To act is oft unpleasant; then why long

To act like man, when half his acts are wrong ?
How much more pleasant o'er one's tea to talk ?
Or make a call, or take a little walk,

Or read a novel, or discuss a play,

Than be at business, and work hard all day?

And when the evening comes, then dances, fêtes

And all the pleasures that one says one hates.

Rose. But wer't not fine to be some statesman sage, To lead one's country and direct one's age?

To guide, support, uphold, direct it all

How grand to ride so high!

Mat.

How sad to fall!

Rose. Or be an orator; how splendid, dear, To speak to thousands!

Mat.

Yes, if thousands cheer.

Rose. Or bear the standard 'midst the battle's din,

And be the first the hostile wall to win,

And plant it there, how glorious were it not?

Mat. But, oh dear Rose, how horrid to be shot!
No, let the warrior and the statesman bend
Beneath the load that greatness must attend;
Though every hand applaud him, and each tongue
Praise him for laws achieved, or battles won,
Yet envy not the laurels green that now
Nod over him, the lines that mark his brow,
Traced deeper by the heavy hand of Care.
When these have faded, still shall linger there;
When fortune first, then all men turn away,
When hopes grows less and feebler day by day,
Still to his fallen state shall she be true,

And griefs grow many as his hairs grow few.
Till gone at last each hope, each scheme, each plan,

He dies, like Hannibal, "a poor old man."

His rise, his fall, and how he played his part

Are writ in books, his sorrows in his heart.

Rose. But fame lives after him, the fairest wreath That ever graced a tomb or cheated death;

A laurel never witherèd, a crown

That age to age shall pass uninjured down

T'exalt the land that may his ashes claim,

And hallowed make the breath that breathes his name.
Yes, fame still lives.

Mat.

And after death, all is uncertainty.

So who can tell if he enjoy the fame,

But he does not, you see;

Or hear th'admiring mention of his name?
Besides, you know how few doth fame await,
How many die, and are forgotten straight!
No more remembered than this idle chat
Of ours.

Rose. Mat.

Alas, I never thought of that.

"The many fail, the one succeeds," you know;

We cannot all be shining lights, and so

To pine because we cannot is absurd,

So let men count the first; but, take my word,
The precedence is only in the name,

And, trust me, many husbands think the same,
And so I think, although we stand not first
Upon the list, our lot is not the worst,
And merely this-that that which others do
We have done for us.

Rose.

And if there's wanting any other thing

To make it still more plain-What's that?

Mat.

I agree with you,

A ring.

Rose.

Oh, botheration, some one called; but who? Fly to the window, and just look, dear, do.

Rose. Why couldn't she have come another day?
Mat. Why come at all?

Rose.

But since she has come, say

How very glad you are; we can't prevent it,

So mind, Matilda, look as if you meant it.

SUOLES.

THE MARBLE STATUE:

A GALICIAN ROMANCE.

ADAPTED FROM THE GERMAN OF SACHER-NASOCH BY LAURIE.

H

ERR

BARDOSSOSKI was the real Galician country gentleman, quiet, pious, and hospitable, always in a goodtemper, but not without a certain dignity that made a due impression upon you. His wife, a plump little brunette, still very good-looking, lorded it over him quite as much as Queen Maria Kasimira did over the great Sobieski. There were two daughters, both as good as "engaged "—indeed the youngest was already formally affianced-so I, who was a constant visitor in the family, could talk to them as much as I liked, and even flirt a little, without being immediately regarded as a suitor.

Bardossoski had fought under Chlopriki in 1837, and in 1848 under Bem, and had been wounded at Schässburg. In 1863, his only son, who had joined the insurgents, was mortally wounded by a Cossack lance. His portrait hangs over the old man's bed, between two scimitars, with a wreath of dusty immortelles round it, but his name is never mentioned in the family circle.

Kordula, the eldest daughter, was an interesting looking girl, wellshaped, with beautiful dark hair, teeth like pearls, intelligent gray eyes, with an expression of inflexible firmness, which was heightened by a nose slightly retroussé, and pouting lips. The younger, Amila, on the contrary, was fair, with rosy cheeks and dreamy blue eyes-one of those pink and white beauties who always seem weary, and whose deeply-drawn breaths sound like sighs.

She it was who already wore the engagement ring!

I had also become acquainted with the two young men who had won the hearts of the sisters. Kordula's lover was a Herr Husezki, who held the appointment of Adjunkt at the neighbouring town. He possessed the sincere and intellectual zeal which so characterises the youthful generation in our country; he was always dressed à la française, wore spectacles, and was constantly pulling at his snow-white cuffs. Amila's accepted lover was the proprietor of an estate close by. His name was Manwed Weroaki, a handsome young man, with dazzling white teeth, a small black moustache, short, dark, wavy hair, and languishing eyes. He always wore very loose trowsers tucked into top-boots, and a black coat. He smoked cigars, and liked to turn the conversation upon literature. He could repeat by heart hundreds of verses from Miezkiwiez, but his favourite story was “Domeyko and Doweyko."

There was a third young gentleman, who had the habit of always coming in late. This bad habit was fatal to him, for he had arrived too late to gain the hand of the beautiful Amila; so he had to content himself with continually gazing at her. As soon as she made the slightest movement he would jump up and drag all sorts of things towards her thus, when she wanted scissors, he thought he read her wishes aright by bringing a footstool; if she looked languidly after her handkerchief, he would seize the dog and carry it to her. His name was Maurizi Konopka; he rented a neighbouring farm. He never dressed otherwise than in a frock coat, white waistcoat, kid gloves, and patent leather shoes. In addition to his habits of unpunctuality, he had a peculiar way of walking unexpectedly into a room as silently as a ghost, thereby causing no little fright to those who were assembled. He did not deem it proper to attract attention by word or sign. Maurizi had a very nice-looking, but effeminate face-such as expe. rienced and mature beauties might prefer, but which is rarely the ideal of a girl's dream. So it naturally fell to his lot to play at cards with Herr Bardossoski during the winter evenings whilst we others talked to the girls.