I feel again your warm breath upon my cheek--the clasp of your clinging arms about my neck; and the whispered “Don’t forget me, Fanny,” from that most musical of voices. Time rolled on, and oceans rolled between: then came a rumor of an “artist lover”--then a “bridal”--now the sad sequel! Poor Cecile! Those dark eyes restlessly and vainly looking for some familiar face on which to rest, ere they closed forever; that listening ear, tortured by strange footsteps--that fluttering sigh, breathed out on a strange bosom. Poor Cecile! And _he_ (shame to tell) who won that loving heart but to trample it under foot, basks under Italy’s sunny skies, bound in flowery fetters, of a foreign syren’s weaving. God rest thee, Cecile! Death never chilled a warmer heart; earth never pillowed a lovelier head; Heaven ne’er welcomed a sweeter spirit. * * * * * On foreign shores, from broken dreams, a guilty man shall start, as thy last sad, plaintive wail rings in his tortured ear, “_Would I were dead?_” SAM SMITH’S SOLILOQUY. By the beard of the Prophet! what a thing it is to be a bachelor! I wonder when this table was dusted last! I wonder how long since that mattress was turned, or that carpet swept, or what was the primeval color of that ewer and wash-basin. Christopher Columbus! how the frost curtains the windows: how dirge-like the wind moans: how like a great, white pall the snow covers the ground. Five times I’ve rung that bell for coal, for this rickety old grate, but I might as well thump for admittance at the gate of Paradise. And speaking of Paradise--Sam Smith, you must be married: you haven’t a button to your shirt, nor a shirt to your buttons either. Wonder if women are such obstinate little monkeys to manage? Wonder if they must be bribed with a new bonnet every day, to keep the peace? Wonder if you bring home a friend unexpectedly to dinner, if they always take to their bed with the sick headache? Wish there was any way of finding out, but by experience. Well, Sam, you are a Napoleonic looking fellow: if _you_ can’t manage a woman, who can?