ably; and something of a genius too, for he manufactures shoes of all sizes, from off half a dozen lasts; and he is equally handy in trimming the upper dominions of the villagers; but his sign board over the front door, will best explain his occupation, therefore, we give a verbatim copy:

Here lives a man, who dont refuse,

To make and mend, both Boots and Shoes,
His Leather's good, his work is just,
His profit small, and cannot Trust.

N. B. Shave and Cut Hair.

It will be seen by this that he has a notion of being a poet too; but sometimes his Pegasus will break down before he has carried abroad all his choice ideas; and the old man is therefore obliged to dismount, and descend to humble prose, as in this particular instance; but we rather like the choice nota bene after all, though it be in prose. We' ought perhaps, to please some, to enlarge more upon our old friend, but we feel some delicacy in so doing whilst he lives to tell his own tale. It is enough that we point out his "wherebouts," and leave our readers to pick up his stray jokes and eccentricities; death has not yet made him entirely public property, and it is our earnest wish that he may forbear to do so for many long years yet to come.

We will for a moment again return to the beauties of the locality. One of the most picturesque scenes about the village of Elstow, is the ruin beside the Church, when viewed from the high road. Upon a nearer approach, the poet would find ample food for his romantic mind, particularly about sunset

"When evening mellows all the glowing scene,
And the dew descends in drops of balm:
When the sweet landscape, placid and serene
Inspires the bosom with a pensive clam;"

or if visited by moonlight, his soul would revel in the wild scene before him as the nightingale swells her mellow note-the bat flits round the old detached church towerand the rank weed, and the luxuriant ivy, are alike waved by the fanning zephyr. The hour, the scene, and the association, combine to raise the soul above "mortal mould," and for a time, in the height of his enthusiasm, he appears to hold converse with ministering spirits of a higher and better world. At such a time as this, when the holy hour "is quiet as a nun, breathless with adoration," how smoothly the distracting scenes of base traffic, the selfishness of false designing men, and the acrimony of political discord, pass from the recollection; and memory refuses to conjure up to the mind's eye, anything but heavenly serenity and perfection.

Maiden Queen Lodge, Bedford.

THE SNOWDROP IN THE POOR MAN'S WINDOW.

BY MRS. E. S. CRAVEN GREEN.

It was a darksome alley,

Where light but seldom shone,
Save when at noon a sunray touch'd
The little sill of stone

Beneath the poor man's window,
Whose weary life was bound
To waste at one dull ceaseless task,
The passing seasons round.

Spring's dewy breath of perfume,
And Summer's wealth of flowers,
Or the changing hues of Autumn's leaves,
Ne'er blest his lonely hours.

He knew too well when winter
Came howling forth again,
He knew it by his fireless grate,
The snow and plashing rain.

He shrank from the frost winds' biting,

Yet still his task he plied,

Want chain'd him ever to the loom

By the little window's side.

But when the days grew longer,
He stole one happy hour,
To rear, within a broken vase,
A pale and slender flower.

How tenderly he moved it

To catch the passing ray,

And smiled to see its folded leaves
Grow greener every day.

His faded eyes grew brighter,
To see the Snowdrop bloom;
To him it seem'd a star of light,
Within that darksome room.

And as he gently moved it,
To catch the light again,
Oh! who can tell what memories
Were busy in his brain!

Perchance his home of childhood

In a sylvan valley lay,

And he heard the voice of the running streams,
And the green leaves' rustling play.

Perchance a long departed,

But cherished dream of yore,

Rose up through the mist of want and toil,

To bless his heart once more.

A voice of music whisper'd

Sweet words into his ear,

And he lived again that moonlight hour,

Gone by for many a year.

Or o'er some well beloved

He had seen the Snowdrop bloom,
And ever he rear'd that flower to keep
The memory of their tomb!

Or but the love of nature

Within his bosom stirr'd

The same sweet call that is answer'd by
The blossom and the bird!

The free unfetter'd worship,

Paid by the yearning soul,

That seems to feel its wings expand

To reach a brighter goal.

An aspiration showing

Earth binds us not her slave,

But we claim a brighter being,

A life beyond the grave!

Thus the poor man's heart grew purer,

As he plied his task alone,

And watch'd the bending Snowdrop
Upon the window stone!

VOL. 8-No. 7-2 I.

ODD FELLOWSHIP IN FRANCE.

OPENING OF a lodge at ROUEN, IN NORMANDY, AND REMINISCENCES OF A

JOURNEY THERE.

BY THOMAS LANCASTER, P. PROV. G. M.

[Concluded from April Number.]

AFTER a good night's rest I awoke in excellent spirits, determined to enjoy fully the novel situation in which I found myself, and feeling much amused by reflecting upon the curious annoyances to which my ignorance of the manners of the country had exposed me, and for which I felt that I was more to blame than those from whom I had met with them, I breakfasted, and afterwards went with an English gentleman, who was staying at the house, to take a bird's eye view of the city, leaving mine host, his lady, and all the family, deeply engaged in the various preparations for the day's business.

Rouen is a very large and ancient city, but exceedingly dirty; and although it stands upon a hill, it is yet surrounded by still higher ones. It is rich in historical recollections, and among other monuments is one, in the Place de Pucelle, to the memory of the Maid of Orleans, which stands as a lasting disgrace to the English name, celebrating, as it does, the burning, in that spot, of Joan of Arc, by order of the then English Regent, the Duke of Bedford. There are three splendid cathedrals, one called the cathedral of Rouen, another of St. Jacque, and the other, which is the most magnificent, the cathedral of St. Ouen; the latter excels, in arcitectural beauty, all that I have ever seen or heard of, not excepting Notre Dame of Paris, Westminster, or York Cathedrals. Space will not allow me to describe all its various beauties-all is perfect, from the magnificent gateway entrance, to each of the separate paintings, and there are hundreds of them in the various chapels contained in the interior. The general appearance of the building, when viewed from the Chapel of our Lady, in the transept, at the end facing the principal entrance, is most imposing. Two rows of massive pillars, from one end to the other, divide it into three divisions; these columns are, I believe, fifty-two in number, and are of immense size; from the capital, at the top of each, rises an arch in each direction, so that the entire roof is formed of one continuous succession of pure Norman, or pointed arches, most elaborately ornamented, and is justly considered by the inhabitants of Rouen as one of the finest specimens of purely Norman architecture in the world. In the old Cathedral de Rouen, are some very interesting statues and relics of antiquity, and among them is said to be the embalmed heart of Richard I. of England, or Cœur de Lion, which we are told was recently discovered in an urn, while opening an old grave immediately under the monument erected to the memory of the three Cardinals of Ambois, which monument is a fine piece of sculpture. The heart is not shewn, but there is a colossal statue of the lion-hearted monarch, which is said to have been found in the same mausoleum. There are likewise the tombs of the great Lord Talbot, immortalized by Shakspere in his play of King Henry the VI., and that of the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France in the same reign. I was shown the tomb of a great Catholic bishop, who is said, in a fit of anger, to have killed his cook with a ladle, for spoiling his dinner, and who died in remorse for the act, desiring in his will that he might neither be buried in the church, nor out of it; which wish was complied with by his tomb being placed in the solid substance of the wall of St. Ouen. There are likewise many other remarkable tombs, and most elaborately-finished pieces of statuary, which, although indelibly fixed in my memory, would occupy far too great a space, were I to attempt a description

of them.

On returning to the hotel from my visit to these three cathedrals, I found all were anxiously waiting for the opening of the Star of Normandy Lodge. The house was full of company, and the Secretaries, Messrs. Shipman, Junr., and Jordan, were busily employed in entering in the proposition book, the names of those who had been proposed for initiation; and the worthy surgeon, Mr. Walton, was examining them as to their health, &c. After these preliminary affairs were completed, I managed, according to instructions I had received from various Lodges and Districts, to receive the money, and give the password, &c., so as to procure the aid of four brothers to form the number required to open the Lodge, which was done in due form, and with the aid of P. P. G. M. Parkes, I proceeded to initiate thirty-one members into the mysteries of Odd Fellowship,

some of them for the second time, as from the impossibility of paying their contribution to their Lodge, many of the English members, resident at Rouen, had been compelled to forfeit, for a long time, their claim as brothers, but were now, by leave of the Lodges they had belonged to, again initiated. This fact alone must convince any one of the great service the new Lodge will be to the cause of Odd Fellowship, by preventing the loss of many a worthy and excellent member of the Order. Nearly half as many more were proposed that day, who have since been initiated, and many more beside; and ere these pages can be read, the Star of Normandy Lodge will, no doubt, be a numerous and well-conducted branch of the excellent tree of Odd Fellowship.* The fortunate residence of Mr. Parkes at Rouen, enabled me to install an efficient and experienced N. G. for the Lodge; and the other two principal offices were filled by Messrs. Jordan and Shipman, whose experience in the Order will, I feel certain, do honour to the choice made that day. Every minor office was likewise filled in a proper and legal way, and before I finally left them, I took care that every officer was in possession, from memory, of such of his charge as would be required for the initiation of members during the time that the authorities of France might think fit to detain their books and charges.

I will here mention one fact respecting the brethren at Rouen, which speaks volumes both for their zeal in the cause of the Order, as well as their kindness towards me; I feel that it ought not to be concealed, though the relation of it by me may savour somewhat of egotism, but I feel that it redounds more to their praise than my own. After the usual business had concluded, I was requested, upon some feigned business, to leave the Lodge, and go down stairs, and upon my return I found, to my great surprise, but I must add, gratification, that a voluntary subscription had been opened, and a very handsome sum subscribed, to present me with a mark of their respect and esteem; and I subsequently received a very handsome silver snuff box and medal, with the proceeds thereof. This was the first present it had fallen to my lot to receive during my career in Odd Fellowship; and should this fall into the hands of any of my kind friends at Rouen, I beg again to assure them that I shall cherish it while life shall last, among my most valued possessions.

The dinner that followed the conclusion of our business was a first-rate affair, but of that I need not speak here, as it has already appeared in the public papers; I will only say, that as a demonstration of their excellent feeling towards the cause of the Order, it was highly satisfactory to me, and must have been equally so to those who had laboured long and hard for the foundation of the new Lodge.

The railroad from Harvre to Paris will, when complete, pass through, or rather under, the city of Rouen; the tunnels employ hundreds of men day and night, in advancing them to completion. I went down one of the shafts to see the tunnel, and although the miners and excavators are well paid for their labour, yet I fancy few would envy their dangerous and unpleasant employment. Accidents are very numerous there, and not long before my arrival, a member of our Order met his death in one of the tunnels. In all connected with railway, or machinery work, there seemed full employment and much activity at Rouen, and the most skillful and best paid artizans were English.

While I staid at Rouen, I saw a review of some French regiments upon the Champ de Mai, or Camp of Mars; they looked showy, and well disciplined, but the physical proportion of the men, and the minutiae of their equipment are vastly inferior to our own infantry; they are nevertheless good soldiers, and look well. The surplus pay of a foot soldier in France is not more than one penny per day, but being drawn from nearly all ranks, their friends, I was informed, assist them. In the Palais de Justice at Rouen, I saw a trial of a prisoner for some capital offence. The ceiling of this noble hall is composed of solid oak carvings, and is very fine as well as very ancient. Not far from this there is a fine gateway, centuries old, of solid stone, very finely carved, and representing the death of one of the Apostles. This street is called rue de gros cloche, (street of the great clock,) from an immensely large and superannuated clock suspended there. Across the river Seine there is a very handsome suspension bridge, of modern erection; the price to cross which is the fifth of one halfpenny. In crossing over this bridge, I had given the man an old battered sous piece, and passed on, but was called back to receive my change in the form of four cents, a coin of the smallest value, but

The number of members now exceeds one hundred.

neat and far more valuable in appearance than the one I gave him. The French coins are as different as possible to our own, and some of the value of three halfpence are like the tops of buttons our boys play with, there being not the vestige of an impression upon them. There is a great want of gold coin, I never saw one while there; but the change for notes is given in the heavy five francs pieces, the weight of which alone will let you know when you have money in your pocket.

The beard is now cultivated with great care by Frenchmen of nearly all ranks, and to me at first it appeared strange to see the shopkeeper behind his counter, weighing tea, or measuring out cloth, with a beard, whisker, and moustache, as we see them in our old pictures. The most striking peculiarity among the Norman people is the strange sort of caps worn by the women, which fit close to the head and face, and the crown rising like a pyramid a full yard above the head; at the summit is a frill, and frequently a ribbon and smart brooch; this head-dress is beautifully white, and the whole effect is novel and rather pleasing. Bonnets are quite out of the question there; and thick wooden sabots, or shoes, cut out of one piece, like a boat, are worn by nearly all classes, except the very highest. Around Rouen are many towns and villages rich in historical recollection, and the view of the city from the hill of St. Margaret is very fine. In short, I would recommend any of my friends travelling upon the continent to visit Rouen, and they will find much both to interest and amuse them, and above all, they should not forget the new Lodge in Boulevard St. Hilaire, No. 23.

Not being properly conversant with the language, brought me into many dilemmas, annoying though amusing, as it must do any one similarly circumstanced; for instance, my friend Shipman, although a resident at Rouen for some time, and in the daily habit of conversing in French, yet could not properly understand it; he volunteered one morning to go with me to post a letter I had written to the minister of the Interior about the Lodge books, and as he was supposed to be the best Frenchman, he went to the office to pre-pay the letter, whilst I remained behind with a mutual friend; finding him a long time gone, we went to see where he was, and found him gazing vacantly at the boats upon the wharf, and walking, evidently in trouble, upon the side of the Seine. "Hollo, Shipman!" was the exclamation. "What are you doing here? What are you looking for?" "Why," said Mr. Shipman, "I am looking for some boat to put this letter in; which do you think it can be?" "Put the letter into a boat," said our friend; what the deuce do you want to do that for?" "What for!" said Mr. Shipman, "how should I know, the clerk told me to do so." Somewhat doubting the accuracy of Mr. Shipman's instructions, we all repaired to the post office, and thus we found the matter stood. When he presented the letter, he inquired the postage, as we meant to pre-pay it; it appeared, however, that no charge is made in France for any letter addressed to a minister, therefore, the clerk refused the money, and said, "Donnes le boite, Monsieur," (put it in the box, sir.) Mr. Shipman could not exactly understand that, but as the word boîte sounds much like boat; he said in English "Boat, Sir," pointing over the box to the water. "Oui, Monsieur," said the clerk; and off walked my good friend Shipman, to find the proper boat in which to put the letter he held in his hand, as he walked on the wharf side, where we found him.

After staying near a week at Rouen, I left it by the railroad for Paris, the terminus of which stands close by the old stone bridge at Rouen; thinking to see the country best in an open carriage, I went by the third class carriage, but speedily found my mistake, for either from the lightness of the soil, or the difference in the fuel, I could scarcely keep my eyes open five minutes together, from the clouds of dust that flew around. This line is near one hundred miles long, and will be in connexion with the one they are building from Havre. There are, I think, seven tunnels upon it, some of them very long ones, and five times the rail crosses the river Seine; in many places it goes for miles through the most romantic situations, and in others it keeps along the banks of the river. One peculiarity which struck me was the vast number of stations, and the time our train stayed at each of them. Here I was again alone, nor do I believe there was an individual in my part of the train who could speak a word of English, unless it was to call me Monsieur ros bif, or, Monsieur bif stek, which they often did. I am at a loss for words to describe the pleasant feeling that came over me at one of the stations called pont de l'arch, or the bridge of arches, when I heard an old Auvignon peasant playing in the station yard, that real old English tune, familiar to us all, "My father's old sow," upon an old deal fiddle. Contrary to the practice of our English railroads,