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Now with knees on stiffen'd hinges; now with servile supple cringes;
Learning easily to bend-to a Prince, but not a friend,—
Setting Virtue's limitation, not by conduct but by station;
Proving, spite of Truth's effulgence, Fashion's Catholic Indulgence
Stands on sale for fair requital in a coronet and title :—
Such a one,-in earnest truth,-I remember, from my youth!

Gentle, gracious, quiet, meek-with the frank light on her cheek
Of an ancient noble line, that needs no mask of playing 'Fine;'
Too highly bred, too highly born, to put on airs of vulgar scorn,
Too certain of her own degree, to grudge the meed of courtesy,
(That meed, so small a thing to give,—so kindly pleasant to receive ;)
Still speaking in sweet undertone,-with nothing in her to make known
To the crowds who round her bow,-She is High, and they are Low,-
Except that Nature gave her face, such natural majesty and grace,
That they who watch to see her pass, confess distinction in her Class,
Something more dignified and fair, and more serene than others are:-
No warring, climbing, and resisting,-accepting homage, not insisting,—
And gaining more than ever yet, was granted with displeased regret,
To all the plotting and contriving, of those for Fashion's empire striving :-
This also I have seen; and know the picture faithful, painted so.

Now, which of these shall seem to thee, the better worldly path to be,
Lies folded in the future years, which hold thy joys, thy hopes, and fears.
The good choice lies far off, before thee,-thy Life's young angel watcheth o'er thee,-
And kindly, yet, thy star-like eyes, reflect the glow of summer skies;

Oh! never may their tarnish'd light, by worldly contact grow less bright;
Nor the sweet fount of light supplied, grow dim with tears, or cold with pride!

A PARISIAN FAMILY.

FRENCH manners, which, in all ranks of society, are remarkably easy and unconstrained, were never seen to greater advantage than in the late royal apartments of the Tuilleries.

Let us imagine the accompanying plate to represent a soirée in the now dismantled saloons in which the noblest and fairest of the sons and daughters of France were recently wont to mingle with the princes and princesses of the House of Orleans, under the auspices of the ex-king and queen, the Count and Countess de Neuilly.

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A PARISIAN FAMILY.

7

The maiden, with the pensive cast of countenance, may well represent the lovely and gifted, and, alas! departed Princess Marie.

Amiable, beautiful, accomplished, and of transcendent talents, the youthful Marie of Orleans was universally admired and beloved; but few, save the members of her own family, knew all her value. Following the bent of her genius as a sculptor, she naturally passed much time in solitude; if that could be called solitude, which was peopled by her own magnificent creations. She had, however, in addition to THE BIBLE, which she is said to have daily studied, two constant companions in her atelier, or, as she called it, her cell; and they were such as harmonized well with her lofty tastes; they were HOMER and DANTE. With such sources whence to draw her inspiration, we need not wonder at the exalted character of her conceptions as an artist; her masterly execution was acquired, as by prince or peasant it must be acquired, by assiduous and persevering labour. To excellence in painting and sculpture, as in mathematics, there is no royal road.

After having practised drawing for some time under a skilful master, Marie d'Orleans began to paint. To her the French are indebted for several beautiful church-windows, and, among others, for the superb windows of the chapel of Fontainbleau. Her chief passion, however, was for sculpture. She modelled with extraordinary skill; and executed her designs in marble in the first style of excellence. One of her earliest performances with the chisel was a statue of Joan of Arc on horseback. She had early become acquainted with the sad yet glorious history of the Maid of Orleans, and from childhood had honoured and loved her memory.

When we consider the early age at which this gifted princess died, and remember the large share of her time which she devoted to the relieving of her father from the cares and anxieties which pressed upon him on his elevation to the throne of France, we cannot but marvel at the number and variety of the works which she has left as monuments of her genius.

She died, not indeed in the maturity of her age, for she was in the very springtime of life; a bride with "the garland of love yet fresh on her brow;" but she was removed in the full flower of her talents; and it may tend to dry the tears of those who weep for her, to reflect, that of her it may be emphatically said, that she was taken "from the evil to come."

A change, a mighty change hath come;

He is a king no more,

For whom the song of triumph rang;

Those days are past and o'er.

Some, too, who graced his throne are gone

From this brief scene away;

DEATH will not yield his grasp, although

It be on royal clay.

Thou, sweetest Marie, fairest one

Of the proud Orleans' race,
Thy spirit dwelt awhile with us,

But earth was not thy place.
'Tis well for thee, thou art not here
To strive with grief or pain;
Thy rest is calm; thou wilt not wake
To aught of grief again.

All pass away; the Royal ones
With regal pomp and power;

There's sunlight on their path awhile,

Then storm-clouds round them lower.

The fading kingdoms of this earth

May flourish, or decay,

Happy, who reach that world where thrones
Once gain'd, ne'er pass away!

HIMALAYA MOUNTAINS, INDIA.

The Anglo-Indian, when enervated by the climate, is often sent by his medical advisers to the mountaindistrict of Himalaya. The place most frequented by Europeans, is Simla, the hills around which are studded with bungalows, as represented in the accompanying plate. Nothing can be more intolerably dreary and depressing, than illness, thus endured at a distance from all friends, and sometimes without even one fellow-countryman with whom to exchange a few words of companionship and consolation.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

DREAMING of Old England, and the days gone by,
Dreaming of Old England,—with a heavy sigh,
Lies the youthful Exile, far from every friend,

Far from that fond Mother who would o'er him bend
With more earnest service than a hundred slaves,
Guessing all his wishes ere the faint tongue craves.
Struggling with the fever parching all his veins,
Fruits with pleasant juices in the cup he drains:
Sinking, faint and nerveless, all the burning noon,
Gazing wild and restless on night's splendid moon;
Yearning for Home-letters,-thinking soon to die,
Dreaming of Old England,-with a heavy sigh!

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