FRANCIS THOMPSON Threatened Tears Do not loose those rains thy wetEyes, my Fair, unsurely threat;Do not, Sweet, do not so;Thou canst not have a single woe,But this sad and doubtful weatlierOvercasts us both together.In the aspect of those known eyesMy soul's a captain weatherwise.Ah me! what presages it seesIn those watery Hyades. Arab Love Song The hunchèd camels of the night*Trouble the... more...

BEDLAM, or Bethlehem Hospital, the first English lunatic asylum, originally founded by Simon FitzMary, sheriff of London, in 1247, as a priory for the sisters and brethren of the order of the Star of Bethlehem. It had as one of its special objects the housing and entertainment of the bishop and canons of St Mary of Bethlehem, the mother-church, on their visits to England. Its first site was in... more...

GASPARD MONGE'S MAUSOLEUM. (To the Editor of the Mirror.) Sir,—As one of your correspondents has favoured you with a drawing of the gaol I designed for the city and county of Norwich, with which you have embellished a recent number of the MIRROR, I flatter myself that an engraving from the drawing I herewith send you of the mausoleum of Gaspard Monge, which I drew while at Paris, in 1822, will... more...

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD. AN ADAPTATION. BY ORPHEUS C. KERR. CHAPTER XXIV. MR. CLEWS AT HIS NOVEL. Thrown into Rembrandtish relief by the light of a garish kerosene lamp upon the table: with one discouraged lock of hair hanging over his nose, and straw hat pushed so far back from his phrenological brow that its vast rim had the fine artistic effect of a huge saintly nimbus: Mr. BUMSTEAD sat... more...

THE GAME OF THE LITTLE HORSES. (A Sketch at the Casino, Dinard.) On either side of the circular Race-course, with its revolving metal horses, is a Green Table, divided into numbered squares, around which the Players, who are mostly English, are sitting or standing. A Croupier with his rake presides at each table. In an obscure corner of the balcony outside, Miss DAINTREE and her Married Sister have... more...

Voltaire's Chateau, at Ferney. Voltaire is the bronze and plaster poet of France. Cheek by jowl with Rosseau, (their squabbles are forgotten in the roll of fame), you see him perched on mantel, bracket, ecritoire, and bookcase: in short, their effigies are as common as the plaster figures of Shakspeare and Milton are in England. How far the rising generation of France may profit by their household... more...

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ROB'S NAVY. BY W. O. STODDARD. The tide was just out on the Staten Island shore, and the water in the little cove below Mr. Drake's residence was as smooth as a pan of milk with the cream on. Nothing in the shape of a ship ought to have tipped over in such water as that. So Rob Drake had thought, but every time he shoved his new ship away from the flat rock at the head of the cove, over she... more...

HOW TO THROW OFF AN ARTICLE. "Do you really write?" said Sylvia, gazing at me large-eyed with wonder. I admitted as much. "And do they print it just as you write it?" "Well, their hired grammarians make a few trifling alterations to justify their existence." "And do they pay you quite a lot?" "Sixpence a word." "Oo! How wonderful!" "But not for every... more...

A NEW ATLANTIS. The New Year's debts are paid, the May-day moving is over and settled, and still a remnant of money is found sticking to the bottom of the old marmalade pot. Where shall we go? There is nothing like the sea. Shall it be Newport? But Newport is no longer the ocean pure and deep, in the rich severity of its sangre azul. We want to admire the waves, and they drag us off to inspect the... more...