to be at the port of Calais. What a wonderful event was this! the hand of God was visible!

What a coincidence-the breaking down of the carriage the curiosity of the stranger to witness the proceeding. The man who, of all others, could best attest his innocence-the very day, the hour-some greater power had sent him thither to save the innocent father of a family from an ignominious death. The hand of Providence was, indeed, visible.

Jacques was acquitted, and his acquittal gave universal joy. The Englishman was borne in triumph to his hotel by the multitude. He is the instrument of Providence-garlands and crowns of flowers were sent to him-the people knew not how to make enough of him. At length, however, his carriage was repaired on the very evening, and the providential witness departed, to the regret of all, amidst the acclamation of the by-standers, and the enthusiastic blessings of the public.

Six months after that rare and wonderful event, another murder was committed in the neighbourhood under circumstances of singular atrocity. Two assassins were seized in the very act with the red knife in their hands, and were handcuffed by the police, and brought into the same town, which had been the theatre. of the late event. A crowd was collected at the rumour of the murder, to look at the criminals, when, suddenly, cries of surprise were

SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 53

uttered? judge their astonishment, their horror! One of the murderers was Jacques Mathien, and the other chained at his side, was the soi-disant my lord, the providential witness!

It is almost unnecessary to say, that the town was almost furious, at being made the dupe of these two brigands.

SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.

MRS. HEMANS.

WHERE is the sea?—I languish here-
Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks of fleet career,
And flags and breezes free!

I miss the voice of waves-the first
That woke my childish glee:
The measur'd chime, the thundering burst-
Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! with your myrtles breath may rise,
Soft, soft, your winds may be ;
Yet my sick heart within me dies-
Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree—
The echoes of my soul are mute-
Where is my own blue sea.

THE CLOAK.

"TAKE my portmanteau to the coach-office, and I will follow immediately," said I, to a waiter of the Hotel de Meurice.

It was a bitter cold night: the thermometer stood at 46; and as I shivered down the street, I bethought myself that a cloak would be no uncomfortable addition to my travelling apparel. While debating whether it should be a new or second-hand article, the cold froze my pride, and I turned off in the direction of the Rue de Fripperie. I soon found myself in the Monmouth-street of Paris, and walked through it quickly, but looked about "vigilant as a cat to steal cream." At length I saw a roquelaire that seemed to insure the wearer against petrifaction at the North Pole and having passed the shop where it was exhibited two or three times, I was accosted by a diminutive Jew, who asked me "If I wanted to buy a cloak?" in a tone of voice which denoted a presumption that I did want such an article. I entered his shop. The owner cautiously shut the door.

"I think, Monsieur, I have a cloak that will just suit you," said the little frippier, peering at me through his ferret-like eyes.

"And why me particularly?" I asked.

Because," was the epigrammatic reply,

"the cloak is very warm, and you seem very cold."

"Let us see?"

The old clothes-man, having called an assistant to mind the shop, conducted me into a little parlour, the door of which he carefully closed. With great difficulty he opened a drawer, and having taken from it a quantity of wearing apparel, he at last requested me to assist him in pulling out the cloak he had recommended. It would have been a sight for a Kamschatkadale-a half hundred weight of plush, fur, and shaggy cloth-I felt my blood circulate as the old man assisted me to put it

on.

"The price?" I demanded eagerly.

"Two hundred francs, Monsieur." "What!-Why the best cloak between Calais and the Pyrenees is not worth half that sum," I exclaimed, my liberality cooling in the same ratio as my body warmed.

"What will Monsieur be pleased to offer?" "Just half."

"Monsieur shall have it," agreed the rag merchant, without another scruple.

The roquelaire soon became mine, and after having paid the money and left the shop, I heard a wild exulting laugh issue from it. I tried to turn my head, but the collar of my new purchase had taken it prisoner. I thought I never should have reached the Beaureau de Diligence but accomplished my walk just in

time to see my inside place forfeited. The clerk came bowing up to me, full of regret that my tardiness had lost me my place,

"Monsieur must therefore oblige us by taking his seat on the outside."

"With pleasure!" I answered, exulting in the possession of my cloak-and with some difficulty I mounted.

"With pleasure!" simultaneously echoed the less fortunate outside passengers.

We drove off. The coach being full, its progress was slow; the contents- or rather, mal-contents-expostulated. "It is so cold??? was the elongated frost-bitten ejaculation. "And so slippery," rejoined the driver. A reason soon satisfies a Frenchman,and if the diligence had proceeded at the same rate as Russell's wagon, the passengers would not have been dissatisfied. I heard nothing around me but shivering and teeth-chattering-I felt like a salamander in Iceland-my incendiary cloak had set me on fire!

"It is very warm!" I remarked, wiping the perspiration from my brow, just as we had stopped to clear the snow from the horses' hoofs. My neighbour, an elderly, nervous, petit-maitre, turned sharply round, and in the twinkling of an eye (a Frenchman's eye), took an inventory of my person (viz. my cloak, face, and cap), politely requesting a change of seats with a fellow-traveller-a whispering succeeded between the obliger and the obliged,