predictions? When one of these individuals, for
instance, announces that a certain noble lord is
going out of office on a certain question, and when
the noble lord does not go out on that question or
any other, one would suppose that this gentleman's
next prophecy would be generally disregarded.
Not in the slightest degree.

Oh, Society! what sacrifices do people make
to thee; sacrifices of health, of comfort, of money,
of sleep, of digestion, of temper, of inclination.
And all for what? Apparently that they may
have the opportunity of standing upon a landing-
place and asking Mrs. Worldly Wiseman
whether she has seen The Duke's Motto, and
what she thinks of it—which, after all, does not
matter much—or whether she has attended
Professor Pepper's lecture at the Polytechnic, and
what she thinks of that—which, if possible,
matters still less. They get, too, the chance of
exchanging defiant stares with several gentlemen
who are possessed of a good command of
eye, whom they know perfectly well, and who
know them perfectly well, but who are as
determined as they are, not to bob first. And these
pastimes indulged in to the full, and a due
amount of iced coffee swallowed, they are at
liberty, being very hot, to cool themselves by
attending Mrs. Worldly Wiseman to her carriage,
bare-headed, with a keen north-easter blowing
into the hall, and then, at last, to depart. The
next morning their brains feel as if they had
been boiled, and their eyes as if they had been
roasted, their legs ache, they have a cold in the
head, and rheumatism in the tendon Achilles.

To judge by people's countenances, they none
of them enjoy themselves in society, and to
judge by their conversation, they all feel it
necessary to find an excuse for being there.
One has a daughter whom she is bound to escort,
into the world; another has a sick maternal aunt
at home who is amused by an account of the party.
One gentleman comes because he is out of health,
and his medical man recommends, nay
commands, him to have change and amusement;
another comes because it is his business to
observe men and manners, and so he is obliged to
go out. But they all dislike it; they all think
it an irrational thing; they go forth, impelled
by conscience and a keen sense of duty. In
not one of which excuses need the reader place
the slightest confidence.

                  BERLINGACCIO.

[The last Thursday in Carnival is called
Berlingaccio—a night of special revel throughout Italy,
when the gayest of the great public masked balls
always takes place.]

ON Mad-Thursday night,
     When the revel shrieks,
Boiling to its height
     Wave-like, ere it breaks;
Jostled by the crowd
     (Yet to vulgar touches
Cold as in her shroud),
     Stands Salviati's duchess,
Dreaming half aloud;
     Dreading what she seeks.

"Black from head to heel—
     Mantle, mask, and glove—
Scarce with life to feel
     If I loathe or love;
Still I watch the throng
     Shouting, whirling round me.
Oh! the hours are long
     Since this midnight found me
Muffling up my wrong
     From the blaze above!

"Masks are gibbering past,
     Blurred by misty sheen.
Ha! . . . the two . . . at last . . .
     Rather felt than seen!
Yet, I mark each line,
     Hue, and fold, and feature;
Even that curl of thine,
     Thou slight girlish creature!
Peeping, fair and fine,
     Mask and cape between.

"Now, he turns to speak,
     And, to her reply,
Smiling bends his cheek.
     Could they know 'tis I! . . .
Hush! his tones are true.
     No more need of feigning!
Love's old song grown new,
     Sweet beyond all training,
Runs its gamut through,
     As in days gone by!

"What! . . . persuade! . . . endure! . . .
     Down! weak thought of shame!
Were the winning sure,
     Would I win the game?
Is his smile, forsooth,
     Worth one smile to gain it?
Woman! . . . tell the truth!
     Thou wouldst, to obtain it,
Give thy shred of youth,
     And thy spotless name.

"There . . . the monstrous show
     Laps them, like a sea.
Much has been . . . I know . . .
     More has yet . . . to be! . . .
Still I watch the flood
     Battling, shrieking round me,
Cold . . . in mask and hood,
     As the midnight found me;
Standing, where they stood . . .
     Doubting . . . was it he?

"Fie! false abject soul,
     To thyself forsworn!
Wouldst thou shirk the goal?
     Drop the prey untorn?
Have I dogged his track,
     Mutely fiercely thirsting,
To be 'frighted back
     By a heart-string bursting,
Strained upon the rack
     'Twixt revenge and scorn?

"Man! one last weird tie
     Links us fast and tight.
Still I know thee nigh
     As I knew to-night.
Ay, thou, too, shalt own
     ('Mid thy flowery pleasance