let us, for a moment, call to mind some of the scenes that have taken place here. Here comes an interesting party-a group of merry, laughing girls. What are they conversing about? We catch the words, "festivity," "next week," "Elizabeth." Ah! that last word lets out the important news. The queen of England is coming to visit her favourite earl, and all the tongues and thoughts of this usually quiet village are in a commotion. The visit was paid-the excitement soon passedqueen, earl, courtiers and peasants, have long ago gone to their rest. The leaves in the avenue have budded and withered some one hundred and fifty times, and now here is another, and very different party approaching, a happy family group. There is the father, realizing one's idea of the good old English squire, his happy wife by his side, gazing with pride on her beautiful group of children, playing around her. Alas! only one of those dear children ever reached the years of womanhood, and the grey hairs of those parents went sorrowing to the grave, for their trea sures that were not. Had they a hope of reunion in the skies? Many other thoughts does this avenue suggest; but we must not dwell upon them. Perhaps, before the leaves again fall, our heads will be laid in the dust, and then-shall we be able to claim our inheritance in the "many mansions"? EVENINGS WITH THE EDITOR. Aug. I shall be glad when this war is over. S. T. Emm. So will everybody. What an original remark! Aug. But, I mean, I shall be glad when the war is over, on account of its stopping the publication of so many books. Emm. Does it? Aug. Certainly. There is a war-fever which craves only for books about Russia and Turkey. Nothing else goes down now with the public. Ed. A friend of mine found this the case the other day. He has written a deeply interesting account of a long residence in South Africa, and his narratives of Caffre life are more intimate and accurate than those of any other traveller. I have no doubt that, at any other time, his book would make quite a sensation; but when he went to the leading publishers, they shook their heads, commended his book, but did not recommend its publication just now. They said, nothing was coming out, worth speaking of, that could possibly be kept back, except books relating to this terrible war. Aug. Here is one of the curses of war; it is unfriendly to literary progress. Ed. Wherever war treads, it is as if some burning iron heel stamped upon the ground, and marked its course by crushed and seared traces on grass and flowers. Emm. We must pray for a speedy termination to the war. Ed. We must pray for the coming of the Prince of Peace, when all wars shall cease, and its science be forgotten. Emm. We suffer from this war in having no books for review. Ed. Ah, Emmeline! that is a light matter, compared with the broken hearts and the ruined prospects of so many thousand families, whose relatives have died in this fearful struggle. Aug. Perhaps you would like to know what the Finlanders think of our noble cruisers, when they see them in the Baltic, carrying fire and sword along their coasts, and seizing or burning their merchant vessels. The following lines have been written so it is said, or else I should doubt it-by a young Russian Fin, in English, just as they stand. They have been published at Hamburgh, printed on black-bordered letter-paper, with the Russian eagle at their head, and the inscriptions, Imperatori Gloria," and "In Deo Omnipotentissimo spes nostra." Shall I read the lines? 66 Ed. Pray do. THE FIRST DROP OF BLOOD. (May 19th, 1854.). THE joyous Spring is twining A carpet fair and sheen: Ere yet be thawed its flood, Know ye, ye southern warriors, He draws new life and breath, And ye, proud sons of England! Though it be poor and cold, Then look, and know those glances Ye cast upon our strand, Which glows in Springtide verdure, Rest on our Fatherland. 'Tis so, ye sons of England, We're men of small pretence, But Fins can love their country, And die in its defence. We, too, have been in battle With many a gallant band, Throughout our own wide Finland No village in the land But saw our blood flow freely, And many a loss we yearned, For many a heart was broken, And many a town was burned. These times are past, forgotten; Not so the fallen brave, Full many a springtide flow'ret Has decked, since then, their grave, In sign of sweet atonement; And long, in peace and love, New hearts sprung up flourished, and And once more Finland throve. Alas! they're now returning, The evil time's at hand; Up, Fins! the brave, the hardy! Protect your Fatherland! For where those fathers slumber. And where your cradles stood, Has flowed, ay, shed by strangers, The first sad drop of blood. We honour, O Britannia, Thy virtues, deeds, and fame; Thy trade and thy religion; Immortal Shakspere's name; Trafalgar, Navarino, Those names known far and wide; Thy famous Crystal Palace, The mighty, rich, and proud, When to protect the Crescent Against the Cross ye vowed; When the broad land that yields thee Thy tar, and wood, and corn, With fire and sword ye visit, Ye merit but our scorn. And when your fleets equipped To stand against a world, Close by our peaceful harbours Their mighty sails unfurled, To chase and seize the trader, What glory was there won? We say, rich men of England, It was ignobly done. And when, like Eastern pirates, Ye landed on our ground With sword and brand, to pillage And burn what there ye found; The else so peaceful trader, Such base attack withstood, And then, yes then, there flowed The first red drop of blood. Ay once again it flowed, And Heaven alone can say Nor thought of strife or feud- Or "England's power at stake?" We live but for our Finland, Or perish for her sake. Know then, ye southern warriors Whene'er you light the flameWhere'er your cannons thunder, Our hearts are still the same. The old tough heart of Finland, For GOD and Fatherland! Beats still in truth and honour, And nerves each armed hand. CARISBROOKE CASTLE. In our August number we presented an engraving of this celebrated ruin, and it was our intention to add a second view, taken by the artist from another point. We now give it as seen from the Ventnor road, which winds round the back of the castle. FANNY AND HER FLOWERS. [A PAGE FOR THE LITTLE ONES.] FANNY had been on an errand to a lady who, pleased with her kind looks and manners, took her into her garden, and gave her a handful of beautiful flowers. She was delighted with them, for she seldom had flowers. Her father rented part of a house which had only a narrow pavement of bricks for a yard, where not even a blade of grass could grow, and though her mother had a few plants in pots in her chamber window, she never picked the flowers from them; they were so very few that they were left to look pretty in the little room. But now, Fanny had a fine fresh nosegay, all her own, and she went up the street, on her way home, with a light step, and a face all smiles. What would her mother say to her flowers? Wouldn't they look splendid on the bureau when her father came home to dinner? All the little ones looked at her flowers as they passed her, and she was glad to have them see how fine they were. A little girl with thin sharp features, a sallow skin, and a very miserable look, came along leading a cross, crying boy. He screamed and stamped, and she could not still him until she took him up in her arms and carried him. He was very heavy, and she tottered under his weight; but when she put him down again, he cried as lustily as before. Her eye fell on Fanny's flowers, and a smile quite strange there gleamed over her wan face. 'Oh, see, see!" she exclaimed; "don't cry, see the flowers." boy cried on unheeding, but she kept her eye on the flowers till they had passed, and then turned and looked at Fanny. "Oh, how pretty, how happy! Poor me, I have nothing," were her thoughts, and the smile went away from her face, and a dull glare came over her eye; a tear would have been there had she The |