By which the soul walks fearless through the world,
Into those floods of bitter memory,

Whose awful depths no diver dares explore?
To paralyse the expectant mind, while yet
On the world's threshold, and existence' self
To drain of all save its inert endurance?
To do this unprovoked, I put it to you,
Is not this sin? To the unsleeping eye

Of Him who sees al aims, and knows the wrongs
No laws save his redress, I make appeal

To judge between us !

Earl.

Is ended.

Mord. It is ended.

Mabel.

Sir, our conference

[Exit, L. C. D

He's gone!

He's deceived!

He hears me not! He knows me not!
Earl. Why, what is this, dear Mabel?
Mabel. (with a forced smile)

Nothing, sir.

I am not used, you know, to witness strife.
It somewhat chafes my spirit.

Earl.

Hither, love.

(MABEL reels forward, and falls into her father's arms.)

SCENE CLOSES.

(By permission of the Author.)

MAN-THE NOBLE.

ALEXANDER POPE.

HONOUR and shame from no condition rise,
Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
Fortune to men has some small difference made-
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade;
The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned,
The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned;

What differ more, you say, than crown and cowl?
I'll tell you, friend—a wise man and a fool!
You'll find, if once the monarch act the monk,
Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk,
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather or prunella!

Look next on greatness; say, where greatness lies;
Where, but among the heroes and the wise!
Heroes are much the same, it is agreed,
From Macedonia's madman to the Swede;
The whole strange purpose of their lives to find,
Or make an enemy of all mankind.

Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave,
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave;
Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
Or, failing, smiles in exile and in chains;
Like good Aurelius, let him reign, or bleed,
Like Socrates, that man is great indeed.

What's fame? a fancied life in other's breath-
A thing beyond us even before our death.
All that we know of it begins and ends
In the small circle of our foes and friends.
To all beside, as much an empty shade,
An Eugene living, as a Cæsar dead;
Alike, or when, or where, they shone or shine,
Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine.

A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod;

An honest man's the noblest work of God!

THE LADIES' PETITION TO DR. MOYES.

DEAR doctor, let it not transpire
How much your lectures we admire ;
How at your eloquence we wonder,

When you explain the cause of thunder,

Of lightning, and of electricity,
With so much plainness and simplicity;
The origin of rocks and mountains,

Of seas and rivers, lakes and fountains;
Of rain and hail, and frost and snow,
And all the winds and storms that blow;
Besides a hundred wonders more,
Of which we never heard before.
But now, dear doctor, not to flatter,
There is a most important matter-
A matter which you never touch on,
A matter which our thoughts run much on,
A subject, if we right conjecture,

Which well deserves a long, long lecture,
Which all the ladies would

approve

The Natural History of Love!
Oh list to our united voice,
Deny us not, dear Doctor Moyes!
Tell us why our poor tender hearts
So willingly admit Love's darts;
Teach us the marks of Love's beginning,
What is it makes a beau so winning?
What makes us think a coxcomb witty?
A dotard wise, a red coat pretty?
Why do we heed such horrid lies,
That we are angels from the skies?
Our teeth are pearls, our cheeks are roses,
Our eyes are stars-such charming noses!
Explain our dreams waking and sleeping;
Explain our laughing and our weeping;
Explain our hoping and our doubting,
Our blushing, simpering, and pouting.
Teach us all the enchanting arts
Of winning and of keeping hearts!
Teach us, dear doctor, if you can,
To humble that proud creature Man!
To turn the wise ones into fools,
The vain and insolent to tools;
To make them all run helter-skelter
Their necks into the marriage halter.

Then leave us to ourselves with these,
We'll rule and lead them as we please.

Dear doctor, if you grant our wishes,
We promise you five hundred kisses ;
And rather than the affair be blunder'd,
We'll give you six score to the hundred!

THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY.

To wed, or not to wed?—that is the question,
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous love,
Or to take arms against the pow'rful flame,
And by opposing, quench it. To wed-to marry-
No more and by a marriage say we end

The heart-ache, and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd-to wed-to marry—
To marry-perchance a scold-ay, there's the rub.
For in that wedded life what ills may come,
When we have shuffled off our single state,
Must give us serious pause-there's the respect
That makes the Bachelors a num'rous race-
For who would bear the dull, unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men— -cheer'd by no smile,
To sit like hermit at a lonely board

In silence?-who would bear the cruel gibes
With which the Bachelor is daily teased,

When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs
By wedding some fair maid? O! who would live
Yawning and staring sadly in the fire,
Till celibacy becomes a weary life,

But that the dread of something after wedlock
(That undiscover'd state from whose strong chains
No captive can get free) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather choose those ills we have,
Than fly to others which a wife may bring?
Thus caution does make Bachelors of us all,

And thus our natural wish for matrimony
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought-
And love-adventures of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And miss the name of wedlock,

INAUGURAL ADDRESS,

ON BEING INSTALLED LORD RECTOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH.

(Abridged from "The Times" for reading.)

THOMAS CARLYLE.

[Thomas Carlyle was born at Ecclefechan, in Dumfriesshire, in 1795. He was a student of that University of which, on the 2nd of April, 1866, he was installed lord-rector. In the opening of his inaugural address (of which a portion only-in order to bring it within the limits of a reading—is given below) he remarked, "There are now fifty-six years gone last November since first I entered your city, a boy not quite fourteen, to attend classes here and gain knowledge of all kinds, I know not what, with feelings of wonder and awe-struck expectation; and now, after a long, long course, this is what we have come to. There is something touching and tragic, and yet at the same time beautiful, to see the third generation, as it were, of my dear old native land, rising up and saying, 'Well, you are not altogether an unworthy labourer in the vineyard.'" Grand and touching indeed, that crowning of the ripe old scholar! sublime, too, in its influence upon others, and assuring to himself of that posthumous fame of which the scene that day gave him more than a passing glimpse. Thomas Cayle was intended for the church. On leaving college he adopted, not without hesitation, the scholastic profession; but he gradually drifted into literature, utilizing the results of his studies through the medium of the press. He became a great admirer of the German language and an ardent explorer of it literary recesses. One of his earliest works was a translation of Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister," and he also published translations from other German writers. His works now comprise a goodly library in themselves, and include his "History of the French Revolution," ""Past and Present," ," "Sartor Resartus," "Latterday Pamphlet," "Life of Sterling," "Life of Frederick the Great,' "Life and Correspondence of Cromwell," "Miscellaneous Essays,"