SEA-SIDE "MEM S." Down at the sea-side for a blow, And scarcely within reach of papers- We forward this communication; In this, a calm and cool retreat, No printer's devil e'er intruded; But we post off a single sheet, From country quarters thus secluded : We have but small desire to write, It goes against one's inclination; Whilst bathing is our great delight, And yachting our chief occupation. We do not envy Jones, in town, Who has resumed his irksome duties, And we can sympathize with Brown, Who cannot leave-"'tis pity true 'tis." A holiday, which is so rare, Meets with your critic's approbation, As, all day in the bracing air, We make the most of our vacation; In lieu of writing "Monthly Mems,” We think that it is much more jolly We have an appetite enormous. So long as on it we're not tossing. And view those bent on pleasure sailing; We see some ladies in a skiff, And wonder whether they are ailing ; We leave compositors behind, And turn our thoughts to things aquatic; But, if for theatres still inclined, We can indulge our tastes dramatic. There is a play performed each night, Including, perhaps, the last "sensation;" So, even at the Isle of Wight, The drama calls for observation. As we recline upon the turf, We feel it is indeed a rich treat: And with the British public mingle, * Yclept Isle of Wight diamonds. Instead of sitting out dull plays, We much prefer the shingly beaches; And as around the coast we gaze, Perchance we hear the sea-gull's screeches. Established for a fortnight here, We banish care and smooth our wrinkles, And in a purer atmosphere, With whelks instead of Rip van winkles. E'en Mellon's Concerts we resign (Though free and welcome all the season), And, Alfred, what a band is thine! If we did stay, you'd be the reason. It suits our inclination well, To idly catch the balmy breezes, Along the Strand-far from Pall Mall, Here "Your Bohemian" at his ease is. We stroll the pier, when there's a band; May-be a steamer comes in sight, then We rush to see the people land From Portsmouth, at the Isle of Wight; then We think some day we will go round The island, as a slight diversion, Since there are vessels often bound For a delightful day's excursion. We wander up and down the pier, And criticise each belle and bonnet; Among them, many a lass is here On whom we might compose a sonnet. Hats marvellously masculine Are seen of various shapes and sizesUndoubtedly unfeminine, And sometimes rather strange disguises: Girls with their feathers all a-flying, Sport in the sun (their sole employment); Some children on the beach are trying To find ('tis easy) some enjoyment; According to the morning's whim We walk away from rout and rabble, To have our usual morning swim, Which means an independent dabble. We pick up here and there some "weed," Whilst lounging in an idle manner; Although we much prefer, indeed, The fragrance of our own Havannah. Over the rocks away we roam, Our muscles strengthened by the mission, Till we are forced to limp it home, In an unfortunate condition. That which would look so fast in town Is here deemed quite correct in dresses, Put on the regular sou'-westers, Sweet Shanklin and its pleasant Chine, By means of train, we soon alight on; And next to Ventnor, where we dine, * Which gives us strength to get to Niton; To bold Black Gang we go next day, And halt at that convenient quarter; Of course we visit Alum Bay, And find fresh air at famed Freshwater. At night we dream of shady groves, And walks by slumber then begotten, Of quiet, sheltered little coves (Which sounds like slang and Mr. Hotten), In spite of boat and coach and rail, We sometimes meet a simple native, With whom we very rarely fail To have a word communicative. One old dame says "she hears of crimes, And that those papers quite unnerve her, So she won't read the Ventnor Times Nor take the Isle of Wight Observer." We cease to burn the midnight oil, Which is in some degree a saving, Though free from proofs, and suchlike toil, There comes another kind of slaving; For as up Ventnor's cliffs we climb, Our age we feel there's no concealing, Although we would, at such a time, Give vent nor to our fears nor feeling. The smallest church we ever knew, Comes duly under observation, Where there is scarcely room for twoThe pulpit and the congregation; Where, gathered round the little door, A knot of rustics are appearing; They've often stood outside before, And find it just as well for hearing. For our misdeeds we there atone, And after we have finished praying, Although 'tis said "leave well alone," We take exception to the saying ; At the comfortable "Crab and Lobster." We put the vessel to our lips, (Pure water is not our abhorrence, So your Bohemian more than sips, And feels refreshed by good St. Lawrence). At Ventnor are we back, encore, Next day through Bonchurch then returning, We find ourselves in Ryde once more, And pen these lines such things concerning. On maidens fair why need we dwell, By prim old dowagers attended; Her conduct strikes us as improper; But there she is-will no one stop her? Does she consider us a prize, That she a persevering miss is? 'Tis folly to be-other-wise, So long as ignorance such bliss is. Your critic brightens up apace, In looks and genial conversation; It seems like a decided case Of fierce (though innocent) flirtation. We thought one face exceeding sweet, With teeth particularly pearly, So felt it prudent to retreat, And leave our sea-side quarters early! To be a stoic we don't pretend; At Ryde we own the tender passion; Platonically we unbend, 'Tis, we observe, a sea-side fashion. In formal, foggy, fussy London. We may perhaps be allowed further space to record, with much regret, the death of Mr. Justice Haliburton ("Sam Slick"), whose sly humour we remember in a speech he made at one of the anniversary dinners of the Royal Literary Fund; although it was difficult for those at a short distance to catch the words that fell from his lips, his immediate neighbours were convulsed with laughter. The last time we met Haliburton was on the occasion of the trial trip of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company's steam ship "Rangoon" to Ireland and back, rather more than two years ago, when he appeared to be in failing health, though much benefited by that short and agreeable cruise. The announcement of the death of the widow of Thomas Moore recalls an interesting literary epoch. The deceased lady had not attained the advanced age that might have been supposed. The Times gave a long original paragraph about Mrs. Moore at the top of a column; whereas, strange to say, that journal simply quoted from a contemporary in recording the death of "Sam Slick!" We have been informed that "The Bunch of Keys," which it may be remembered was the title of a little work published last Christmas, will be succeeded by another production by the same writers, entitled "Rates and Taxes." A series of essays has been published in the Daily Telegraph, entitled "Notes by the Way," in which appeared a graphic description of Ramsgate, written, we believe, by W. J. Prowse, formerly a contributor to your pages, and now an established journalist, also one of the staff on "Fun." When we fancied that every one was out of town we visited the Princess's to see " Arrah na Pogue," and had some difficulty in finding a seat. The chief attraction (to us) was the excellent performance of Mr. Dominick Murray, in the disagreeable character of the sneaking process server, and the last scene (we mean that succeeding the gymnastic efforts of Shaun the Post) we thought equalled, if not excelled, anything we had ever witnessed in the way of scenic effect. Mr. and Mrs. Boucicault have parts much on a par with those they performed in "Colleen Bawn. The "pisantry" being enacted by such as are well up in the brogue, is of great value to the play, the weak points of which appeared to us to consist in the scenes between Mr. Vandenhoff and Miss Oliver. There are por tions of the piece to which we would take exception, as, for instance, the scene with the Priest in the prison-an episode that runs the risk of offending the majority of the audience, without in the least assisting the general effect. Mr. Jefferson has achieved a brilliant success as Rip Van Winkle, at the Adelphi; and Mrs. Billington, as his shrewish wife, acted with an intensity and truth that were of great assistance. The other characters, with little or no opportunity for display, were well supported, and the piece has been liberally put upon the stage. At the termination of the drama Mr. Jefferson, on being recalled, made an extremely modest speech, in which he expressed his obligations to Mr. Boucicault, Mr. Webster, and the audience. In concluding this small instalment of London "Mems," we would protest, in no measured terms, against the reprehensible conduct of Mr. Levy, the "Levy-athan" cornet-player at Mr. Mellon's concerts. When that gentleman is not playing he has so little respect for his audience and his conductor that he turns his back upon them. We have even seen him read a newspaper n the orchestra when his services were not required. YOUR BOHEMIAN. CORRESPONDENT. We shall certainly be all roasted before the summer ends. In vain we also have abandoned the capital for shady groves and refreshing streams. The heat is intense everywhere, and the generally cool climate of Normandy is as sultry as that of Paris-not a breath of air anywhere ! Oh for a good shower of rain to moisten the parchy earth! And yet how beautiful the country looks, here, with its gently sloping hills covered with trees, its smiling little valleys, so fresh and green, in spite of the drought, and strewed with apple-trees loaded with rosy, but treacherous fruit!-proof that we are in a cider country, and that what is good for drink is not good to eat. Château la Motte is full of sportsmen, come from far and near, for the opening of the shooting season: they pretend that the heat is the cause of their ill luck; that the game seeks shelter from the sun's rays in the standing crops of buckwheat, whence their dogs are excluded; and that we shall have no hares or partridges, until the air is cooler. They do look most awfully crest-fallen. When at dinner, the ladies quiz them, and enquire the result of the day's sport, they prefer entertaining us with recitals of the ruinous losses England is now sustaining by the cattle plague; of which it seems, a few cases have appeared in France, in spite of the great precautions our Government takes to prevent the introduction of any animal coming from England or Germany. Several cases of illness from eating chickens attacked with a similar disease, have appeared in the hospitals in Paris. This unseasonable weather is said to be the cause of the distemper amongst the poultry, in the environs of the capital; so that you see cooler weather is requisite in every way. The brothers Davenport have found Paris rather hot also, and, although they try to brave the storm, I fear that their spiritism is on the fall. Their first representation in public caused quite a tumult in the room. They themselves were obliged to escape; and the money was returned to the audience, whom seven or eight policemen were forced to calm. It appears that their supernatural powers became transparently natural, in the eyes of our clear-sighted Parisians; and our famous Robin, without pretending to any kind of prepotency above his fellow-men, after once seeing the brothers Davenport perform, produced the same wonders amidst the hilarity of his audience, to whom he explained the American-mediums' tricks. These latter gentlemen have protested, and try to deny the facts of second cards and moving pieces of wood in their spirit-box: they declare that their intention is to continue their invocations of noisy little demons in the dark, until the Parisian public is converted | the expectations of those who had been present to spiritism. The Sandon affair, which I mentioned in my last letter, is causing great emotion; the medical students having declared that after the present vacations they will summon Dr. Tardien, who is their "doyen," to answer Mr. Sandon's accusation, and will refuse to listen to his lessons until he does. A young doctor with whom I was talking about the case, answered me, Oh yes, it is an abominable thing altogether, and Tardien is a villain; but then he is such a clever fellow, he will answer the young students, and bring them over to his side without any trouble; besides, after all, Sandon annoyed Billault, and it is no wonder that he should try to get rid of him!" So if a powerful minister has an enemy, it is quite legitimate that he should send him to a mad-house for life, and that in a country of egality! General Lamoricière is gone to his last home. He was one of the conquerors of Abd-elKader; and it is remarkable, that at the moment that the vanquished left Marseilles in state, Lamoricière died in an obscure corner in France, almost unnoticed. He was, however, buried at Nantes, with military honours. Waleswski is named president "du Corps Legislatif," and now occupies the former residence of Mr. de Morny. Their Majesties are at Biarritz, and have received the visit of the King and Queen of Spain. It was hinted that they wanted to conclude a match between the Queen's eldest daughter and Prince Amedée of Italy; but that the marriage is not to come off. During the Emperor's visit in Switzerland, he was charged, they say, 30,000 francs for one night and one day, by the landlord of the hotel. Imperial visitors are rare I should think in those parts, so hotel keepers make much of them when they get the chance. The Empress stayed several days longer than the Emperor on this trip, on account of the accident which occurred to three ladies of her suite, when their horses ran away. It was a wonder it was not more serious: the Princess Auna Murat had a rib broken, the Duchess de Montebello her shoulder-bone, and the beautiful Mdlle. Bouvet, reader to the Empress, a few bruises only. Her Majesty telegraphed regularly twice a day to Madame Bouvet, on her daughter's health, which, of course very much flattered the latter lady. They already begin to talk of a wife for the little Prince Imperial. It is time he is rather more than nine years old! The intensity of the heat does not prevent our theatres filling every night; and in spite of all that has been said on the "Africaine," it still remains the event in the musical world: the first fifty representations produced 550,000 francs, and the opera-house is still as full as ever. Mr. Carvallio, at the "Théâtre Lyrique" has announced a new opera in three acts, "Deborah"-words by E. Plouvier; music by Devinc-Duvivier, pupil of Halévy-for after the holidays. Charles Mathews is adding to his laurels by nightly success at the "Vaudeville," in "L'Homme blasé" and that much against at the rehearsals of the piece before-hand. The director and all who had been instrumental in bringing Mathews over here, trembled as they witnessed the bad way in which your celebrated comic mumbled over his part the day before the débût; and great indeed was their surprise when Mathews, putting forth all his powers at the first representation before the public, called forth the most enthusiastic applause, which increases nightly. Talking of theatres, that at Lyons has almost been the cause of an insurrection. This old town was for several days in a great state of uproar, because the director would not let a débutant, protected by the young heads of Lyons, appear on his stage. The police got roughly handled in the fray: they were thrown down and rolled on the stones, amidst the hisses and screaming of the youths, always foremost on such occasions. "Hiss as much as you like," said one of the sergeants de ville, as he managed to extricate himself, covered with mud, from his assailants, "but don't roll us on the ground; it dirties one's trousers!" "Bravo! bravo! vive le sergeant de ville!" vociferated the mob, and they carried the policeman home in triumph! The director was obliged to give in, and peace was restored. A very curious affair occupied the police the other day. Some time ago a young lady-very pretty, very accomplished, but very poor, although belonging to a good family--had been under the necessity of giving lessons on the piano for a living. During that time she had been rather flirty; and, although nothing could be said against her virtue, yet she had written several letters on the tender passion that might render a husband jealous. A German baron, smitten by Mdlle. Edith, offered her his hand and fortune, which were accepted. When married, the young Baroness, remembering the letters written to another, became very much alarmed, and used every stratagem to get them again, and succeeded; but whether she had wished to read them before burning, or whatever other motive, instead of destroying them she locked them up in a secretary for a short time. One morning, about two months ago, she perceived that the letters had been stolen; she had discharged her maid the day before, so concluded that the woman, for some bad purpose, had taken them, and was in a great state of anxiety; when a few days ago a man desired to speak to her in private. He announced himself as a homme d'affaires, and declared to the lady that he had bought her letters of her former maid for a very large sum, and that if she did not pay him the price he required for them, he should give them to the Baron. The fellow was so insolent, and put such a price on them, that the Baroness, in indignation, ordered her servants to put him out of doors. Scarce had the man arrived home, when a friend called in, and he related the circumstance to him, and the vengeance he intended to take. A young clerk overheard the conversation, and, burning with indignation, deter mined to baffle the rogue's designs; so, in his turn, stole the letters, and immediately carried them to the Baroness, without asking any reward. But the grateful lady, knowing that he would lose his place, rewarded him handsomely. She then revealed to her husband what had happened, and gave him the letters which had rendered her so unhappy; but the Baron, confident in his wife's virtue, refused to read them, and threw them in the fire before her. The man, in the mean time, discovered that his prey had escaped him; and without think ing of what he was doing, went to the police, and had his clerk arrested for theft. The whole affair, after investigation, came out, and the biter has got bit; the homme d'affaires is in prison himself, accused of swindling. At Montfermeil, a village near Paris, was born, about twenty-five years ago, on the same day, a boy and girl, one with its head leaning to the right, the other leaning to the left. As they grew up, a kind of sympathy drew them to seek each other's society, although of no relation to each other. A little while ago, some one undertook to cure them by electricity, and, after twenty trials, their heads now are straight on their shoulders, like the rest of their fellowcreatures; which happy event was crowned last week by a marriage between them, and was a public fete in the village. With kind compliments, yours truly, S. A. LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. LENA'S COUNTRY VISIT. BY NETTIE CARLISLE. One morning in June the bright sun, as he proceeded on his daily journey, took the liberty of peeping into the room where little Lena Graham lay asleep, and was actually bold enough to send one of his beams full across her pillow. A moment it rested there, lighting up the pale face and clustering brown curls with a golden glory, such as we see in the pictures of the saints; the next minute two blue eyes opened, and took a sleepy survey of the room, then all at once became wide awake, and Lena sprang up, exclaiming, with a happy smile, "How could I forget? I'm going into the country to-day!" Quickly the little busy fingers adjusted the morning dress, and then Lena ran down-stairs and jumped into her father's arms, saying, "I am so glad, I don't know what to do," then stopped suddenly and added, "But you'll miss me, wont you, papa?" 66 Very much, my darling," he answered, and the manly voice trembled;" but you must put some roses into these pale cheeks, and then you'll come back to be papa's pet again. But here comes mamma, to say that breakfast is ready; and unless you hurry, the train will be off without you." Half an hour afterwards, Lena was seated by her mother in one of the railway carriages, waiting in the station, for the train to start. Papa lingered by their side as long as he could, till the locomotive gave what Lena called " an awful squeal," warning him that he must be off, and with one last kiss on the little pale face, he was gone "Hurrah! we're agoing at last," sung out a small boy on the other side of the carriage, at which his mother looked daggers at him, but young hopeful did not appear to care in the least. Yes, going they were, slowly at first, through the dusty city suburbs, till at last they swept out grandly into the free air and sunshine of the open country. Lena almost held her breath with delight as she gazed on the beautiful scene, lighted up by the gorgeous June sunshine; the green fields covered with daisies and buttercups, where happy little lambs frisked around their mothers; the groves where the little birds were twittering; and the stately mansions, that looked down on the sunny slopes. Then they passed grand old woods, where the sunlight seemed to sleep on the waving treetops, while all beneath was so dark and still that you could scarcely catch the faintest quiver of sunshine through the interlacing branches. But all things must come to an end, and so When the travellers did the pleasant ride. alighted at the little country station, they found cousin Joe waiting for them, a great awkward boy, very sunburnt, and with rough hair which utterly refused to he brushed down, but goodnatured and obliging, and now quite lost in admiration of the little fairy, in her straw hat and blue ribbons. They stepped into the old family chaise, a vehicle apparently as ancient and nearly as roomy as Noah's Ark, which was drawn by an old brown horse, rejoicing in the name of Zachariah, or Zach for shortness, as Joe said. Joe touched the lazy old fellow lightly with the whip, and away he jogged, rather a slow mode |