Loch Finligan, and search among the ruins of its little isle of the same name for the stone on which the McDonalds stood when they were crowned Lord of the Isles. And so night settles on the lonely island of Staffa; and we are once more out on the sea and again "Merrily, merrily goes the bark; Before the gale she bounds: So darts the dolphin from the shark, Or the deer before the hounds." LEAVES FOR THE IDA'S FLOWERS. BY ANDERSEN. Certainly they can; when all is dark and we quietly at rest they spring up vigorously, and have a ball every night." "Can all kinds of flowers go to the ball?" asked Ida. "Yes," said he, "daisies, with lilies of the valley, mignionette with wallflowers." "Where do these lovely flowers dance, then ?" "Were you never in the large garden, before the gates of the King's Summer Palace, where there are so many flowers, and where the swans are, which come swimming to you, when you throw them bread crumbs ?" "I was there yesterday, with mamma," said Ida; "but all the leaves were off the trees, and not a flower did I see. Where are they gone to? in summer there were so many." They are now inside the palace. As soon as the King leaves his summer residence, and comes with his Court to town, the flowers are brought into the castle, and enjoy themselves merrily; the two most beautiful roses set them selves upon the throne, and are the King and Queen; then the red cockscombs place themselves in rows, bowing low before them: they are the ladies of the bedchamber. The fairest flower then steps forward, and the ball begins; the violet and the narcissus place themselves before the crocus and hyacinth, who are ladies, and ask them to dance, the tulip and crown-imperial are old ladies, who look on to see that everything proceeds with order and propriety." 'Oh, you can see them; when you pass the palace, peep in at the window; I did so to-day, and saw a large yellow lily lying on the sofa; that was a lady of the Court." "Ah! but," said Ida, somewhat faithless, "how can the flowers tell all these wonderful stories which you relate? they cannot speak." "No, they cannot; there you are right, but they make themselves understood by pantomime; have you never noticed how they bend here and there whenever there is a little wind; they understand it as well as if they spoke to each other." "Can the Professor of Botany understand their pantomime?" asked Ida. "Yes; for one morning he came into the garden, and noticed that a large nettle was carrying on a secret flirtation with a lovely scarlet carnation: "You are so exquisitely beautiful,' said the nettle, 'I love you with all my heart.' But the Professor could not allow such proceedings, so he seized the nettle by the leaves (which are its fingers), and received such a severe sting, that from that time he never ventured to interfere in a nettle's courtship." "Ah! ah!" laughed Ida, "he was right served." What are you doing to fill that child's head with such nonsense," said Ida's papa, who had been waiting some time for the student. He always found fault with his stories, and could not bear to see the young man cutting figures out of cards, such as a man riding a goose, or an old witch astride a broomstick, carrying her husband on the end of her nose. On such occasions he always broke out with, "What pure imagination! What good do you do by teaching a child in that way?" But little Ida ventured to think them very funny, and she could listen to nothing but what her friend had told her; for nothing was more reasonable than that the flowers should droop, because they had been tired with dancing the night before. She carried them off to her other playthings, which were laid in order on a beautiful little table. In a cradle lay her doll asleep, but Ida said to her: "You must get up, Sophy, and be content to lie in the drawer to-night, for my poor flowers are ill, and must sleep in your comfortable bed; perhaps they will be well in the morning." So she took the doll out of bed, at which the young lady pulled a very cross face, to think that she should have to leave her bed for those withered old leaves. So the flowers were put in and covered up with strict injunctions to lie still, until Ida could make them some tea, and, drawing the curtains, that the sun might not shine into their eyes, she bid them adieu. The words of the student were never out of her head the whole evening, and as she went to bed she walked up to the window, where the tulips and hyacinths stood behind the curtains, and whispered to them, "I know very well that you will be at the ball to-night," but they appeared not to hear, and never moved a leaf. Lying in her bed, she imagined how beautiful it would be to see the flowers dancing in the king's palace; "Will mine be there, I wonder?" but before she could answer, she was asleep, and dreaming of the student and his story, and the old housekeeper with the keys. When she awoke, all was still in the room, the night-lamp burnt on the table, and her father and mother were asleep. A sound like the notes of a piano fell upon her ear, but very low, and more beautifully played than she had ever heard them before. "Now I am sure the ball is beginning," said she; "I must go and see." So stepping out of her little bed as lightly as she could, that she might not awaken her papa, she went to the door of the drawing-room. How astonished she was with what was going on there! Though the lamps were gone out, the room was perfectly light, because the moon shone through the windows, and made everything visible. All the hyacinths and tulips stood in two rows down the centre, and in front of the window were the empty pots; at the piano sat a large yellow lily which Ida thought she had seen before, then she remembered it was the one the student had mentioned. The next thing was, that a blue crocus sprang upon the table, where were Ida's playthings, and undrew the curtains from the bed; there lay the sick flowers, which raised themselves and bowed to their friends; partners came forwards asking them to dance, and immediately their faded appearance vanished, and they were as lively as the others. eve. And a beautiful fir-tree it had been, a wax doll was on the top, with a broad round hat on, like the lady of the bedchamber, and a striped red and blue dress. She raised herself upon her wooden legs, and stamping loudly with her foot, began to dance the mazurka, which the flowers not being so light-footed could not follow; but the fir-tree insisted upon having her for a partner, and as she was very slender, they were not well-paired; but no matter, thin or fat, tall or little, he would have her, and teazed her so much that the flowers were obliged to interfere, and desired him to leave her in quietness. "Open, open," cried a loud voice from the drawer in which Ida's doll had been put. It was Sophy, who with her head half out of the drawer, looking quite astonished, said; "Is the ball here, why did you not tell me of it ?" "Will you dance with me?" said a pair of saucy nutcrackers. "How dare you ask me to dance, sir?" said Sophy, at the same time turning her back upon him. She seated herself at the edge of the drawer, and thought one of the flowers would invite her, but no one presented himself; she coughed, but still no one came; and the nutcrackers in the meantime danced away, by no means inelegantly. Though the flowers were so forgetful of her, Sophy could not deny herself the pleasure of dancing, so she let herself fall on to the floor, which created great confusion, and all the flowers pressed round to ask if she had suffered; but she was unhurt, and now the flowers were anxious to make up for their neglect, especially Ida's flowers, who seized the opportunity of thanking her for her beautiful bed, in which they had slept so sweetly; and then taking her by the hand, they danced with her, the other flowers standing round in a circle. Sophy was now satisfied, and she begged that Ida's flowers would occupy the bed again after the ball, as she thought nothing of sleeping a night in the drawer; but the flowers answered, "Thank you a thousand times, but our lives are not long, and to-morrow we shall be dead. Ask dear little Ida to dig us a grave near her canary bird, and next summer we shall again spring up and be as beautiful as this year." "No, you shall not die," replied Sophy sorrowfully, at the same time kissing them affectionately. Immediately the hall door opened, and a long row of flowers danced into the drawing-room. Ida could not understand where they came from, unless it were from the king's garden. First came two beautiful roses with golden crowns, then followed wallflowers and pinks, bowing on all sides. They had a band of music with them, large poppies and peonies blew upon Soon a loud noise was heard of something pea-shells until they were red in the face; and falling from the table, and looking under it, Ida blue and white campanulas played the chimes. saw the remains of her christmas-tree, which After these a crowd of every sort of flower, had lain on her doll's bed ever since christmas-violets, daisies, lilies of the valley, narcissus, &c, All dancing so beautifully as to make a splendid spectacle. At last the happy flowers bid good-night, and Ida returned to ber bed, where she dreamt of all the wonderful things which had passed before her eyes. When she was dressed in the morning, her first care was to go to her playthings and see if the flowers were there still. She drew the curtains to one side, and yes, there they lay, only still more faded than yesterday; Sophy too was in the drawer, monstrously sleepy as ever. "Cannot you remember what you were to tell me?" said Ida to her, but Sophy put on a stupid face at this question, and answered not a syllable. "You are very naughty," said Ida, "6 even though the flowers did all ask you to dance." She then chose out of her playthings a little pasteboard box painted all over with birds, and laid the flowers in it. "That shall be your coffin," said she, "when my cousins come from Norway they shall dig your grave, that you may bloom next summer as beautifully as this." These Norwegian cousins were two lively boys called Henry and Charles: their father had bought them two new bows and arrows, which they brought to show to Ida. She told them the story of her dead flowers, and how she wished to bury them in the garden. The boys went first with the bows on their shoulders, and little Ida carried the flowers in the beautiful box. The grave was dug, Ida kissed the flowers but once, and put the box into the earth, whilst Henry and Charles shot their arrows over them, as they had neither muskets with which to do them honour. nor cannon A RETROSPECTION. BY IDA AFTON. Ah me! the ruthless stranger's axe Our childhood's home; the merry breeze Now seeks in vain the fragrant boughs That waved above our cottage-door, Through which the friendly sunshine cast A burnished network on the floor. The birds flit songless o'er the spot Where erst their sweetest lays were trilled; For nests are strewed like little graves, Soft wings are folded, chirpings stilled. Down by the trellised arbour, where Upon the morning's dew-gemmed breast, The moss-rose leaned her queenly brow, Now droops the grain's rich golden crest. Those grand old trees! What tender words The summer winds sighed thro' their boughs Caught from my boyish lips, for I Had learned to breathe love's sweetest vows. The roses in the hawthorn hedge Than Anna's cheeks were not more rare; You might have deemed the raven's wing Bathed in the midnight of her hair. The blackberry its milk-white bloom Shook down to woo her airy tread; For her the wood-birds seemed to weave Their web of songs above her head. Her rosy feet the brooklet plashed, As it went dancing to the dell, Till o'er the pansy's purple sheen A shower of silver softly fell. When gath'ring up the blushing fruit, We watched the blue-bird bathe his wing. Up through the golden future loomed Long years the daisied sod hath veiled The love-light of her dear, sweet eyes; Wild strawberries their bleeding hearts Trail o'er the spot where Anna lies. ENTHUSIASM OF WOMEN.-Women are naturally more warm-hearted and enthusiastic than men, more easily excited, and give way to their feelings with less restraint. There is nothing so charming as a young, lovely, and unsophisticated girl, in the outset of her career, with cheek all blushes, and heart all throb, ere the world and its habitudes have had power to repress the one and make her ashamed of the other-before the pure dew of the morning has been brushed from the budding rose, and life is still in its freshness and purity. The best regulated female mind is tinctured with an enthusiasm wholly unknown to calenlating man she could sacrifice anything, everything for the object of her affection. Man looks at both sides of the question, or, as he would have said, examines the debit and credit side of the account. OUR LIBRARY TABLE. HER MAJESTY'S TOWER (by Hepworth Dixon). Even in the hands of an ordinary writer, the subject Mr. Dixon has chosen could not fail to be replete with interest. The grim old building, palace and prison, associated as it is with times and personages of the utmost importance in the annals of this nation, has hitherto afforded rich materials to our historical romancists. In Mr. Dixon's hands it overflows with the romance of history; he deals in facts, untrimmed except with the brilliancy of his charming style; and, having access to information only to be found in out-of-the-way places, and even then at an outlay of tedious and painstaking research, he has been enabled to add many charming touches to the stories with which we are all familiar, and to tell others less generally known. Clear, sharp, and graphic, the pictures of the haughty Elinor, Maud the Fair, of Anne Boleyn, of the best and noblest of the Tudor race the un of fortunate Lady Jane Gray, the gallant glorious Raleigh, and a host of other unforgotten men and women, great by the force of virtue, patriotism, religion, endurance, or suffering, are brought before us, refreshed and glorified, if that were possible, by the style and verbal colouring of the author. Take for instance the following description of the first day of the reign of Queen Jane : On a bright July morning Queen Jane embarked in the Royal barge at Sion, and followed by a cloud of galleys, bright with bunting, gay with music, riotous with cannon, dropt down the river, making holiday along the banks, passing the great Abbey. calling for an hour at Whitehall Palace, and for another hour at Durham House, and shooting through the arches of London Bridge. She landed at the Queen's stair about three o'clock, under the roar of saluting guns, and was conducted through the crowds of kneeling citizens to her regal lodgings by the two Dukes, the Marquises of Winchester and Northampton, Arundel, Pembroke, Paget, Westmoreland, Warwick -all the great noblemen who had made her Queen. Her mother Frances bore her train, and her husband Guilford walked by her side, cap in hand, and bowing lowly when she deigned to speak. The Lieutenant, Sir John Brydges, and his deputy, Thomas Brydges, received her Majesty on their knees. At five o'clock she was proclaimed in the City, when the King's death was announced and his final testament made known. But the day was not to end in peace; for after supper was over, and the Queen had gone to her rooms, the Marquis of Winchester (Lord Treasurer) brought up the private jewels, which he desired her to wear, and the Royal crown, which he wished her to try on. Jane looked at the shining toy, and put it from her in haste, saying, "It will do." Winchester told her another crown would have to be made." "Another crown! For whom must another crown be made ?" "For the Lord Guilford," said the Marquis, since he was to be crowned with her as king. Crowned as king! Surprised and hurt at what the Treasurer had let fall, she sat in silent pain, until Guilford came into her room, when she broke into a fit of honest wrath. "The crown," she said, was not a playShe could not make him a thing for boys and girls. king. A duke she had power to make, but only Parliament could make a man king." Guilford began to cry, and left the room. In a few minutes he came back with his mother, still whimpering that "he wanted to be king, and would not be a duke." The Queen was firm, and, after a hot scene, the Duchess took her boy away, declaring that he should not live with an ungrateful wife. There is no need to tell the bitter story of her enforced marriage with the weak son of the Duke of Northumberland, to which she had been driven even with blows, or of her genuine reluctance to sovereignty, which her rectitude no less than her reason refused. In a former page the story of her studious, retired life at Bradgate, where, secluded from the pleasures suited to her youth, her sex, and her position, she learned to look on her books as her most beloved companions, and the hours spent with Roger Ascham, or good Master Aylmer, her preceptor, as the only happy ones she enjoyed. Who forgets the former's description of the last time he ever beheld "that sweet and noble lady"-a girl philosopher in her chamber reading the "Phoedon" of Plato in Greek-and answering, when he inquired why she was not in the park, where the Marquis and Marchioness of Dorset and the ladies and gentlemen of the household were engaged in hunting: "I wis all their sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure I find in Plato. Alas, good folk! they never felt what true pleasure means!" The speaker had arrived at this conviction at fourteen years of age, through the severity of her sharp parents and the sweet gentleness of her schoolmaster, who taught her so pleasantly with such fair allurements to learning, that her book had become so much her pleasure, and brought her daily so much more, that all other pleasures seemed but trifles and troubles in comparison to it. Our space obliges us to be brief: but, often as the sad story has been told, we venture to bring her last hour before our readers as Mr. Dixon has depicted it : When she looked out upon the green, she saw the archers and lancers drawn up, and Guilford being led away from the Lieutenant's door. She now sat down and waited for her summons to depart. An hour went slowly by; and then her quick ear caught the rumble of a cart on the stones. She knew that this cart contained poor Guilford's body, and she rose to greet the corse as it passed by. Her women, who were all in tears, endeavoured to prevent her going to the window, from which she could not help seeing the block and the richest colour and costliest stuff, in cap and plume worth a ransom, in jacket powdered with gems; his whole attire, from cap to shoe-strings, blazing with rubies, emeralds, and pearls, he was allowed to be one of the handsomest men alive. The council got alarmed at the crowds who came down to see him. Harvey was thought too careless, and a strict gaoler was appointed to abridge the very few liberties which Raleigh then enjoyed. We cannot afford space to follow the tragic story of this soldier-poet, seaman, historian, man of science, remarkable alike for the variety of his talents and his heroic enterprise and courage to its close. HANOVER SQUARE. (London: Ashdown and Parry, Hanover Square.)-The present number tions. First, we have "Patrouille, Ronde de of this musical miscellany is rich in contribuNeut," by D. Magnuss: an effective composition with considerable work in it for our musical readers. A "Spinning Song," the words by W. Storey, music by Virginia Gabriel, depends very much for its effect upon its characteristic accompaniment, and the expression of the singer. The change from one to five flats gives interest and versatility to the air. The Dancing Sea Spray," by J. Theodore Trekell (a "morceau de salon"), is light and brilliant, as its name implies, with plenty of scope for that legerdemaine of fingering which young ladies with pretty hands delight in. "Autumn Song," by Henry Smart, is a graceful little melody, with a very effective accompaniment. headsman waiting for her turn; but she gently forced | parelled as became such a figure in scarf and band of them aside, looked out on the cart, and made the dead youth a last adieu. Brydges and Feckenham now came for her. The two gentlewomen could hardly walk for weeping; but Lady Jane, who was dressed in a black gown, came forth, with a prayer-book in her hand, a heavenly smile on her face, a tender light in her grey eyes; she walked modestly across the green, passed through the files of troopers, mounted the scaffold, and then, turning to the crowd of spectators, softly said: "Good people, I am come hither to die. The fact against the Queen's highness was unlawful; but, touching the procurement and desire thereof by me, or on my behalf, I wash my hands thereof, in innocency, before God, and in the face of you, good Christian people, this day." She paused, as if to put away from her the world, with which she had now done for ever. Then she added—“I pray you all good Christian people, to bear me witness that I die a true Christian woman, and that I look to be saved by no other means than the mercy of God, in the merits of the blood of His only Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ. And now, good people, while I am alive, I pray you to assist me with your prayers." Kneeling down she said to Feckenham, the only divine whom Mary would allow to come near her, "Shall I say this psalm ?" The abbot faltered "Yes." On which she repeated, in a clear voice, the noble psalm:-"Have mercy upon me, O God, after Thy great goodness: according to the multitude of Thy mercies do away mine offences." When she had come to the last line she stood up on her feet, and took off her gloves and kerchief, which she gave to Elizabeth Tylney. The Book of Psalms she gave to Thomas Brydges, the Lieutenant's deputy. Then she untied her gown, and took off her bridal gear. The headsman offered to assist her, but she put his hands gently aside, and drew a white kerchief round her eyes. The veiled figure of the executioner sank at her feet, and begged her forgiveness for what he had now to do. She whispered in his ear a few soft words of pity and pardon; and then said to him openly, "I pray you despatch me quickly." Kneeling before the block, she felt for it blindly with her open fingers. One who stood by her touched and guided her hand to the place it sought; on which she laid down her noble head, and saying "Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit," passed, with a prayer on her lips, into her everlasting rest. One more word-picture, and we must end our imperfect notice of this charming work-a picture that flashes and scintillates like the gems in Millais' "Eve of St. Agnes," while we gaze upon it: Though Raleigh was now lodged in the Tower, with three poor servants, living on £5 a-week for food and fire, the men in office considering him far too strong. His fame was rising, instead of falling. Great ladies from the court cast wistful glances at his room. Men from the streets and ships came crowding to the wharf whence they could see him walking on the wall. Raleigh was a sight to see, not only for his fame and name, but for his picturesque and dazzling figure. Fifty-one years old, tall, tawny, splendid, with the bronze of tropical suns on his leonine cheek, a bushy beard, a round moustache, and a ripple of curly hair, which his man Peter took an hour to dress. Ap NEW MUSIC. RESIGNATION. Song. Claribel. Longfellow's sweet minor poems, set by Claribel SWEET MOTHER. Music by W. H. Weiss. Words by W. H. Bellamy, Esq. Like the former, it is written in three flats a key that insures a pleasing melody. The accompaniment is very flowing and pretty. THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. Valse. R. Coote. The author of the above is so well known to our musical friends as a skilful arranger of dance music, that his name will be a sufficient guarantee for the agreeableness of the valse before us; the time is well marked, and the music light and simple. |