Man has no port, nor has time any shore; She paused: our hearts speak through our ardent eyes, Up to a world more fair. And now we cease to speak; in sweet eclipse Our senses lie, weighed down with all love's store; Great Heaven! can then these moments of delight, Eternity, the Darkness, and the Past, What have you done with all you've made your prey? Answer us! will you render back at last What have snatched away? you O lake, O silent rocks, O verdurous green! - At least a memory true! A memory in thy storms and thy repose, O lake! and where thy smiling waters lave In the soft breeze that sighs and then is gone, That moaning winds, and reeds that clashing strike, FAR FROM THE WORLD. FAR from the faithless and the wicked world, Behold the rocks, the forests, and the shores, There seek at last for peace within thyself; Love nothing but the blue sky that loves thee, To wounded hearts, nature is ever sweet, THE TEMPLE. (From "History of the Girondists.") WE left Louis XVI. at the threshold of the Temple where Pétion had conducted him, without his being able to know as yet whether he entered there as suspended from the throne or as a prisoner. This uncertainty lasted some days. The Temple was an ancient and dismal fortress, built by the monastic Order of Templars, at the time when sacerdotal and military theocracies, uniting in revolt against princes with tyranny toward the people, constructed for themselves forts for monasteries, and marched to dominion by the double power of the cross and the sword. After their fall their fortified dwelling had remained standing, as a wreck of past times neglected by the present. The chateau of the Temple was situated near the Faubourg St. Antoine, not far from the Bastile; it inclosed with its buildings, its palace, its towers, and its gardens, a vast space of solitude and silence, in the center of a most densely populated quarter. The buildings were composed of a prieuré, or palace of the Order, the apartments of which served as an occasional dwelling for the Comte d'Artois, when that prince came from Versailles to Paris. This dilapidated palace contained apartments furnished with ancient movables, beds, and linen for the suite of the prince. A porter and his family were its only hosts. A garden surrounded it, as empty and neglected as the palace. At some steps from this dwelling was the donjon of the chateau, once the fortification of the Temple. Its abrupt, dark mass rose on a simple spot of ground toward the sky; two square towers, the one larger, the other smaller, were united to each other like a mass of walls, each one having at its flank other small suspended towers, in former days crowned with battlements at their extremity, and these formed the principal group of this construction. Some low and more modern buildings abutted upon it, and served, by disappearing in its shade, to raise its height. This donjon and tower were constructed of large stones, cut in Paris, the excoriations and cicatrices of which marbled the walls with yellow, livid spots, upon the black ground which the rain and snow incrust upon the large buildings of the north of France. The large tower, almost as high as the towers of a cathedral, was not less than sixty feet from the base to the top. It inclosed within its four walls a space of thirty square feet. An enormous pile of masonry occupied the center of the tower, and rose almost to the point of the edifice. This pile, larger and wider at each story, leaned its arches upon the exterior walls, and formed four successive arched roofs, which contained four guard-rooms. These halls communicated with other hidden and more narrow places cut in the towers. The walls of the edifice were nine feet thick. The embrasures of the few windows which lighted it, very large at the entrance of the hall, sunk, as they became narrow, even to the cross work of stone, and left only a feeble and remote light to penetrate into the interior. Bars of iron darkened these apartments still further. Two doors, the one of doubled oakwood very thick, and studded with large diamond-headed nails; the other plated with iron, and fortified with bars of the same metal, divided each hall from the stair by which one ascended to it. This staircase rose in a spiral to the platform of the edifice. Seven successive wickets, or seven solid doors, shut by bolt and key, were ranged from landing to landing, from the base to the terrace. At each one of these wickets a sentinel and a keybearer were on guard. An exterior gallery crowned the summit of the donjon. One made here ten steps at each turn. The least breath of air howled there like a tempest. The noises of Paris mounted there, weakening as they came. Thence the eye ranged freely over the low roofs of the quarter Saint Antoine, or the streets of the Temple, upon the dome of the Pantheon, upon the towers of the cathedral, upon the roofs of the pavilions of the Tuileries, or upon the green hills of Issy, or of Choisyle-Roi, descending, with their villages, their parks, and their meadows, toward the course of the Seine. The small tower stood with its back to the large one. It had also two little towers upon each of its flanks. It was equally square, and divided into four stories. No interior communication existed between these two contiguous edifices; each had its separate staircase; an open platform crowned this tower in place of a roof, as on the donjon. The first story inclosed an antechamber, an eating-hall, and a library of old books collected by the ancient priors of the Temple, or serving as a depot for the refuse of the libraries of the Comte d'Artois; the second, third, and fourth stories offered to the eye the same disposition of apartments, the same nakedness of wall, and the same dilapidation of furniture. The winds whistled there, the rain fell across the broken panes, the swallow flew in there at pleasure; no beds, sofas, or hangings were there. One or two couches for the assistant jailers, some broken straw-bottom chairs, and earthen vessels in an abandoned kitchen, formed the whole of the furniture. Two low-arched doors, whose freestone moldings represented a bundle of pillars, surmounted by broken escutcheons of the Temple, led to the vestibule of these two towers. Large alleys paved with flagstones surrounded the building; these were separated by barriers of planks. The garden was overgrown with vegetation - thick with coarse herbs, and choked by heaps of stones and gravel, the relics of demolished buildings. A high and dull wall, like that of a cloister, made the place still more gloomy. This wall had only one outlet, at the extremity of a long alley on the Vieille Ru du Temple. Such were the exterior aspect and interior disposition of this abode, when the owners of the Tuileries, Versailles, and Fontainebleau arrived at nightfall. These deserted halls no longer expected tenants since the Templars had left them, to go to the funeral pile of Jacques de Molay. These pyramidal towers, empty, cold, and mute for so many ages, more resembled the chambers of a pyramid in the sepulcher of a Pharaoh of the West than a residence. CHARLES LAMB. CHARLES LAMB, an English poet, critic, and humorist, born in the Crown Office Row, in the Temple, London, Feb. 10, 1775; died at Edmonton, a suburb of London, Dec. 27, 1834. He was educated at Christ's Hospital, Coleridge being one of his school-fellows. At the age of fourteen he was employed as a clerk in the South Sea House; and three years later he received an appointment in the accountant's office of the East India Company, a position which he held for more than thirty years, until 1825, when he was suffered to retire with a life annuity of £450. Lamb commenced his literary career by putting forth, in conjunction with Coleridge and Lloyd, a volume of poems (1797); the next year he wrote "Rosamond Gray," a prose tale, and still later "John Woodville," a drama. In 1808 he published "Specimens of English Dramatic Poets," who flourished nearly contemporary with Shakspeare. But by far the most notable of his writings are the "Essays of Elia," begun in 1820, and continued until 1833. Lamb's cheerful philosophy of life, his genuine and spontaneous humor, and the easy grace of his style, are as grateful to readers of to-day as to those of two generations ago. He twice attempted dramatic composition, but without success. With his sister Mary Lamb (1765-1847) he wrote "Tales from the Plays of Shakspeare (1807), intended for youthful readers, with whom it has ever since been a favorite work.' 1 1 -not bats A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST-PIG. ༴་་་་ ་་ MANKIND, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' Holiday. The manuscript goes on to say that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder |