ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. He is not here! We meet around the altar yet once more, Where we our prayers have blent so oft before, And drop a tear Upon the holy book from which he read Who sleeps, at length, in peace, among the silent dead. Yet from on high He looketh on us—widow, daughter, son— Pointing the course by which he glory won. He still is nigh, On angel’s wings, to comfort us and guide,— Unseen, but not unfelt, forever by our side. Father in heaven! Who hast called home the leader of our band, And the bright glories of the better land Unto him given, O, be with us, and keep us in the way That leads, through this dark night, to an unending day! Strengthen our hearts To bear, with fortitude, the ills of time; Preserve them ever from the winter’s rime, So let our parts Be acted, that again the prayer and song We may together blend, and through all time prolong! * * * * * THE FANCY-FAIR. BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN. “With her personage, her tall personage, Her height, forsooth, she hath prevailed with him.” Shakspeare. “Good morning, Saybrooke,” said a gentleman named Creswell, meeting a friend; “I have just ascertained to whom Collins is married—a lady of your city—Laura Sands.” “Amazing!” exclaimed Saybrooke, striking down his cane with such energy that the other started; “why, she is six feet high!” “Not quite,” returned Creswell, laughing; “and, though somewhat large, she is one of the most queenly looking women—” “Pshaw! Victoria has put that word out of fashion, or at least changed its signification.” “I beg pardon—I had forgotten your horror of large women, or, rather, I did not regard it, supposing it was your affectation—everybody has at least one.” “Affectation! take care, or I’ll raise my stick at you!” “Well, it is unaccountable that a man of your inches should have such notions. Now, for a little fellow, like myself, it would be bad taste to be following women who might look as if they could flog him, but with your six feet two, and abundant proportions, the case is different. On the contrary, I can’t imagine anything more comical than a little wife hanging on your arm; she would look like a reticule—not straining a pun.” “In saying I detest large women, I make no committal by preferring very small ones; but, seriously, I would no more expect to find a woman’s soul in all its sweetness, delicacy and purity hidden in a coarse, capacious body, than I could think of loving a woman for the recommendation—‘_Sexu fæmina, ingenio vir._’”