Whether we consider him as a lawyer, statesman, author, or man, his character appears in a most amiable light.  Profound without pedantry, subtle without craft, zealous without bigotry, and humane without effeminacy, he lived a philanthropic, pure, and consistent life.  His highest eulogium is that he lived and died in the service of his country; that through every vicissitude his chief care was the national weal; that his chief fame rests in the love and veneration which he awakened in his countrymen; and that few Englishmen of the present century have left more enduring monuments of public wisdom and private example.

  ’O, civic music, to such a name,
  To such a name for ages long,
  To such a name,
  Preserve the broad approach of fame,
  And ever ringing avenues of song.’

* * * * *

CHILD’S CALL AT EVENTIDE.

     Bright and fair,—­
     Golden hair,
  Still white hands and face;
     Not a plea
     Moveth thee;
  Nor the wind’s wild chase,
   As yesterday, calling thee,
  Even as I, in vain. 
   Come—­wake up, Gerda! 
  Come out and play in the lane!

     See! the wind,
     From behind,
  Sporteth with thy locks,
     From the land’s
     Desert sands
  And the sea-beat rocks
   Cometh and claspeth thy hands,
  Even as I, in vain. 
   Come—­wake up, Gerda! 
  Come out and play in the lane!

     Closed thine eyes,
     Gently wise,
  Dost thou dream the while? 
     Falls my kiss
     All amiss,
  Waketh not a smile! 
   Sweet mouth, is’t feigning this? 
  Then do not longer feign. 
   Come—­wake up, Gerda! 
  Come out and play in the lane!

     Forehead Bold,
     White and cold;
  Sealed thy lips and all;
     I am made
     Half afraid
  In this lonely hall. 
   Night cometh quick through the glade! 
  I fear it is all in vain,—­
   All too late, Gerda,—­
  Too late to play in the lane!

* * * * *

THE GOOD WIFE:  A NORWEGIAN STORY.

PART I.

NOTHING LOST BY GOOD HUMOR.

For more than a month I had been ransacking my memory in search of some story or narrative to offer our readers, but with rather poor success.  I thought of all the good things I had ever heard, and tumbled and tossed my books in vain—­nothing could I find that was suitable for either children or parents.  So I was, very reluctantly, about to abandon the enterprise, when it chanced that, being unable to compose myself to sleep, a few nights since, I took up, according to my custom on such occasions, an old copy of Montaigne, the usual companion of my vigils, the fellow-occupant of my pillow, and the only moralist whose musings one can read with pleasure on the wrong side of forty.