Then the broad light glares and beats, And the sunk eye flits and fleets, And will not let me be. I loathe the squares and streets And the faces that one meets, Hearts with no love for me. Always I long to creep To some still cavern deep, And to weep and weep and weep My whole soul out to thee. [Illustration: W. H. Ainsworth -WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH-] Books, indeed, there were in plenty. Lady Blessington produced her ‘Victims of Society’ and ‘Sunday at the Zoo;’ Mr. Lytton Bulwer his ‘Duchesse de la Vallière,’ ‘Ernest Maltravers,’ and ‘Athens, its Rise and Fall;’ Miss Mitford her ‘Country Stories;’ Cottle his ‘Recollections of Coleridge;’ Harrison Ainsworth, ‘Crichton;’ Disraeli, ‘Venetia;’ Talfourd, ‘The Life and Letters of Charles Lamb;’ Babbage, a ‘Bridgwater Treatise;’ Hook, ‘Jack Brag;’ Haynes Bayley, his ‘Weeds of Witchery’--a thing as much forgotten as the weeds in last year’s garden; James, his ‘Attila’ and ‘Louis XIV.;’ Miss Martineau, her book on ‘American Society.’ I find, not in the book, which I have not read, but in a review of it, two stories, which I copy. One is of an American traveller who had been to Rome, and said of it, ‘Rome is a very fine city, sir, but its public buildings are out of repair.’ The other is the following: ‘Few men,’ said the preacher in his sermon, ‘when they build a house, remember that there must some day be a coffin taken downstairs.’ ‘Ministers,’ said a lady who had been present, ‘have got into the strangest way of choosing subjects. True, wide staircases are a great convenience, but Christian ministers might find better subjects for their discourses than narrow staircases.’ [Illustration: THE FRASERIANS.]