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She was

speaker-she had shown a giddy and frivolous mind. She would like Miss Bonnet to think a little less of herself and her looks. For her part she never thought about what she looked like, and she did not see why other people should. She objected to hats,—the ladies knew very well that they could not see in them; she proposed green shades, tacked to a black straw.

The Chairwoman assured the lady that the question was not yet as to details—they would appoint a committee to decide on the uniform, and if no lady would speak to the point, she must put the question.

Miss Sporting Lass had a word or two to say-why not have rifles instead of bows ?

sure she could shoot with a rifle; she had shot ten brace and a half of birds one day last season. Why not do some good while they were about it? Mounted rifles if you like, as that would keep up their jumping powder in the summer-at any rate the officers should ride. She thought real shooting would be twice the fun-archery might do for milksops.

Miss Allofa Flutter was quite frightened at Miss Lass' speech; she was sure her Mamma was afraid of a gun, and never let the boys bring theirs near the house. Guns were always going off and shooting some one, and then they made such a horrid noise.

Mrs. Sensible Minded thought they must adhere to the old plan, out of consideration for the nerves of the generality. The motion was then put and carried by a large majority. After some discussion a committee was appointed to make arrangements for immediate practice. The chairwoman was authorised to write to the Lady of the Lord Lieutenant. Mrs. Busy called the attention of the meeting to the lateness of the hour,—the welfare of England would

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not be aided by the sacrifice of domestic discipline—the ladies were wanted at home, and she would adjourn the meeting.” On this ten or a dozen ladies arose—“they had a great deal to say—they could not see why they were not allowed to have their say in the matter.” The chairwoman begged they would remember they were Englishwomen, and with her usual tact directed the meeting to put down their names on the Volunteer list. During this process the ten ladies struggled for a hearing, and at the end they gave up for want of breath, and the meeting broke up. A large sum was collected from the gentlemen to pay all expenses, and about forty ladies offered to join, if the gentlemen paid all the costs. This is very satisfactory, and if all England's women shew the same spirit of self-sacrifice, England is safe.

A VISION OF HOLYROOD.

Not long ago at evening-tide within thy halls I stood-
Thy halls of old magnificence, O ancient Holyrood!
I trod thy abbey's ruined courts where wild the long grass/springs,
With rushing thoughts of bygone days and long departed things.

And now with glen,and mountain blue, and foaming torrent stream
Before mine inward gaze they rise in any a waking dream;
The blazing hearth around me sheds its radiance clear and free,
But my thoughts thou relic of the past are far away with thee.

I see a gallant hunting band emerging from thy gates,
And far and wide through woodland green the horn reverberates,
And the monarch* from his palace turns to view the abbey fair
Reposing in its beauty ’neath the forest shadows there.

* William I.

They pass ; I see another scene; 'tis marked more clearly now;
A youthful bride of stately mien, before the altar bow;
Around her press a brilliant throng, in gorgeous robes arrayed,
But there's a gloom upon her cheek, and on her brow a shade. *

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And now I hear the sound of mirth within the pictured hall,
And courtly guests are flitting by responsive to its call;
But still the loveliest of them all that queenly form is seen,
While joy is bursting from her lips, yet sadness comes between.

The festive sounds have died away, the laughing groups are gone,
The hapless and misguided queen sits silent and alone ;
She thinks upon the happy past, the present's gloomy hue;
How dark her future was to be, alas ! she little knew.

A tragic scenet is passing now within that room by night,
My spirit turns away in grief and horror at the sight;
I look again and she is gone-her step for ever fled,
And stillness sinks upon the air, the stillness of the dead.

Once more a change; years roll away; again I hear the sound
Of revelry and joyous mirth from wall to wall resound,
And ’neath the long deserted roof the brave the lovely meet,
Back to his own ancestral walls a wanderer to greet. I

I see him pass among them there, a young and gallant form;
Alas! no sunny lot was his, but one of cloud and storm,
One brilliant beam bad cheered his path too soon for him 'twas o'er,
And in his own inheritance his voice is heard no more.

* Mary, Queen of Scots. + The murder of Rizzio.

# Prince Charles Edward.

The last one of an ancient race hath vanished from mine eye,
And silence wraps again the scene of former pageantry;
Once only for a little space they yield a sheltering home,
To royal ones of another land forced from that land to roam.

All! all! are gone, the sunbeams now unmasked their shadows

cast;

None, none are here my steps to meet, save spirits of the past;
Thy dusky halls are fading now in dim and misty haze-
I look again and naught I see, but my own bright hearth-fire's

blaze!

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[For the original, see Horace, Carm. i. 1.]

My guard and my glory thou art, honoured friend,

“De regiâ stirpe” descended,
(From whom my affections nought ever can rend,

Till “vita brevis” shall be ended.)

There are some who in races Olympic delight

To come down with the dust,” (as they say) Who love to “cut goal” with their wheels shining bright,

For the palm of the high-mettled bay.

One rejoices, to consular honours when borne

By Quirites too fickle by half;
Another, if safely in barns all his corn

He hath stored, and got rid of his “ chaff.

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The man who, of ploughing his heritage vain,

Takes the fieldwith a hoe and a rake,
You ne'er can persuade to go ploughing the main,

Though Attalus' wealth were at stake.

For he dreadeth the ocean’s tempestuous might,

The rage of the waters so dark, And the perils of steering through strait and through bight,

While crossing the seas in a bark.

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The merchant, who feareth the fierce warring blast,

That doth scourge the Icarian seas,
Deems he “raiseth the wind” just a little too fast,

And praiseth his town and its ease.

But scarce bath the sentence escaped from his lips,

When his patience in poverty fails ; Again he refitteth his storm-beaten ships,

And sets up a score of new sales.

There is one who doth spurn not cool fountain nor tree,

And full often rich Massic hath quaffed,
Wherein great imprudence, I ween, sheweth he,

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Thus exposing himself to a draught.

There are some who love camps and shrill clarions (they say),

And helmets with crest like an arch,
Stern wars, ever hateful to each “gentle May,"

And the blast of the high-sounding March.

The hunter remains ’neath cold sky with his dart,

Rememb’ring his consort no more : Whether he and his hounds still“ keep up a stout h(e)art,"

Or think their assailant a bo(a)re.

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