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himself as thoroughly to the manner born as any ancient Greek or Roman of them all. As for Montaigne, he too has a good deal of antique Roman blood in him. Sir Philip may be a little out of place, but Antony and Alcibiades would own him and fraternize with him as a gentleman and a soldier, capable of heroic deeds of valour and self-denial, ready to sing the praises of beauty as well as the best, and a thorough Arcadian.

Belton. What will our Greek and Roman friends say to our trousers and dress-coat and white chokers?

Mallett. Say? They will enjoy them as the greatest joke that ever was known. We shall have inextinguishable to begin with and laughter set us going, and if it flags I shall shoot out my crush-hat at them.

Belton. Ah! that will not amuse them as much as our Latin pronunciation. If that does not set the table in a roar, there is no more virtue in man.

Mallett. Shakespeare shall sing us two songs; the first —

Come, thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus, with pink eyne;
In thy vats our cares be drowned,
With thy grapes our heads be crowned.
Cup us till the world go round,
Cup us till the world go round;

and Antony shall remember it, and think of Lepidus, and Cæsar, and Pompey, and Enobarbus, to whom it was sung. And then afterwards, for Phryne's special benefit, his favourite air of "Light of Love."

Belton. Or —

Take, oh take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn.


But my kisses bring again,
Bring again;
Seals of love, but sealed in vain,
Sealed in vain.

Ah! they shall know that we can sing still. But will not this evoke the ghost of Praxiteles out of the very grave? Will not the fine dust of all that once was that great artist thrill in its urn, and quiver at the vibrations of that song, sung to her whose smile was his heaven — whose eyes were truly the break of day that did mislead the morn?

Belton. Ay, let him come and gaze at her again, and know that love can never die. We will give him a place at the table, and, when our banquet is over, surrender her again to him, to float away into the past, or wander with him through Elysian fields; and he shall take the song back as a gift, for nothing more exquisite can we give him.

Mallett. Is there any air to this song?

Belton. Ay; the air of love and passion, longing and despair.

Mallett. I mean, has it been set to music?

Belton. Not that I know; but it sings itself to every ear that has ever vibrated to the touch of feeling. Will you set it to music?

Mallett. With all my heart and soul; and that is the only way fitly to set it.

Belton. Some one is knocking at your door — Phryne, perhaps, come to pose as a model. I save myself, as the French say.

Mallett. Come again when you have made all the arrangements for the banquet — a rivederci. Oh, by the way, don't forget to engage a photographer for the occasion; we will have some real spirit photographs.

From Blackwood's Magazine.



This removal of the barrier looked like mischief, and before the short June night had given way to the early dawn, the garrison was got under arms, and the captains of posts warned to be on the alert, while Falkland ascended with Yorke to the roof to reconnoitre. Mounting the staircase, they advanced to the edge of the eastern parapet. The stars were now disappearing, and the line of park wall could just be distinguished here and there in the gaps between the trees, as well as the roof of Sparrow's house.

"Everything quiet," observed Yorke in a whisper; "Pandy is not awake yet, any more than our own poor ladies," glancing as he spoke backwards at the recumbent figures behind them, with rugs and shawls thrown over their dresses, most of them still asleep, while one or two, awakened by the footsteps, were sitting up leaning on their elbows, among these latter one whom his quick eye made out to be Olivia, and who, disengaging herself from the shawl thrown over her dress, was rising and coming towards them.

"See, what is that?" whispered Falk-