a few instances, the sole occupant of a coach was a young lady, whose ample crinoline, with its clouds of muslin and tulle, filled the whole interior. The excitement deepened as the royal cortege appeared, composed of the queen and prince consort, followed by the remainder of the royal family in several coaches. Her Majesty (then in mourning for the death of her mother) was attired in plain black,‚—a stout, florid matron, who looked that she might possess a strong will as well as kingdom, of her own. The prince consort was at that time the model of a handsome, well-kept gentleman of mature age. Seen together, they would anywhere have been called a comfortablelooking couple; and as the head of a great and prosperous nation, might well incite the loyal devotion and pride of their people. It was a beautiful sight, that of the queen-mother and her family, looking so healthful, good, and happy, and we could sympathize with the people in their enthusiasm, wishing in our heart that all kingdoms were equally fortunate with Great Britain in their sovereigns. Alas! that the shadow of death has since fallen upon that royal household, and tears of the wife have dimmed the lustre of the brightest jewels in her queenly crown! At Westminster Abbey we passed a delightful season. Lingering in the "Poet's Corner," examining with eager interest inscriptions which had become familiar as household words. Here the noble, self-elevated Macaulay had recently been laid to rest; and ere this, doubtless, a fitting monument marks the spot where repose the ashes of him who has done such honor to the British name and literature by his life and writings, and whose departure made so wide a breach in the public and private circle in which he moved. But interments in Westminster are of rare occurrence; and the fact that Thomas Babington Macaulay was buried here proves the high esteem in which as statesman, essayist, historian, and poet, he was held by the British pub lic. And here, as we write, we are reminded of another name recently added to that golden array, which, despite of certain discrepancies attending it, posterity will not fail of appreciating at its true value. Wherever real manliness is preferred to weak sentimentality, where outspoken truth (though it cut sharp like a twoedged sword) is more esteemed than cant and hypocrisy, there will William Makepeace Thackeray, essayist and poet, receive a just tribute of respect and admiration. From Chaucer and Spenser, and a little later, from the kingly "Bard of Avon" down through succeeding generations to Scott and Wordsworth of our own times, the grand and solemn procession of these sons of song swept on before us, while fondly lingering within that sacred enclosure now beautified by the softly reflected brightness of a really sunny London day! At Westminster, too, we gazed with interest growing into an indescribable fascination upon the noble, full-length statue of Mrs. Siddons, the wonderfully-gifted queen of tragedy! Much as we had heard of her strikingly majestic figure and stately bearing, we were unprepared for this splendid embodiment of womanly sweetness and dignity, so harmoniously developed in the speaking marble before us. Gloriously endowed, yet none the less womanly because possessing these superior powers. Thus the statue spoke to us of its noble original, whose lofty devotion to an art so often abused has left an unfading influence for good, as widespread as her own well-deserved fame! Attending religious services beneath the time-honored roof where the notes of praise and the voice of supplication floated solemnly and sweetly along the lofty arches; or, following the guide through corridor, chapel, and cloister, as in a monotonous sing-song tone he recited his lesson of description before each shrine or tomb; looking here at the marble effigy of king or queen stretched out upon their own tombstones; there, examining with curious delight the old, old "coronation chair," with the Scotch "lucky stone" (that relic of superstition) beneath it, a chair in which kings and queens for long generations have been crowned, thus, sauntering through aisle and chapel, or pausing outside the venerable pile to enjoy a view of the elaborate fret-work embellishing its exterior, thus visited we Westminster Abbey, palace of the dead and temple of the living, still grand and beautiful in its hoary antiquity! At "Kensington Theological Gardens" we spent considerable time, enjoying with the delight of children a sight of this vast collection of the animal and vegetable kingdom, gathered from various parts of the globe. "Sydenham," too, with its almost magic arrangement of crystal, its crowds of interesting, beautiful, and wonderful objects, presented a charming attraction for the stranger visitor. What wealth of invention, resource, and labor is here exhibited! What marvellous combinations of loveliness, drawn from the realm of nature and art! One felt like being on enchanted ground in traversing this vast receptacle of wonders; while the ride from that smoky city, in the fresh morning air, gave a sparkle to one's spirits, and a power of enjoyment that would have been lacking without this preparatory exercise. tion, and entirely reliable in their nature, M. C. G. SO EVIL COMPANY. THE following beautiful allegory is translated from the German : Sophronius, a wise teacher, would not suffer even his grown-up sons and daughters to associate with those whose conduct was not pure and upright. "Dear father," said the gentle Eulalia to him one day, when he forbade her, in company with her brother, to visit the volatile Lucinda, "dear father, you must think us very childish if you imagine that we should be exposed to danger by it." If London and its vicinity present some of the most terrible spectacles of squalor, vice, and misery, so, also, does it afford opportunities for cultivating a love for the beautiful, the useful, and the true, in its Museum, its Crystal Palace, and numerous institutions of benevolence and instruction. This is a feature of London and indeed English life pleasant to contemplate. Yet, alas! there is a darker side to the picture, upon which it is painful to dwell; but "facts are stubborn things," and will be seen and heard: There are terrible evils festering, not only in the heart of London and other large towns, but in the most pleasant rural districts of the so-called "Favored Isle," evils which, if not met ere, long by remedies commensurate with their extent, will, sooner or later, sap the entire foundation of England's boasted national prosperity, and slowly yet surely bring utter ruin upon all her borders! Statistics of a Yet, we will add, to save the sinful, we most startling character, recently pub- must sometimes approach them; and furlished as the result of English investiga-ther, we must never be uncivil to any. The father took in silence a dead coal from the hearth, and reached it to his daughter. "It will not burn you, my child, take it." Eulalia did so, and behold, her beautiful white hand was soiled and blackened, and, as it chanced, her white dress also. "We cannot be too careful in handling coals," said Eulalia, in vexation. "Yes, truly," said the father, "you see, my child, that coals, even if they do not burn, blacken; so it is with the company of the vicious." ISABEL LEE. By Anna M. Bates. GENTLEST and tenderest Isabel Lee, Sad as the words thou didst whisper in dying, Cold as the sod on thy white bosom lying, And ever the voice of my spirit is crying, Asking and crying and pleading for thee. Daintiest Isabel, Isabel Lee, Chill is thy grave by the sad-flowing sea, Yet over thy slumbers no sorrow encumbers, The angels unnumbered keep vigil for thee. Fairest and loveliest Isabel Lee, Dear as my life is thy memory to me; Point me the light of the land that is lying. Over the graves and the gloom and the sea. Glorified Isabel, Isabel Lee, If 'mid the angels thou still lovest me, Come when my life-lamp faintest is burning, And still by thy presence the pain of my yearning; And lead my poor soul, in thy raptured returning, Back to the land of immortals with thee. WORLDLINESS. THE line of demarcation between the As true love enshrinest, thy golden hair shin- church and the world is too narrow. est, Thy smile is divinest of any to me. Say, buried Isabel, Isabel Lee, Why should remembrance so undying be? Why, yet, 'mid the glory round Hope's ruin hoary, Recounting thy story, should I sigh for thee? Why do I think of it, Isabel Lee, Of the sad hour thou wert severed from me? Even now tears have started to think how we parted, How, broken-hearted, I've sorrowed for thee! For, beauteous Isabel, Isabel Lee, Now thou hast faded, Thou rainbow of heaven o'er a desolate sea! Why dost thou hover round Isabel Lee? Before the day breaking, my soul cries for thee? Daintiest Isabel, Isabel Lee, Cold is thy grave by the sad-flowing sea; The white roses withered, the dark locks upgathered, One tress I severed, Severed while gazing my last upon thee! Tell me, pure spirit, lost Isabel Lee, Then come to my pillow when I am dying, There is a medium to be struck between the monkish seclusion on the one hand and worldly conformity on the other. Christ prays not that God would take his disciples out of the world, but that he would keep them from the evil. Our piety should be strong enough to withstand the ordinary intercourse of society and the common business of life. It is well that Christians cultivate an acquaintance with men of different views and feelings, that thereby they may do them good. But let them beware of the snares of the world; no sooner do Christians show a disposition to impose upon them; turning the assembly ostensibly convened for free and fraternal and rational intercourse into one of folly and riot. Let us never obliterate the obvious distinction between him who fears God and him who fears him not. In the Old World the political honors and power and wealth bestowed upon the higher clergy present great temptation to a worldly spirit; but here there is no reason why both preachers and people should not live a pure life, and breathe from day to day a devotional and Christ-like spirit. We can never expect to do this, however, without a pure litwith books and papers, and it works not erature. The press is flooding the world for edification but for gold. The political press is to a great extent crippled, or rather subsidized by sin; it dare not speak out on the subject of morals and religion; sometimes it speaks on the other side. Many Christians should be ashamed of their centre-tables and libraries. THE SPY OF THE MISSISSIPPI. By Mrs. C. M. Sawyer. A It was a raw, chilly, dreary day. The fog, which since sunrise had hung thick and heavy over field and river, seemed every moment to grow thicker and heavier. Not an object two rods away could be discerned through the impenetrable veil which shrouded earth and sky. sharp, dreary wind now and then cut its way through the mist, driving the heavy drops from the branches of the cotton-wood and cypress trees, which, draped in long, trailing banners of black moss, formed a thick belt along the river shore. A moaning sound at intervals stole up from the great river rolling by on its everlasting journey to the Gulf, while the moss-streamers, sluggishly swaying to and fro as the breeze touched them, sighed in melancholy accord. It was a desolate neighborhood, fit only for the complaining crows that perched on the tree-tops, peered through this gray mist, occasionally uttering sharp and sudden cries. A casual observer would have thought no life ever inhabited this dreary scene, and no traveller ever enlivened it. Indeed it would seem that travel must here have been well-nigh impossible, for the oozy, swampy ground furnished a difficult and insecure footing for man or beast in its best estate and in dry weather. But now that the long rains of a Southern spring had for some days prevailed, no language could adequately paint the state of the road,-if road it could be called, which was only a broad trail through the malarious swamps and unfenced prairie, and bordered by dense, tall, wiry grass, that looked dead and colorless as the mist which hung over it. At intervals of no great distance, broad, almost fathomless sloughs stretched their black lengths across the road, forming well-nigh impenetrable barriers. Most of these had, however, with little engineering skill, been bridged, sometimes by a corduroy causeway of unhewn logs, which had settled deep into the mire, and sometimes by a flooring of brushwood, through which the black, elimy mud worked its way to the surface and lay over it, a thick, wide, jet-black pool, disgusting to sight and touch. An army had apparently recently passed over this road; for it was deeply furrowed by the wheels of ponderous vehicles of wide space and enormous weight, the ruts being in many places a foot and a half in depth, and looking as if a subsoil plough had turned them out, while the hoof-prints of innumerable horses seemed almost fathomless. Along this dreary road, a party of perhaps twenty mounted men in cavalry uniform slowly travelled towards the North. They were worn and weary, and their hardly-used horses plunged and stumbled at every other step, as they waded through the tall grass where they could turn off the road, or picked their hazardous way over the sloughs. Little by way of conversation was said by the bearded company, which seemed as gloomy as the day, but an oath, muttered through the closed teeth, and many a cruel thrust of the spur, as a poor, stumbling horse every now and then made a false step, might have been heard and seen. Their leader, a shrewd, bold-looking young officer wearing a captain's shoulder-straps, gave the reins to his horse, which, unlike his companions', seemed little jaded, and suffered him to pick his own way; while he, with eyes and ears ever on the alert, peered out into the mist, and listened for the repetition of an unusual sound which had twice met his ears. The gallant horse seemed as much on the alert as his rider: several times within the last few minutes he had pricked up his ears, and snuffed with dilated nostrils, as if aware of something approaching in the distance, and now began softly to whinny. The young officer bent almost to his holsters in his vain efforts to learn what was passing within the obscurity of the mist. Suddenly halting his men, he brought the whole company to a stand. Voices, and the washing sound of many hoofs trampling the mud, were heard but a short distance in advance. Friends, or foes? It was impossible to tell which, and where a mistake might be fatal, the most exextreme caution was the part of prudence and duty. The young officer instantly brought his men into line, and with pistol in hand they were ready for the onset, should the advancing force prove foes. A minute more, and a dark mass slowly took form in the fog, revealing a small squad of cavalry-men, but whether in United States or rebel uniform could not yet be discerned. "The countersign!" shouted the young officer, as, with his men, he dashed forward with a suddenness and velocity completely taking the advancing party by surprise. His finger was on the trigger of his pistol. "Don't blow my brains out, Captain Carleton!" shouted a familiar voice. "Major Bateman, is it you? Thank God!" and the hands of the two friends, for such they were, in a moment clasped in each other. "Why is your head turned this way, major? Where are you going?" I have been on a reconnoisance, which has proved very much like looking for a needle in a hay-mow, and whether I am now heading north or south, or east or west, is more than I can tell in this infernal fog!" "A pretty piece of business you would have made of this blind-man's holiday, major, if I had been an enemy instead of a friend! Why, you came talking and tramping along, and plunged right into us before you knew any one was within miles of you. I could have taken you in a trice, major." "A little more respect to your superior officer, if you please!" retorted the major, with a smile. "But I confess to having been a little too unwary, considering that I was completely lost. Why, I have been peering about for the last two hours to find out where we are, and confound me if I know yet!" mount, and a pretty tug we had of it to drag him out of his living grave. He looks as if he had been floundering in a lake of pitch. A deucedly nice country this, with its swamps and its sloughs! it is just fit for guerrillas and moccasin snakes, and if I had my way we'd leave it to them. But how far are we from camp?" "Oh, ten miles; perhaps twenty or thirty. In fact, we may be any distance you may mention, for aught I can tell; and whether I am going towards camp or away from it is more than I know. Not a landmark nor a human being have I seen for hours; and then it is just as well I haven't; for I should have been just as likely to run my head into a nest of guerrillas as not." It was a disagreeable position for the two young commanders. The fog was actually so dense that they could scarcely see one another's faces, and there was quite as much probability of going wrong as right, to say nothing of the danger of falling into the net of some of the roving bands of guerrillas who were known to be in force in all directions within fifty miles of Vicksburg. A short consultation sufficed to determine them to seek some dryer ground and the shelter of shade trees, if possible, and camp for the day, should the fog continue as dense and impenetrable as now. There was good forage for the worn-out horses, and the haversacks of the men would still furnish a tolerable meal. They struck out to the right, rightly judging that to find higher and less marshy ground they must put greater distance between themselves and the river. They rode silently on, feeling a certain security from their numbers, should they be attacked by the guerrillas, yet not by any means sure that their step would not land them in the midst of them. Fortunately, no traces of the barbarous partisan warriors were met, and they at length found themselves on a high and thickly-wooded knoll, from whose side bubbled a fine spring of cold water; and here they dismounted, hoppled their horses, that they might not wander away, established a line of pickets, and then |