consent from her marriage, and the recluse bore to his solitary mansion the young bride of his affections. Oh, sir, the house assumed a new appearance within and without. Roses bloomed in the garden, jessamines peeped through its lattices, and the fields about it smiled with the effects of careful cultivation. Lights were seen in the little parlour in the evening, and many a time would the passenger pause by the garden-gate to listen to strains of the sweetest music, breathed by choral voices from the cottage. If the mysterious student and his wife were neglected by their neighbours, what cared they? Their endearing and mutual affection made their home a little paradise. But death came to Eden. Mary fell suddenly sick, and, after a few hours' illness, died in the arms of her husband and her sister Madeleine. This was the student's second heavy affliction.

"Days, months, rolled on, and the only solace of the bereaved was to sit with the sisters of the deceased and talk of the lost one. To Adelaide, at length, he offered his widowed heart. She came to his lone house like the dove, bearing the olive-branch of peace and consolation. Their bridal was not one of revelry and mirth, for a sad recollection brooded over the hour. Yet they lived happily; the husband again smiled, and, with a new spring, the roses again blossomed in their garden. But it seemed as if a fatality pursued this singular man. When the rose withered and the leaf fell, in the mellow autumn of the year, Adelaide, too, sickened and died, like her younger sister, in the arms of her husband and of Madeleine.

"Perhaps you will think it strange, young man, that, after all, the wretched survivor stood again at the altar. But he was a mysterious being, whose ways were inscrutable, who thirsting for domestic bliss, was doomed ever to seek and never to find it. His third bride was Madeleine. I well remember her. She was a beauty, in the true sense of the word. It may seem strange to you to hear the praise of beauty from such lips as mine; but I cannot avoid expatiating upon hers. She might have sat upon a throne, and the most loyal subject, the proudest peer, would have sworn the blood within her veins had descended from a hundred kings. She was a proud

creature, with a tall, commanding form, and raven tresses, that floated, dark and cloud-like, over her shoulders. She was a singularly gifted woman, and possessed of rare inspiration. She loved the widower for his power and his fame, and she wedded him. They were married in that church. It was on a summer afternoon-I recollect it well. During the ceremony, the blackest cloud I ever saw overspread the heavens like a pall, and, at the moment when the third bride pronounced her vow, a clap of thunder shook the building to the centre. All the females shrieked, but the bride herself made the response with a steady voice, and her eyes glittered with wild fire as she gazed upon her bridegroom. He remarked a kind of incoherence in her expressions as they rode homeward, which surprised him at the time. Arrived at his house, she shrunk upon the threshold but this was the timidity of a maiden. When they were alone he clasped her hand—it was as cold as ice! He looked into her face

66

'Madeleine," said he, "what means this? your cheeks are as pale as your wedding-gown!" The bride uttered a frantic shriek.

"My wedding gown!' exclaimed she; 'no, no-this-this is my sister's shroud! The hour for confession has arrived. It is God that impels me to speak. To win you I have lost my soul ! Yes-yes-I am a murderess! She smiled upon me in the joyous affection of her young heart-but I gave her the fatal drug! Adelaide twined her white arms about my neck, but I administered the poison! Take me to your arms: I have lost my soul for you, and mine must you be!'

"She spread her long, white arms, and stood like a maniac before him," said the sexton, rising, in the excitement of the moment, and assuming the attitude he described; "and then," continued he, in a hollow voice, "at that moment came the thunder and the flash, and the guilty woman fell dead on the floor!" The countenance of the narrator expressed all the horror that he felt.

"And the bridegroom," asked I: "the husband of the destroyer and the victims-what became of him?"

"He stands before you!" was the thrilling answer.

THE FORSAKEN.

HER glossy hair in many a ring Upon the breeze was wantoning: 'Twas golden where the sunlight play'd, But where the tendrils sought the shade 'Twas dark, but very beautiful; And though her face by classic rule Would not be deemed perfection, yet Were caviller to look on it, The critic in his gaze forgot To ask where loveliness was not. The twilight of her soft blue eye Was very like the evening sky, And as her lips just parted, you Might see a gleam of white shine through; While such her mild persuasive glance It seemed young Love's inheritance, Wherewith the boy-god tipp'd his darts To melt with passion froward hearts.

Upon her hand she leans her cheek, And looks abroad but does not speak : 'Tis sunset, and the crimson glow Is flitting o'er the landscape now; Yet heeds she not the lovely beam That tints the mead and gilds the stream; Nor e'en the moon whose silver boat Upon the waters seems to float; Nor e'en the stars that shine and quiver Within the darkness of that river, So lovely, all who sought the sheen, Would linger o'er the mirror'd scene, And deem a world more pure was there Than e'en the world of upper air.

But these are things she did not see, For eye and thought were fixedly On one far jutting point intent, And as from her light bower she leant, We mark'd the flush upon her brow, We mark'd the sudden paleness now, The quicken'd breath, the flashing eye, All light and all expectancy; The long-drawn sigh which seem'd to start The life-tide back upon her heart, As if a sound had reached her ear, He whom she watched was insincere! But no! it was a transient thought That look of desolation wrought, For instantly to smile she strove

Ah! sad it is when lips have spoken, And love on one hath set his token, To find the heart we deemed our own, Vibrates not with a single tone Of those intense and passionate lays It feigned so well in other days!

THE FIRE-FLIES.

UPON the midnight wave there pass'd A thousand boats of cockle-shell, Without a sail, without a mast,

They floated on by magic spell; In the pale moon-beam there was seen Crowding upon the silent strand With noiseless step a fairy queen Follow'd by all her courtly band.

Soon was that royal train afar,

Riding upon the wave and wind, They pass'd 'neath many an unknown star,

And left the rapid birds behind; Morn came, and with it zephyrs sweet, Then sunny noon's bright pageantry, And onward sped that fairy fleet

Gaily upon a sparkling sea.

Dim eve returned in dusky hue,

The murmuring waters glided by, And gathering clouds of tempest threw Black shadows o'er the starless sky. The queen of fairy raised her wand,

And turned her drifted fleet about, And bid them hurry back to land

Before the blast of storm was out.

While yet she spoke, a trembling wave Rose from the dark deep heavily, Capsized each cockle-shell and gave

The terror'd fairies to the sea. Again was raised the mystic wand,

Yet calm'd it not the billowy motion,

And tiny feet could not withstand
The heavings of a swelling ocean.

Alas! for thee, confiding girl,

The giddiness of fashion's whirl,
The glitter of the lighted hall,
The madness of the festival,
The wild thrill of the mazy dance,
The dove-like eyes that on him glance,
The low sweet voice that bringeth now
Fire to his eye-blood to his brow-
Have dashed aside his love for thee,
Who lov'st him to idolatry!

And then upon the rippling waves, A thousand little eddies rose

Bubbling above the fairy graves; Yet were their spirits pure and bright, Borne upward on a dying wail, And to the shore in airy flight

They passed upon a rising gale.

Not to their scented homes of flowers, That wither at the breath of blight,

They sought afar those mystic bowers, Blooming in beauty ever bright; Like spirits of the air they roam,

Where'er they list 'neath southern
skies,

And hither to the earth they come,
Riding upon those summer flies,
That flit at evening in the shade,
And sparkle in the silent glade.

SUNDAY IN PARIS.

It was Sunday evening, and we made our way into the Tuileries garden. The forty-fifth band—the crack band of the French army-was playing under the palace windows. But such playing! I confess I never had an idea what military music was till now. It was not, as I have too often heard it, a conflict between drum and trumpet, and flute and hautboy, as to which should be heard most; it was not a mere mixture of instruments, but in reality "a succession of sentiments." And yet the fellows that played were common, vulgar looking fellows enough-neither more nor less than ordinary bandsmen, to all appearance. How they managed to produce such an effect I cannot at all make out. It is a Sterne truth, but certainly "they do manage these things better in France." I could have listened to them for ever: but it is not so easy playing as listening; and the fortyfifth band at length ceased. The night had begun to close in; "heaven's lamps" were lit-and earth's too; and from top to bottom of the "Elysian Fields" sparkled a thousand lights. The fountains in the Palace gardens plashed and glittered in the air; the soft evening breeze came loaded with the perfume of a thousand flowers; every alley of that vast pleasure-ground was crowded with gay guests; infancy in all its joy, youth in all its brightness, and age almost as gay and bright as youth and infancy themselves.

We are in the "Elysian Fields;" and what a whirl of gaiety it is! On one side of us is the "circus," with its lively merry-go-round of horses and riders. Close by its side is a merry-go-round of quite another description; wooden horses and dragons here invite the adventurous youth to enter its enticing circle. A flight of aerial ships there whisks through the air, every ship

freighted with lovers, and fanned by Cupids. Music from the interior of a brilliantly-lighted pavilion next attracts our notice, and we learn that at the "Saloon of Mars" there is a "ball for every one." Gaming-tables succeed to the saloon, where one may tempt Dame Fortune (or Miss Fortune if you will) with any sum, from a Napoleon down to half a franc. Another step or two brings us to the stage of a leg-less vaulter, who, to the infinite delight of the gaping Parisians, performs a series of evolutions on his wooden stumps that might strike envy into the bosoms of a couple of pegtops. A hotel offers its enticements at a little distance, where a lady, having dispatched her bowl of riceand-milk, is earnestly discussing a game of dominoes with her lover. On a carpet in front of the hotel a family of posturists are twisting themselves into all possible and impossible shapes, to the tune of the Marseilles Hymn, played on the violin by the father of the flock. You have no sooner got out of the sound of the posture-master's trumpet than you find yourself surrounded by entirely new objects. A weighing-machine here invites you to ascertain your avoirdupois for the smallest possible charge. That amusing instrument the Polygone there attracts your attention, and offers recreation at an equally low rate. At one moment groups of "Shepherds from the south of France" run over you with their wooden legs; at another you are within an ace of being whirled away in a vortex of skipping-ropes. Rockets from the neighbouring tea-gardens every now and then startle you with their upward whiz, and fill the air with sparkles; while the blue and red lights of the various omnibuses go whisking by, every moment, like a masquerade of ignis-fatui.

The company is not among the least amusing part of the spectacle. Here the young merchant's clerk, with his little pet of a grisette by his side, looks as great, and twice as happy, in his straw hat, as a monarch in his robes of state. There the veteran of the grand army paces with proud steps toward the "Triumphal Arch" at the end of the avenue. Next to him comes the young cadet of the military school, big with the recollections of the memorable "three days;" and close to the scholar, a young private of the National Guard, in kid gloves and green spectacles. A party of English

succeed, quizzing and laughing at every body they meet, and quizzed and laughed at by everybody in return. Groups of happy children, dressed in all manner of fantastic costumes, come bowling their hoops or chasing one another among the trees; attended by nurses, dressed really like nurses, and not, as in England, like their mammas. Elegantly attired groups of women, accompanied by their husbands, brothers, or cousins, add their charms and graces to the scene. And here and there, amidst the merry throng, may be espied the reverend figure of a parish curate or of a Sister of Charity, slowly returning home after the duties of the day, or devoutly hastening to the sick chamber of some dying penitent. Such is life! and such-such is Sunday evening in the "Elysian Fields" of Paris !

AMERICAN PASTIMES IN

VACATION.

(Concluded from page 48.)

Miss Ellerton sat in the music-room the next morning, after breakfast, preventing pauses in a rather interesting conversation, by a running accompaniment upon the guitar. A single gold thread formed a fillet about her temples, and from beneath it, in clouds of silken ringlets, floated the softest raven hair that ever grew enamoured of an ivory shoulder. Hers was a skin that seemed woven of the lily-white but opaque fibre of the magnolia, yet of that side of its cup turned toward the fading sunset. There is no term in painting, because there is no track of pencil or colour, that could express the vanishing and impalpable breath that assured the healthiness of so pale a cheek. She was slight, as all southern women are in America, and of a flexile and luxurious gracefulness, equalled by nothing but the movings of a smoke curl. Without the elastic nerve, remarkable in the motions of Taglioni, she appeared, like her, to be born with a lighter specific gravity than her fellow-creatures. If she had floated away upon some chance breeze, you would only have been surprised upon reflection.

"I am afraid you are too fond of society,' said Miss Ellerton, as Juba came in hesitatingly, and delivered her a note in the handwriting of an old cor

respondent. She turned pale on seeing the superscription, and crushed the note up in her hand, unread. I was not sorry to defer the denouement of my little drama, and taking up her remark, which she seemed disposed to forget, I referred her to a Scrap-book of Van Pelt's, which she had brought down with her, containing some verses of my own, copied (by good luck) in that sentimental sophomore's own hand.

"Are these yours, really and truly?" she asked, looking pryingly into my face, and showing me my own verses, against which she had already run a pencil line of approbation.

"Peccavi!" I answered.

"But will

you make me in love with my own offspring by reading them in your own voice?"

They were some lines written in a balcony, at daybreak, while a ball was still going on within, and contained an allusion (which I had quite overlooked) to some one of my ever-changing admirations.

"And who was this 'sweet lover," Mr. Wrongham? I should know, I think, before I go farther with so expeditious a gentleman."

"As Shelley says of his Ideal Mistress

I loved-oh no! I mean not one of ye, Or any earthly one-though ye are fair!* It was but an apostrophe to the presentiment of that which I have found, dear Miss Ellerton ! But will you read that ill-treated billet-doux, and remember that Juba stands with the patience of an ebon statue waiting for an answer?"

I knew the contents of the letter, and I watched the expression of her face as she read it with no little interest. Her temples flushed, and her delicate lips gradually curled into an expression of anger and scorn; and having finished the perusal of it, she put it into my hand, and asked me if so impertinent a production deserved an answer.

I began to fear that the éclaircissement would not leave me on the sunny side of the lady's favour, and felt the need of the moment's reflection given me while running my eye over the letter.

"Mr. Slingsby," said I, with the deliberation of an attorney, "has been some time in correspondence with you." "Yes.'

"And from his letters, and your brother's commendations, you had formed a

high opinion of his character, and had expressed as much in your letters?" "Yes-perhaps I did."

"And from this paper intimacy he conceives himself sufficiently acquainted with you to request leave to pay his addresses?"

A dignified bow put a stop to my catechism.

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"Dear Miss Ellerton," I said, "this is scarcely a question upon which I ought to speak, but by putting this letter into my hand you seemed to ask my opinion." "I did-I do,' ," said the lovely girl, taking my hand, and looking appealingly into my face; answer it for me! I have done wrong in encouraging that foolish correspondence, and I owe this forward man, perhaps, a kinder reply than my first feelings would have dictated. Decide for me-write for merelieve me from the first burden that has lain on my heart since I

She burst into tears, and my dread of an explanation increased.

"Will you follow my advice implicitly?" I asked.

"Yes-oh yes." "You promise?" "Indeed, indeed."

"Well, then, listen to me! However painful the task, I must tell you that the encouragement you have given Mr. Slingsby, the admiration you have expressed in your letters of his talents and acquirements, and the confidences you have reposed in him respecting yourself, warrant him in claiming as a right a fair trial of his attractions. You have known and approved Mr. Slingsby's mind for years-you know me but for a few hours. You saw him under the most unfavourable auspices (for I know him intimately), and I feel bound in justice to assure you, that you will like him much better upon acquaintance."

Miss Ellerton had gradually drawn herself up during this splendid speech, and sat at last erect, and as cold as Agrippina upon her marble chair.

"Will you allow me to send Mr. Slingsby to you," I continued, rising, "and suffer him to plead his own cause?" "If you will call my brother, Mr. Wrongham, I shall feel obliged to you,' said Miss Ellerton.

I left the room, and, hurrying to my chamber, dipped my head into a basin of water, and plastered my long locks over my eyes, slipped on a white roundabout, and tied around my neck the

identical checked cravat in which I had made so unfavourable an impression the first day of my arrival. Tom Ellerton was soon found, and easily agreed to go before and announce me by my proper name to his sister, and treading closely on his heels, I followed to the door of the music-room.

"Ah, Ellen," said he, without giving her time for a scene, "I was looking for you. Slingsby is better, and will pay his respects to you presently. And I say-you will treat him well, Ellenand-and-don't flirt with Wrongham the way you did last night! Slingsby's a devilish sight better fellow. Oh, here he is!"

As I stepped over the threshold, Miss Ellerton gave me just enough of a look to assure herself that it was the identical monster she had seen at the tea-table, and not deigning me another glance, immediately commenced talking violently to her brother on the state of the weather. Tom bore it for a moment or two with remarkable gravity, but at my first attempt to join in the conversation, my voice was lost in an explosion of laughter which would have been the death of a gentleman with a full habit. Indignant and astonished, Miss Ellerton rose to her full height, and slowly turned to

me.

"Peccavi !" said I, crossing my hands on my bosom, and looking up penitently to her face.

She ran to me, and seized my hand, but recovered herself instantly, and the next moment was gone from the room.

Whether from wounded pride from having been the subject of a mystification, or whether from that female caprice by which most men suffer at one period or other of their bachelor lives, I know not-but I never could bring Miss Ellerton again to the same interesting crisis with which she ended her intimacy with Mr. Wrongham. She professed to forgive me, and talked laughingly enough of our old acquaintance; but whenever I grew tender, she referred me to the "Sweet Lover" mentioned in my verses in the balcony, and looked around for Van Pelt. That accomplished beau, on observing my discomfiture, began to find out Miss Ellerton's graces without the aid of his quizzing-glass, and I soon found it necessary to yield the pas altogether. She has since become Mrs. Van Pelt; and when I last heard from her, as well as could be expected."

was