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            I was curious to ascend
     To my barred windows, and to bend
     Once more upon the mountains high
     The quiet of a loving eye.

If Bonnivard looked out, it is much more
likely that he fell to calculating the chances
of his ever getting any of his priory rents,
than that he wasted his time in admiring
the scenery. And as for regaining " his
freedom with a sigh," we have seen that
he was fresher than ever the moment he
got back to Geneva.

As we said, it is rather hard upon
Switzerland to lose her representative men in
this way. The true Bonnivard was not at
all a bad fellow, and useful enough in his
day. Some readers may perhaps find him
more interesting than the sentimental
survivor of the three brothers of romance.
The young ladies won't think so; neither
will the whole family of guides and
excursionists; but truth is truth, and so we have
thought it worth while to give some
account of Bonnivard as he really was.

           BEHIND THE ROSES.

    Down in a dell in the west countrie,
    'Mid bowers that slope to the sunny sea,
    There stands a cottage on the lawn,
    Full in the flush of the early dawn.

   Over the porch the roses creep,
   In at the windows the roses peep;
   O'er all the place there seems to brood
   The spirit of happy solitude.

   " Here would I dwell," thinks Beauty bright!
   Dreaming at noon of her heart's delight!
   " And here," says Care, " I'd build my nest,
   Far from the world and be at rest!"

   Open the door behind the flowers!
   Tread softly through to the inner bowers!
   And there you'll find a lady fair,
   Pining under a load of care.

   A lovely woman, wed to a loon,
   Unworthy to wipe her sandal shoon
   Loveless, childless, wasting away.
   For want of a mate on her wedding day.

   Blossom, ye roses on her path!
   Few and short are the joys she hath!
   Feast her eyes with beauty and bloom,
   Bathe her senses in sweet perfume!

   You and the gentle spirits of song,
   That haunt her harp when the day seems long,
   Are all she hath (were her story told),
   To keep her heart from growing cold.


TENT life at Wimbledon is once more a
subject of the hour, and we are again being
told of the comforts and contrivances to be
found under the canvas of our volunteers.
When I studied this phase of existence
last summer, I only knew of tent life in
the East from books. Since then I have
been under canvas in many distant lands,
and my tent in the desert or wilderness
has been as familiar an experience to me
as my desk or my easy-chair at home. I
fear the result has been not to increase my
powers of hero-worship at Wimbledon.
I fear that far from admiring my volunteer
friends as adventurous spirits, indifferent
to the comforts of life, I shall regard them
as a traveller round the world might be
expected to look on the tourist whose
explorations are limited to Margate or
Gravesend. I shall not disparage, but I
shall compare. Wimbledon will be hospitable,
convivial, and pleasant; will make
its guests heartily welcome, and will be
rightly proud of its ready adaptability
to circumstances. The portable chairs,
and collapsing couches, the admirable
cooking, the excellent concerts, the jovial
mess-dinners, and the perfect discipline in
which the adjutants keep the camp, come
to mind whenever its annual gathering is
named; but, on the other hand, I must be
allowed to ask what it knows of jackals?
Where are its lizards and foxes? How is
it off for wild dogs? How can tent life
be complete without camels, Arabs, Bedouin
robbers, and endless sand?

On the desert by Sakkara, with the
solemn pyramids keeping guard, and the
grey Egyptian foxes, the milk-white stupid
ibises, and the large piebald crows, like
magpies stricken in years, crossing our
path with strange indifference whenever
we left our tent door; by the banks of the
Suez Canal, after Ismailia had been reached
by the fleet, and when the Arab rejoicings,
ordered beforehand by the Viceroy, took the
form of hideously discordant music, which
lasted through the night; on the mountains
and wilderness of Jud├Ža, in the midst of
which David sang; and, lastly, on board the
steam ship Sumatra, on the Red Sea, have
I been living under canvas. The dragoman
placed at my disposal by the Egyptian
government was a well-meaning but
incapable impostor, who, professing
encyclopedian knowledge, invariably broke down
when the time for performance came, but
who was so plausible and pleasant, so
humorously subservient and polite, so
ostentatiously anxious to please, that I grew
fond of him at last, and came to look upon
the quagmires he led me into as among the
inevitable conditions of travelling in the
East. Thus, I found myself prostrate in a
mummy-pit, into which I had been thrown
head foremost by my donkey, with no
stronger sentiment than a desire to get up