And summer flowers, he was not the same.
Half guessing at the shadow of his pain,
And then contented if lie smiled again,
A sad cold smile, that pass'd in tears away,
As re-assured she ran once more to play.
And now each year that added grace to grace,
Fresh bloom and sunshine to the young girl's face,
Brought a strange light in the musician's eyes,
As if lie saw some starry hope arise,
Breaking upon the midnight of sad skies;
It might be so: more feeble year by year,
The wanderer to his resting-place drew near.
One day the Gloria he could play no more,
Echoed its grand rejoicing as of yore.
His hands were clasp'd, his weary head was laid,
Upon the tomb where the White Maiden pray'd;
Where the child's love first dawn'd, his soul first spoke
The old man's heart there throbb'd its last and broke.
The grave cathedral that had nursed his youth,
Had helped his dreaming, and had taught him truth,
Had seen his boyish grief and baby tears,
And watch'd the sorrows and the joys of years,
Had lit his fame and hope with sacred rays,
And consecrated sad and happy days,
Had bless'd his happiness, and soothed his pain,
Now took her faithful servant home again.
He rests in peace, some travellers mention yet
An organist whose name they all forget:
He has a holier and a nobler fame
By poor men's hearths, who love and bless the name
Of a kind friend; and in low tones to-day,
Speak tenderly of him who pass'd away.
Too poor to help the daughter of their friend,
They grieved to see the little pittance end;
To see her toil and strive with cheerful heart,
To bear the lonely orphan's struggling part;
They grieved to see her go at last alone
To English kinsmen she had never known:
And here she came; the foreign girl soon found
Welcome, and love, and plenty all around,
And here she pays it back with earnest will,
By well-taught housewife watchfulness and skill,
Deep in her heart she holds her father's name,
And tenderly and proudly keeps his fame;
And while she works with thrifty Belgian care,
Past dreams of childhood float upon the air;
Some strange old chant, or solemn Latin hymn
That echoed through the old cathedral dim,
When as a little child each day she went
To kneel and pray by an old tomb in Ghent.

THE ROAD IN INDIA.

DASHING up to the station in a Hansom,
and finding oneself safe in a first-class railway
carriage, after a brief mandate to a porter
and a policeman on the subject of luggage, and
receiving some change and a piece of card
through a limited pigeon-hole, are very
different transactions to those imposed on a
traveller before he starts on a journey in
India. In the first place, he must inquire
whether he can go at all; and the affirmative
being ascertained, he must make
comprehensive arrangements to be as comfortable
as possible. I, who have made two
journeys from Calcutta to the Upper
Provinces, without counting occasional jaunts
of two or three hundred miles in deviating
directions, have learned that art of taking care
of oneself, which is the first thing to be
learnt in India, and am competent to be of
some use to society by imparting it.

The commencement of the process is this.
After becoming quite tired of Calcutta –
which happens in a very little time – you
inquire at one of the two principal Dâk
Companies, when you can manage to get
away. This depends upon the number of
candidates, and their proportion to the
number of carriages and horses along the road.
It is Monday, let us say, and you find that
on Tuesday Ensign Grift and Lieutenant
Green are going up a long way to join their
respective regiments (which the Ensign has
not yet joined at all) at some place the
name of which probably ends in " bad." On
the next day, a judge, who has just returned
from England, where he has spent two years
in abusing the climate, is also to go up the
country, with the determination to abuse
its climate still more. On the day following,
seven young ladies, who have all come out to
be married, by the last mail, are all travelling
in the same direction, under the care of seven
ayahs (female natives of the lady's-maid
persuasion), and have of course engrossed all the
unavailable horses on the route. On Thursday,
accommodation is graciously vouchsafed, and
the payment of one hundred and fifty or one
hundred and sixty rupees, if one is going
about as far as Agra (some eight hundred
miles) settles the rest. Of course we – I am
not writing editorially, but really mean that
I am not alone – of course we do not start
until night – nobody does; and of course we
make the starting as pleasant as possible.
We are dining out, probably, the same evening,
and the people of the house do their best
to make us comfortable. Have we everything
that we want? Are we warm enough?
Oh, yes. "We have a hamper, packed under
the licence of a very general order by
Spence's people (Spence's is the great hotel).
It is supposed to contain sherry and beer;
pale ale, of course; a little brandy; potted
meats, such as those which are so pleasantly
described in the Lancet; a tin case of
biscuits, another of tea, another of sugar,
and perhaps some concentrated soap. We
have plates and knives and forks; for in
these respects it is far better not to trust
to the chances of the road. As for
warmth, there is the resai, a padded counterpane,
with an exterior of soft crimson silk.
Still we must have something, and we contrive
to accommodate the people of the house by
accepting a corkscrew – which we have
forgotten, owing to our reminiscences of English
pic-nics – and a tumbler or two, which have
been also omitted in the arrangements.

The carriage is a square contrivance, painted
green or brown outside, according to the
prejudices of the respective companies. It
is on four wheels, and evinces other symptoms
of sanity, though in the article of
springs I must say it is singularly deficient.