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THE BRITISH HIERARCHY.--The Eternal Anarch, with his old waggling
addle-head full of mere windy rumor, and his old insatiable paunch
full of mere hunger and indigestion tragically blended, and the
hissing discord of all the Four Elements persuasively pleading to
him;--he, set to choose, would be very apt to vote for such a set of
demigods to you.--_Carlyle's Latter-Day Pamphlets_.

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[FROM BOHEMIAN POEMS, TRANSLATED BY A.H. WRAITSALL, M.A., JUST
PUBLISHED IN LONDON.]

Whither, oh, whither, now all things are over?
We to our journey and he to his home;
Eyes cannot pierce through the vail that must cover
Him whom we laid in the still silent tomb.
He hath but ended his journey before us,
We for a season are sojourning still
On the same earth with the same heaven o'er us,--
Turn we, oh, turn we, our tasks to fulfill!
Whither, oh, whither, now all things are ended?
We to our labor and he to his rest;
Let not the heart by its woe be offended,
Man seeks the pleasant, but God gives the best.

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