,
With smiles conceal the quivering grief.
Her place is home, her only care
The loved ones that concentre there;
To guard and guide with gentle hand,
To win, but never to command;
Afar from stormy strife, which leads
The manly soul to daring deeds,
Her life exhales a smile, a sigh,
Light-giving stars in earth's dark sky.
As perfumed air will oft reveal
The shady spots where violets steal,

Thus woman's influence round her streams
As pure and fresh as childhood's dreams.
Her love is like the breath of spring,
Or fragrance that bright flowrets fling
In lavish sweetness on the air,
And still as whispered words of prayer.
Oft-times it brings but fear and pain,
Yet still 'tis like some warbled strain-
Or like the gentle, twinkling gleam
Of star-light flashing on a stream,
Where clouds and shadows darkly lie,
And e'en those shadows beautify;
For 'tis her dearest right to love-
Whose hope, whose strength is from above,
To smile and suffer on through years:
"For she was made for love and tears."

24

A TALE FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF AN ANTIQUARIAN.

A YOUTH, between fourteen and fifteen years of age, was ascending, with the lightness of a roe, the steep sides of a hill, from the top of which might still be distinguished, notwithstanding the darkness which was fast closing around, the embattled towers of an old castle. A piercing cry, which rang through the air, suddenly arrested the steps of the nocturnal wanderer. He looked around, listened for a repetition of the sound, and was just about to recommence his almost aërial ascent, when a second cry, followed by a groan, again struck upon his ear.

"Who calls?" said he, listening with breathless attention.

A voice, which seemed to proceed from the bottom of a ravine, formed by the waters which had formerly lodged at the foot of the mountain; but which the heat of several summers had gradually dried up, replied:

"Whoever you may be, come to the help of an unfortunate traveller, who, with his horse, has fallen into a bottomless abyss!" "Methinks it must have a bottom, since you have found it;" replied the young pedestrian, now descending the mountain as quickly as he had at first been ascending it; then, with a thorough knowledge of the place, which proved him to be an inhabitant of that country, he advanced towards the ravine, and, leaning over the entrance of it, exclaimed,

"Where are you?"

"Here!" replied a most piteous voice.

"I am just at the foot of the stairs," replied the youth. moment's patience."

"Have a

And in two or three bounds he was by the side of a man, whose features he was prevented from distinguishing by the darkness, but who caught his hand, as he exclaimed.

"Every bone in my body is broken; I am bruised all over! -Help me, I implore you, to extricate my leg from the stirrup!— Above all, do not let the horse stir, or I am lost!"

Seeing the animal standing by uninjured, the young man immediately concluded that the horse had not fallen, but descended so rapidly, that the shock, as he reached the bottom, had thrown his rider. He soon extricated the latter from the stirrup, and assisting him to rise, begged of him to lean on him; and taking hold of the horse's bridle, he easily regained the steps, cut rather by the feet than by the hands of men, and having placed horse and man once more on terra firma, he inquired of the rider where he intended to go.

"To Yum Gudemburg; replied he; "I have a message from my mistress, the Baroness Von Praet, to Mademoiselle de Sulgeloch." "To my sister!" exclaimed the youth, in astonishment.

"Are you, then, Jean Gensfleisch, son of the late Lord of Sulgeloch?" inquired the servant.

"Yes," answered Jean, examining, by the light of the moon, the speaker, whose features had suddenly assumed an expression of constraint and reserve.

"I am not acquainted with this Countess, and cannot guess what she wants with my sister!" said Jean.

The servant's lips moved as if going to reply, but, changing his mind, he drew a parchment from his gipsire saying simply, "This will explain all." Then, as if finding his strength sufficiently restored to permit of his walking alone, he dropped the arm which had served him as a support, and began to ascend the mountain, on the summit of which the castle was situated.

From feelings too vague to define, Jean now became absent; his heart began to beat; and it was not mere curiosity that made him quicken his steps; for, trifling and unimportant as this incident seemed, yet to any one acquainted with the mode of life of the inhabitants of Yum Gudemberg, it would not be matter of surprise that it excited uneasiness and apprehension.

Jean Gensfleisch de Sulgeloch had lost his father a short time after his birth, and his mother, left a widow with two children, himself and a daughter ten years older, having gradually beheld the immense fortune bequeathed by her husband swallowed up by the demands of a swarm of creditors, died of grief, leaving her two children alone in the world.

Méline was then eighteen, and Jean eight. Since this event six years had flowed on, and from the time the coffin of the widowed lady of Sulgeloch had passed through the gates of Yum Gudemberg, they had never opened to admit a friend, a neighbour, or even a casual visitor. The young girl and the boy were every thing to each other; he protected her-she cheered him. Méline had grown up in the shade of the lonely woods which adorned the property transmitted from descendant to descendant of the Sulgelochs: she had never passed at the gate of the park; her days were spent in walking, reading, and tending her birds and flowers. Jean rambled about like a wild deer until evening beheld the brother and sister together in the large hall of the castle, where, being joined by their two servants, Gobert and Gertrude, husband and wife, Méline prayed aloud, and then, summer as well as winter, one hour after daylight had fled from the horizon, the four inmates of this old manor-house retired to rest.

We may now understand why the arrival of a stranger, bearing a message from a person wholly unknown to him, should have appeared an event of some importance to the young Sulgeloch.

On reaching the entrance to the first court of the castle, Jean knocked pretty loudly, which brought old Gobert quickly to the steps. A shade of displeasure clouded his features on seeing the stranger accompanying his young master.

"Some other learned man, I suppose, that you have picked up in some hole," said he, in a cross tone, "whom you have forced into accepting your hospitality."

N. S. VOL. XXXVII.

E

"Picked up out of a hole, sure enough; but, as to learning, I cannot pretend to know as much as a comma;" replied the strange ser

vant.

66

"And, far from pressing him to accept hospitality, he has himself craved it of me," said Jean. But, Gobert, take this man to the kitchen, and put up his horse, and I will let my sister know of the arrival of a messenger from the Countess Von Praet."

At the mention of this name, Gobert drew off the woollen cap which covered his old bald head; and, bowing respectfully, repeated-"The Countess Von Praet?"

"You know her?" demanded Jean.

"She is the noblest, richest, and most haughty lady in all Mentz,” said Gobert," and gladly would I hasten to offer to her servant a repast worthy of the house he represents, but we have had so many people at dinner to-day, in the parlour, and so many servants in the kitchens, to say nothing of the peasants of the neighbourhood, who have cleared the rest, that it is a chance if anything can be found in our larders, save a bit of bread and some chestnuts."

At those words, wholly incomprehensible to him, Jean looked in astonishment at his old servant, who, passing near him as if to take the horse's bridle, said quickly,—

"Hush!--you are too young to know what I mean."

Jean went off laughing to himself, and, advancing to his sister, who, having heard his voice, was coming to meet him, he related to her his adventure, and the absurd boast of Gobert. Méline smiled, but a cloud appeared on her brow.

"What can the countess want with me?" said she, entering the large reception-room with her brother, and sinking, in much agitation, into one of those wooden high-backed chairs, presented by antiquarians to belong to the time of Dagobert.

"The surest way of finding out is to ask ;" said Jean, as he left the

room.

Notwithstanding her emotion, Méline raised the wick of the lamp, which lighted up but a very small part of the immense hall, leaving the rest in darkness which the eye could scarcely penetrate; then, uneasy and anxious, she awaited the appearance of the strange servant. He soon approached, preceded by the young Sulgeloch, and followed by Gober and Gertrude.

"Believe, mademoiselle," said the valet, bowing almost to the ground, "that I am grieved to the heart at the commission I am about to fulfil, especially after the service rendered me by your brother; for, had it not been for him, I should have been devoured by the wild boars, which, it is said, infest this country." Then, making a second obeisance, during the silence caused by the singularity of these words, he drew a parchment from his gipsire, and respectfully laid it on the table, at the corner of which Méline, leaning on her elbow, was listening to the messenger.

The young girl took it up, broke the seal with feverish haste, opened