A tap aroused him. "Childe, you made that youth
Respectable for life by one white lie."-

66

Why, Forde, what would you?-Not a viper's tooth
Is sharper than the stings of raillery

I saw him suffer at the ball; in truth,

I care not for my p's and q's, not I,

In helping out a youngster; twere but reason
To show fair play by an odd word in season.

I met the general, a known man of spirit,

Conversing with our host in his bluff tone.
Z-ds! Harry Poyntz" said he, my heart is won;
I'll wager that's old Lutzen's fighting son.'

"Your father's nom-de-guerre ;-not know it, boy?
Thou art not a wise child in that one sense.
Name me to him,' he said; I should enjoy
His friendship;-he's a don of consequence
In this your district, and in high employ.

Cromwell, who cannot prudently dispense
With his tried parts, still calls him a seceder,
And talks of Meshech and the tents of Kedar.

"Wait for the introduction, which our friend
Much wishes; then you both may steal away
Without adieux; the carriage shall attend:
This Lady Poyntz commissions me to say.

Now to our lady-loves; they recommend

We should taste this new-fangled drink, which may Prove a good hit; coffee I think they style it,

And promise me the true receipt to boil it.

"Stay; one more turn,-we've time for't. Walter Childe, Yon used th' old cynic scurvily, I trow,

Much worse than when, bit by some crotchet wild,
You would decline my loan a year ago.

I hoped to get you stuff'd, and reconciled

To reason, at my breakfast. Don't you know

I wrote a note you should have got by eight?
But you were gone; my clerk arrived too late.

"Well, Walter, as you know, I am right sparing
Of words, which my vocation is to sell;
Advice to hair-brain'd youngsters is past bearing,
And in most cases stinks, they say; too well
Th' unsavory adage paints such proffer'd fairing,
As most didactic volunteers can tell.

Now you're a county man-thank God for that!-
And have to think for others-Verbum sat."-

"My good true friend."--" Nay, come, I bear no spite:
You've borne ill fortune well; now you have shown
You can bear good. Friend Wat, you acted right
In that poor boy's affair; I liked your tone

And manner; persevere; so use your might

Of mind and body, that before Heaven's throne

You may stand straight, when death shall drop the curtain; Remember, man, like fortune, is uncertain.

"Now, come along; give a lame man your arm,— A special strong one: but the days are past.

I hope, for using it in mortal harm;

Aud now, my lad, you've put in bail at last For good behaviour-'faith, your bride would charm An old Diogenes of my rough cast:

(Well, here we are)-what must she be to you? You've won her, Wat, and you deserve her too.

"Now go and fight your old campaigns anew;
Poyntz and the general both have caught your eye.
Well, Lady Poyntz, and how is it with you?"-
Oh, Mr. Forde, so happy! you know why-

66

And then again I see my Henry too

Do himself justice in the county's eye : He always was a person to be loved,

But really he's to-night so much improved!"

"I like your son; I always did, good madam: I think he likes me too, though old and bluff. If not the humblest of the sons of Adam,

He has a head and heart of sterling stuff. Half of his real pretensions, if they had 'em, Would make one half his censurers vain enough, Which Poyntz is not; and prouder far than he Was, or I think, is ever like to be.

"Friendship has drawn him out to-night. I see. The liking he first took to Walter Childe Was a good trait, not thrown away on me.

And now his friend's success has driven him wild
With spirits; he must watch his natural glee,
Or he may one of these days be beguiled
By what has been my own bane all along.
His sense of the ridiculous is strong.”—

"You would not think it; he's extremely shy
By nature; but habitual self-command
Conceals it well. He is call'd cold and dry,
Laconic,-in their phrase a coolish hand,'-
By men he ne'er could tolerate, who die

To cut up those they cannot understand.
But mothers have no right to talk you dead-
You told those dear young people what I said?"

The coach and four was under weigh at last,
And rumbling soothingly five miles an hour;
Annette rode Bodkin, being of high caste,

And a great favourite; conversation's power
Had therefore no great scope: the bride had past
A sleepless night; frown not, ye critics sour,
To learn she dropt into a gentle doze,
To wake up like a dew-recruited rose.

I fear this indecorum's of a piece

With her past talk of agencies and aunts,
But would describe how people, who in ease
And quiet dwell in Berks, or Wilts, or Hants,
Dorset, or Somerset,-not Rome and Greece,

For that's beyond me,-cater for the wants
And future views of friends whom thev love dearly,
And speak of matters which affect them nearly.

But, if required, I'll mend it with a cento
From Caravito, the great opera-poet;—
Bel idol mio! dov'e 'l crudel sparento?

Nel con non piu lo sento!-bravo! go it!—
Dolce contento caccia il rio tormento!-

For travell❜d ladies say, and doubtless know it, That Tuscan speech embodies love sublime Better than accents of our colder clime.

Meantime twill haply edify us more

To leave the staid and silent trio-true, Silent, because the lady did not snore,

As I've heard ladies in their siestas do, And in the festive hall, now flowing o'er With revellers, just trace a cause or two Of the prevailing tale, that our true knight Was, like a Sabine damsel, won in fight.

THE SUPPER OF BACCHUS.

VENUS and Bacchus of a night

Sat tête-à-tête to sup together,

The fire beside them blazing bright-
Twas in December's chilly weather.
Love chanced just then to pass with Mirth,
Two friends as true as Tom and Jerry,
Whose motto from their very birth

Was, "Hang old Care, and let's be merry."
And when they saw the light above-

I give their very words, like Flaccus,

"Ho! Mirth, my gay old boy!" cried Love,
"Let's stop and have a glass with Bacchus."

By Jove!" said Mirth, "I'm rather dry,
And this vile rain is deuced unpleasant:
His wine's superb-and you and I

Could relish it, I guess, at present."
They call'd, and Bacchus ope'd the door,
And when they enter'd, lock'd it after:

Mirth set them soon in such a roar,

That Venus nearly died from laughter..

They sang and joked the goblet o'er,

And ne'er more fun the veil of night hid;

For never yet assembled four

Whom song and frolic more delighted.
Old Care, towards morning, loudly knock'd—
He heard their sport, and thought to mar it;
But Bacchus, who was then half cock'd,
Upset him in a butt of claret.
O'erwhelm'd beneath the crimson tide,

In vain he sought for help around him-
"Come drink, old fellow!" Bacchus cried,
And in the rosy nectar drown'd him.
And since that hour the sons of Care,
Remembering their sire's immersion,
A lasting grudge to Bacchus bear,

And hold his wine in like aversion.
But let them drain their watery draught-

In vain the fools will strive to wean us

From nectar glorious Bacchus quaff'd,

With laughing Mirth, and Love, and Venus! B. J. M.

THE PARISIAN CAFES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF 66 A PARISIAN SABBATH."

THE traveller may search Europe over, and he will find nothing to correspond throughout with the estaminets, the restaurants, and the cafés of Paris. The general distinctions between them are these: —an estaminet is a place where tobacco is smoked, various sorts of beverages are drunk. and generally cards and billiards played. A res taurant is one where breakfasts and dinners are eaten. A café is another, where breakfasts are taken, dominos played, and where coffee, ices, and all refreshing drinks may, at any hour, be enjoyed.

In Paris there are more than four hundred cafes. Of these the most ancient is the Café Procope, which may still be seen in the Faubourg St. Germain. It was established by an Italian named Zoppa. Opposite to it once stood the Comédie Française. This theatre gave place to the studio of Gros, the famous painter; that studio vanished, and now a paper magazine is on its site. The Café Procope still survives. It has, however, somewhat changed in the character of its frequenters. Formerly the resort of Rousseau, Freron, Voltaire, and the epigrammatic Piron, it is now chiefly patronized by students of law, medicine, and literature. There do they assemble in their lofty sugar-loafed hats, republican locks hanging over their shoulders, unwashed beards, and negligent attire, to chat with the damedu-comptoir, joke about the Pandects, and play at dominos. For this last sport they seem to have a perfect passion. The custom is to play for breakfasts. The losers then play among themselves, and it is not unusual for him who at ten o'clock entered, and merely called for his petit pain, and café au lait, to retire at the hour of four, having first deposited some fifty francs with the divinity of the place, or at least obtained from her a tick for that small sum. This is the genuine frequenter of the Café Procope. Sometimes, however, you will there see authors and artists, as Gustave Planche, Gigoux, the young painter, Henri Fournier, Eugene Renduel, and others, but no dramatists. The theatre has abandoned St. Germaindes.Prés. The other noted cafés on this side the Seine, are the Voltaire, the Moliere, and lastly the Desmares, an aristocratical resort, where silent and stern deputies from the extreme droit often congregate.

But if you would see the Parisian cafes in all their peculiarities and magnificence, go over the Seine into the vicinity of the Palais Royal, or walk along the Boulevards. There is a café, peculiar, though not very magnificent,-in a little dark street near the Halle au blé, I mean the Café Touchard. At a certain season of the year, all the provincial actors and actresses, who, coming up to this wide theatre of human exhibition, desire to engage their professional abilities for the winter, assemble at this cafe. It is then a sort of foire aux comédiens. The directors of operas and theatres, in huge white cravats folded consequentially about their chins and mouths, here meet, and converse with them in significant and majestic mode. They scan them up and down, listen attentively to their pronuncia. tion, read over their recommendations, and if the adventurer be a female, 'scrutinize carefully her teeth, gait, and smile. If in these

last three items she be unexceptionable, you will see her, a fortnight hence, at the Variétés. If she have a strong arm, a stentorian voice, and can look the termagant, the director of the Theatre Porte St. Martin is sealing an engagement with her. If she have a spiritual face, and a polished, lady-like bearing, she stands a chance for a place among the third and fourth-rate artists at the Théâtre Français.

In the Place du Palais Royal is the Café de la Régence. This is the great resort of chess-players. Formerly it was much frequented by Jean Jacques, and other distinguished men. Here was likewise the scene of Philidor's triumphs. The garçon, if you ask, will show you the very spot where the world-renowned player was wont to sit, and marshal kings, bishops, and knights. Enter the café at midday-there are some fifteen or twenty matches playing. What universal silence!--what intent expression! The automaton of Maelzel himself could not look more gravely or ponderingly. Observe that venerable man in the corner, his bald head protected by a black day-cap; his face reposes between his two hands, resting on his elbows. There does not seem to be much significance in his gaze upon the board before him. He is indeed a picture of abstraction; he has actually forgotten with whom he is playing. In vain the garçon reminds him of the bavaroise he ordered. Before his fleshy eye is that small battle-ground, with those stationary armies; but in his men. tal vision these ranks are all in motion. Look-those pawns have now been swept from the field. That knight is in possession of yonder castle. The queen, dashing to the right and to the left, has cried havoc; and those fearless old bishops with a single pawn have checked and then checkmated the king. His design now springs into the hand of the player, and quick as a flash it is embodied in his move. There are still good players at the Café de la Rêgence, but its grand players have passed away; and, with many a once-famed but now deserted favourite in Paris, may it exclaim, in the words of Charles V. at his convent,-"Ah, mes beaux jours, où êtes vous ?"

At one end of the Palais Royal is the Café des Aveugles et du Sauvage. It is subterranean. You descend, too, in more senses than one, when you visit it. Its name is derived from the fact that its orchestra is composed of half a dozen blind men, thither every evening led from the Hôpital des Quinze-Vingts, to accompany with their instruments a man costumed like a savage, while rolling horribly his eyes, and still horribly grinning, he plays the battle of Wagram on a drum. This is evidently a low resort. Nothing is demanded for admission; but when you have entered, you are expected to take something, and, on paying for it, you find your coffee costing twenty sous, instead of eight. The scene of youths, and even old men, with arms in loving proximity to certain necks, may not be strictly evangelical; but yet you who wish to study every phase of Parisian life, will hardly pass under the Arch of the Columns without for a few moments dropping in to see the blind musicians, and hear the battle of Wagram.

In the Place de la Bourse, and immediately behind the Exchange, is the little Café du Report. It is the Exchange for women. From the grand Bourse they are excluded by a decree of the Tribunal of Commerce. Their passion for speculation, however, is not to be thus quenched. They gamble away fortunes, sipping orgeat in the