went out, but the moon rose full and brilliant in the limpid heaven, and passing across the indentments of a great wall of white stones, and the notches of an arabesque window, which bordered the coast on the side of the desert, she lighted up the enclosure with a brilliancy which was reflected on all the stones. Silence and revery overpowered us. Whatever we may have thought, at this hour, at this place, so far from the living world, in this dead world, in presence of so many mute witnesses of an unknown past, but which overthrew all our little theories of history, of philosophy and of humanity; whatever disturbed, in our spirits or in our hearts, our systems, ideas, alas! and perhaps also our remembrances and individual sentiments, God alone knows it, and our tongues will not attempt to speak it; they would fear to profane the solemnity of this hour, of this star, even of these thoughts; we were silent.

Suddenly, like a soft and loving lamentation, a murmur grave and accented by passion, came out from the ruins behind this great wall pierced with orgues in arabesque, and of which the roof appeared to us, tumbled down upon itself. This indefinite and confused murmur swelled and raised itself louder and higher, and we distinguished a chant supported by several voices in chorus, a chant monotonous, melancholy and tender, which mounted and fell, which died and rose again alternatively, and which responded to itself. This was the evening prayer which the Arabian bishop made with his little flock, in the fallen enclosure of that which had been his church, but which had been recently thrown into a heap of ruins by a tribe of idolatrous Arabs.

Nothing had prepared us for this music of the soul, of which every note is a sentiment or a sigh of the human heart, in this solitude in the depths of the desert, coming out thus from among the silent stones, accumulated by convulsions of the earth, by the barbarians and by time. We were struck with astonishment, and we accompanied the raptures of our thought, of our prayer and of all our internal poetry, with the accents of this holy poetry, until the chanted litanies had ended their monotonous strain, and the last sigh of these pious voices had subsided into the accustomed silence of these ancient ruins.

Behold, we said to each other in rising, what will be the poetry of the last ages: sighs and prayers over monuments of the past, plaintive aspirations towards a world which will know neither death nor ruin.

THE GREEN LANES OF ENGLAND.
(An incidental ballad from a manuscript drama.)

BY HENRY OAKE PARDEY.

The green lanes of England! the pride of our isle,
So sweetened with perfume, so gladdened with song,
Your beauties, the cheerful pedestrian beguile,

As lightly he wanders, your mazes along.

I sigh not to share, in the splendor I see,

No pleasures I court 'mong the great and the gay;
Let them pace their proud halls-but the pleasure for me,
Is among the green lanes of old England to stray.

How I long from the city's rude din to be free,

With light heart and gay step, the green lanes I'd explore,
For the day's pleasant labor my guerdon should be;

The trav'ler's sweet sleep when the day's march was o'er.
Yes, could I rich halls, or gilt chariots command,
From the town's sickly pleasures I'd hasten away,
With my pack at my shoulder, my staff in my hand,
Along the green lanes of old England I'd stray.

THE WHITE COTTAGE.

There are some retired nooks in the world, where simplicity of manners and purity of morals prevail; where childhood is nurtured with pious care, and youth governed by virtuous restraint. This, to a good degree, is the case with the village of A. It is a sweet New England hamlet, encompassed with woodland hills, and watered by a fertilizing stream. Broad meadows spread out on either bank, beautiful to look upon in summer, both by the traveler and the tiller of the soil.

Near the southern extremity of the valley stands a white cottage, somewhat antique in its appearance, but neat and well constructed, both for comfort and convenience. A stream of pure water gushes from the hill-side, a miniature "Croton," for the immediate neighborhood.

Here lived, not long since, a small family, blessed with as much happiness and inward peace as usually falls to the lot of mortals. Industrious action and moral principle were conspicuous in the "united head." They were foremost in every good cause, benevolent, frank and noble hearted. They were neither poor nor rich, but had all the neccessaries and some of the luxuries of life. Sickness, however, occasioned some inroads upon their patrimony and the desire of properly educating their children, made more.

They were willing, if it were necessary, to deny themselves, to procure for them a liberal education, knowing well that good might be the result, and that all sacrifice of time and expense might redound to their future comfort and happiness.

Not so thought their neighbors. Many of them deemed it money and time wasted to little purpose, to make such outlays in behalf of education.

De Witt was a slender child, and consequently favored by freedom from severe toil on the farm where farmers' sons are too often overtasked in early life. He therefore waxed strong in youth and became of essential service to his father. He was not however wholly satisfied with the employment, though he by no means despised its humble duties. His attention was accidentally directed to a liberal course of study. He prepared for college in two years, teaching at the same time, to defray a portion of the expense. His college career was in some respects successful, but not so brilliant as that of many of his class-mates; nor indeed was it equal to his ability; for whenever he made an attempt either to gain a prize or to make a fine recitation, he was sure to succeed. Those who knew him best, acknowledged his ability, but deplored his inactivity. During the first year of his collegiate course, he was active and excelled. But in the early part of his sophomore year, he was obliged to be absent for several weeks, partly in consequence of the sickness of a parent, and partly to obtain funds to defray his expenses.

Well do we remember his effort to retrieve what he had lost, but he could not. His class had advanced nearly a term during his absence, and he felt that he could not overtake them in mathematics. This branch, he had before excelled in; but the very first recitation on his return, was a partial failure. The next was but little better. He here foolishly suffered his ambition to flag, and it never rekindled, except on special occasions, during his college days.

But the moment he stepped outside its walls, necessity and chagrin roused him to action. Whatever he then undertook, he was determined to carry out successfully. Like most students who are not blessed with a fortune, he engaged in teaching. Here in addition to six hours labor in the school-room, he not unfrequently spent eight more in close study. His success was of course signal; for wherever you see evinced an unflinching determination to do well in any pursuit, success generally will follow. Though fond of the employment he felt obliged to abandon it for some more profitable business. For some weeks his mind was deeply agitated with the thought of what should next occupy his attention and form the business of life. This decision was to him of greater importance than any he had before made. He felt that it involved not only his own prosperity but that of his parents. They had sacrificed many of life's comforts to aid him. He was now bound to repay them, or to suffer the keen sting of ingratitude. His de

cision and plans were made deliberately. His purpose was unalterably fixed before revealing it to any one. His pursuit was hereafter to be literature, in one form or another, as his thoughts from time to time might suggest. He knew it was a dangerous field to enter; that poverty and wretchedness had not unfrequently been seen there; that wealth and prosperity were sometimes its occupants, but, for the most part, they went there in costly apparel and dwelt in fortified castles. His friends on hearing his plans would have dissuaded him from them, had he been flexible in spirit; for they felt that he must enter the field of literature single handed and with little pecuniary aid from them. They knew that others had made similar attempts and had failed either in purse or in the prospect of pleasing. He alone felt secure, though the prospects were at times dark and forbidding. With him, resolution and perseverance were conspicuous traits, and he put himself under their full dominion. Among all good quali ties, these are pioneers in any great enterprise, and when combined with discreet knowledge partial or more perfect, much may be accomplished.

The last tidings we had from him were like notes of joy. Success was crowning his labors and streams of gladness were pouring into the White Cottage. New hopes were born there. New joys were anticipated.

We have sketched this simple picture without color or ornament. It may have an interest to some who may be acquainted with the parties. It may convey a lesson to the young that gratitude to parents is a virtue, that courage and perseverance are powerful weapons when wielded with a strong arm; to age it conveys a lesson, to respect youth; and to youth, a lesson, to respect age; they are mutually dependent, each having duties to discharge to the other, and each made happy by the other's prosperity.

The following stanzas on the "White Cottage," were often repeated, with interest, by my young friend, the outline of whose history we have above given. They are from his own pen, and bave never, to my knowledge, been published.

My white cottage home, thou art dearer to me
Than palaces hewn out of Parian stone;
Where'er I may roam, o'er the land or the sea,
Recollections of thee, will cheer me when lone.

There first I looked out on the green-vested earth,
And saw with delight the blue vault above;
Then mine eye beamed with light; and glad-hearted mirth
Sprung up in my bosom new teeming with love.

Sweet memories oft of that heaven-favor'd spot,
Now rush through the soul with a mellowing sway,

And the shadowy outline of things unforgot

Grows brighter and brighter in memory's ray.

There my mother with mild and melodious voice
First breathed in my ear her glad notes of joy ;
And the unresting spirit was stayed in its choice,
When devious error would lure off her boy.

There my sire took me forth in the cool of the day
Down the green lane that led to the silvery stream;
And the air was sweet-scented with newly-mown hay,
That grew in a meadow where fairies might dream.

The orchard, the fountain, the garden and grove

Round the white cottage home are dear to my heart,
Where'er, o'er the land or the sea, I may rove,

Their memories golden shall never depart.

A VISIT TO MADAME TAUSAUD'S EXHIBITION, LONDON.

Amongst the numerous exhibitions in London, none perhaps will afford more pleasure than a visit to Madame Tausaud's collection of wax figures. Night being the best time to view the exhibition, I ordered a cab and was very soon driven to Baker street where it is situated. On alighting, I was immediately ushered up a fine white granite staircase, on the landing of which, were large folding doors. On passing through, you perceive Madam Tausaud, assisted by her daughter, taking the entrance money. She is an old lady, of between seventy and eighty years of age; of a high family in France, but during the revolution was, with her parents, obliged to seek refuge in England. At an early age she evinced great taste for modelling in wax, and in consequence of her parents losing nearly the whole of their property, she was most assiduous in her exertions and was enabled to contribute largely to their support. A few years after the revolution had subsided, she returned to France and visited most parts of Europe, where she was enabled to take models of the great men of the age. Returning to London, she laid the foundation of the present magnificent collection, and has gradually increased it until it has become a collection, as a work of art, that is frequented more than any in London.

After paying two shillings, which is charged for admittance, you enter into a room, which, for brillancy and splendor, surpasses, perhaps, anything of the kind in Europe. The group of figures which face you, on entering, is a representation of the marriage of Napopoleon Buonaparte to the Countess Josephine. The Bishop of Paris is performing the ceremony. Buonaparte is dressed in full martial uniform, with his various stars and orders, and is allowed to be a very correct figure. Josephine has on a white satin robe with a magnificent crimson velvet train, held by two pages; on her head