"Yes, yes, I know--
The old Greek idylls about which you rave,
Theocritus and his melodious flow
Of verse, and all that Moschus sang o'er Bion's grave.

"You've shown me oft
How far superior all that _they_ have said--
That Tennyson has learned to soar aloft
By seeking inspiration from the greater dead.

"And yet in me
A pulse is never stirred by what _they_ sing:
The reason I know not, unless it be
_Their_ idylls are not _Idylls of the King_.

"You smile: no doubt
You think I've never learned to criticise.
Perhaps so, yet I _feel_ that which I speak about.
And Enim is the last! Well, no more sighs;

"For spring is here:
I have no time to waste in dreamings vain.
_After our marriage_--nay, you need not sneer--
We will read all the idylls through again."

"So shall it be
So long as lives the love which poets sing.
The harp is still, yet is begun for thee
A lifelong dream--the idyll of _thy_ king."

F.F. ELMS.

* * * * *

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

AN EVENING IN CALCUTTA.

About six o'clock every evening the beau monde of Calcutta begins to
take the air on the Course, a very pleasant drive which runs along the
bank of the river. It is usually crowded with carriages, but it must
be confessed that none of them would be likely to excite the envy of
an owner of a fashionable turn-out at home, unless indeed it might be
now and then for the sake of the occupants.

Long before the Course begins to thin it is almost dark, and then,
if the poor lounger is "unattached," and is sharing his buggy with
a friend as unfortunate as himself, the general effect of the scene
before him is the most interesting object for his gaze. The carriages
continue to whirl past, but one sees hardly more of them than their
lamps. The river glides, cold and shining, a long silvery light
under the opposite bank, while trees and masts and rigging relieve
themselves against the golden bars of the distant sky. But the band
ceases to play, and every one goes home to dress.

If the traveler chooses, he may find many an amusing drive in the
native parts of the town. Tall Sikhs, whose hair and beards have
never known scissors or razor, and who stride along with a swagger
and high-caste dignity; effeminate Cingalese; Hindoo clerks, smirking,
conceited and dandified too, according to their own notion