turned round and held up the box to the congregation, as if to show that there was no trick in the business. He then read some special prayers, after which he stood up, and the priests all closed round him, so that we could not see what went on, But though there was no employment for our eyes, yet our ears were not so spared. In a certain part of the gallery, railed off for the purpose, sat the descendants of the saint, almost all old women, whose duty it was to cry aloud to the saint, and make intercession with him, that he would immediately liquify his blood. This duty they performed at the top of their voices, and the voice of an old Italian woman, especially when she screams, is one of the most horrible instruments of sound that ever nature made, or man suffered from. We luckily had not to endure this much more than half an hour, when a stir and buzz among the priests at the altar intimated that something was going on, and presently the Archbishop advanced to the altar rails, held up the glass box, and turned it up and down, at which time the blood moved about, being much in the same state of liquefaction as thick gum. Upon this, a joyful shout was raised through the church, the news was rapidly spread through the town, and all the guns of the place began firing. In the meantime, some more prayers were being said inside the cathedral, and the box with the blood was sent round for the faithful to kiss, during which time I was glad to make my escape. Belief in this miracle is not, I believe, essential, but only edifying; indeed, I made the acquaintance of a certain Neapolitan priest, who told me himself, that few of the educated Neapolitans believe in it, but that being an annual custom, it was absolutely necessary that it should be kept up. The firing and the public rejoicings were continued through the evening; for the short time which elapsed for the performance of the miracle was an auspicious omen, indicating a prosperous year. A few days after this, we left behind us the sunny shores, and the lovely bay of Naples, together with its squalid streets, its swarming beggars, its lazzaroni-picturesque, dirty, merry devils -its many priests, its elegant churches, its. museum, with all the marvellous records of antiquity therein, its splendid theatres, its vile doganas, its tyranny, its knavery, its prisons with their secret crimes, and all else that therein is;—we left all behind us, as we were steaming along the Mediterranean to Leghorn. Oh glad shall I be when I once more find myself on "That fair sea, Which, peerless, owns enchanted waves; The happy shores of Italy." THE PHILOSOPHY OF A LITTLE CARPET-BAG. YES, reader! Philosophy, and a carpet-bag. "What an absurd idea!" I think I hear you exclaim : 'What in the wide world can such a common thing as a carpet-bag have to do with Philosophy?" "A common thing." Yes, it is "a common thing;" and among the most common of street-sights is that of a gentleman hurrying along towards a railway or river, bearing with him a little carpet-bag. So common, indeed, is it, that it fails to attract the slightest attention. A little carpet-bag is no more noted in a man's hand than an umbrella or walking-stick would be; and yet, when rightly viewed, it is to our thinking an object of no ordinary interest. We feel no envy for the man on whom has devolved the care of a heap of luggage. The anxiety of attending such property outweighs the pleasure of its possession. But a man with a little carpet-bag-Oh! he is one in ten thousand. He is the most perfect type, perhaps, of independence extant. He can snap his fingers in the face of extortionate porters. No trotting urchin is idle or foolish enough to solicit the carrying of so slight a burden. While other travellers, by coach or railway, are busily engaged in looking after their trunks and traps; he calmly enters and takes the best seat. He and his "little all" never part company. It travels peaceably at his feet, and on arriving at their destination, they are off with the jaunty swagger of unencumbered bachelorhood. In contemplating a gentleman with a carpet-bag, we are struck, perhaps, to a certain extent, with an idea of disproportion; be it so, the balance is at any rate all on the envy side. There is far too little to constitute a burden, yet enough to indicate wants attended to, and comforts supplied. No man with a little carpet-bag in his hand has his last shirt on his back. Neither is it probable that his beard can suffer from slovenly overgrowth. When he retires to rest at night, the presumption is, that it will be in the midst of comfortable and cosy night-gear. A little carpet-bag is almost always indicative of a short and pleasurable excursion. He is off, perhaps, from the Saturday to the Monday to have a little fishing, and a breath of fresh air, as a set-off against the business of the week. dreadful accident" on Moreover, distance is No painful ideas of stormy seas, or a some far-off railway are suggested by it. sometimes measured (poetically, of course) by "a small bird's flutter," or (query, poetically)" two smokes of a pipe;" or some such shadowy, though not altogether indefinite, phrase. Why may not time in like manner, be measured by "two shirts?" A gentleman, with a little carpet-bag, may be said to contemplate about a "couple of shirts"" absence from home. But nowBrighton, Sir, Brighton "-here we are, at the end of our journey, and paper too, so adieu. Yours most philosophically, X. Y. Z. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. HEAVY is the sky and clouded, And the pale wane moon is shrouded, All is dark and melancholy, For the old year dying slowly Waiteth for his doom. And hark! with what a sound of woe The wailing night-winds come and go. Yet no tear betokening sorrow But the voice of mirth and laughter New year, what bringest thou to us Why this shouting of the people? Doth this gladness nought betoken, Or dost thou bring some brighter lot, Can'st thou heal the broken-hearted? In one more embrace? They whose loss has left us lonely, Else why doth e'en the mourner's grief Or dost thou only bring new sadness- Hopes, obtained by long endeavour, Like the Dead Sea fruit? And is this all thou can'st bestow On those who greet thee? even so! Yet, perhaps, 'tis well to bridle These unprofitable, idle, Outbreaks of the heart. Wiser they who welcome gaily Scenes in which they know that daily Yes, wiser, happier far are they Who can forget-who can be gay! ENGLISH LADIES. "I know the thing that's most uncommon; I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend. "Not warped by passion, awed by rumour, Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good humour, And sensible soft melancholy." -POPE. FAIR reader, for to you I would more particularly address myself on the present occasion, pardon my presumption if I make the beauties, and the almost as attractive weaknesses of your sex, the subject of my theme. All classes of men, poets, philosophers, orators, have conspired to extol the softening and ennobling influence, which, radiating from the halo of moral and physical perfections which encircle the brow of woman, even seems to remind our fallen race of the Heaven it once possessed, and to attract us back to the beneficent Creator who has left us this relic of a forfeited Paradise. Upon such general and indiscriminate commendation a well-directed patriotism may lead us to improve, and we need not fear the imputation either of prejudice or of sycophancy, if we recognize in the society of our own favoured land the purest and warmest beam of female excellence. Long may the boast be true, that of virtue and sincerity, of grace and brilliance, of all that is lovely both in mind and form, and all that quells the |