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and no child of the present generation may rue that he was then unborn. Peace to their ashes! May they repose softly and silently,—they made noise enough in the world when alive, and we have yet uproar sufficient without them. Editu Liter. Gazette.

THE THREE DAYS OF FRANCE.

"Cent peuples divers
Chanteront, en brisant leurs fers,
Honneur aux eafans de la France \- — BERAiiGER.

Friends of the freeman's hopes, upraise

A glad, exulting strain!
A spirit, as of ancient days, Glows on our earth again!
Seek ye no more in mouldering urns

Its embers few and cold:
Look up! the fire ye worship burns

More brightly than of old!
Imperial France! this costliest gem,

This one best boon of Heaven,
Was all thy trophied diadem

Yet lacked—and now 'tis given.
Proud victors in a hundred fights,

Lords of the lyre and pen—
Now nobler name, and loftier rights

Are yours, enfranchised men!
Old men of France! whose tearful eyes

Were lingering on the past,
Rejoice! your race of victories

Is nobly crowned at last!
Now may ye lay the silvered head

To sleep in thankful trust.
That Freedom's foot, alone, shall tread

Above your honoured dust.
Bright youth of France! for gifts like thine

Fame bears no common meed;
Firm soul, that grasped the great design;

Strong arm, that wrought the deed!
Fair hands shall twine thy soldier-wreaths.

Grave sires thy civic crown,—
And every land, where Virtue breathes,

Shall hail thee as her own!
Fair girls of France! your loving snares

Well may ye proudly spread,
To bind such lion-hearts as theirs,

With Beauty's silken thread!
As you would guard your virgin charms

From coward, churl, or slave,
With welcome smiles, and open arms,

Receive the true and brave!

And ye! the beardless warrior-host.

The chiefs in infant years I
Weil may glad France your glories boast.

With proud, triumphant tears!
God's help reward you 1 gallant wights,

And bless the arms ye wield
Thus early for your country's rights,—

Keen sword and stainless shield!

Lo! Hist'ry's muse her sleep hath burst,

To snatch her ancient lyre,
And fan your triumphs, as she nursed

The old heroic tire!
The spirit of a thousand years

Is kindling in her glance,
And swells her accents, as she hears

Your deeds, young hope of France!

Brave hearts of France! in every time,

Land, language, class, or creed,
Wherever lives the hate of crime,

Or love of lofty deed;
Wherever Freedom's martyrs weep,

Or Freedom's altar flames,
All lips shall burn, all bosoms leap,

At mention of your names!

If aught of good, devout, and high

In lasting praise endures;
If aught of glory shall not die,

O gallant men! 'tis yours!
Strong trust ye claim, and grateful pride

From those your strife hath freed;
And nations watch you eager-eyed,

And bid your swords " God speed !M

Be wakeful! though the blast should pause,

The storm may rave again: Be merciful! so pure a cause

Should wear no spot or stain:
Be hopeful! from the risen suu

The darkest clouds will fly:
Be glad I for surely ye have won

A name that shall not die 1

Aye! breathe a prayer, yet low and deep

The tears that nations shed
Fall on that mound, whose dust ye keep

O'er Gallia's patriot dead.
Well rest the brave I yet living still

Their spirits' voice shall be;
Through every age the words shall thrill—

"We diedand France is free I"

Tail's Edinburgh MagnziyieOPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS.

It was on a pouring wet morning in the end of the month of March, 1827, that I sat drowsily ensconced in a " Woodburn" beside the fire in my study (!) in a front room in Upper Brook Street —for I am in easy circumstances, and rent "a suite of apartments fit for the immediate reception of an M. P. or bachelor of fashion," in the house of a " professional man of celebrity, who has no family." I had spelt through two newspapers, even to the last resource of" Rowland's Kalydor " and " Gowland's Lotion." I had read and dozed over every article in the last page of my last paper, until I caught myself reading the small-printed prices of the markets— potatoes at 8s. and 6d.

I began to feel—as hunting gentlemen do during a hard frost— what is called " hard up." I had stirred my fire till it was out; and yawned until I began to fear a locked jaw. In very despair 1 strolled to the window, hopeless as I was of seeing any thing more amusing than overflowing gutters, half-drowned sparrows, or a drenched apothecary's boy. It was early in the morning, at least in a London morning, and I could not even anticipate the relief of a close carriage, with an oil-skin hammer-cloth, driving by: what then was my delight, when, at one glance, as I reached the window, I descried that the bills in a large and handsome house opposite had been taken down! Now do not suppose that I love to pry into my neighbours' affairs for the sake of gossip—far from it: but what is an honest bachelor gentleman to do on a rainy morning, if he may not pick up a small matter of amusement by watching his opposite neighbours now and then?

The houses opposite were'worse than no houses at all: for one was inhabited by an old and infirm lady, who had no visitors but an M. D., an apothecary, and a man in a shovel-hat. The other house contained only an elderly and very quiet couple, who had not near so much variety as a clock; they never stopt—never went too fast or too slow—never wanted winding up—they went of themselves—their breakfast and dinner bells rang daily to a minute, at half-past eight and at six o'clock—their fat coachman and fat horses came to the door precisely at two o'clock to take them out, always to the Regent's Park, and drove twice round the outer circle. I took care to inquire into that fact. I ascertained too, for certain, that they had a leg of mutton for dinner every Tuesday and Friday, and fish three times a-week, including Sundays, on which day too the butcher always brought roasting beef—always the thick part of the sirloin. What could I do with such people as these? I gave them up as hopeless.

Preparations for the reception of a family in my favourite house now went on with great spirit; a thorough internal cleaning and scouring on the first day; on the second, all the windows were cleaned. I could stand it no longer, and snatching up my hat, I just stepped over promiscuously to ask the maid, who was washing the steps, by whom the house was taken. She was a stupid, ignorant, country girl, and did not seem at all alive to the interest attaching to her examination. I however discovered that—the house was taken by a baronet, and that his family consisted of his lady and one child (a boy), and his wife's sister.

I took a few turns in the Park, and just as I rapped at my own door, I determined I would make no farther inquiries concerning the expected family—no, it would be infinitely more interesting to discover every thing by my own penetration and ingenuity;—it would be a nice employment for me, for I was dreadfully at a loss for something to do, and would keep me from falling asleep.

I began now to count the hours. I was afraid of stirring from the window lest the strangers should escape my vigilance, and arrive unknown to me. I even dined in my study ; and here, by the way, I must let the reader into a little secret. 1 had a large wire blind fixed on one of my windows, behind which I could stand and direct my inquiries unseen by any body, though few within range were unseen by me.

A few days passed slowly on. Muslin curtains were put up, not blinds, fortunately for me, (I have a mortal antipathy to blinds to any windows but my own;) boxes of mignionette appeared in every window. A cart from Colville's in the King's Road, filled with Persian lilacs, moss-roses, and heliotropes, unladed its sweets at the door. They had then a rural taste; country people, perhaps; and I sighed as I figured to myself a bevy of plump rosy misses in pink and green, and one or two young squires in green coats and top boots. The arrival, whatever it might be, must be drawing very near—nearer and nearer—for a respectable looking housekeeper made her appearance one morning at the window, who had stolen a march on me; I never could make that out, for I had never seen her arrive. Two or three maids also were flitting about, and a gentleman out of livery appeared, now at the area, and now at the halldoor, superintending the unpacking of a grand piano-forte from Broadwood's; then arrived a cart from Brecknell and Turner, waxchandlers in the Haymarket; and one from Fortnum and Mason's in Piccadilly, with divers other carts and packages of minor consideration. Then came hackney coaches with servants and coloured paper boxes—smart looking maids in Leghorn bonnets and drab shawls, and footmen in dark green, and very plain liveries. The family could not be far behind. At last, about four o'clock, the fish arrived—a turbot and two fine lobsters for sauce. I can be on my oath it was not a brill, and fish was very dear that morning, for J inquired ; therefore that could not be for the servants,—Sir Charles and family must be close at hand.

I remained rooted to the window, and was soon rewarded for my patient investigation, by hearing, at about six o'clock, a carriage driving rapidly up the street from Park Lane. It was them actually. A green travelling carriage, all over imperials, stopped at the door in good earnest, most beautifully splashed with mud—no arms —only a bird for the crest; four post horses, and a maid and man servant in the rumble. My heart beat quick, my eyes strained in my head, lest any one of the inmates of the carriage should escape my vigilance. The hall doors were thrown open in an instant, and the gentleman out of livery, with two of his colleagues, flew out to assist the ladies to alight. First of all, a gentleman—Sir Charles of course—made his appearance, tall, and very distinguished looking, dressed in a brown frock-coat, and dark fur travelling cap, and apparently about thirty years of age. Next came a lady, who skipped out very lightly, and who seemed rather in a hurry to see the new abode—that was the sister. She was thin, and very graceful, and wrapped in a white cashemere, with rather a narrow border; her features were hidden from my view, as she wore one of those plaguey large coarse straw bonnets, tied down with white satin ribbons, two bows, and the edges cut in Vandykes. Another lady then descended, more slowly and carefully, and as she watched the alighting of a nurse who had deposited a fine rosy boy, about a twelvemonth old, into the arms of Sir Charles, I observed that she was evidently about to increase her family ; therefore, I had already ascertained, beyond a doubt, which was the wife, and which was the wife's sister. The doors then closed, and I saw no more that evening, excepting that the lamp was lit in the dining room, and the shutters closed at seven o'clock, and then in the gloom I saw three figures descend the stairs, from which I concluded they all went to dinner; besides the turbot, they had house lamb, and asparagus.

The next morning, while dressing, I espied the sister, whom I shall call Ellen, standing on the balcony, admiring and arranging the flowers. The morning was beautiful and very light, so that I had a perfect view of her. It was impossible that a more lovely creature could be seen. She appeared not more than sixteen or seventeen; indeed, from the extreme plainness of her dress, I suspected she had not quite left the school-room. She was rather above the middle height, very slight and graceful, bright and beautiful, with long light auburn curls, and a very patrician air about her. Had I been

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