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 art,
  Calmer is her gentle heart. 
  Yes! o’er fountain, vale, and grove,
  Leaf and flower, hath gush’d her love;
  But that passion, deep and true,
  Knows not of a last adieu.

  Types of lovelier forms than these,
  In her fragile mould she sees;
  Shadows of yet richer things,
  Borne beside immortal springs,
  Into fuller glory wrought,
  Kindled by surpassing thought!

  Therefore, in the lily’s leaf,
  She can read no word of grief;
  O’er the woodbine she can dwell,
  Murmuring not—­Farewell! farewell! 
  And her dim, yet speaking eye,
  Greets the violet solemnly.