“Well, here is her portrait,” handing her a miniature case. She touched a spring and it flew open, and in a little mirror, _she saw her own face_! Now the crimson came over her beautiful face, and the tears came thick and fast, and she trembled; but I believe she survived the shock; for the last time I was that way, I saw the conscientious young lawyer and his charming wife living at Elm Glen; and I heard them speak of _his first law-suit_! * * * * * THE WORLD. BY R. H. STODDARD. What wiser is the world in this bright age— What better than in the darkened days of old? Survey the Past, its blotted scroll unfold; Compare it with the Present’s golden page— It is no worse; the world was cruel then, And hearts were trampled on, and spirits bled, And tears and blood like summer rain were shed, And men were what they always will be—Men! Experience teaches naught, man will not heed And profit by the lessons. Fools can read; The task is said by rote; we do not learn, But live in ancient ignorance and crime. There is no hope—the Future will but turn The old sands in the failing glass of Time! * * * * * CHRISTINE. BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N. Bright dreams were mine in life’s young day, Too bright, too fair to last, Fresh flow’rets sprung beside my way, And fragrance round it cast; And hopes as radiant as the dyes That angel-artists spread, Upon the western sunset skies, To my young heart were wed. Bright days, sweet days, forever gone! Ye can return no more, I’m doomed to tread the sands alone That skirt life’s desert shore! Afar, upon the ocean wide, My bark of hope went down, I saw the angel leave my side, And all things on me frown. But there are paintings hanging yet In memory’s ghostly halls, And bright young faces looking down Upon me from the walls. The gentle smile that thrilled my soul, In life’s young break-of-day, The small white hands once clasped in mine, Are pictured there for aye.