The Flaneur of the Morning Star in his Monday morning's contribution to that paper combines absurd twaddle with arrogant personality when he is not blundering in an awkward manner. There is an old adage, having reference to dwellers in glass-houses, which will well apply in his case. As a specimen of his agreeable style he entertains his readers with the account of a visit paid to one of the water-colour exhibitions by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who, says our jocose friend, "in a creased coat and trousers (evidently their first appearance since last summer), with that half-savage, halfastonished expression which makes him look like an angry hawk, and carrying his hat in his hand, rapidly looked half-round the room, made a purchase, and vanished!" As your Bohemian, we are given to gossip on all sorts of topics, at the risk of being smartly (?) personal; but we do not think we could beat this little bit, which is a fair specimen of the usual style of the Flaneur, who, by the way, informed us of the death of "Mr. Hetherington, one of the oldest academicians." Can this be Mr. | Witherington, R.A., whose decease we recorded ast month? One more instance of our friend's judgment occurs in his remarks on the dinner of the Newspaper Press Fund, when it is stated that the artists, who had given their services, were "naturally indignant" because they were not called upon. We venture to say that the expressions in the room, which were rather strong on the point, did not proceed from the artists themselves, but from those visitors who had anticipated the great musical treat which had been announced.

We turn to a more agreeable subject in referring to the Newspaper Press Fund, which is now an established fact. Dickens made a very manly speech, al'uding plainly enough to the attack of the Times, in which journal we looked in vain for a report of the proceedings. The room was crowded, and the subscriptions we are happy to say were announced to be £1,200. It has been stated to us as not unlikely that the Guild of Literature and Art and the Newspaper Press Fund may amalgamate.

It is not well (on the pretence of being wiser than one's neighbours) to give the names of a few of the pictures before they are sent into the

We may observe that an interesting exhibition of miniatures from private collections will be shortly held at the South Kensington Museum.

Mr. John Parry's sketches are being exhibited at McLean's Gallery in the Haymarket. It may not be generally known that Mr. Parry is now a regular contributor to Punch; we are also glad to notice that Mr. C. H. Bennett is at last on the staff of Punch artists. "Tom" Hood is now the editor of Fun, and an improvement therein is already visible: "Mrs. Brown" gives a very ludicrous account of her visit to the Royal Academy; and, with the old writers returned to it, this comic serial has every chance of regaining its former circulation, which was considerable. We wish that Mr. Hood (who is a gentleman) would call himself "Thomas," as the abbreviation is slightly infra dig, and unfortunately suggestive of the late "Sam" Cowell or the present "Harry" Boleno. We have read Captain Masters's Children," by Mr. Hood, with which we have been greatly pleased and interested.

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Poetry, prose, and painting have been well represented at old Drury, by Shakespere, Falconer, and Milton-one of the lessees stepping in for his benefit, sandwich-fashion, said lessee being, we must admit, generally prosy-Love's Ordeal and the O'Flahertys to wit; seriously, though, there has been no lack of patronage and appreciation, and a highly successful season has come to a close. We do not hear equally favourable reports of some of the other theatres, for instance the Lyceum and the Olympic. Mr. Fechter has been falling back upon revivals before closing, the "Mountebank" proving no very great catch (we cannot say why the " Lady of Lyons" was not produced), and the Olympic has, by all accounts, not added to its treasury by a recent American importation. We notice that "Leah" will be reproduced at the Adelphi, vice " Fazio" withdrawn, and that it "will be performed for twelve nights only, to afford the author (Dr. Mosenthal, of Vienna) an opportunity of witnessing the English version of this most popular modern drama," though we are not informed whether the doctor is desirous of seeing it "for twelve nights only:" that is to say, of being present at each representation. We should think not, and that its performance for a night or two would have answered the purpose. Dramatic talent is rarely hereditary: as exceptions we may mention Charles Mathews and Samuel Emery: as the rule we would quote the names of John Reeve and Harold Power, and we should be sorry to add that of F. Robson; so we will wait until we can

see him in something better than an imitation of his late father, which only calls up painful recollections, for which the author and the management rather than the actor should be held responsible, and which, we think, should have been studiously avoided; however, the public go out of curiosity to witness this unpleasant exhibition, which must be equally disagreeable (as it is unfair) to the poor young man, for whom we perceive that a farce by Maddison Morton is underlined, in which we hope Mr. Robson will strike out a line for himself, and that "Ulysses" will be withdrawn, since beyond the painful performance of the hero, great poverty of invention is displayed by the author. Minerva is decidedly not improved by being transplanted from the New Royalty, where the original notion was a humorous one; and Miss Charlotte Saunders, the only legitimate successor to Mrs. Keeley, is obliged to fall back upon her imitation of Napoleon I., out of a Strand burlesque by Byron, which is, on this occasion, amalgamated with one of the present Emperor, and to indulge in the everlasting "break down" of which we confess we are beginning to get a little weary.

We have often wondered why it should take two men to write a slight farce or piece de circonstance, and the dramatic critic of the Morning Star in noticing a similar production at the Strand, owns that this passes his comprehension, “unless," as he suggests, "one of them put

in some fun, and the other subsequently took it out again."

We would allude to the opening of the New Alexandra Theatre, Highbury Barn, where a burlesque by William Brough, entitled "Ernani," is nightly enacted; and we would also refer to two forthcoming events, one being the complimentary benefit to Mr. Leigh Murray, on the morning of Tuesday, the 27th June, at Drury Lane Theatre, under distinguished patronage; the other, that Mrs. R. Honner will shortly take her farewell of the stage. Mrs. Honner often played Black-eyed Susan to the William of the late Mr. T. P. Cooke, whose custom it was, of late years, to appear on the occasion of her benefit, to mark his regard for an old favourite; and now that she is about to retire from the profession she has so long adorned, we trust that the public will not be slow in responding to her final appeal.

Immediately after sending in our present communication in this anything but theatre-going weather, we are afraid that a friend will have sufficient influence to induce us to accompany him to witness "Brother Sam's" first appearance, particularly as we shall have to go early, and there is "Our Mary Anne" first. Under such depressing circumstances we are sure that your readers will cease to wonder at the extreme irritability of YOUR BOHEMIAN.

THE FLOWERS IN THE WINDOW.

BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.

A little, thin, tired, wistful face, looking out of the window--the back window of the tall, narrow, gloomy old house in Water-street.

Certainly there was nothing pleasant or attractive in the view which presented itself, nothing which could awaken any light in the sorrowful face of the child who looked at the scene. There were the back yards, with the little strips of sod den clay soil, where the pale sickly-looking grass grew sparse and scattered; and then there were the backs of the houses, close and frowning, and mouldy with age and neglect.

You had to stretch your neck to get a glimpse of the blessed sky from the window. There were no soft green vines to clothe the barrenness and decay; no flowers whose hearts thrilled out into bloom and fragrance for a living joy and beauty, as flowers always are. The old houses leaned over, with their rattling windows and broken blinds, with their dead-brown faces, dreary as any prison wall, and I think that the face of this little girl grew drearier as she gazed. ·

She was hardly out of her eleventh year, and her face looked pallid and sickly, with large brownish eyes that held some trouble in them, and seemed old beyond their time; and the

mouth had lost its trick of smiling, if it ever had one, and had settled into a kind of sorrowful patience that is very pitiful to see in children's faces.

Hope Loring was an orphan. Two-thirds of her life had fallen to her in the country. She was a delicately-organized little creature in soul and body; shy, sensitive, susceptible.

She would never have gained her tenth birthday, if it had not been for the free, careless, outdoor life of the woods, and hills, and meadows, in which her widowed mother had allowed her only little daughter to run at her own sweet will, while the mother stayed at home, as mothers will, toiling early and late to keep that wolf, so terrible to a woman, from the door.

For the strong arm and the loving heart that would have made "sweet home" for the mother and child, were under the grass of summer, or snows of winter. And at last, the mother's was there too; and with her seventh birthday Hope Loring was an orphan.

So she fell into the hands of her mother's only brother, a poor man-a hard-working, but not unkindly one, who had more mouths to feed than he could well afford; but he could not let his only sister's only child go starving and shelterless out into the cold of the world. So, the little onely, wistful-faced country girl came to live within the thick, close walls of the great city.

She dwelt an orphan and an alien in her uncle's family. Nobody there meant to be unkind to her; in a certain sense each member was sorry for the little homeless, fatherless, motherless child; but after all, none understood her. Poor people these were; cramped, and fretted, and soured, and oppressed by poverty. The long, wearisome hand-to-hand struggle with toil had worn iuto the soul of Hope's uncle and aunt and hardened and made them somewhat coarse. And the children were coarse too-boys and girls ranging down from their teens into babyhood; quarrelsome, selfish, dissatisfied with their lot and not knowing how to make it better-to be pitied certainly.

And into this atmosphere, with all its discordant elements, in the heart of the hot, noisy, crowded city, came little Hope Loring.

She had carried the home-sickness at her heart, in her face ever since. How she thirsted and starved for a sight of the cool, green meadows, with the dandelions winking golden among them! What visions haunted her, of fields of red, fragrant clover, with the fresh dews shining all over them!

How her heart grew sick, thinking of the sing ing birds in the great white roofs of apple blossoms! and the little brook which wound its skein of blue waters among the stones, and then cleared itself out, broad, smooth again, and went on, singing and triumphant, to the river; and the shady country lanes, and the old brown roads wandering past the mills, and up the hill, and round the creek, and back ofthe meadows! O, hungry eyes! oh, hungrier soul of little Hope Loring, that went aching and crying for these lost joys, in the dark, high chambers crowded betwixt the thick walls where your life had fallen to you!

But suddenly, as the pale, wistful face looked out of the window, a change came over it like a burst of sunlight. A little colour warmed the thin, pallid cheeks. The brown eyes grew dark and warm with a quick amazement and joy. "O-h! see there!" burst in a quick cry from the tremulous lips.

And there, in the window of the opposite house, stood a small glass pitcher crowded with flowers; roses in rich bloom, and fragrant mignonette, and trailing sprays of honeysuckle, and fuchsia; all these, some hand -a small white hand-had just placed in the window opposite.

Hope knew in a moment that it was a stranger's, some visitor's probably, for she had heard that the widow woman who did work on the sewing machine had been ill. The lady down there must have caught the child's exclamation, for she stepped to the window and looked up, and saw the small, eager, delighted face above her. She was a lady to whose heart the way was short and easy. The sight touched her.

"Do you love flowers, my child?" she said to Hope, and the smile with which she said it was beautiful to see.

"Oh, yes, ma'am !" said Hope Loring, and

something in her voice doubled the assent in her words.

"Well, come down here, and you shall have some of these."

And Hope went, and her heart and feet were light, as they used to be, going down to the meadows for dandelions and daisies. And the gentlefaced and sweet-voiced lady gathered from the glass pitcher some of the fairest blooms, and placed them in the thin hand of the child while the woman who "worked on the sewing machine" lay asleep on the bed.

Oh, they are like the roses round our back porch!" cried Hope, bending down and drinking their breath, sweeter than wine.

The old fragrant scent was more than she could bear. She broke down in a great storm of tears. The small, thin figure shook under the sobs which heaved it to and fro. All the pain and home-sickness, the hunger and bitterness of years were in those sobs.

"Poor child-poor little girl," said the lady, and she smoothed Hope's hair with hands like the dead mother's that were gathered to the dust; and then, when the child had grown calmer, she made her sit down on the little stool at her feet, and won from her the story of her life.

Hope held nothing back. She found comfort telling it all, in her simple, straightforward child's way, little dreaming what a wonderful pathos her words gave her story, and how the listening lady almost shuddered, as she felt the chill, and gloom, and home-sickness which the child described, stealing, in a sort of magnetic sympathy, over her own soul.

This lady had money, and all life's ease and luxury at her command. She was in mid life and had but two children, and these were boys, a little older and a little younger than Hope.

The home of Mrs. Hastings was in the city, but she usually passed about half of the year with her sister, who had a charming cottage, home in the country. And it entered into the heart of Mrs. Hastings, at this moment, to take the little, lonely orphan girl with her, and with a swift impulse she said to her

"Next week I am going into the country, to pass the summer amid the hills and birds and flowers. My child, would you like to go with me?"

"Oh, ma'am" said Hope; I believe-" She stopped here.

*

*

Four days had passed. Mrs. Hastings had seen Hope's aunt and uncle, and obtained, with no difficulty, their conseut to take the child with her. They considered the offer of Mrs. Hastings an especial "godsend," for they had felt it was "high time their niece should do something to help herself; but she was such a small punything, that they had'nt the heart to put her

at it."

So, one afternoon Mrs. Hastings called with her carriage, intending to take Hope home with her, and make some improvements in her wardrobe before she should accompany her to the