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next halting-place was Falk oping, where, if he please, the traveller may find a ready-made dinner, of which he may partake what he likes, and as much, from a well-spread board, lor the sum of Is. 3d.!—a meal for which he would have to pay, at least, 5s. at any of our "great" railway hotels in England.

About " Helsingborg?" The King of Sweden's brother has no residence in the environs. If not an artist, like his brother, the Royal Prince is a writer of some celebrity, and has made valuable contributions in an historical form to the literature of his country; he has also translated "The Cid" into the Swedish language. Soon after our arrival, the King of Denmark passed the hotel en route to a visit to Prince Oscar. The King of Sweden we had seen some days previously, returning from a shooting excursion; the Royal brothers are very popular witn their well-beloved subjects. Our steamer was the "Horatio;" the " Ophelia " was floating about in the harbour at Elsinore, where I landed to visit Hamlet's grave: albeit, some say that here Hamlet never dwelt. Be that as it may, the whole scene of that magnificent production of Shakspeare's is laid in Elsinore, which lends enchantment to the place, no less than to the Castle of Kronsberg.

"Of Copenhagen?" However attractive this olace may be, it has its "ups and downs," in common with many Swedish towns, in the obliquities of surface which are so terribly trying to the determined pedestrian. There is scarcely yard of pavement to be seen. In Copenhagen stones find a "local habitation" everywhere, and the consequence is that one gets into a state of pitiable ill-temper, and consigns one's bootmaker, hosier, and the paviour alike to the tender mercies of Pluto. The general aspect of the city is agreeable; there is aJife and activity about it that makes it pleasant to look upon. The houses are lofty, and chiefly built of stone, the shops spacious, and some of the streets have an imposing appearance. Many of the leading thoroughfares have tramways of iron, on which omnibuses ply continually, and look like wooden houses in motion; they go along quite smoothly, and at a sufficient speed for all business purposes.

The Danes are very fond of gaiety and amusement, and no city in the world caters so well for its pleasure-loving people. There is a circus, a gymnasium, concert-halls, cafes chantants, dancing saloons, and last, but chiefest and best, gardens of surpassing beauty, where almost every evening hundreds of the most respectable citizens and their families meet to enjoy the entertainment provided for them. One of the attractions in these Tivoli Gardens is the "Montagne Russe," which people traverse only by the momentum acquired at first starting. This amusement seems highly diverting to the people, perhaps because there is a slightly sensational element in it, which suits their excitable

temperament. Let it not, however, be surmised that it's all play and no work; far otherwise. The Danes are an intelligent race, and are provided with every facility for mental culture in the schools, libraries, museums of art and antiquities, with which their city abounds.

The Thorwaldsen Museum was bequeathed to the public by the genius whose name it bears: he died suddenly in the theatre in 1844, aged seventy-four. His remains lie in a sarcophagus in the court-yard: marble slabs cover the surface, and are placed edgewise, to form a receptacle for the soil which is planted with ivy; the leaves seem clustered together in "rank luxuriance," and are a more fitting emblem of the undying genius of this great man of letters than "storied urn or animated bust" could ever convey. The only inscription recorded is the name, date of birth, and death—quite touching in its simplicity.

There are upwards of two hundred of the artist's works in the museum, of which wordpainting could give you but a very remote idea for all that they suggest of beauty in execution, and finish of detail, besides the solemnity of the subjects, many of which are from Scripture history.

The cathedral, called the Fruekirke (church of our Lady), is chiefly interesting from the number of Thorwaldsen's best works. Behind the altar is a colossal marble statue of our Saviour. The twelve apostles are arranged along the nave, six on either side; they are the most exquisite sculptures, inspiring one with feelings of awe and reverence, not unmixed with wonder, at the mind which could conceive and the hand which could execute such marvellous creations. In the sacristy is a basrelief, representing our Lord administering the Holy Sacrament to the " Twelve," all of whom are kneeling, except James and Judas.

The palace of Fredericksborg is about two and a-half miles from the city ; it is prominently situated on a hill, and is surrounded with gardens like those of St. Cloud, with magnificent old trees, lakes, romantic walks, bridges, and sylvan temples. There is also the palace of Christianborg, which has over the portico two bas-reliefs by Thorwaldsen's (representing "Jupiter and Nemesis," "Minerva and Prometheus"). Of all the classical subjects, the "Triumphal March of Alexander into Babylon" was that which pleased me most for artistic skill. This is in a large apartment of the Riddersal (Knight's Hall).*

The "Royal Museum of Northern Antiquities" occupies six or seven rooms, and has no rival in the world. In it is described chronologically the different stages of civilization,

* The photographs (published by Messrs. Marion, Son, and Co., Soho-square) of many of the finest subjects of Thorwaldsen should be seen by all true lovers of the beautiful in art.

from the remote periods of flint and stone up to the present era of progress and development. It has a glorious collection of weapons of all kind.", and ornaments of quaint device and workmanship, too numerous to be mentioned here. The librarian was my cicerone in going over the University Museum, which contains magnificent salons; one of these is elaborately decorated. The roof is vaulted, and painted blue, witli white and gold divisions. The walls have exquisite carvings of fruit, flowers, birds, fish, and cereals. To my mind, the greatest curiosity the library contained was a book bound in antique fashion, in wooden black boards. The leaves were of vellum, and inscribed throughout with Runic characters, about the sixth of an inch long. It is the only book of its kind in existence. There were also Ice

landic MSS. of great value, and many curious records, with brilliantly-illuminated characters, said to be as early as the ninth century. The first newspaper ever published in Copenhagen is also to be seen in its very small octavo infancy, until it reached man's estate in the form we now get it.

Hamburg is the next place to be visited, and from thence to the city with palaces, bat without a king, where formerly, when his Britannic and Hanoverian Majesty was away at Kensington, they used to stick his picture in an arm-chair, under a canopy, at Herrenhausen. Chamberlains had to stand by the side, and halberdiers mount guard over the efSgy, which was saluted by the courtiers with genuflexions. Poor armchair at Herrenhausen! your occupation is quite gone now! M. C.

OUR PARIS CORRESPONDENT.

My Dear C

The plan for the reorganization of the French army has put our rural population in great commotion. It has been stuck upon the "Mairies" of every village, as if our Imperial master wished to try the ground before venturing too far, and our peasantry are in great alarm; for remark, in spite of all that our journalists have to sayjon the subject, thepeople —those who cannot pay a substitute—hate the conscription, and employ every means to escape the honour of "mourire pour la patrie." It seems this new plan frustrates all combinations to that effect for all the valid; if a man buys a " remplacant" in one way, he can be taken in another, until the age of fifty—so that, no matter how much a poor fellow dislikes leaving his wife and children for the field of battle, he must go, if his Sovereign takes a fancy to his neighbour's domains. This Prussian sy:,.etn may be good for the Prussians, but whatever does Napoleon want to introduce foreign systems for? Have our Boldiers proved themselves so inferior of late years that they require a new reorganization r And if he has been baulked by M. de Bismarck in his designs on the Rhenish provinces, do we want a rain of soldiers to revenge us? I cannot believe that the Corps le'gislatif will dare to accept such an unpopular measure. Many here are persuaded that we shall go to war with Prussia as soon as the Exhibition is over.

It was reported that the Empress intended to pass Christmas in Rome. The august lady sadly wants to play a part in the world's affairs. I suppose she imagines that her presence would reassure the Pope: I should think that she would be rather misplaced beside the fallen Sovereigns that surround the Holy Father and

it would he far wiser to stop at home, though it is affirmed that the journey is only postponed. The season at Compiegne was not so brilliaal as it generally is; the excessive wet weather prevented all out-door pleasure, and their Majesties' guests were debarred, almost entirely, the excitement of the hunt. The actors of the "Comedie Franfaise " played before the Court the last night, when Lord Cowley was noticed to occupy a seat at a short distance behind the Empress. Her Majesty wore a tulle dress, spangled with gold, a red sash, black lace "peplum," and diamond head-dress, and looked, as usual, charming.

Apropos of the Pope, a short while ago the priests in the country received orders from their different bishops to do a neuvaine (offering of prayers during nine days) in all the Roman churches for the Pope to abandon the temporal power, and the parishioners appear to relish the thing uncommonly —even where a little while ago such a proposition would have been repulsed with indignation. This makes one think that the temporal power is losing ground amongst the most faithful. Some say that the Pope intends to go to America. God speed him!

The Parisians complain sadly at the stagnancy of affairs. Commerce is dreadful; nothing doing in the way of business; and yet we ; are now in the good season, as all our usual i winter gaiety has begun again—the balls at ■ the opera, at the Hotel de Ville, and at pri1 vate houses, without counting the gambling parties (if that can be considered a gaiety), where, they say, immense quantities of money are lost and won, and that in private houses; 'tis, true, mostly in the "demi-monde," for that is the prevailing occupation amongst the frail fair in that class of society.

As for the theatres, there is nothing much to be recorded. I have already mentioned all the pieces ef note, which continue to attract. Sardon's last comedy, "Maison neuve," takes, in spite of its half success at the first representation, and all Sardon's enemies have had to say on it; and there has been attack on attack in the papers, and replies on the part of the author, for Sardon's reputation is a great thorn in the side of his compeers.

The Lyrique Theatre has just brought out again " Der Freischutz," which is a great treat. By-the-bye, it seems that the director of Her Majesty's Theatre in London is on the point of taking from us our charming Nilsson, the nightingale of the Lyrique Theatre. Report says that she has signed an engagement for two years with that person, for which we are very sorry. However, you will not have her before April.

Your famous Stodare has not succeeded: it seems that his tricks are old ones, known long ago by the Parisians—if you except two or three passable ones—so he is reduced to an engagement in a " caf6 chantant."

We have had an exhibition of cheeses and fat fowls in the Palais de l'lndustrie. The gruyere has carried off the prize. The fatness of the fowls has excited great disgust amongst the delicate, who pretend that lean meat is the best; fat things are generally little appreciated by the Parisians, without you except fat ladies, for whom the French, in general, have a great predilection.

Monsieur Louis Veuillot's attack on all the French journalists, in his "Odeurs de Paris," has kept us in a general state of alarm, not knowing whether he would not have to terminate the quarrel by a duel with each, that mode being the fashion now to re-establish peace amongst our public writers; but it seems that, after a few gracious epithets scattered here and there, their wrath is subsided. Several answers were very amusing, and I should think made the ultra-Catholic gentleman think that he would have done as well had he been more circumspect. Barcey, of the Opinions Nationale, gave him a dish that he did not well relish.

Have you heard that the famous Cardinal Richelieu's head has been found out, and brought to the chapel of the Sarbonne? It was transferred the other day, with great ceremony, to its mausoleum, the Archbishop of Paris presiding. The cardinal died in 1642. It was he who founded the Sarbonne.

The Princess Clotilde gave birth to a Princess on the 19th; it is her first daughter: the other two children are boys.

Monsieur Carot, our landscape painter, has been in quest of a picture lent to an exhibition in the country; he could not remember to what town he had lent it, and wrote to every place he could think of, but received an answer that it had not been seen. The other day, having advertised in several papers, a piicture-seller

begged to inform Monsieur Carot that the picture was in his possession, waiting to be claimed by the owner.

Our religious image-shops are full of little Jesuses in the manger, receiving the adoration of the wise men of the East—some in plaster statues as large as life, and at times very grotesque, but they excite the admiration of children and the people, and the shop windows are crowded.

Adieu! with the compliments of the season.
Yours truly,
S. A.

MY YOUNG LOVE.

(An imitation of the Iriah.)

BY ELIZABETH TOWNBEIDGE.

My young love is sweet as a June rose's blushes,
When 'neath the sun's splendour the young hud first

flushes; Her footsteps are light as the fall of the snow-flake, As it softly descends on the breast of the broad lake.

I love the bright stars, when at midnight I view

them; The green branching trees, when the moonbeams peep

through them; The clear gladsome voice of the pure new-born river, When it first greets the banks 'tis to flow through for

ever.

But for me the stars near her eyes lose their brightness;

When her neck they kiss, the fair beams lose their whiteness:

Her voice than the river's low ripple is sweeter.

No fawn on the hillside more graceful or fleeter.

The brown nuts that cluster in ripe bunches drooping,
The light graceful willows o'er summer-streams stoop-
ing,
As swaying they yield to the soft wind's caresses,
Have the colour and fall of her rich wavy tresses.

Now her brown eyes' beauty sweet shyness enhances;
Now mirth sparkles forth in her gay, laughing glances,
As I watch the smile that, half-arch and half-simple,
Flays over her soft cheek and deepens its dimple.

The pink wreathed shells on the sea's broad edge

seeking, The white-crested waves on its shallow shore breaking; These the hues that unite in her fair rose-tipped

fingers, The touch thrills my heart when their clasp on miue

lingers.

No crystal stream flows, there is no depth in ocean

More pure or more deep than my fond heart's devotion;

Were I dead in my grave, and aught ill had marr'd her,

Of itself would my arm arise boldly to guard her.

Gay summer is past; wealthy autumn is waning,
No more waring gold in its rich fields remaining;
No more to the bees' busy hum do we listen:
On Christmas's brow soon shall holly-wreathes glisteu.

Ah! then comes the happy time nearer and nearer,
When home to my own happy fireside I bear her—
That home happy still, whate'er else may betide me;
While her loving face smiles for ever beside me.

And when flying time from her lips steal their roses, And the shadow of age on her calm brow reposes,

My soul seeking hers, in our fond glances meeting,
Shall find in it beauty immortal, nnfleeting.

More dear to my heart shall the wife of my age be
Than the young bride whose beauties now fondly en-
gage me;
The love of our youth to the cold grave shall light as,
To the sleep whose glad waking shall ever unite us.

Then hasten, oh happy time! nearer and nearer.
When home to my own happy fireside I bear her—
That home happy still, whate'er evil betide me;
While in youth and in age she is ever beside me.

LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.

AT HOME.

"It is impossible for you to go out this morning," said Ethel, as she stood at the study window, looking out upon the snow. "A few hours can't make much difference."

"It makes all the difference when anyone is ill," answered Ida, "and Dr. Wharton Bays that it will do Miss Mordaunt no harm to be read to, although he wishes her to be kept as quiet as possible."

"A very good excuse for your not going."

"I don't want an excuse! How unkind, Ethel. If you had no father or mother and were ill, how would you like to be left alone so long? Ten minutes' walk in my waterproof and goloshes will do me no harm in the snow. Miss Mordaunt likes to hear the Psalms and Lessons in the morning, and I am sure it wouldn't be right to sit down and amuse myself when she may be expecting me."

Ethel felt this piece of self-denial on her sister's part to be a reproach to her unwillingness to accompany her; but she was too proud to say a word, and very quickly overcame her annoyance and sat down to her " Illumination," which had engrossed the greater part of every day for the last week.

Ida made her way through wind and snow, bending her bead that she might not be blinded by the large flakes which came pelting under her hat. But she struggled bravely on, and at last reached the door of a tiny cottage, in which were the apartments of the invalid, of whom we last heard in her accustomed place at the Parsonage. It was the old, old story one meets with in governess biography—that of an orphaned child, bereft of home, money, and friends, and who had been forced to enter on life's hard battle at the age of eighteen, having to guide others whilst feeling that she herself needed guidance, having none to share her sorrows with her, and without a relation in the world.

Ida was shown up-stairs into a small sitting.

room, where Um Mordaunt wai renting on a

couch near the fire. In appearance she was greatly changed: there was scarcely a vestige of colour in her face, and her pale sunken cheeks made her look perhaps worse than she really was.

Ida was much moved when she approached, and kissed the marble brow, and took the thin hand in h<jr own: she choked down her tears, but could not utter a word. . Miss Mordaunt read her thoughts at a glance, and said, in a quiet voice, "You scarcely expected to see me so much changed. Don't vex about me, dear, I'm not in pain, and you are all so kind to roe. I have been thinking to-day of those lines of Keble's—

'New mercies each returning day
Hover around us while we pray:
New perils past, new sins forgiven,
New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.'

And I hope I'm very thankful for the mercies I daily receive. Will you read the lessons for the day, and the fourteenth chapter of St. John i"

"Thank you, darling; now tell me about Ethel. Is she trying to do her lessons alone, as her mamma wished? When I am stronger perhaps she will come to see me, and let me tell her how kindly I feel towards her, alhough she often thinks me Bo cross. I scarcely expected you on such a morning, but I'm so glad you have come; for I remembered that Ethel had not been allowed to join your evening 'talks' lately; and I wanted to ask your papa to permit her to do so to-night. You must try to get an influence over her, Ida; not by yielding when she gets angry, but by trying to draw her away from herself, and getting her interested for others: this will teach her kindness and consideration, and by patience and forbearance we shall in time, I trust, correct her faults of temper and indolence."

After sitting down for a few minutes, Ida busied herself in arranging soma pretty flowers Mrs, Pemberton had i«nt from the greenhouw, and placing a bunch of grapes on the table within Miss Mordaunt's reach, together with her favourite books, and then taking an affectionate leave of the invalid she returned home abundantly rewarded for the pleasure she had been able to confer on her friend.

A month had elapsed since we last saw the family party assembled in the library at the Parsonage, where they had again met this evening.

"Ethel, my dear," said her papa, " I cannot refuse Miss Mordaunt's request; but before we go on let me tell you that the continnance of this pleasure is entirely owing to Miss Mordaunt: with her originated the idea of the little note-book, which stimulates our inquiries, and dives us so much variety in our conversation. It is sad to think of the change that has come over her in so short a time."

"It is not so sudden as it appears, my dear," said Mrs. Pemberton. "Dr. Wharton told me that, from all he can learn, she was sadly overworked the two years before she came to us; and the evil has been great on a delicate constitution; sooner or later he fears consumption will end her sufferings, meanwhile we must all strive to do what we can to alleviate them, and be thankful that God has given us the means to help her."

"Do you re ally think she will die?" asked Ethel, anxiously.

"Dr. Wharton gives very little hope of her recovery."

"I wish I had been to see her before I heard this," said Ethel.

"And you have not been?" Two large tears rolled down the cheeks of the wilful, impulsive, yet withal affectionate girl; but she dashed them quickly away.

Mr. Pemberton took no notice, believing that her own heart reproached her, and hoping that it would be a faithful monitor in her future behaviour; whilst Ida asked for an explanation of th» /ord "Allegory."

Papa. Allegory is the continuance of a metaphor (by which I mean when we borrow a word to express our meaning because of its resemblance to it) through a whole book it may be, or sometimes through one or more sentences only, as in ShakeBpere—

"There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in misery."

yEsop's Fables, the Iliad, and the Odyssey are mostly written in allegory.

Ida. Thank you, papa, I understand now the meaning of the word; but what are the two last books about, that you have just named?

Papa. The Iliad is an account of the Trojan war, showing the terrible effects of discord and public quarrels. It was written byHomer. The Odyssey describes the adventures of Ulysses on his return from the Trojan war to Ithaca. Parables, allegories, and metaphors are so much used by the Prophets in the Old Testament, that it is often very difficult to understand them, on account of allusions to customs ^ith which we are unacquainted. Their figures were generally taken from Nature, such as the sun, moon, and stars, which may denote kings, queens, and rulers; stately trees, as cedar, fir, and oak have the same significance. Birds and beasts of prey were emblems of oppressors, tyrants, and conquerors; heavy rains, floods, and fire the grievous judgments of the Almighty: dew and gentle rains the blessings of the gospel,

Ida. I did not see this other book in the corner—the Lusiad is it, papa?

Papa. Probably. It is an epic poem written by Camcens, on the establishment of the Portuguese government in India; you would not care for it.

Ida. What are Cyclones? I heard a gentleman from India talking about them.

Papa. It is a technical term given by navigators to hurricanes which occur most frequently between the equator and the tropics. Their course describes a curve; they sweep round and round, and the narrower their limit the greater the whirl. The word is derived from the Greek kuklos, a circle or wheel.

Richard. Another book, papa—Hudibras?

Papa. It was in the mock heroic stvle, and was published in the reign of Charles II. Its author was Samuel Butler, and it was written to caricature the Puritans.

Ethel. Papa, you can give it to Dike for his next birthday present.

Richard. I thought you were asleep, Ethel, I don't believe you've heard one word to-night.

Ethel. Then allow me to say you're mistaken. I'm dying to ask a question, only you always have so much to say. Please, papa, who was the odd man Tennyson wrote such a queer poem about?

Papa. You must give me something more defined than that before I can help you, my dear.

Ethkl. I think he lived on the top of a pillar.

Papa. It was Simeon "Stylites" (from a Greek word signifying pillar). This fanatic lived in the 4th century, and took up his abode on the summit of a pillar, where he lived forty vsars: he died at Antiocb, at the age of 69. Theie were "pillar saints" until the l'ith century.

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