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She dipped her white fingers in the flood,
And grasps, and lifts, and holds it! 'Tis the key.
Up springs she, up, her heart still beating higher.
The casket glances, as with eyes, before her.
The key fits well, up flies the lid. The spirits
All mount aloft, then bow themselves submissive
To this their gracious, innocent, sweet mistress,
Who with white fingers guides them in her play."

The first, perhaps, to recognise the surpassing ability of that child was the young editor of the Zeitschrift," Robert Schumann. On her first appearance, he wrote,-" Others make poetry, -she is a poem." And soon afterward,-"She early lifted the veil of Isis. The child looks calmly up, the man would, perhaps, be dazzled by the brilliancy."

From this moment there was an elasticity and purpose about the young composer, the secret of which no one knew, not even himself. Like one caught in the whorls of some happy dream, who will not pause to ask, "Whither?" he poured out before this child the half-revealed hopes striving within him; an equal spell was woven about her ingenuous and earnest heart, and their souls were joined in that purple morning, in due time they were to be farther clenched, through pain. It was under this baptismal touch of Love that Schumann wrote his first sonata,-" Florestan and Eusebius." It gained him at once a fame with all from whom fame was graceful.

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In the light of this period of his life must be interpreted those wonderful little "'pieces" which mystify whilst they fascinate; without it their meaning is as strange as their names. Often did he say, "I can write only where my life is in unison with my works." "Listen now to these," said Florestan, as he opened an album and struck the piano; "these are the voices of a new life." The "Alternatives," with song, "My peace is o'er"; "Evening Thoughts"; "Impromptus," (whose first theme was written by Clara) these seemed like the emotion of some newly winged aspirant released from its chrysalis, resting on its first flower. But faster than planets through the abysses Love moves Florestan ceased, and there was a long silence; and then he told the unspeakable portion of his story by performing these two: "Sternenkranz," "Warum." Who has ever scaled the rapture of the former, or fathomed the pathos of the latter? Every summit implies its precipice; and the star-wreath that crowned Love was snatched at by the Fate which soon burdened two hearts with the terrible questioning Wherefore?

on.

:

Thus before these two were fully conscious of the love they bore each other, the shrewd eye of old Wieck had caught a glimpse of what was coming to pass. He had educated this girl to be an artist to bring him fame; alas, it must be confessed that he thought also of certain prospective thalers. Willing as he was that all Leipsic should admire his daughter, he did not like the enthusiasm of the "Zeitschrift." He then began to warn Clara against "this Faust

No wonder, that, when she appeared there, it takes something besides an academy to train was to be as the priestess of Beethoven. It artists up to Beethoven. Robert was forbidden to write to her; but the "Schwärmbriefe of Eusebius to Chiara," utterly unintelligible to the general reader of the "Zeitschrift," who, doubtless, fancied that its editor had gone mad, were quite clear to a certain little lady in Vienna, who consequently pined less than her father had anticipated.

"Amid all our musical soul-feasts," he writes, "there always peeps out an angel-face, which more than resembles a certain Clara. Why art thou not with us? (Warum !) And how thou wilt have thought of us last night, from the Meeresstille' to the flaming close of the A major symphony! I also thought of thee then, stretched towards Italy, whither thy longing Chiara, pure one, bright one, whose hands are draws thee, but thy dreamy eye still turned to

us."

At length a sun-burst. In 1840 appeared the first number of Schumann's "Myrthen," whose dedication, Seiner geliebten Braut, breaks forth in the passionate and beautiful song, "Thou my soul, O thou my heart!"

But this word Braut means Bride in the German sense of "affianced;" and although the joy of this relation passed over Schumann like the breath of a Tropic, bringing forth, amongst other gorgeous fruits, his glorious First Symphony, which some one has well called the Symphony of Bliss, yet, ere this bliss was more than an elusive vision, the two passed through Marahs. fierce wildernesses, and drank together of bitter "But of all this," said Florestan, from these"-his "Voice from afar," and his you will know, if you have the right to know, "Night-pieces."

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Then, as one who takes up a heavy burden to bear it, he proceeded ::

"The heart of Robert Schumann was a lyre so delicate, and with strings so sensitive, that the effect of his pains and his joys, both always in extremes, was as if you gave an Eolian harp to be swept now by a cold north-wind and now by a hot sirocco. His spirit wore on to the confines of his flesh, and was not warmly covered thereby, but only veiled. Under his grief he seemed stronger; but when his joy came, when Clara was his own, and went through Europe with him, giving expression to the voices within, which, to him, had been unutterable-then we saw that the emotions which would have been safe, had they been suffered to well up gently from the first, could come forth now only as a fierce and perhaps devastating torrent.

"Schumann saddened his intimate friends by times of insanity, five or six years before the world at large knew anything of it. At such times he imagined himself again cruelly separated from the patient and tender being who never left his side; and he would write pieces full of distractions, in the midst of each of which, however, some touchingly beautiful theme would float up, like a fair island, through seething seas. Then there were longer intervals, of seven and eight months, in which he was perfectly sane; at which times he would write with a wearing persistence which none could restrain. He would put our advice aside gently, saying-"A long life is before me; but it must be lived in a few years." And, indeed, the works which have reached farthest into hearts that loved him most deeply date from these times. I remember, that, when he sat down to compose his last symphony, he said—" It is almost accomplished;

"Once when I was at Frankfort, Clara Schumann sent me this word: "Hasten." I left all my affairs, and came to watch for many months beside this beloved one. It was not a wild delirium which had taken possession of him; the only fit of that kind was that in which he tried to drown himself in the Rhine-at the time when the papers got hold of the terrible secret. His insanity was manifested in his conviction that he was occupied by the souls of Beethoven and Schubert. Much in the manner of your American mediums, he would be seized by a controlling power, would snatch a pencil, and dash out upon paper the wildest discords. These we would play for him, at his request, from morning till night, during much of which time he would seem to be in a happy trance. Of this music no chord or melody was true; they were jangling memories of his earlier works.

"One day he called his wife and myself, and took our hands in his own: Beethoven says that my earthly music is over; it cannot be understood here; he writes for angels, and I shall write for them.' Then turning to me, he said "Louis, my friend, farewell! This is my last prayer for you'-handing me the paper which I have shown you; and now leave us, to come again and kiss me when I am cold.' "Then I left him alone with his Clara. "A month from that time, Schumann was no more!"

Out under the glowing sunset, I clasped hands parting with Louis Boehner, and said, as my voice would let me, "Take this paper, and when you would have a friend, such as you have been to Robert Schumann, come and help me to be that friend."

Perhaps at no season of the year are plants more interesting and instructive than on the approach of the winter months. There is a beauty in the fading flowers and falling leaves which escapes the eye of thousands who see nothing in such appearances but indications of gloom and desolation. Let us see if we cannot lead the reader into a more pleasing course of thought on these phenomena.

When we look at a forest tree at this season of the year spontaneously throwing off those leaves which are no longer of any service to it, and consider that each leaf, as it falls from the branches, is returning to its final home, having accomplished the purposes of nature in its creation, we cannot but be struck with the beauty

of these arrangements. But what is it that renders the leaf useless? We shall endeavour to reply to this question in clear, simple, truthful language.

THE ORGANIZATION OF THE LEAF AND THE NATURE OF ITS CONNECTION WITH THE STEM.-A fully developed leaf consists of a petiole or stalk, and a broad expanded portion termed the lamina or blade. The petiole is formed by the protrusion from the side of the shoot of distinct and separate fasciculi, or bundles of its woody fibre. These bundles at first continue parallel among themselves, forming the petiole; they then take a horizontal spread, and, at the same time, vessels are produced at their sides which repeatedly ramify, forming veins,

the right thing, to be seen in London at this period of the year, and although fashionable haunts are becoming gradually deserted, in the "Row" there is yet a very fair show of riders whose "custom of an afternoon" it is to take an airing round the Park; and whilst the Prince and Princess of Wales are being fêted and lionized at Plymouth, a "lioness" has lately arrived here in the person of the Dowager Queen of the Sandwich Islands, who, it is reported, has come over to pay a visit to our Queen, is the guest of Lady Franklin, and has already honoured the studio of Messrs. J. and C. Watkins, the well-known photographers of Parliament-street, with her royal presence.

The distressing railway-accidents, attended with such fatal results, have made us rather suspicious of the "extra-fast cheap trains" which we see constantly advertised. We have before referred to the imagination of "Our Artist" in the illustrated papers, and we observe, among the last pictorial sensations, an illustration-of course taken on the spot-of "Mr. Charles Dickens relieving the sufferers at Staplehurst;" and another of "Dr. Pritchard signing his confession."

Mr. Sala's labours are over as the Daily Telegraph's special correspondent in Algeria, and we shall doubtless have G. A. S.'s Algerine Essays, at Mudie's, in the course of the season. Great kudos is sometimes given to this writer for his "word-painting"-an art in which he certainly excels, though it has been hinted to us, not unreasonably we think, that "worddaubing" would at times be a far more appropriate term.

Mr. Home, the spirit-medium, is reported to have returned from America, and declared the Davenport Brothers to be unmitigated humbugs. We were present, some evenings since, at an interesting séance which was given at Pembroke Hall, Hackney, by Mr. Addison, the well-known opponent of the Davenports, and many startling tricks (we use the word advisedly) were exhibited. Mr. Addison does not profess that it is anything more than very clever conjuring, and, together with a friend as the other "brother," he went through all the "structure" business, with much that the Davenports never attempted. The way in which Mr. Addison and his friend wriggled themselves out of strait jackets, which had been secured by one of the attendants, was (if we may be permitted to use a Yankee expression) "a caution to snakes." Amongst the most important experiments, Mr. Addison speedily extricated himself from a double sack; and both gentlemen, with the greatest ease, freed themselves from handcuffs that had been first handed round for general inspection.

The recent case of unauthorized cigar-smoking on a railway platform, when the Earl of Winchilsea was made an example of, should be the means of causing smoking-carriages to be put upon all the lines, as the most desirable way of meeting the requirements of a large majority of travellers, We observe that on many of the

railways this is now the case, and we really cannot see why this plan should not be universally adopted.

In the way of casualties, we may allude to the fall of two houses in Chandos-street, unhappily attended with loss of life; and as miscellaneous news we ought, perhaps, to chronicle the laying of the first stone of New Blackfriars Bridge, by the Lord Mayor.

The Glow-worm, a new evening paper, with Mr. Burnand for editor, did not, we think, take the town by storm: certainly its appearance has not created any very great sensation, although extensive premises were secured-those until lately occupied by Evans, the well-known printseller. We believe that a change has already taken place in the editorial department; but we doubt very much if the speculative Glow-worm is destined to enjoy a luminous existence.

The Bat is the title of a sheet that has been issued rather, we should imagine, as a skit upon the Owl than with any notion of being continued. The first number professed to be "No. I. vol. iii.," and was an exact counterpart of the Owl in every way. It looks very like an intentional squib. The Owl has gained a quasi reputation for divulging the secrets of the backstairs, interspersed with a joke or two; so that it is a difficult matter to sift the wheat from the chaff. On pretence of such exclusive information it is much given to eaves-dropping, on the principle of our dangerous friend The Flaneur, or the once notorious "Jenkins" of the Morning Post.

It is really astonishing how rapidly Fun has improved under "Tom" Hood's able editorship. "Mrs. Brown's" letters are a great feature therein. She has been to the Derby, the Opera, &c., and has given her opinion on the elections; so that she has no sinecure, considering that she has been "to the Play" upwards of 500 times. The article "From our Stall" always contains some thoroughly independent theatrical criticisms, and the editor continues his acceptable "Town Talk, by the Saunterer in Society." "The Something like Nonsense Verses" are amusing of their kind; whilst an imaginary conversation between the Prince of Wales and Mr. Toole, at Woking, is side-splitting. The illustrations are now very good, the cartoon of "The Railway Sleepers we should like to see taken up," being to the point. We have been given to understand that an intimate friend of poor John Leech has had access to his correspondence, and is collecting materials for a life of the lamented artist. We notice that "The Railway Station" is now on view at Leggatt's Gallery, Cornhill, and the public admitted on presentation of private address card. It is announced as Frith's chef d' auvre, a phrase the correctness of which we fancy many connoisseurs will feel inclined to d.spute. "Too good for him," is the title of a second novel by a daughter of the late Capt. Marryatt. That prolific writer, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth (whom we observed the other evening at the Strand Theatre, apparently enjoying the

fun of "Windsor Castle), has just brought out a new novel, which he calls "The Spanish Match." Mr. Boucicault and Mr. Sothern have, we perceive, been elected Fellows of the Zoological Society. It was with regret we read the account of Donato's death: it appears he had been suffering for some time from an internal complaint. The late Mr. Richard Thornton has left £3,700,000 to his heirs and the public charities. An exhibition of mules and donkeys, at Islington, is a novelty, and races advertized as "The Donkey Derby, Oaks, and St. Leger" have taken place. The ass is a much maligned animal, and we should think that these shows will prove if proof be wanting-that the illusage it so often receives is the chief cause of stubbornness, and that there is no reason why donkeys should not be swifter of foot, though their unwillingness to stir has become proverbial. We have now obtained a fairer notion of the capabilities of the donkey than we were able to form from their conduct elsewhere.

The annual fête for the benefit of the Royal Dramatic College has again proved a great success, in a pecuniary sense; but there is much improvement needed on these occasions: for instance, we could dispense with Jack-in-the Green, as well as the music-hall element. We do not so much object to the fair stall-keepers, especially as members of the aristocracy occasionally appear in similar characters, for charitable purposes; but what we do protest against is the over-zeal of a favourite leading actress in palming off her "sterling bachelor pills," and in offering any gentleman a shake of her hand for sixpence. She should take pattern by the irresistible grace of one equally gifted who presided close by, and who appealed by a modest look and not by noisy clamour. Another objectionable feature in the day's proceedings is the apparently authorized conduct of certain young ladies (possibly of the corps de ballet), who have no stalls, and of whom a friend of ours complained to us as openly pleading on their own behalf. It is this that throws discredit on a profession

which, we regret to say, is too often unjustly/ scandalized. £150 was, we understand, taken on the Saturday at Richardson's alone; all the shows were well attended, that of Toole and Bedford being inconveniently crowded on each representation.

We witnessed the debût of the American comedian as "Solon Shingle," which has been truly described as a worthless piece; on a second visit we were more pleased with Mr. Owens' impersonation than on the first night. We consider that this gentleman has to be seen more than once before he can be thoroughly appreciated, and, notwithstanding the rubbish in which he nightly appears and the injudicious puffing, he has shown himself to be a clever artist. On the occasion of our second attendance Mr. and Mrs. Stratton came to support the "eccentric comedian," with whom they appeared to be mightily amused. Mr. Walter Gordon's new drama of "Through Fire and Water," is admirably acted by every one concerned. We never saw Mr. Billington to greater advantage: we venture to say that he looks and plays the part as well as, if not better than, any actor we could name. Benefits have been the order of the day, or rather night, at the various theatres. Toole will soon be off for his annual provincial tour. The Haymarket company, after performing some of the old comedies at Leeds, proceed to the new theatre at Bradford, and afterwards to Manchester, Mr. Buckstone accompanying them this time for the whole period. The Prince of Wales' Theatre closes until September, Miss Marie Wilton going with her troupe to fulfil provincial engagements; the Strand does likewise, and Astley's is to let for a short time; so that there would seem to be nothing to detain the critic in town, were it not for Mr. Alfred Mellon and Mr. Walter Montgomery, since even actors are flying away for a change, greatly to the relief, and not a little to the envy of YOUR BOHEMIAN.

MY DEAR C—,

France in Algeria," but which has not been delivered to the public. M. de Girardin, in his newspaper (La Presse) gave some details of