With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. (By permission of Messrs. Longmans, Green, and Co.) HOW PLEASANT IT IS TO HAVE MONEY. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. [Mr. Clough is another of those writers who are known to those who study the higher walks of literature, and to those who keep watch for "the bright particular stars" that rise, and only occasionally, in the poetical firmament. It is only a pleasing duty that we perform in introducing him to that larger, but not less appreciative, class among whom our "Penny Readings" so widely circulate. Mr. Clough was a writer of vers de société, but he founded most of his poetry more on incident of travel than on the conventionalities of fashionable life-catching his subjects flying, rather than seeking for them in the salon. Very fantastical in taste, and full of caprice, there is still a classical undertone in his lightest writings, as though he never felt himself quite free from the responsibilities he owed to his alma mater. In a more studious age than the present Clough would already have taken a higher position than the one he holds in English literature. Arthur Hugh Clough was born at Liverpool, Jan. 1st, 1819. He was educated at Rugby, under Dr. Arnold; went to Oxford, and was elected a Fellow of Baliol, 1842. In 1848 he published what he called a long vacation pastoral, entitled "The Bothie of Toler-na-Voulich ;" and in 1849 a second volume called "Ambarvalia." Both volumes were dear to his friends and to a limited public, but they escaped general recognition. Still Clough worked on-too true to his mission to be a bread-winner except upon those high principles that his conscience dictated to himself. Few men," says his recent editor and friend, Mr. Palgrave, "in this age have ever more completely worked out his own ideal—plain living and high thinking." After filling the wardenship of University Hall, London, for twelve years, Mr. Clough went, in 1852, to try his fortunes in America. He made friends there; but the offer of an appointment in the Privy Council Office decided him to return to England. He was secretary to the report on Military Education, which carried him to France and Vienna. Shortly after this he completed the long revision of Dryden's "Translation of Plutarch." His career was destined to be a brief one. His wife's cousin was Florence Nightingale; he undertook to assist her in her arduous duties, and his health gave way. He then travelled to Greece and Constantinople, thought he was sufficiently recovered, but was obliged again to go South. He visited Auvergne and the Pyrenees in company with his friends Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Tennyson, but was struck by the malaria of one of the Italian lakes, and died at Florence (he is buried there) Nov. 13th, 1861. Messrs. Macmillan and Co., Cambridge and London, have recently published his poetical works in one volume.] SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. I. As I sat at the Café I said to myself, They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! I sit at my table en grand seigneur, And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor; They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, II. LE DINER. Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past, The oysters ere this had been in and been out; How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! A clear soup with eggs; voilà tout; of the fish A la Orly, but you're for red mullet, you say; After oysters, sauterne; then sherry; champagne, I've the simplest of palates; absurd it may be, Fish and soup and omelette and that-but the deuce- Your chablis is acid, away with the hock, As for that, pass the bottle, and hang the expense! So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho! One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend, How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! III. PARVENANT. I cannot but ask, in the park and the streets I ride, and I drive, and pass ev'rything by, So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho! It was but this winter I came up to town, So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho! O dear! what a pity they ever should lose it, So neediul it is to have money, heigh-ho! It's all very well to be handsome and tall, It's all very well to be clever and witty, So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho! There's something undoubtedly in a fine air, And the angels in pink and the angels in blue, So needful, they tell you, is money, heigh-ho! (By permission of Messrs. Macmillan and Co.) MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. HENRY GLASSFORD BELL. PART I. I LOOK'D far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls; And o'er the antique dial-stone the creeping shadow pass'd, And, all around, the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast. |