money, but now he won't,-and so says half the lads of the town: as fur master Richard, I allus said no good would come of him; but my good woman said it was all her fault, and that she is an impudent hussy, Miss Ellen, there, but that's because she's purtier than my daughter, I say."

Not caring to have all the disputes between good Master Thomas the grocer, and his wife, retailed for my special benefit, I went back to the inn where I had taken up my abode, and having devoured an enormous tea, for grief never spoils my appetite, I set to work to try to unravel the plot; I had liked Richard very much, and doubted of his guilt, but could not account for his disappearance on any other hypothesis, unless indeed, which I still less liked thinking, Ellen was somehow implicated. Revolving these things in my mind I went to bed, and returned to London the first thing in the morning, without seeing either smith Carey or his daughter,-fearful lest I should grieve them by recalling happier times.

(To be continued.)

OMNIA DILECTÆ NOSCERE VELLET AMOR.

OH tell me of the days when thou wert young!

Of the bowers that blossomed round thee,
Of the flowers whose garlands crowned thee,

Of the birds that at thy early lattice sung.

Oh tell me of thy friendships great and small!
Did they hold thee so completely,

Thou didst never, blushing sweetly,

Dream of one who might be more to thee than all ?

G

Oh tell me of thy mother's gentle care!

Was her voice as soft and tender

Was her form as light and slender

As thine own? And was her face one half so fair?

Oh tell me when thou first beganst to love!

Oh! and tell it all thrice over

To a fondly listening lover;

'Tis like music of the angels from above.

Oh! and tell me didst thou ever love but me?
By those eyes in whose sweet glances,
"No," the answer, archly dances

I, too, swear that I have never loved but thee !

(w.)

THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION.

It was still early in the morning, but not a single eye in all Athens was closed in sleep; every one of that vast population were busy and astir, yet all the streets were deserted. No sound could be heard as you walked through that wide city, save the echo of your own steps, or the barking of some dog that, taking advantage of the desolation that prevailed, was seeking to make up for the neglect it had experienced in the past week. The Agora, too, seemed clad in quiet; there were no early stall-keepers to be seen with wan countenances, looking only half refreshed with their night's rest, putting up their booths for the early

purchaser. The Pnyx also was empty; there stood the Bema as if weighed down by the load of words that had lately been thundered forth from its base to a noisy Athenian audience. But let us follow the course of the long walls that lead to the Piræus. What is the cause of our eyes being suddenly attracted with such eager gaze towards the port? Here is all Athens collected at the side of the sea. Surely no second Xerxes is driving them to seek new homes at Ægina or Salamis! No! the infirm, the aged are being left behind, the strong, the young are embarking. Here you see a young soldier embracing his mother, perhaps for the last time, whilst she strives to look happy, as she says, "Go, where thy country calls thee, my son," but still the tear steals unbidden to her cheek, and remembering that her son is an Athenian, she retires amid the crowd to hide her tears. Here again is a soldier taking leave of his children, and, as he looks toward the Acropolis, he prays the great goddess to keep them safe. But hark! the herald has bid them to join their ships; the crowd rushes to the shore, some for curiosity, others through real anxiety: but soon they respectfully give way, as they see an elderly soldier coming on with care written on his brow, but yet evidently struggling with his feelings. One moment he pauses, and looks back to bid a last adieu to the Pnyx, as he thinks how in vain he strove with the populace as they blindly rushed on to their fate; then suddenly remembering himself he jumps into his boat, and rows off to his trireme. But now a gay trireme moors near the shore, and the band is heard playing cheerfully, yet half impatiently, as they wait for their commander. But who is this young man pushing his way through the crowd with an authoritative air, as he hastens, surrounded by his companions, towards the shore? Surely this cannot be the man

to whose hands the interests of such an expedition are entrusted! Yes, it is Alcibiades, and as he comes he laughs and gives some directions about his stud, or tells his groom to look after his new horse Coppatias, and then gaily bidding adieu to Phiddipus and Megacles, he steps in, and takes his seat while his attendants row him to his trireme. Lamachus had been on board long ago, looking after the baggage and other necessaries for the camp.

And now, all being ready, the signal was given for the parting prayer. Then did all the crews and spectators join in a hearty supplication to the gods, and, whilst still singing the Pæan, the xeλevors gave the order for their departure, and they were off. Surely there were many in that vast fleet, that kept their eyes fixed on the Athena Promachos, and when all was out of sight, and they had fairly got off Corcyra, set to their oars, buoyant with hope yet chastened with gravity, and felt that they were destined by the gods to a high calling in behalf of their country. But what were the feelings of those left behind? slowly, one by one, as if bewildered with the scene, they retired, and as each got further into the city, they would meet their Hermæ cast down and disfigured, and the recollection of such awful auspices would press upon their soul. Surely the temples would be filled with many a mother, or wife, or sister, imploring the favour of the gods for their dear departed ones. Nor was this the end of their grief; just as they come out of the temple, they would meet the bailiffs of the court hurrying off some of the few left to them on the charge of defamation of the mysteries, or mutilation of the Hermæ. And well might we pardon them, if there were many sad hearts in Athens that night.

VICE MONITOR.

GOAL LINE.

AN ADAPTATION FROM EVANGELINE.-LONGFELLOW.

This is the Football bigside; the murmuring fags and the

no-caps,

Frosted with drizzle in garments warm, indistinct in the twilight Stand as others of old, with voices sad and exclaiming ;

Stand like martyrs they think, and nursing themselves in their greatcoats.

Wander like spirits of ill, and the frequent punt-about heed not. Loud from the open bigside the rushing trample of scrummage Comes; and in accents disconsolate answer the groans of the shut-up.

This is the football bigside: but where are the navvies that through it

Hacked like the woodsman that fells in the forest the oak with his hatchet.

Where is the forward player, the well-known dread of out

siders ;

Sluggards whose caps crawled on like snails that people the meadows,

Darkened by visions of hacks, but reflecting a glory of bigsideGone are those well known forms and their navvies for ever

departed,

Scattered like dead leaves and mud when puntabouts heavily

rising.

Take them and whirl them aloft, and scatter them far over all

heads.