"There's not the least likeness," said Mrs. Hilary, sharply. "As a hundred pounds are to a shilling, so is the Grand Prix to the young man opposite," I observed, taking my hat, and holding out my hand to Mrs. Hilary.

"I am very angry with you," she said, "you've made the child think there was nothing wrong in it."

"Oh! nonsense," said I. "Look how she enjoyed telling it. Then, not heeding Mrs. Hilary, I launched into an apostrophe.

"O divine House Opposite!" I cried. "Charming House Opposite! What is a man's own dull uneventful home compared with that Glorious House Opposite! If only I might dwell forever in the House Opposite!"

"I haven't the least notion what you mean," remarked Mrs. Hilary, stiffly. "I suppose it's something silly - or worse." I looked at her in some puzzle.

"Have you no longing for the House Opposite?" I asked. Mrs. Hilary looked at me. Her eyes ceased to be absolutely blank. She put her arm through Hilary's and answered gently:

"I don't want the House Opposite."

"Ah," said I, giving my hat a brush, "but maybe you remember the House when it was Opposite?"

Mrs. Hilary, one arm still in Hilary's, gave me her hand.
She blushed and smiled.

"Well," said she, "it was your fault: so I won't scold Phyllis." "No, don't, my dear," said Hilary, with a laugh.

As for me, I went downstairs, and, in absence of mind, bade my cabman drive to the House Opposite. But I have never got there.

JOSEPH HOPKINSON

JOSEPH HOPKINSON. Born in Philadelphia, November 12, 1770; died January 15, 1842. Member of Congress, and judge of the United States Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. "Hail Columbia" was written when the author was twenty-eight, as a song for Fox, the actor.

HAIL COLUMBIA

HAIL, Columbia, happy land!
Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band,

Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,
Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,
And when the storm of war is gone,
Enjoyed the peace your valor won.
Let Independence be your boast,
Ever mindful what it cost,

Ever grateful for the prize,

Let its altar reach the skies.

CHORUS

Firm united let us be
Rallying round our liberty!
As a band of brothers join'd,
Peace and safety we shall find.

Immortal patriots! rise once more!
Defend your rights, defend your shore:
Let no rude foe with impious hand,
Let no rude foe with impious hand
Invade the shrine where sacred lies
Of toil and blood, the well-earn'd prize.
While off'ring peace sincere and just,
In heaven we place a manly trust,
That truth and justice may prevail,
And every scheme of bondage fail.

Sound, sound the trump of fame,
Let Washington's great name

Ring thro' the world with loud applause!
Ring thro' the world with loud applause!
Let every clime, to freedom dear,
Listen with a joyful ear;

With equal skill, with steady power,
He governs in the fearful hour
Of horrid war, or guides with ease,
The happier time of honest peace.

Behold the chief, who now commands,
Once more to serve his country, stands,
The rock on which the storm will beat!
The rock on which the storm will beat!
But armed in virtue, firm and true,
His hopes are fixed on heaven and you;
When hope was sinking in dismay,
When gloom obscured Columbia's day,
His steady mind from changes free,
Resolved on death or liberty.

HORACE

HORACE, one of the most delightful poets of antiquity. Born at Venusia, Italy, December 8, 65 B.C.; died at Rome, November 27, 8 B.C. Author of the "Satires," "Talks," "Odes," "Epodes," "Epistles."

A proof of the excellence of his Latin style is the fact that it has been, for many generations, in England the fashion among scholars to translate his poems. So perfect was his art, that prizes for the perfect rendering of his odes into a new tongue are still frequently competed for in our institutions of learning. He has always been a favorite with scholarly men of leisure, and the philosophy he so charmingly teaches appeals profoundly to the student of life, the observer of its pleasures, its vanities, and its brevity.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA

BANDUSIA, stainless mirror of the sky!

Thine is the flower-crown'd bowl, for thee shall die, When dawns yon sun, the kid;

Whose horns, half-seen, half-hid,

Soon must the firstling of the wild herd be slain,
And those cold springs of thine

With blood incarnadine.

Fierce glows the Dogstar, but his fiery beam
Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream
To labor-wearied ox,

Or wanderer from the flocks:

And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain:
My harp shall tell how from yon cavernous mountain,
Where the brown oak grows tallest,

All babblingly thou fallest.

TO THALIARCHUS

ONE dazzling mass of solid snow

Soracte stands; the bent woods fret
Beneath their load; and, sharpest-set
With frost, the streams have ceased to flow.

Pile on great fagots and break up

The ice: let influence more benign
Enter with four-years-treasured wine,
Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup:

Leave to the gods all else. When they

Have once bid rest the winds that war
Over the passionate seas, no more
Gray ash and cypress rock and sway.

Ask not what future suns shall bring.
Count to-day gain, whate'er it chance

To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance, Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing,

Ere Time thy April youth hath changed
Park and public walk

To sourness.

Attract thee now, and whispered talk

At twilight meetings prearranged;

Hear now the pretty laugh that tells
In what dim corner lurks thy love;
And snatch a bracelet or a glove
From wrist or hand that scarce rebels.

TO HIS SLAVE

PERSIAN grandeur I abhor:

Linden-wreathed crowns, avaunt:

Boy, I bid thee not explore

Woods which latest roses haunt:

Try on naught thy busy craft

Save plain myrtle; so arrayed
Thou shalt fetch, I drain, the draught
Fitliest 'neath the scant vine-shade.

TO A FAUN

WOOER of young Nymphs who fly thee,
Lightly o'er my sunlit lawn,

Trip, and go, nor injured by thee
Be my weanling herds, O Faun:

If the kid his doomed head bows, and
Brims with wine the loving cup,
When the year is full; and thousand
Scents from altars hoar go up.

VII. - IO