A city 'gainst the world's gray Prime, Lost in some desert, far from Time, Where noiseless Ages, gliding through, Have only sifted sands and dew, Were not more lone to one who first Upon its giant silence burst, Than this strange quiet, where the tide Of life, upheaved on either side, Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat With human waves the Morning Street. Ay, soon the glowing morning flood Pours through this charmèd solitude; All silent now, this Memnon-stone Will murmur to the rising sun; The busy life this vein shall beat,-- The rush of wheels, the swarm of feet; The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream Unseen within the morning gleam; The Life will move, the Death be plain; The bridal throng, the funeral train, Together in the crowd will meet, And pass along the Morning Street. * * * * * IN A CELLAR I. It was the day of Madame de St. Cyr's dinner, an event I never missed; for, the mistress of a mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain, there still lingered about her the exquisite grace and good-breeding peculiar to the old _régime_, that insensibly communicates itself to the guests till they move in an atmosphere of ease that constitutes the charm of home. One was always sure of meeting desirable and well-assorted people here, and a _contre-temps_ was impossible. Moreover, the house was not at the command of all; and Madame de St. Cyr, with the daring strength which, when found in a woman at all, should, to be endurable, be combined with a sweet but firm restraint, rode rough-shod over the _parvenus_ of the Empire, and was resolute enough to insulate herself even among the old _noblesse_, who, as all the world knows, insulate themselves from the rest of France. There were rare qualities in this woman, and were I to have selected one who with an even hand should carry a snuffy candle through a magazine of powder, my choice would have devolved upon her; and she would have done it.