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trude Campbell's wrongs (not magnified; could they be?) was painted in my dreams; the vision carried her to the tomb, and shadowed forth the form of her aged friend strewing flowers over her grave and watering them with his tears. I awoke day was just breaking, the weather delicious; and, little refreshed by my troubled sleep, I cheerfully arose and sauntered forth. All was still quiet -the sun had not yet risen, and the only sound which broke the holy stillness of this Sunday morning, was the grateful melody of the thousand birds, as they carolled forth their matin-song of praise. Almost unconsciously, instinctively, I turned my steps toward the village burying-ground. My feelings harmonized with the scene. I was sad, yet calm. I had often visited the spot, and all there was familiar, save a few modern-looking stones which marked the graves of the newly-departed. Among these latter, at once my eye became riveted upon one, a simple and modest slab of virgin white marble-it bore this inscription:

"GERTRUDE CAMPBELL, died, March the first, 1829, of consumption, ætat. sixteen years. Her virtues are embalmed in the memories of her friendsnone else could know them. Into the hands of her Redeemer her mother and sisters commend her spirit."

THE TABLE OF EMERALD.

THAT Emerald vast of the Pyramid-
Were I where it is laid,

I would ask no king for his weary crown,
As its mystic words were said.
The pomp of wealth, the show of power,
In vain for me would shine,
And nought that brings the mind a care
Would win bright gold of mine.
Would I feast all day-revel all night-
Laugh with a secret sadness?
Would I sleep away the breezy morn,

And wake to the goblet's madness? Would I spend no time and no golden

ore

For the wisdom that sages knew? Would I run to waste with a human mind To its holy trust untrue?

Oh! knew I the depth of that emerald spell,

And had I the gold it brings,

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deep tone

They were dear to this heart of mine! Dearer to me was that mild blue eye

Than the lamp on wisdom's shrine. My soul brought up from its deepest cell The sum of its earthly love; But it could not buy her wing from heaven,

And she flew to her rest above.

That first deep love I have taken back
In my rayless breast to hide;
With the tear it brought for a burning
seal

'Twill there for ever bide. I may stretch on now to another goal,

I may feed my thoughts of flameThe tie is broken that kept me back,

And my mind speeds on-for fame! But, alas! I am dreaming as if I knew The spell of the tablet green!

I forget how like to a broken reed

Is the hope on which I lean. There is nothing true of my idle dream But the wreck of my early love, And my mind is coin'd for my daily bread,

And how can it soar above?

N. P. W.

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MARIE JEANNE.

CHAPTER I.

ONE pleasant morning, about sixty years ago, while the good people of Paris were busily commencing their daily avocations, the eyes of those moving in the neighbourhood of the Tuileries were attracted by a magnificent train of horsemen and carriages advancing toward the palace, from the direction of the Bois de Boulogne. The splendour and importance of the cortège at once announced to the spectators, well accustomed to the sight, the return of royalty to its stately abode. The interruption, however, seemed to cause little surprise, and less pleasure; for, at this period, the corruption of the court had nearly reached its height; the slow fire of deadly hate had long been making its subterranean way through the central realms of the social body, and the gayest and loveliest circles of wealth, rank, and fashion, led their giddy round upon the bosom of a

volcano.

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procession with acclamation; and, bowing to his subjects, with graceful condescension, Louis the fifteenth, and his youthful grandson (afterward Louis the sixteenth) reached the lofty arch, and entered the palace. A tall young boy, who had been forced too near by the crowd, was ordered back, and one of the soldiers struck him sternly with the flat of his drawn sword. The insult, though it could not be resented, was evidently felt; and the youth clenched his fist maliciously at the man, and followed him with a flashing look, and a shout of defiance.

A miscellaneous group, accidentally flung together by the pressure of the multitude, observed this incident with murmurs of disapprobation, and expressed their sympathy for the boy by echoing his scornful cry against the guard.

"Sainte Vierge!" exclaimed one, "the knave uses his blade as if we were

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girl in Paris; and that then, as it would be now, was saying a great deal.

"Diable! Frenchmen are no longer was pronounced at once the prettiest better than worms!" muttered a third. "Were I the child, I would have justice, if I went to the throne itself!" said a fourth.

"The throne!" echoed one, and there was a general laugh.

"By our Lady! a pretty place to seek justice!"

"He had better ask it of the Duc de Richelieu!" said another, sarcastically. "Or his fair daughter, the Comtesse d'Egmont !" added a third.

A score of sacres followed the utterance of the last name. The lady mentioned was one of those fiends, in the disguise of beautiful and fascinating women, who contributed so largely, by their debaucheries and oppressions, toward the downfall of the monarchy. She had been recently detected in an intrigue, carried on incognito, with a shopman: upon the man's accidentally discovering her real rank, he was suddenly arrested, and plunged into a madhouse, where only an accident saved him either from eternal imprisonment or a violent death. It be well believed may that, at this period, there existed little affection between the people of France and their indolent and voluptuous sovereign.

Among those who had lingered a few moments, first to behold the splendour of the royal cortège, and then to see the termination of the fracas between the boy and the soldier, and the consequent irritation of the populace, was a young girl of about sixteen, neatly but plainly dressed, and carrying, under her arm, a small bundle. The entire moral depravity of a powerful court had not been without its effects upon the people at large. In the circles of the royal roué, incense was offered but to the divinity of love, and, in the common streets of the gay and giddy metropolis, a form so striking as that of the pretty brunette, could not escape attention. From her attire, she might have been the girl of some fashionable couturière, or modiste; and it was of a kind to set off her round, graceful figure to the utmost advantage; but her air and walk were charming enough for a duchess. Nothing could be more perfect than her foot and ancle, slyly displayed beneath her coquettish dress; and her face, so far from disappointing the expectation raised by the youthful attractions of her person, rather surpassed and surprised it. In short, she

As she proceeded across the street, with her eyes modestly drooping to the ground, and her warm, sunny face, halfbetraying a consciousness of the general admiration, many young men murmured audible expressions of homage:-"jolie!" "enchanteresse!" "charmante!"

escaped from divers lips; and more than one idler, as if unconsciously or irresistibly attracted by the loveliness of the youthful Hebe, turned his course in the direction of hers.

"Bon jour, ma belle!" whispered one, with a very ugly face, "May I make your friendship?"

There was no reply to this disinterested proposal. But a few moments after, another, a handsome and richly dressed chevalier, addressed her: "Angel! your name?"

"Marie Jeanne, monsieur."

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46 And, if not from heaven, mademoiselle, what part of France gave you birth?''

"Vaucouleurs, monsieur."
"A stranger in Paris?"
"Oui, monsieur."
"Married?"

"No, monsieur."
"Parents?"

"A mother, monsieur." "Brothers and sisters?" 'No, monsieur."

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Quelle grace! mignonne! et mademoiselle, où demeure-t-elle ?"

The charming brunette, with a grace possessed by nothing under heaven but a young French girl, or a swan, lifted her eyes to the handsome monsieur's. She was positively dazzling. Never had he beheld a countenance so radiantly beautiful. Her features were perfect, even in repose, but with every word and thought some new grace appeared. Her smile was death; her glances were as fatal, could you have escaped her smile; and, withal, she had teeth of snow, and a voice which, even without any personal attractions, would have made you her slave in a minute.

"Marie Jeanne," said the stranger, now really enchanted, "sweet Marie Jeanne, I love you!"

What reply Marie Jeanne would have vouchsafed to this truly French declara

tion, it is not easy to determine; but, at this moment her eyes, happening to turn from her enamoured companion, fell on another, the sight of whom appeared suddenly to change her determination. Throwing upon her adorer a cool look of surprise and displeasure, she remarked, "Monsieur, I do not understand you. Allez vous-en! Bon jour, monsieur !'' Notwithstanding a certain saucy archness, there was yet a sincerity in her air and tone not to be mistaken or resisted. She glided on her way. "Monsieur" stood riveted to the spot, struck with a variety of emotions, in which astonishment and mortification were largely mingled. At length with a 66 sacre" rolling deeply from his tongue, and that delicious "bon jour, monsieur!” ringing in his ears like a dream, he twirled his moustaches, tapped his leg with a small báton, hummed a lively air, and resumed the original course of his promenade.

CHAPTER II.

The individual who had attracted the attention of Marie Jeanne was leaning against the marble balcony which surrounded the bronze equestrian statue, at that time just erected in the Place Louis Quinze in honour of the reigning monarch. Whether it was that the stranger achieved the abrupt dismissal of his rival by a secret sign, or whether the more obvious attention of one palpably superior in beauty and bearing to all she had ever seen, induced the capricious coquette to afford him an opportunity of making her acquaintance, I shall not inquire; but certain it is that, when the first "monsieur" had departed, she very quietly proceeded in a direction which led her within a few yards of the other. He was apparently a young noble, by the elegance of his person, and his air distingué. Tall and graceful, his large black eyes were full of thought and fire; and yet there was something sombre and mysterious in his expression. Neither did the tasteful simplicity of his dress escape the eye of Marie Jeanne. His coat of sky-blue silk had a narrow edging of gold, and his straw-coloured waistcoat was embroidered with silver. The hat, sword, buckles, and shoes, still farther bespoke the gentleman and the man of rank and fashion. He might have been a count, or a duke. He might have been a prince, or even a king. Several youths of the royal family were reputedly fond of adventure, and gifted

with temperaments not adverse from the smiles of beauty. The young monarch of Denmark was now on a visit to Paris. It was impossible, indeed, to surmise who the stranger might not be some one distinguished, evidently.

As the fair soubrette passed the place, whence he had made her so profoundly the object of his gaze, he unfolded his arms and followed.

"So, so! I have turned off monsieur just in time!" said Marie Jeanne to herself, as she lowered her eyes once more modestly to the ground, and pursued her way without looking back. Marie Jeanne walked on. She passed from the Place Louis Quinze up the Rue Royale, where the workmen were commencing excavations for the buildings which, at present, occupy that spot, and which were, soon after, the scene of such memorable events. She even reached the extremity of the street, and turned toward the Boulevard des Italiens, without looking back, or losing the studied and demure propriety of her demeanour. Still no step approached. No voice whispered the sweet words, "charmante!" "enchanteresse!" which she loved so much to hear. Some one passed. Her heart beat. He was a jesuit priest. Another! Pshaw! only M. de Voltaire. He had been pointed out to her the day before as a great curiosity—a withered old man of sixty. It was not M. de Voltaire that Marie Jeanne wanted. Could it be possible that the handsome stranger had given up the pursuit? At length, impatient and half angry, she hastily turned her head. The object of her thoughts was just behind her. She stopped to arrange her shoe-buckle, and, in order to do so, exposed her pretty foot. The stranger stopped also. She walked on again with a more rapid pace. He did the same. She paused once more to arrange the kerchief about her bosom. He also paused.

"Ciel!" thought Marie Jeanne. "How very extraordinary! Is the man mad?"

At length, with her mysterious pursuer always at about the same distance from her, she found herself, by a circuitous route, again in front of the Tuileries; and supposing that timidity, or, perhaps, the fear of observation, prevented him from addressing her, she turned into the splendid garden, and gliding by statue and fountain, lost herself amid

the black shadows of the close and winding walks.

"Allons, nous verrons!" said Marie Jeanne.

She had scarcely uttered the words, when the stranger appeared through the thick foliage, and stood by her face to face. Marie Jeanne actually blushed; but she recovered herself immediately, and with an air of offended dignity, "Monsieur," she said, "what do you seek? I have done you no harm. Why do you follow me thus ?"

She seemed very indignant; but her indignation only made her more lovely.

The unknown looked at her a moment with his dark, melancholy eyes, and sighed; then, with a faint smile, took her hand and kissed it, but with the utmost respect.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in a low, gentle voice, "dare I solicit from you one favour?"

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Marie Jeanne struggled feebly to with- neath whose wand this vision of archidraw her hand.

"He is making love already," thought she. "What a charming place is this Paris !"

"If you will not grant my request, allow me at least to prefer it."

She looked at him. He was very handsome. Her eyes said so; but her sweet, rosy mouth only replied "I cannot keep you from using your own tongue, monsieur."

"Then promise to comply with the first thing I shall ask of you, after you are queen of France."

"Oh, bon Dieu!" ejaculated Marie Jeanne to herself; "he is then really mad! What a great pity! with such tender eyes, too;" and then somewhat hastily disengaging her hand, she answered with a compassionate smile, "Yes, monsieur, I faithfully promise to grant what you ask, when I am queen of France." "One moment,' said the stranger, ere he resigned the small white hand which he held compressed in his own; "I see, mademoiselle, you think me mad. I pray you have a better opinion of me. I am not mad. Oh, would I were. Adieu! After your elevation, there will be only one thing more extraordinary."

"Quel dommage!" thought Marie Jeanne; but knowing that lunatics must be pacified by an appearance of credulity on the part of their auditors, she asked him, though not without a half-suppressed smile:

tectural grandeur arose, consigned the accounts to the flames, frightened at the idea that posterity should learn the extent of his prodigality. The court of Louis the fifteenth rioted there so far above the herd of common humanity, that their pleasures resembled the feasts of the gods. The treasures of a mighty nation were within their reach, and they bathed themselves in a sea of luxury and splendour. Not in the palace of the Caesars, or the seraglio of the Persian or the Mohammedan, have there been ever more multiform and costly offerings at the altar of love and mirth. One dazzling divinity presided over the orgies of that stately temple. Her name was Pleasure.

The most casual reader need not be informed that women at this period ruled France. A royal contemporary, indeed, excited the ire of Louis the fifteenth, by designating the events of his administration as having occurred under the reign of Petticoat the first, Petticoat the second, Petticoat the third, in allusion to those syrens whom the effeminate monarch, with a latitude breathing of the atmosphere of Constantinople, called to share his pleasures and his power. was about five years after the incident just related, when the court of Versailles was thrown into great agitation, by changes either made or premeditated, of the most important description.

It

In an apartment of the chateau, corresponding in its furniture with the

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