n's o'er." But a St. John Long, of some kind or other, is
so essential to the West-end world, that a successor must be rapidly
erected in his room. Every age has its St. John Long, formed by the
mere necessities of the opulent and idle. A new Perkins, with a packet
of metallic tractors on a new scale would be extremely acceptable in
any handsome street in the neighbourhood of Grosvenor-square. Animal
magnetism would thrive prodigiously between this and the dust-months,
when London is left to the guardsmen and the cab-drivers; and when, as
Lady Jersey says, nobody who is anybody is to be seen in the streets
from morning till night, that is, from three till six. But the true
man of success would be Dr. Graham, of famous memory; the heir of his
talents would make a fortune in any season of the year; and now that
St. John Long has vacated the throne, nothing could be more favourable
for his ambition, than to take advantage of the interregnum, and make
himself monarch of charlatanry without loss of time.--From "Notes of
the Month," by far the most piquant portion of the _Monthly Mag_.

* * * * *

FLOWERS IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

"I desire, as I look on these, the ornaments and children of Earth, to
know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more!--whether they
have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is
to be cast? or whether they _have_ their images above, only wrought
in a more wondrous and delightful mould."--_Conversations with an
Ambitious Student in Ill Health_.

Bear them not from grassy dells,
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the green wood to its bounds;
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm's emerald star,
And the bird, whose song is free,
And the many-whispering tree;
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to Earth again!

Spread them not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo then not the spirit back,
From its lone and viewless track,
With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the coloured Earth!

With the violet's breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth--of spring-time eves--
Music--beauty--all she leaves!

Hush! 'tis _thou_ that dreaming