ite of every obstacle.

"But I never would have married you unless the truth had been
discovered--never," she said to him that evening as they stood near me
in the drawing-room. Her cheeks were warm, and her dark eyes full of
tender light. I thought her a very lovely woman.

"Then I owe you to Mr. Floyd after all?" he said, looking down at her
fondly.

"Oh, I suppose so," with a shrug. "But he is a very disagreeable person!
Cast-iron, you know. I am so thankful _you_ are not a lawyer, Paul."

JAMES M. FLOYD.

ROMANCE.

I would I were mighty, victorious,
A monarch of steel and of gold--
I would I were one of the glorious
Divinities hallowed of old--
A god of the ancient sweet fashion
Who mingled with women and men,
A deity human in passion,
Transhuman in strength and in ken.

For then I could render the pleasure
I win from the sight of your face;
For then I could utter my treasure
Of homage and thanks for your grace;
I could dower, illumine, and gladden,
Could rescue from perils and tears,
And my speech could vibrate and madden
With eloquence worthy your ears.

You meet me: you smile and speak kindly;
One minute I marvel and gaze,
Idolatrous, worshipping blindly,
Yet mindful of decorous ways.
You pass; and the glory is ended,
Though lustres and sconces may glow:
The goddess who made the scene splendid
Has vanished; and darkly I go.

You know not how swiftly you mounted
The throne in the depths of my eyes;
You care not how meekly I counted
Those moments for pearls of the skies;
Or, knowing it, all is forgotten
The moment I pass from your sight--
Consigned to the fancies begotten
Of chaos and slumber and night.

But I--I remember your glances,
Your carelessest gesture and word,
And out of them fashion romances
Man never yet uttered nor heard;
Romances too splendid for mortals,
Too sweet for a planet of dole;
Romances which open the portals
Of Eden, and welcome my soul.

J. W. DEFOREST.

BEER.

Poets, in every age since the time of Anacreon, have sung odes in praise
of wine. The greatest bards of every clime have sought inspiration in
its sparkling depths. But the poet, even German, is yet unborn, who,
moved by sweet memories of the nectar o