man far advanced in years, and who At the time I first became Commissary, my arrondissement was that part which included the Rue St. Antoine, which you know has a great number of courts, alleys, and culs de sac, issuing from it in all directions, and from their proximity to a very great thoroughfare, gave me no inconsiderable deal of trouble. The houses in these alleys and courts are for the most part inhabited by wretches wavering betwixt the last shade of poverty and actual starvation, ready to take part in any disturbance, or assist in any act of rapine or violence. In one of these alleys, there lived at that time a man named Jean Monette, who was tolerably well stricken in years, but still a hearty man.He was a widower, and with an only daughter, occupied a floor, “au quatrieme," in one of the courts; people said he had been in business, and grown rich, but that he had not the heart to spend his money, which year after year accumulated, and would make a splendid fortune for his daughter at his death. With this advantage, Em ma, who was really a handsome girl, did not want for suitors, and thought that being an heiress she might wait till she really felt a reciprocal passion for some one, and not throw herself away upon the first tolerable match (according to the sense of the word) that presented itself. It was on a Sunday, the first in the month of June, that Emma had, as an especial treat, obtained sufficient money from her father for an excursion with some friends, to see the water works at Versailles. It was a beautiful day, and the basin was thronged around with thousands and thousands of persons, looking, from the variety of their dresses, more like the colours of a splendid rainbow, than aught beside; and when at four o'clock, Triton and his satellites threw up their immense volumes of water, all was wonder, astonishment, and delight, but none were more delighted than Emma, to whom the scene was quite new, and then it was so pleasant to have found a person who could explain every thing and every body; point out the Duke of this, and Count that, and the other lions of Paris; besides such an agreeable and well dressed man; it was really quite condescending in him to notice them; and then towards evening, he would insist they should all go home together in a fiacre, and that he alone should pay all the expenses, and when, with a gentle pressure of the hand and a low whisper, he begged her to say where he might come, and throw himself at her feet, she thonght her feelings were different to what they had ever been before; but how could she give her address-tell so dashing a man that she lived in such a place— no, she could not do that, but she would meet him at the "Jardin d'Ete" next Sunday evening, and dance with no one else all night. She met him on the Sunday, and again and again, until her father began to suspect, from her frequent absence of an evening, which was formerly an unusual circumstance with her, that something must be wrong; the old man loved his money, but he loved his daughter more. She was the only link in life that kept together the chain of his affections; he had been passionately fond of his wife, and when she died, had filled up the void in his heart, by placing in its stead his daughter; they were the only things, save his money, he had ever loved; the world had cried out against him as a hard-hearted rapa⚫ious man, and he, in return, despised the world. He was, therefore, much grieved at her conduct, and questioned Emma as to where her frequent visits led her, but could only obtain for answer, that she was not aware she had been absent so much as to give him uneasiness. This was unsatisfactory, and so confirmed the old man in his suspicions, that he determined to have his daughter watched; this he got effected throngh the means of an ancien ami, then in the profession of what he called an inspector, though his enemies (and all men have such) called him a Mouchard; however, by what name he called himself, or others called him; he understood his business, and so effectually watched the young lady, that he discovered her frequent absence to be for the purpose of meeting a man, who, after walking some distance with her, managed, despite of the Inspector's boasted abilities, to give him the slip. This naturally puzzled him, and so it would any man in his situation; now, only fancy, gentle reader, the feelings of one of the chief government employee in the argus line of business, a man renowned for his success in almost all the arduous and intricate affairs that had been committed to his care, to find himself baffled in a paltry private intrigue, and one which he had merely undertaken for the sake of friendship. On the second time, he tried the plan of fancying himself to be well paid, thinking this would stimulate his dormant energies, knowing well a thing done for friendship's sake, is always badly done; but even here he failed, he watched them to a certain corner, but before he could get round it, they were no where to be seen;this was not to be borne, it was setting him at defiance; should he call in the assistance of a brother in the line-no, that would be to acknowledge himself beaten, and the disgrace he could not bear, his honour was concerned, and he would achieve it single-handed; but then it was very perplexing, the man, to his experienced eye, seemed not as he had done to Emma, a dashing gentleman, but more like a bird in fine feathers; something must be wrong, and he must find it out--but then again came that confounded question, how he would go and consult old Monette-he could, perhaps, suggest something; and, musing on the strangeness of the adventure, he walked slowly towards the house of the old man to hold a council with him on the occasion. On the road, his attention was attracted by a disturbance in the street, and mingling with the crowd, in hopes of seizing some of his enemies exercising their illegal functions, on whom the whole weight of his official vengeance might fall, he for the time forgot his adventure; the crowd had been drawn together by a difference of opi-' nion betwixt two gentlemen of the Vehicular profession, respecting some right of preference, and after all the usual kind and endearing expressions of esteem usual on such occasions, had been exhausted, one of them drove off, leaving the other, at least master of the field, if he had not got the expected job. The crowd began to disperse, and with them also was going our friend of the "Surveillance," when, on turning round, he came in contact with Mam'selle Monette, leaning on the arm of the object of his inquietude; the light from a lamp above his head, shone immediately on the face of Emma and her admirer, shewing them both as clear as noonday, so that when his glance turned from the lady to the gentleman, and he obtained a full view of his face, he expressed his admiration of the discovery he had made by a loud whew, which, though a short sound and soon pronounced, meant a great deal; for first, it meant he had made a great discovery; secondly, that he was not astonished he had not succeeded before in his watchful endeavours; thirdly, that, but perhaps the two mentioned may be sufficient; for, turning sharp round, he made the greatest haste to reach Monette, and inform him this time of the result of his espionage ;which, after a long prelude, stating how fortunate he was to have such a friend as himself, a man who knew every body and every thing, proceeded to inform him of the pleasing intelligence, that his daughter was in the habit of meeting, and going to some place (he forgot to say where) with the most desperate and abandoned character in Paris; and one who was so extremely dexterous in all his schemes, that the Police, though perfectly aware of his kind intentions towards his Catholic Majesty's subjects, had not been able to fix upon him in the commission of any one of his kind acts, for he changed his appearance so often, as to set at nought all the assiduous exertions of the "Corps des Espions," whose industry and caution in their avocations have reached the acine of praise, viz: to be proverbial, and the unhappy father received from his friend at parting, the assurance that they would catch him yet, and give him an invitation (those French people do use such polite words) to pass the rest of his days in seclusion. On Emma's return, her father told her the information he had received, wisely withholding the means from which his knowledge came, saying, he knew she had that moment parted from the man who would lead her to the brink of destruction, and then cast her off like a child's broken plaything; he begged, nay, he besought her with tears in his eyes, to promise she would never again, see him. Emma was thunderstruck, not only at the accuracy of her father's information, but at hearing such a character of one whom she had painted perfection's self, and calling to her aid those never failing woman's arguments, a copious flood of tears, fell on her father's neck, and promised never again to see him, but, if possible, to banish all thoughts of him from her mind. "My child," said the old man, "I believe you from my heart-I believe you I love you, but the world says I am rich-why, I know not; you know I live in a dangerous neighbourhood, and all my care will be necessary to prevent my losing either my child or my reputed wealth; therefore, to avoid all accidents, I will take care you do not leave this house for the next six months to come, and in that time your gallant will have forgotten you, or what will amount to the same thing, you will have forgotten him; but I am much mistaken if the man's intentions are not to rob me of my money, rather than my child," The old man kept his word, and Emma was not allowed for several days to leave the rooms, "au quatrieme; she tried during the time, if it were possible to forget the object of her affections, and thought if she could but see him once more to bid him a long and last farewell, she might in time wear out his remembrance from her heart; but in order to do that, she must see him once more; and having made up her mind that this interview would be an essential requisite to the desired consummation; she took counsel with herself how it was to be accomplished, and there was only one great obstacle presented itself to her view, which was "she couldn't get out." Now woman's invention (I mean of those who are in love, or fancy it, for its pretty much the same thing) never fails them, when they have set their hearts 4 upon any desired object, and it occurred to her, that although she could not get out, yet it was not quite so apparent that he could not get in; and this point being settled, it was no very difficult matter to persuade the old woman who occasionally assisted her in the household arrangements, to be the bearer of a short note, purporting that her father having been unwell for the last few days, usually retired early to rest, and that if her dear Despreau would come about eleven o'clock on the following evening, her father would be asleep, and she would be on the watch for a signal, which was to be three gentle taps on the door. The old woman executed her commission so well, that she brought back an answer vowing eternal fidelity, and promising a punctual attendance at the rendezvous. Nor was it likely he meant to fail ;-seeing it was the object he had for months in view, and he reasoned with himself that if he once got there, he would make such good use of his time, as to render a second visit perfectly unnecessary; therefore, it would be a pity to disappoint any one, and he immediately communicated his plans to two of his confederates, promising them an adequate share of the booty, and also the girl herself, if either of them felt that way inclined, as a reward for their assistance. His plans were very well managed, and would have gone on exceedingly well, but for one small accident which happened through the officious interference of the Inspector, who, the moment he had discovered who the Lothario was, had taken all the steps he could to catch him, and gain the honour of having caught so accomplished a gentleman; rightly judging that it could not be long before he could pay a visit to Monette's rooms, and the letters previously to their being delivered by the old woman, had been read by him, and met with his full approbation. I was much pleased on being informed by the Inspector, that he wanted my assistance one evening to apprehend the celebrated Despreau, who had planned the commission of a robbery near the Rue St. Antoine, and made me acquainted with nearly all the before mentioned circumstances; so about half past ten o'clock, I posted myself with the Inspector and four men, where I could see Despreau pass, and at eleven o'clock, punctual to the moment, he and his two associates began to ascend the stairs; the two confederates 8 were to wait until he had been admitted some time, when he was to come to the door on some pretext and let them in; after the lapse of half an hour, they were let in, when we ascended after them, and the Inspector having a duplicate key, we let ourselves gently in, standing in the passage, so as to prevent our being seen; in a few minutes, we heard a loud shriek from Emma, and old Monette's voice crying out murder and thieves most vociferously, and on entering the rooms, perceived that the poor girl was lying on the ground, while one of the men was endeavouring to stifle her cries by either gagging or suffocating her, though in the way he was doing it, the latter would have soon been the case; the old man had been dragged from his bed, and Despreau stood over him with a knife, swearing, that unless he shewed him the place where his money and valuables were deposited, it should be the last hour of his existence. Despreau, on seeing us, seemed inclined to have made a most desperate resistance, but not being seconded by his associates, submitted to be pinioned, expressing his regret that we had not come half an hour later, when we might have been saved the present trouble; I begged to assure him I did not think it so; but, on the contrary, we should be delight ed with his company, which we hoped to have for many years to come, and begged to have the honour of escorting him to the lodgings provided in expec tation of his visit, Despreau was shortly after tried for the offence, which was too clearly proved to admit of any doubt. He was sentenced to the gallies for life, and is now at Brest, undergoing his sentence. Emma soon afterwards married a respectable man, and old Monette behaved on the occasion much more liberally than was expected. J.M.B. ΤΟ For the Olio' When conning o'er the books of olden time, Conceived by love and fancy-born in verse. The form must have been raised by warm ro- In dreams of love-lorn poesy enshrined.' W. WINTER. BY WILLIAM HOWITT. In Gawain Douglas, the celebrated Bishop of Dunkeld, has given the following most excellent sketch of winter, which Warton has rendered from antiquated Scotch verse into good modern English prose. "The fern withered on the miry fallows, the brown moors assumed a barren mossy hue; banks, sides of hills, and bottoms, grew white and bare; the cattle looked hoary from the dank weather, the wind made the red reed waver on the dyke. From the crags, and the foreheads of the yellow rocks, hung great icicles, in length like a spear. The soil was dusky and grey, bereft of flowers, herbs, and grass. every hold and forest the woods were stripped of their array; Boreas blew his bugle-horn so loud that the solitary deer withdrew to the dales; the sinall birds flocked to the thick briars, shunning the tempestuous blast, and changing their loud notes to chirping; the cataracts roared, and every linden tree whistled and brayed to the sounding of the wind. The poor labourers, wet and weary, draggled in the fen. The sheep and shepherds lurked under the hanging banks, or wild broom. Warm from the chimney-side, and refreshed with generous cheer, I stole to my bed and laid down to sleep, when I saw the moon shed through the window her twinkling glances and wintry light; I heard the horned bird, the night owl, shrieking horribly with crooked bilĺ from her cavern; I heard the wild geese with screaming cries fly over the city, through the silent night. I was soon lulled to sleep, till the cock clapping his wing, crowed thrice, and the day peeped. I waked and saw the moon disappear, and heard the jackdaws cackle on the roof of the house. cranes prognosticating tempests, in a firm phalanx, pierced the air with voices sounding like a trumpet. The kite perched on an old tree, just by my chamber, cried lamentably, a sign of the dawning day. I rose, and half opening my window, perceived the morning livid, wan, and hoary; the air overwhelmed with vapour and cloud; the ground stiff, grey, and rough; the branches rattling, the sides of the hills looking black and hard with the driving blasts; the dew-drops congealed on the stubble and rind of trees; the sharp hailstones, deadly cold, hopping on the thatch and the neighbouring causeway. We are now placed in the midst of The such wintry scenes as this. Nature is stripped of all her summer drapery: her verdure, her foliage, her flowers have all vanished. The sky is filled with clouds and gloom, or sparkles only with a frosty radiance. The earth is spongy with wet, rigid with frost, or buried in snows. The winds that in summer breathed gently over nodding blooms and undulating grass, swaying the leafy boughs with a pleasant murmur, and wafting perfumes all over the world, now hiss like serpen's or howl like wild beasts of the desert, cold, piercing and cruel. Every thing has drawn us near as possible to the centre of warmth and comfort. The farmer has driven his flocks and cattle into sheltered home inclosures, where they may receive from his provident care that food which the earth now denies them, or into the farm-yard itself, where some honest Giles piles their cratches plentifully with fodder. The labourer has fled from the field to the barn, and the measured strokes of his flail are heard daily from morn till eve. It amazes us as we walk abroad, to conceive where can have concealed themselves, the infinite variety of creatures that sported through the air, earth, and waters of summer. Birds, insects, reptiles, whither are they all gone?The birds that filled the air with their music, the rich blackbird-the loud and cheerful thrush, the linnet, lark and goldfinch, whither have they crept ? The squirrel that played his antics on the forest tree; and all the showy and varied tribes of butterflies, moths, dragonflies, beetles, wasps, and warriorhornets, bees and cockchafers, whither have they fled?-Some, no doubt, have lived out their little term of being, and their bodies, lately so splendid, active, and alive to a thousand instincts, feelings and propensities, are become part and parcel of the dull and wintry soil; but the greater portion have shrunk into the hollow of trees and rocks, and into the bosom of their mother earth itself, where, with millions of seeds and roots, and buds, they live in the great treasury of nature, ready at the call of a more auspicious season, to people the world once more with beauty and delight." HABITS AND PRACTICES OF THE MENDICANT FRIARS, In a manuscript which once belonged to a learned Benedictine, and is now in the library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, is a drawing of four devils hugging four mendicant friars, one of each order, with great familiarity and affection. But other weapons, offensive and defensive, were used, besides ridicule. Thus the greater monasteries would occasionally rouse themselves, and found a small college or hall at the Universities for their own novices, that they might not resign to their antagonists, without a struggle, the entire possession of those ancient seats of learning. So, again, when their members proceeded to degrees, they would often do it with studious cost and popular display, turning the occasion into a holiday spectacle, which might be set in balance against the miracles, mysteries, and other theatrical attractions of the mendicants. These latter, however, might have long laughed at such artifices, had they continued true to one another; but the arrow which pierced them to the heart was feathered from their own wing. Their principles, like those of modern dissenters, propagated schism; they split amongst themselves; and the four orders tore the coat, which should be without seam, into as many parts. Mutual abuse, instead of cordial co-operation, was their maxim. The poor ploughman who sought instruction in his creed at the hands of the Friars Minors, was only told, as he valued his soul, to beware of the Carmelites; the Carmelites promoted his edification by denouncing the Dominicans; the Dominicans, in their turn, by condemning the Augustins. "Be true to us," was the language of each; "give us your money, and you shall be saved without a creed." Indeed the frailty of human nature soon found out the weak places of the mendicant system. Soon had the primitive zeal of its founders burnt itself out; and then its censer was no longer lighted with fire from the altar:-a living was to be made. The vows of voluntary poverty only led to jesuitical expedients for evading it; a straining at gnats and swallowing of camels. The populace were to be alarmed, or caressed, or cajoled out of a subsistence. A death-bed was a friar's harvest; then were suggested the foundation of chantries, and the provision of masses and wax-lights. The confessional was his exchequer; there hints were dropped that the convent needed a new window, or that it owed 'fortie pound for stones." Was the good man of the house refractory? The friar had the art of lead |