LES NEIGES D'ANTAN.

WHERE be the snows of last winter fled?
Gone with the hawthorn was white in spring;
The rose in summer that flushed so red;
The hedgerow's heedless blossoming,
With every flow'ret might climb or cling.
Where now the lily's fair head held high;
The peony proud, and the lowly ling?
Death deceiveth if none may die-

What though Eurydice twice is sped;

Dust she who tempted the aspic's sting?

Though Maries of Scotland, of France, have bled,
Is Eliza Queen, or Orléans King?

May aught be altered of anything?
Like hours tread on the hours that fly-
Foregone masques it as following-
Death deceiveth where none may die.

Who shall say in blest Beatrix stead
Ne'er to her like sonneteer shall sing;
That Penelope's fellow has ne'er been wed;
Andromeda bound by a golden ring?
Surely from ashes of those shall spring
Some sister twin since aslant the sky
Fall'n snows uprisen come showering?
Death deceiveth when none may die.

ENVOI.

Villon; your answer the seasons bring-
All remain-although each pass by;
Time hath renewing of everything—
Death deceiveth, for none may die.

VOL. XXXI-NO. 182, N.S.

C. J. D.

12

THACKERAY, MY CHILDHOOD'S FRIEND.

BY LA MARCHESA PERUZZI DE MEDICI.

It was in Rome in the year 1854 that I first remember seeing Mr. Thackeray. Sorrow had come into our home. My eldest brother, a beautiful promising child, had died after a few days' illness. When the last moments came Mrs. Browning, the warm friend of my mother, took me away to her house, as my mother and father were overwhelmed with grief and their little girl was helpless at such a moment. I remember, not quite understanding why, I was to share Pen's supper, and remained with the Brownings, but I was happily unconscious of the grief my dear ones were in. I think it was the next day that I, too, began to be ill with fever, and I was afterwards taken back to my home, where I lay dangerously ill for many days and weeks. Then came a long convalescence, with its constant ups and downs and ever-returning fever. Mr. Thackeray was in Rome with his two little daughters, and his warm friendship for my father and mother brought him often to the sorrowing house, and when I was out of danger my mother called him to see mea little fragile child just coming back to life. From that time forward he was a constant visitor. He seemed to me like a great benevolent giant when he first came into the room, but even at first my child's heart went out to him. There seemed no distance between us; and I can see him to-day as I saw him then his large powerful frame dominated by his great head; the steadfast eyes and his gold spectacles in my child mind the only thing that showed he was not a real giant.

It was a black day when the dear giant did not come, and my restless eyes were often turned to the door in expectancy. It seemed quite natural that he should come where he was so much wanted, and I could not then appreciate what in afteryears I felt so deeply-what a great-hearted man he was, knowing all the overwhelming, all-absorbing interests of Rome and

his many friends that he put aside when he came into the halfdarkened room where the little feeble child lay in her white bed. He used to sit on the edge of the bed or draw his chair close up to it, and, joy of joys, he brought, chapter by chapter, to read to me The Rose and the Ring.' After he had done reading we talked of the people in the story-they were real people to me and to him. I used to hold the pages, written in that small handwriting we all know so well, and then it did not seem to me as if a great giant could write so small,' but I thought he must have called in a fairy scribe; and as he did not answer, but only smiled, when I told him so, I half thought it must be the case!

Sometimes he would say, 'Now you must tell me a little story to amuse me,' and I tried my best to recall something he would like, that I had heard, or invent a little tale. At these times he would sit by the table and draw some illustration of what I was telling him, in pen and ink. Those little drawings were, I deeply regret to say, lost, as afterwards I was again very ill and hastily taken away from Rome. Only one remains Zackeray Hubs and his foxtree teapot.' The story has faded from my memory. Only the quaint little drawing can speak for itself, with the master's touch and humour.

Those days with their memories and gleams of sunshine were drawing to an end. The steadfast tramp of my little friend Pen Browning, who was acting as sentinel outside my door with his toy gun to prevent other horrid maladies from coming in,' ceased also, and the visits of my friend the giant of goodness. When he came to tell me he was going away, he promised that The Rose and the Ring' should be printed, and then he would give me the first copy, as well as that written in the fairy writing. This hope filled me with joy.

When next I saw my great good friend it was in Paris. My father and mother had taken an apartment in the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, and he was living not far off with his mother, Mrs. Carmichael Smith, and his little daughters.

That year Robert Lytton (Owen Meredith) was my father and mother's guest for the greater part of the winter. He was in Paris attaché at the British Embassy, but was induced by the friendship he had for my father, and their many congenial pursuits, to make his home with them. My mother

often had breakfast-parties, and I remember watching from my window the arrival of the guests, as of course my child life was quite out of such things. I remember seeing Madame Mohl arrive all in grey, with a huge bonnet and dancing papillote curls. She would come hurrying up with her tiny feet and quick step, and once was in such a hurry to get out of the omnibus that she jumped into a puddle, and had to take refuge in my room to get dry. I remember M. de Tocqueville, who pinched my cheek very hard; and I remember the calm sweet face of Lady Augusta Bruce (afterwards Lady Augusta Stanley), Lady Charlotte Locker, Lady Charlotte Bruce, but I never was called into the drawing-room unless my great friend came. Then he insisted on having me; and even in this very pleasant company, which must have been full of good talk, he managed to get a quiet moment for me, when he listened with much gravity and attention to the enumeration of the great qualities of my favourite doll and all the little doings that filled up my life. My mother told me that one day she found that I had taken him into her room and was showing him some baby clothes that seemed mysterious to me, as the maid had told me 'c'est pour l'arrivée du petit frère.' He was bending over the little garments with a baby's sock in his hand when she came suddenly upon us. Of course, in the years to come we were often in England, and always used to see him. He came to the country at Walton-on-Thames, where my father had taken a cottage, and always showed me the same friendship and kindness. Also in America, where we went to my grandmother's, he came, and I then began to feel that he was something beyond. my great friend, and that he had written great books for big people, not only The Rose and the Ring.' He brought me a book of ballads and, after the old fashion, tipped my brother Waldo, whom he always called Henry the Eighth from his burly good looks, with a sovereign.

My friendship with Annie and Minnie, his daughters, became a very true and lasting one. The last time I remember seeing him was one day when I went to Palace Green to lunch with them. At table a spasm of pain came into his face, and he went at once into the other room, where we followed. He suffered terribly, and I sat awestruck in a corner watching the others, who seemed able to help him when I could do nothing.

After a time the pain subsided, he opened his eyes and saw my anxious face, silent in tears. He called, Edy Ochiltree, come to me at once; you see, it is nothing, child.'

In these days, when laurel crowns and palms will be brought in his honour, I only bring in tribute to his great tender heart a daisy-chain from the child Edith Story.