more formally followed the Cyropædia,' the great patriarch of political romance: 'Les Voyages de Cyrus,' and 'Le Répos de Cyrus,' both of which are conversant about that interval between the sixteenth and fortieth years of the life of Cyrus, of which Xenophon does not give any narration. The former is by the Chevalier Ramsay, the friend of Fénélon, and tutor to the sons of the Pretender; and both appeared in France early in the eighteenth century. Kindred to these, as showing men living and having their being in institutions of an unrealized excellence may be mentioned the 'Sethos' of the Abbé Terrasson, whilst the universally admired Telemachus' of Fénélon will scarcely need suggestion. The age of Utopias is, we fancy, for the present, pretty well over. With improving and more paternal governments, with the practical associations and pursuits of a busy and rapid time, men now-a-days rather criticise and volunteer amendments of existing codes, than project fancy constitutions. But if, in the cycles of the world, it should ever again reach a point analogous to any former Utopia-producing station, we may prophesy that it will be a station resembling that of the ancient projectors rather than like that of the modern ones. Plato and Xenophon protected the rights of the few against the rough-shod, hundred-handed spoliations of the many. More and his English followers gave prominent assertion to the claims of the many against the grinding tyranny of the few. The next Utopia, which is dimly discoverable in the possibilities of the future, will be reactionary against a galling and despotic democracy. Meanwhile we console ourselves with the omens of a time, which happily is already half present with us, when, as a best-possible government, the few shall patriotically and philanthropically legislate in the interests of the many. In this faith and hope we pass on with eyes unaverted to the practical trials and failures of hole-and-corner Utopianism, and leave the Phalanstery and the Pantisocracy to the worship of the umbilicani, their creators and patrons. A. H. G. TWO CHARADES, BY THE LATE T. K. HERVEY. (The Answers will be given in the April Number.) I. HE merry days! when through the air THE Of each bright summer's morn, To my First rode knight and lady fair, With hawk and hound and horn:When on the horseman's brow was pride, And in his heart a sigh, For his lady-love was by his side, And my Whole was the boundless sky! Through paths that led by pleasant streams, Which made their pathway sweet, As they kissed, with murmurs dim as dreams, The silver bells rang soft and clear, Oh! sweeter far than bells! A merry sport! that lighted well He only felt where sunshine fell As he touched the rein of her palfrey fleet, The jesses from her falcon's feet, Away-away, the gallant bird, Did, then, that gentle lady see No light but heaven's there? Did heart and hawk both wander free Did she, in spirit, set apart No low and pleading tone From all those sounds?-and had her heart Ah, me!-the fancies sent on high, Turn earthward, oft,-how soon! And looks that seem to search the sky 'Twas up to the cloud-land far away That my First, in the old time, beckoned, Well! those, in sooth, were pleasant days! Along the sportsman's sun-bright ways, For all man's peaceful sports and sweet II. A DIADEM for the mountain's brow: At the mountain's foot a shroud, Which unseen hands in the air have spun From the heart of the cold grey cloud, When the streams have stopped, and the flowers are dead : If you name me these, my First is said. When the winds are at war about my First, For the south wind slays what the north has nurst, At the poles of the earth it never dies: On the line it has never been born; And it takes the life from the cold night skies Of all earth's creature forms, the one That gets no blessing from the sun. But the solemn stars on its state look bright, And lives by nature's death, That the run of the rill refreshes not, Nor Spring's renewing breath,— That cloud makes clear, and dense makes light, - That sunshine sickens,-falling, forms, And God and nature feed on storms. My First is the child of my Second, And my Second the child of my First, Though the spirits are foes who bred the twain, Of my Second my spectral First was born, And my First to my Second, in turn, gives birth, At the kiss of the sunbeam's fire. My tiny Second!-without a sound, A thousand will dance in a goblet's round; Yet the fathomless sea, in its calms or storms, Is made of my Second's tiny forms,— And a truth as large in its sphere lies furled And lo!-where my Whole hath its cerements burst, The angel sounds, and the trumpet call Hath wakened its heart in the clod-like earth; It lifts up a fold of the winter pall, And-white as a saint that the grave gives forthPeers through the ruin around it spread, And sees the sunshine overhead! Type of the Promise!-Stoop, my soul! And read the riddle of my Whole! -When the rock which my prisoned Second tears, Shall be eaten away by the hunger of years, When the restless seas my Second forms- Or yield my First for a winter's pall, Thou, like my Whole, shalt break thy tomb; THE STORY OF A DISHONOURED BILL: A Landon Narrative. IN THREE CHAPTERS.-CHAPTER I. 'JUST FOR FORM'S SAKE-PERFECTLY NOMINAL.' IF you grow so confoundedly shabby and down in the mouth about such a trifle as forty pounds, I'll never have any more business transactions with you.' 'I shall be very glad if you keep to that resolution, Findlater; it's rather good to talk of business transactions with me.' 'Don't be sulky, Woods, or I shall think you a fool, even if I don't call: you one. Be thankful to have been reclaimed from milksopism. Why, a fellow's twice the man he was after he's done a bill. It's a part of life, man-life, that you're always talking about and longing for liberty in.' 'I wonder what my father would say? said poor Woods, dismally. He was a good-looking young fellow, with blue eyes and curly hair, and a face that certainly ought to have been a merry one. His companion, Mr. Findlater, an older man, was tall and pale, with small cunning black eyes, and an expression that seemed to be telling his features he was quite satisfied with them. He took Woods' arm, and a contemptuous smile curled his thin lips. Oh, I forgot, you are the good boy of your family, are you not?the industrious clerk who is going to be Lord Mayor of London, and you don't like to lose your character.' 'I wish you could be serious, Findlater.' I was just going to be quite sedate, and to inform you that although your respected father may, as in duty bound, look a little grave when you ask him to stump up-if such a very improbable event should occur-I take him to be too much a man of the world not to be aware that no fellow ever made his way in life without bills. It's so humdrum to pay the "ready" for every thing you have-to say nothing of the excitement of a bill when the day comes round.' I can't help it, Findlater; you may think me a fool or not, as you please. I was a cursed idiot-when I have kept pretty free from debt myself-to put my hand to another man's bit of paper, even for such a friend as you are.' You'll get used to it, Jack: besides, my risk is sixty pounds, and my. Ascot book's a fearfully heavy one, so I ought to feel more nervous than you do; but I tell you there's no risk at all. If the worst comes to the worst, we'll renew on the 1st of July for three months.' "You told me you'd renewed already.' 'Well, and if I have, old Franklyn trusts me implicitly. I might renew to the end of time, if I chose.' 'And that tremendous interest going on accumulating. No, thank you; I may be a fool, as I said before, but you must promise me to take this up on the 1st of July; there's nearly three weeks,' he said, with a sigh of relief. The friends soon parted. John Woods went home to his chambers in the amiable temper that always possesses a man when he is conscious of having of his own free act and deed committed a great folly. He was the younger son of a country clergyman, of small means, and had only been about a year in London as one of the junior clerks among the hive of hardworked bees that inhabit, or rather labour, six hours a day in our government offices. Mr. Findlater-one of his official companions--had spoken the truth when he said John Woods was the hope of his family; his elder brother Richard (there were only these two brothers and a sister) had been a great sorrow to his parents. He had no actual vicious propensity, but an amount of daring and selfwill that made him quite unmanageable. He ran away from his first school because he did not like strict rules; he was expelled from the next on account of his wild pranks and complete insubordination to superiors. His uncle, on the mother's side, Mr. Barron, liked the boy, and had at one time thought of making him his heir; but this public expulsion stirred the old man's pride. 'Send him to sea, Woods,' he wrote to his brother-in-law, in answer to the sad news the latter had communicated; it is the only chance for such a wild young scamp; it will at any rate rid our family of the disgrace he may bring upon us here. I fear, with yours and Theresa's gentle notions, he has been brought up on the "Spare the rod and spoil the child" system; look to Master Jack in time, and let him at least be a credit to us.' Perhaps the parents took uncle Barron's advice; at any rate Master Jack grew up a very steady youth: without his brother Richard's ready wit, and facility for getting out of a scrape, but with the far more valuable equivalent-of showing no aptitude to fall into one. In sending him to London, his father had given him two cautions: 'Keep out of debt; and be careful in your choice of friends.' The first he had hitherto obeyed; but now, in the solitude of his dingy London lodgings, he asked himself what he knew about Findlater, and the answer did not make him feel more satisfied with his rashness. He was agreeable and gentlemanlike, much quieter than many of the others; he had been very kind, too, in offering to lend him money; and although the offer had never been accepted, still, one day when Findlater had treated him to a luxurious dinner and much better wine than he was accustomed to drink, Jack had found it impossible to say no, when his friend asked him, just for form's sake, to put his name to a bit of paper. He had the sense to ask its object, and was told it was perfectly nominal-that there was no risk unless he considered him, Find later, a pickpocket; in that case he had made himself responsible for forty pounds. At first he had not thought much about it; but a week or so before the conversation just detailed, he had been reading a novel by a popular author, in which all the misfortunes of the principal character arose from his having incautiously signed his name to another man's bill. Forty pounds, he knew, was a trifling sum to many people, but he had promised his father and himself that he would not spend more than his allowance during his first year in London, and this was exactly one hundred pounds. His sister Fanny was to be married in September, and he had calculated on making her a handsome present. Oh! it was absurd folly to worry himself. Findlater was not a pickpocket; still, it would be pleasanter to have an explanation. We know how unsatisfactory the explanation had proved. A week afterwards, Findlater was summoned into the country by the illness of an uncle who had appointed him his heir: the last time Woods met him he nodded, and passed on, but told him, in answer to his inquiry about the length of his visit, that he should be back on the 29th of June. He was in another department of the office to Woods, so that they did not often meet. On the morning of the 30th of June, Jack called on his friend long before office hours: he inhabited a luxurious set of rooms at the West End. The porter said Mr. Findlater had returned from the country about a week previously, and now, having got his holidays, was gone abroad. 'But he must have left a message of some kind or other for me.' 'No, sir. He said, tell any one who may call, that I'm gone abroad for some weeks, and that Mr. Cartland has recovered.' Woods stared at the man as if he did not understand him. Good heavens! what was he to do? Forty pounds! Why, he had not ten pounds in ready money, and the |