resses
of the subscribers. The women placed the labels and the paste on one
side, and commenced operations. A bundle of papers, folded, was placed
before each; the forefinger, dipped in the paste, immediately touched
the paper and the label simultaneously, and the "Constitutionnel" flew
out with a speed perfectly astonishing from the hands of these women,
ready to be distributed in down or country. They were then finishing the
labeling of the papers for Paris circulation; 20,000 copies scarcely
sufficing for the supply.

This was the concluding sight in my visit to a Paris Newspaper-Office.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

TO A MOTHER.

BY THE AUTHORESS OF "THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE".

His languid eyes are closing,
On the pale, placid cheek,
The lashes dark reposing,
So wearily, so weak.
He gasps with failing breath,
A faint and feeble strife with death;
Fainter and fainter still--'tis past.
That one soft sigh--the last.

Thy watching and thy fearing,
Mother, is over now;
The seal of death is bearing
That pale but angel brow,
And now in the deep calm
That follows days of wild alarm,
Thy heart sinks down, and weeps, and weeps,
O'er him who silent sleeps.

Oh, Mother, hush thy crying,
The ill of life is o'er,
E'en now his wings are flying
Unto a happy shore;
Those wings of stainless white
Unfolded ne'er to earthly sight,
He spreads them now, they bear him high
Unto the angel company.

From sight of evil shrinking,
From thought of grief like thine
At the first summons sinking
Into the arms divine.
Oh! thou who knowest life,
Temptation, trial, toil and strife,
Wilt thou not still thine aching breast
To bless his early rest?

[From the Autobiography of Leigh Hunt.]

RECOLLECTIONS OF EMINENT MEN.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

Just after this period I fell in with a new set of acquaintances,
accounts of whom may not be uninteresting. I forget what it was that
introduced me to Mr. Hill, proprietor of the _Monthly Mirror_; but at
his house at Sydenham I used to meet his editor, Du Bois; Thomas
Campbell, who was his neighbor; and the two Smiths, authors of _The
Rejected Addresses_. I saw also Theodore Hook, and Mathews, the
comedian. Our host was a jovial bachelor, plump and rosy as an abbot;
and no abbot could have presided over a more festive Sunday. The wine