sed for herself a
social circle which entirely satisfied her desires. Sometimes she even
allowed herself to dabble in good works. She was accused of having
written a religious poem for a serious Magazine; but all that was ever
proved against her was, that a remarkable series of articles on _The
Homes of the Poor_ bore traces of a style that was said to be hers.
Evil tongues still whispered in corners, and cynics were heard to
scoff occasionally; but the larger world, which abhors cynics, and
only believes what is good, began to smile upon her. She did not
appear to value its smiles,--but they were useful. Whenever London
tired her, she flitted to Paris, or to the Riviera, or even to
Egypt or Algiers. She subscribed to charities, and acted in Amateur
Theatricals. Finally, she married a gentleman who was believed by his
friends to be a poet, and who certainly qualified for the title by the
romance he had woven about her. With him she lived for many years a
poetic and untrammelled existence, and, when she died, many dowagers
sent wreaths as tokens of their sorrow at the loss of an admirable
woman.

* * * * *

VERSES FOR A VIOLINIST.

"The violin has now fairly taken its place as an instrument
for girls."--_Daily News_.

In old days of Art the painter much applause would surely win,
When he showed us Saint Cecilia playing on the violin.

I've no skill of brush and palette like those unforgotten men;
My Cecilia must content herself with an unworthy pen.

Fairy fingers flash before me as the bow sweeps o'er each string;
Like the organ's _vox humana_, Hark! the instrument can sing.

That _sonata_ of TARTINI's in my ears will linger long;
It might be some _prima donna_ scaling all the heights of song.

Every string a different language speaks beneath her skilful sway.
Does the shade of PAGANINI hover over her to-day?

All can feel the passion throbbing through the music fraught with pain:
Then, with feminine mutation, comes a soft and tender strain.

Gracious curve of neck, and fiddle tucked 'neath that entrancing chin--
Fain with you would I change places, O thrice happy violin!

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE TOURNEY.

["Golf is superseding Lawn-Tennis."--_Daily Paper_.]]

The Champions are mounted, a wonderful pair,
And the boldest who sees them must e'en hold his breath.
Their breastplates and greaves