When Jeanne wrote that despairing note to Herman, she had resolved to share his fate and die with him. The events of that day had been so agitating, that she was under the influence of a species of nervous intoxication. She paced her room in agitation, anxiously awaiting the night, so that she might leave her room unperceived, by a back staircase that led to the sta- | bles. By chance, there was a servants' party, and Jeanne hoped to pass out as one of the visitors. It was almost one o'clock. She counted the moments: she feared, that having raised Herman's hopes by her first letter, the unexpected contents of the second would plunge him into fresh grief. She thought it had become a duty to die with him. She was about to throw on a cloak, when some one knocked at the door: it was her husband! At first, she fancied he must have discovered her intention: she became motionless with fear, and could not answer. He, thinking that she slept, opened the door. He was so struck with her pallor and agitation, that he exclaimed "Are you ill?” "Can I not remain one moment alone?" cried Jeanne. "Yes, I am ill; leave me, I entreat you." "When you have heard what I have to say you will not regret these few moments, Madam. Since our last interview I have reflected on your wish for a divorce: the frankness of your confession has convinced me, that our union cannot now fail to be miserable. My first idea was to oppose myself entirely to a separation: I knew the value of the treasure I was losing: now I am calmer, I feel I have no right to abuse the power placed in my hands, and constrain you to live a life of misery by my side." Jeanne fancied she was dreaming! she had suffered so much from the disappointment of her former hopes, that she hardly dared believe in their revival. She looked wildly at the Duke without replying. He remained for a few moments in a deep reverie, and then continued:Yes, Madam, I consent to a divorce: I cannot bear to see you unhappy." "You consent? Oh, sir! do not deceive me! that would indeed be cruel. This has been such an agitating day! I dream—I fear!—” At this moment the clock struck one. "Ah!" cried Jeanne, rushing to the door-"there is not a moment to lose, it will be too late!" "Do you fly from me, Madam, even whilst I am giving so great a proof of my devotion to you?" "Is this indeed true? You are not jesting?" "Read this, and then sign it"- replied the Duke, placing the petition in her hand, and then presenting a pen. "You are the most generous of men !" cried Jeanne, falling at his feet. How have I been mistaken in you! I will ever pray for you! Believe in my eternal gratitude and friendship." "I only ask for the latter," said the Duke, leaving the room. It would be impossible to describe Jeanne's bewilderment; few could have borne this sudden change, from the agonies of despair, to the most delirious joy. All at once a thought struck her: Herman was still ignorant; he might have sunk beneath the effect of her last letter: she saw him at her feet dying now at the very moment their utmost wishes were being fulfilled. Whom could she send to apprise him of this new happiness? Would he believe her? she had already deceived him so cruelly. She hesitated no longer, she forgot her reserve, her natural timidity; she thought not of the imprudence, of the importance of the step. Had she not a right to watch over the life of her intended husband? "I should have found courage to go and bid him die, to die with him;" reasoned she: "why should I not find courage to go and bid him live?" She hastily threw on her cloak, and in a moment had passed unobserved into the street. It was a dark and rainy night. The Hotel de Bracciano was not far from Herman's house. Jeanne cast away the fear, so natural to one of her rank and sex, on finding herself alone, at night, in the deserted streets: she walked on rapidly, thinking only of the surprise that awaited Herman. She soon reached his house. There was a light in his window; the door was open; she knew it was a single house, she knew Herman lived on the second floor; she ran up the stairs without being seen by the porter, and pushed open his door, saying, "Herman, we are saved!" What was her surprise! the room was empty! a lamp was burning on the table. Where could Herman be? What should she do? Where ought she to go? In the naïve and ardent superstition of her love, she could not believe that any evil had happened to Herman, now that their united happiness was so nearly assured. She implored pardon from the Almighty, for their suicidal projects, and offered up prayer and thanksgiving for their present prospects. On looking around she saw a written paper on the chimney-piece: it was Herman's hand, and bore these words :-"I shall return immediately one o'clock." Completely re-assured by these lines, that, she supposed, were intended for her, she began to examine the furniture of his modest home: there were books, bearing his name-they and a picture were his only articles of luxury. It was the portrait of a beautiful, melancholy woman, in a foreign dress, and so like Herman that Jeanne instantly knew it must be his mother; and her eyes filled with tears, as she reflected on his early loss of so fond a parent. She was suddenly disturbed by the sound of voices on the stairs: they mentioned Herman-she listened. "Wake up, numscull: I want to know if Herman's in?" asked a rough voice. "Go and see:" replied the porter in the same tone. Jeanne heard a heavy foot on the stairs: she knew not what to do: the steps drew nearer : she looked around, and seeing the glass door of a closet, eagerly sought refuge in it. Lifting up the corner of the curtain, she saw Pierre Herbin enter the room. His repulsive appearance raised her fears afresh: she could not conceive what Herman could have in common with such a person. He approached the table, saw the paper Herman had left, and read it. "Where the devil can he be gone at this time of night! it's now almost two, and he's not back yet: that's tiresome, when I have so much to tell him. Holloa! here he is." Herman Forster appeared. ON A CHILD FLOATING FLOWERS. BY ROSE ACTON. Watching thy mimic fleet! Fair child! how oft Bends man, like thee, above the stream of lifeUrging along Adventure's bark, to gain Some fancied golden shore with blessings rife ! Fleeting his dreams of pride as those bright buds- When dreams and flowers alike have pass'd away. How shouldst thou know that man would stake his soul Upon the floating of a poison-weed? Keep to thy sports! The heart grows sad to think That time will teach thee scorn of spot so bright; That the young brow, now sunlit in its mirth, May ever seek, in shame, the veil of night. God guard thee well, when thou shalt rise to leave Thy peaceful pastime at the world's stern call; Keep thee a memory of scenes like this, "Twill shield when thou art tempted to thy fall. Earth holds no talisman for erring man, On thy life's passage gently cast the bread DISAPPOINTMENT. Brother! your words, your hopes, are vain, I loved, and was beloved again, I heeded not her gentle sigh, Yes! I was mad to doubt the love And months rolled by: in spite of all All! all the truth at length I heard, I was too late one nobler far I heard them take the fatal vow, Where along the grassy plains April 12th, 1849. J. A. ARMSTRONG. * It was a custom with the ancients to anoint tombs with precious unguents. 66 Many a time," writes Douglas Jerrold, | "have I walked the streets, and, day-dreaming, have fashioned to myself the doings, the hopes, and cares of the household. To my fancy the brick walls of the houses have turned to glass, and I have seen all that passed inside. We may be very sure that the sick and lonely formed no inconsiderable portion of this strange phantasm, for the world is full of such, although we may not always recognize the latter. God only knows how many lonely hearts there are beating and breaking in their agony and pride in silence, or beneath the semblance of a false gaiety so like the true, that it is difficult-oftentimes impossible-to tell them apart." The memory of a scene long past comes back as we write a scene of mirth and festivity--a glad mingling of young, fair faces, and graceful forms; but the fairest and most graceful was Gertrude. We never heard her other name, and even if we knew it we would not tell it now, for it has nothing to do with the story. Her short, musical laugh had a pleasant sound, and a pleasant thing it was to watch her flitting about among the gay groups, and to mark how every one admired her. But we soon grew weary-such scenes had little charms for us even then. Keats has well described them "In one room music, in another sadness, Perplexity everywhere." We drew aside the heavy folds of the curtain, and stepped out into a moonlit balcony overlooking the sea. Gertrude followed without being missed. "It is so warm there," said she, pointing back to the ball-room. "Yes, it is very warm. But you must be careful;" and I drew the folds of her shawl closer around her beautiful neck, as if she had been my sister. She thanked me with a smile, and we sat down, hand in hand, and spoke no more. And then it must have been, as Longfellow so touchingly describes it, that "Other memories arose, and loud in the midst of the music Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible The hand I held trembled-was withdrawnand clasped over her eyes, from which the hot tears rained down drop by drop on the marble balustrade. 66 "You are not well?" said I, at length. 'Yes, well-but so lonely-so very lonely! God help and pity me!" "He will-he does-be sure of that!" "There are times when I am sure of nothing," answered my companion quickly; "only that I am very lonely." How my heart yearned towards her as she spoke. How I longed to say to the young stranger-" Let us be friends-I know that a new friend is not like an old friend; but I may be an old friend some day, if we both live; and meanwhile I would fain love, and soothe, and comfort you, if I might." As I dreamed thus, and Gertrude wept on, footsteps were heard approaching, and a merry group came laughing and talking from the ball-room. Gertrude lifted up her bowed head, and stood a little apart, with her face turned towards the sea. few moments afterwards, when she looked round in answer to some idle remark, it was, in appearance, the same radiant countenance I had before admired. Can such things be? thought I then, in my ignorance of life. I have learned since that they can, and are. Presently some one came to claim Gertrude for the next dance. She put her little hand in mine as she passed, and looked into my face with a smile that was very sad to see-and we never met again. A On inquiring for her some months afterwards, we learned that she had gone abroad; but of her early history-her inner life-no revealings ever reached us. Every one thought that she must needs be happy, so beautiful and admired as she was; but the haunting memory of her own words was slow to die away-" So lonelyso very lonely!" It is the mental ejaculation of thousands. How often, after a scene of gaiety and excitement such as we have been describing, follows heart-searchings, and bitterness, and tears! How often do men question thus, with the poet 66 Truly has Bacon observed, that a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love." Madame de Staël has remarked upon the words no more, that both in sound and sense they are more descriptive of melancholy meaning than any other in our language. But Miss Stickney says, "if not before them, at least second in the scale, I would place the single word alone! Listen to her description of a lonely woman: "She sees the glad young creatures of another generation sporting around her, and her thoughts go back to the playmates of her own childhood. She hears the reluctant answer, when she asks a kindness of one of the merry group, and she thinks of the time when kindness was more fully granted to her, though far less needed than now. She starts at the loud laugh, but cannot understand the jest, and no one explains it to her listening ear. She loses the thread of earnest conversation, and no one restores the clue. She sits within the social circle, but forms no link in the chain of social union. Lowly, and fallen, and sad, she sits among the living.” "Oh! 'tis a fearful thing to feel In this cold world alone!" Fredericka Bremer tells a beautiful story about one of these lonely ones : "She was poor and hopeless; she could not see the heavens for the ice about the window pane; she felt herself without consolation, and thought, "There is no hope!' But see! the ice melts-see! a large drop runs down the window frame-a large drop like a tear. The ice weeps! God, who melts the ice, can melt the heart." 66 66 As we have said, the sick are not always lonely. Now," exclaims Miss Martineau, writing from her sick chamber at Christmas time, now am I alone with my holly sprigs, and the memories of old years. I can flit at will among the family groups that I see gathered around many firesides." Sick was she, but not lonely-she had memory. Not but what there are seasons when the memory of the past makes the earth appear a very lonely place; and it is well, so it brings heaven nearer. "One's ailments are trifles," writes Caroline Fry, "when one is quite happy; they seem nothing when I remember how every little addition of illness used to overbear me." That is, when she was lonely as well as sick. Referring afterwards to that melancholy period, she says, " How little that word (lonely) has to do with numbers. How lonely I have been when every hour of every day was passed in company!" It is very possible, we read, to be lonely in life without being lonely in heart. Let us see how, according to a German author, Dr. Krummacher, it fared with one who dwelt in the wilderness, lonely above all other men. "The rock by which he dwelt preached to Can anything be more touching? Can any-him of a Rock that ever liveth, and on which he thing be more true than this sketch? Frame it had builded for eternity. The brook (the little in gold, and it will look much the same; atten- brook Cherith) had its own voice, and had much tion and seeming kindness may be purchased, to say that was sweet and comfortable, and told but love-never! of other waters that were yet to come, which God would pour upon the thirsty, of floods for the dry ground, and of streams that he would open in the desert. And now the shady trees began to preach, and sweetly to direct the prophet to the tree of life, in whose shade a mansion stood already prepared for him; and to the heavenly palms, from whose tops eternal peace should one day breathe upon him. Then the cheerful songsters in the air, and the wild roses in the thicket, would sing to him. * Everything, in short, would begin to live and breathe around him, and to reason and to teach; the stars in the firmament, the flowers on the bank, the drops on the leaves, the zephyrs among the trees-for there are many kinds of voices in the world, and none of them is without signification. For a whole year," adds Dr. Krummacher," the prophet dwelt thus in the wilderness, alone, and yet not lonely-for God was with him." The present is not the time to carry out the sweet thoughts which naturally suggest themselves to us upon reading this exquisite description, and we turn lingeringly back again to the world. -- We set out by speaking of the sick and lonely. Now, there are many sick who are not lonely; and many lonely ones who are only heart-sick; but where these two conditions meet it is terrible indeed! And they do meet sometimes-ay, oftentimes in far-off places-in still, quiet chambers; but the world keeps no chronicle of such. There may be some happy individuals, standing without the circle, who will turn over this page with a smile-who hate melancholy themes! but by-and-bye they may be gradually drawn in to understand the sorrowful meaning of those two words, sick and lonely. At some period of our lives they are revealed to all, to teach them sympathy for others. Listen to the lament of the poet "One year ago my path was green, "One year ago!" Yes, a great deal may come * Not long since, while sitting in the carriage waiting for a friend who was paying a visit in one of those pleasant streets leading out of Piccadilly, we could not help laying aside the volume we were reading, to listen to the busy hum of the multitude afar off. Amidst the whirl of carriages, we distinguished every now and then a burst of music; it might have been only a street-organ, but nevertheless it sounded marvellously sweet. Occasionally also we caught the cry of "Spring flowers!" or inhaled the passing scent of a basket full of blue violets. The sun was shining brightly. We were in a the pavement, and a blind man went past, led blind!" As if he had said, "Please to remem- "Dear Reader! we do not chronicle these things to make you sad, and throw a cloud over your young, glad spirits-if you are young and glad-if not, you will forgive us for the truth's sake. Think you that when that old man went on his way cheered and refreshed, that the earth appeared less bright for the momentary shadow he had cast upon its sunshine? Surely not. So, when the sick and lonely come across our path, far from diminishing, they open out new sources of happiness, purer and deeper than the world dreams of. There is no happiness half so great as that of feeling that we can cheer, and soothe, and minister, ever so slightly, to the happiness of another. 66 The above thoughts were partly suggested by a little book recently published, and entitled Hymns and Thoughts for the Sick and Lonely." We gather from the preface, that the authoress has felt all that she has written, and that she would fain comfort others with the same sweet thoughts which comforted her own heart in the season of sickness and loneliness. To believe, if I can believe it," writes Caroline Fry, as if such belief were too great a happiness, "that one hour of anybody's sadness has been lightened by my means, is a real medicine to my own." With such sentiments as these it is, indeed, as Mrs. Child observes, a blessed mission to write books!" 66 "Go where thy Father leads thee! let no doubt Assail thy mind, though he should bid thee part From dearest friends; though he should shut thee out From human spiritual guides; yet to thine heart Even though he lead thee through the wilderness. Thou still in peace at his dear feet may'st sit, To keep thee low in body as in mind, And listening to his voice rich treasure find. Then be not downeast, hope on to the end, Low paths do oft to fairest pastures tend. 66 Hear, when he bids thee take the lowest place, Display, and, till he bids thee hence, be still. "Then rest thee in thy low estate; seek nought And know, if thou on earth his cross dost bear, Our authoress is evidently, from her writings, well acquainted with the place "Where the Balm of Gilead grows, and its holy sweetness breathes over every page. nots. The authoress has thought proper to withhold her name; perhaps she saw no good purpose that would be served by having it known; "To be visited," it has been said, " with new and we are sure that she coveted neither fame nor praise, but only the approbation of a few and good ideas is a blessing; to be appointed to communicate them an honour." All honour dear ones, and the hope that her little poems might be as songs in the night" to the multi- and blessing, say we, to her who first thought of tude of weary hearts for whose support and con-writing for the SICK and LONELY! Isolation they were written-the sick and the lonely. Thus she speaks to them, and we are reminded as we read of what is somewhere said by another poet 66 My heart! they loose my heart, those simple Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch; * “Hymns and Thoughts for the Sick and Lonely." By a Lady. LILLIAS. BY A. T Lillias! thy sweet smile lights no more The sunshine calls from their dark sleep But for thy form, thy gliding step, |