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to the impersonation of genius, and lent a laughing ear to presumptuous comments on the "fine points" of the fair girl before you. Did you follow her home in imagination? That voice that thrilled through your being, might it not hate caught its pathos from some scene of suf fering you may never hear of? that look, the wildness of whose grief was "finely done," you said, was it all acting? It was poor Filippa Padrilla who enchanted you last night. What sight is flashing before the eye she raises to light and splendor and wreathing smiles? the white, cold forehead of her unburied father. What sound is ringing in her ear, low, but having power to drown the orchestra accompaniment? the wail of her little brother, watching alone by the corpse. For the sake of his bread as well as her own, she dare not be absent on a benefit night. And yet the words of mimic grief almost choke her who has its quivering, bleeding reality in her heart. Oh! lift the veil, and the rose- wreath on her brow will show forth a crown g thorns, and the trinkets, and gauze, and tinsd the mockery and misery they are. And all tq so near, so near to you, fair lady; you can eye; hear her breath that gaspingly comes from the depth of her heroic conflict. A few steps, m she, a maiden like yourself, might stand by side. But no thought of the possible truth disturbs, for a moment, your care of your lorguette and ermined mantle, or changes your cold, criticising gaze. She smiles—she sparkles—you look no farther.

Ah, lady ! were the girl to come and tell you her story, I know your eyes would fill. Were to lead you to that death chamber with its lost child-mourner, though you might shudder and shrink, I know you would pity, but the veil not lifted—the barrier is not broken down between Fifth Avenue and the purlieus of Clas street, and so on goes the current of via selfishness. You never think.

SONG.

BY WILLIAM RODERICK LAWRENCE.