"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. "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! Who fought and bled in freedom's cause, Let its altar reach the skies. CHORUS Firm united let us be Rallying round our liberty! Immortal patriots! rise once more! Sound, sound the trump of fame, Ring thro' the world with loud applause! Let every clime, to freedom dear, With equal skill, with steady power, Behold the chief, who now commands, 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, Challenge to dalliance or to strife in vain! Soon must the firstling of the wild herd be slain, With blood incarnadine. Fierce glows the Dogstar, but his fiery beam Or wanderer from the flocks: And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain: All babblingly thou fallest. TO THALIARCHUS ONE dazzling mass of solid snow Soracte stands; the bent woods fret Pile on great fagots and break up The ice: let influence more benign. Leave to the gods all else. When they Ask not what future suns shall bring. To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance, Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing, Ere Time thy April youth hath changed 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 TO A FAUN WOOER of young Nymphs who fly thee, Trip, and go, nor injured by thee If the kid his doomed head bows, and VII. IO |