THE DISH WITH A COVER.

MRS. G. LINNEUS BANKS.

[Formerly Isabella Varley, was born in Manchester, 1821, and married to Mr. G. Linnæus Banks, 1846. Was for many years an active contributor to the local periodical literature, in conjunction with Charles Swain, John Critchley Prince, Samuel Bamford, and others, and is eulogized in glowing terms in "Evans's Lancashire Authors and Orators." Mrs. Banks's first work, "Ivy Leaves" (Simpkin and Marshall), a collection of poems, was published in 1844, and very favourably received by the critics. For many years all traces of her pen disappeared from public view; latterly, however, she has resumed the use of it, and with signal effect. Her "God's Providence House, a Story of 1791," in three vols. issued by Bentley during the past summer, and now running through a second edition, is entitled to rank amongst the most genuinely meritorious and successful novels of the year. Mrs. Banks is, in addition, a contributor to " Temple Bar," and other first-class serials.]

I SING a song of an earthenware dish,

But whether it held or fowl or fish,

Or something not so daintyish,

Was a secret hid by the cover.

"Twas held by a hand, with a glove of kid,
Was that earthenware dish with the friendly lid,
But what that dish or drapery hid

Could not be seen through the cover.

A footman opened the mansion gate
To let out the lady, who carried in state
That something to put on a cottager's plate,
Which was hid by the friendly cover.
By the longest path, in the open day,
That lady and dish went their public way;
But was it charity or display

Brought round that dish with the cover?

That lady-like hand must needs be strong,
Since she carried the dish so far and long,
That the something meant for spoon or prong
Went cold underneath the cover.

If the hearts that beat in a cottage home
Have pulses like those 'neath a lordly dome,
Pain, as well as a dinner, might come

On that dish beneath the cover.

Kindness of heart might prompt the deed,
To help the sick or the poor in their need,
But one article in our Christian creed

Says "Do thine alms under cover!"

The mantle wide to cover our sin,
Is not to flaunt o'er the highways in,
But to wear unseen by kith or kin

When we carry a dish with a cover.

That lady's gift might be great or small,
But coming in state, as it did, from the Hall,
It seemed to come with a trumpet call

For the passers to gaze at the cover.

But here let us spread the mantle wide,
And hope that the dish contained inside
A dinner without a spice of pride

To poison it under a cover.

And be it by each and all confest,
There are secret motives in every breast,
Acts do not always the heart attest-
Each carries a dish with a cover.

(By permission of the Author.)

ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.

M. VICTOR HUGO.

[Marie-Victor, Vicomte Hugo, was born at Besançon, Feb. 26, 1802 his father was a colonel in the army of Napoleon. He commenced his literary career, as a poet, in 1819. In 1827 he duced a drama called "Cromwell," and in 1829 his singular

"Last Days of a Condemned Criminal," in which the anti

cipated tortures of a man condemed to execution were worked up to sensation point, and which caused it to be a great success. M. Hugo introduced political allusions into the dramas he subsequently wrote, and was long at war with the authorities. In January, 1832, his play "Le Roi s'amuse," was produced at the Théâtre Français, and next day interdicted by the Government. He then went still deeper into politics; was created a peer of France by Louis Philippe, and elected President of the Peace Congress in 1849. His celebrated novel, "Notre Dame de Paris," has been translated into most European languages.

Since 1852 Victor Hugo, exiled from France, has resided in Jersey and Guernsey, where he completed his works, "Napoleon le Petit," and "Les Châtimens." He is much respected in his exile-home, and is very charitable to the poor of the island.]

“Gentlemen,—My emotion cannot be expressed. You will be indulgent if words fail me. If I had only to reply to the honourable chief magistrate of Brussels, my task would be easy; I would only have to repeat what is in all your minds. I need only be an echo, but how can I thank the other eloquent and cordial voices which have spoken of me? By the side of those great publishers to whom we owe the fruitful idea of a universal publishing house—a kind of preparatory bond between nations-I see journalists, philosophers, eminent writers, the honour of literature, the honour of the civilized continent. I am troubled and confused at finding myself the centre of such a fête of intellect, and at seeing so much honour reflected upon me, who am but a conscience accepting a duty, a heart resigned to sacrifice. How can I thank you? how shake hands with you all together? The means are simple. What do you all-writers, journalists, publishers, printers, publicists, thinkers-represent? All the energy of intelligence, all the forms of publicity; you are mind -Legion-you are the new organ of a new society— you are the press. I propose a toast to the press-to the press of all nations to a free press-to a press powerful, glorious, and fertile. Gentlemen, the press is the light of the social world, and wherever there is light there is something of Providence. Thought is something more than a right; it is the very breath of

If the hearts that beat in a cottage home
Have pulses like those 'neath a lordly dome,
Pain, as well as a dinner, might come

On that dish beneath the cover.

Kindness of heart might prompt the deed,
To help the sick or the poor in their need,
But one article in our Christian creed

Says "Do thine alms under cover!"

The mantle wide to cover our sin,
Is not to flaunt o'er the highways in,
But to wear unseen by kith or kin

When we carry a dish with a cover.

That lady's gift might be great or small,
But coming in state, as it did, from the Hall,
It seemed to come with a trumpet call

For the passers to gaze at the cover.

But here let us spread the mantle wide,
And hope that the dish contained inside
A dinner without a spice of pride

To poison it under a cover.

And be it by each and all confest,
There are secret motives in every breast,
Acts do not always the heart attest-
Each carries a dish with a cover.

(By permission of the Author.)

ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.

M. VICTOR HUGO.

[Marie-Victor, Vicomte Hugo, was born at Besançon, Feb. 26, 1802 his father was a colonel in the army of Napoleon. He commenced his literary career, as a poet, in 1819. In 1827 he produced a drama called "Cromwell," and in 1829 his singular work, "Last Days of a Condemned Criminal," in which the anti

cipated tortures of a man condemed to execution were worked up to sensation point, and which caused it to be a great success. M. Hugo introduced political allusions into the dramas he subsequently wrote, and was long at war with the authorities. In January, 1832, his play "Le Roi s'amuse," was produced at the Théâtre Français, and next day interdicted by the Government. He then went still deeper into politics; was created a peer of France by Louis Philippe, and elected President of the Peace Congress in 1849. His celebrated novel, "Notre Dame de Paris," has been translated into most European languages.

Since 1852 Victor Hugo, exiled from France, has resided in Jersey and Guernsey, where he completed his works, "Napoleon le Petit," and "Les Châtimens." He is much respected in his exile-home, and is very charitable to the poor of the island.]

"GENTLEMEN,-My emotion cannot be expressed. You will be indulgent if words fail me. If I had only to reply to the honourable chief magistrate of Brussels, my task would be easy; I would only have to repeat what is in all your minds. I need only be an echo, but how can I thank the other eloquent and cordial voices which have spoken of me? By the side of those great publishers to whom we owe the fruitful idea of a universal publishing house—a kind of preparatory bond between nations-I see journalists, philosophers, eminent writers, the honour of literature, the honour of the civilized continent. I am troubled and confused at finding myself the centre of such a fête of intellect, and at seeing so much honour reflected upon me, who am but a conscience accepting a duty, a heart resigned to sacrifice. How can I thank you? how shake hands with you all together? The means are simple. What do you all-writers, journalists, publishers, printers, publicists, thinkers-represent? All the energy of intelligence, all the forms of publicity; you are mind -Legion-you are the new organ of a new societyyou are the press. I propose a toast to the press-to the press of all nations-to a free press-to a press powerful, glorious, and fertile. Gentlemen, the press is the light of the social world, and wherever there is light there is something of Providence. Thought is something more than a right; it is the very breath of