THE

A clear, sharp, frosty morning! How the footsteps of the early passengers crunch on the half-frozen snow-and how fantastically capricious Master Frost has been adorning the windows during the night-time, working by the pale moonlight! And really a very clever artist he is, if one is to judge from his capability for producing "the beautiful"-quaint, strange beauty as it is. But alas! I fear me his productions want durability: they will not even stand the test of hours. No, in good sooth, they are but dissolving views, and, even as I gaze, change and shift their forms incessantly. What was a few moments since a ship, the taper spars and delicate tracery of the rigging all complete, is, even now under my very eyes, becoming a sturdy oak, with far-spreading foliage and noble trunk! A cottage, which stood half-hidden in the midst of its thick shrubberies, is now a ridge of low hills, intersected with running streams and tiny hedge-rows! But it is too cold to stand here, speculating on the wilful vagaries of this invisible tricksy sprite. "Janie, dear, do stir the fire: ah, that is delightful! How pleasantly the blaze roars up the chimney! Tell Betsey we will have the kettle, instead of the urn, this morning; its gay, humming laughter is quite indispensable to be in harmony with this charming winter morning. Now, Betsey, the eggs, and hot toast and coffee. Ah, I wish we could give come to little Allen Parker, the errand-boy, as he runs stamping past, his basket on his arm, and his little red fingers, peeping like diminutive bobsters from under his long jacket-sleeves. I wonder where he is going! Mr. Hughes must have had an early customer. Breakfast ready, Janie? Well, so am I—” "Rat-tat."

"The Post!"

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Janie, do just run and see whom the letters are for; Betsey is always so slow. None for me? Well, I must say Alice might have written; but it is no use being cross; and she certainly has not much time for letter-writing, poor child! Janie, where is yours from? Fred? Does he tell you any news of the Evertons? But never mind answering questions till you have finished it, dear; I won't ask any more till then."

In what a business-like manner old Herman trudges on with his bag, his face the very personification of the authoritative, uncompromising "Here I am" rat-tat! It does not give one a clue to the many mysteries he holds in his hand.

Well, if I were a postman, I am sure I must peep; I could not resist it. How I should like to see the different effects of those square, harmlesslooking little missives he grasps! Let me see

POST.

my old nurse was wont to tell me that second sight was a gift in our family; it should serve me now, true descendant as I am-Ah, there he stops at Mrs. Merton's door! Mrs. Merton is a pretty young widow, who came to our town two years ago; has given mortal offence to the good people who consider themselves the elite of the place, by decidedly though courteously declining their proffered civilities; and yet of whom nobody has discovered anything-good, bad, or indifferent, sharpened as curiosity has been in this case by the malice of wounded vanity and the air of mystery which surrounded her-at least in their own imaginations-except that she is apparently friendless, and in affluent circumstances; the latter fact established rather by the large scale of her charities than by any especial luxury or ostentation in her mode of life. But I must hasten; for there her little footboy, having received the missive, is bearing it to the breakfast-room. How pretty she looks, leaning back listlessly in that luxurious arm-chair! her slight mourning dress, and that dainty lace apology for a cap, giving such a piquante appearance to her small rounded figure and little head, with its thick bands of bright smooth hair; her fairy, bien chaussés feet rest on the embroidered footstool, her white hands lie idly on her lap, and her blue eyes are fixed, absently, on the fire. Her whole air breathes of languor and melancholy; and often she sighs, but apparently quite unconsciously.

There is an air of refinement and elegance in that small breakfast-room, which one would hardly expect from the outward appearance of the house. It is one of a row-such a row as one constantly sees in quiet country towns; oldfashioned and highly respectable certainly, but without the smallest pretension to beauty; a line of dwellings looking like an assemblage of brick brothers and sisters, each with its polished knocker and white doorstep; its stiff, staring windows, prim slip of garden, and due compliment of chimney-pots; the only difference discernible being the bewildering number of shades of which brown is capable, as exhibited on the doors, and the varied contortions of the plats of turf or mould, as the case may be, which lie, straggling, in the middle of the respective gardens. But to return to Mrs. Merton's. The boy has just entered with the letter on a silver salver. "A letter, ma'am," he says, presenting it to his mistress.

The seal lay uppermost; and hardly glancing at it, she replies, languidly-and very sweet and musical is her voice-" Put it on the table: and Philip" (as the boy is retiring), "I expect the poor woman from Lilton, whose child was

Yes, ma'am," and he leaves the room. When is she going to open her letter? There she sits, still gazing at the ruddy flames as they rise and fall, as if she knew the contents by heart. Was ever any one so provokingly impassive?

Ah, there, something has popped out of the fire with a report as if from a mimic cannon, and her reverie is happily disturbed she turns to the table, and draws the cup of smoking chocolate towards her. Ah! I verily believe she has forgotten her letter. Oh no; I am glad to see she deigns at last to touch it. She has taken it up in the same languid manner which, if not natural, is at least habitual to her, and turns it round to read the address. But what is this? See how her cheek has flushed-how her lips and hands tremble-how eagerly she tears it open, and how rapidly she scans its contents! It is long, and closely written; yet in a moment she seems to have mastered it; and covering her face with her hands, leans her head on the table a few minutes, and it is raised again, but there are traces of tears upon her cheeks happy tears, however; for her eyes are liquid with light, and her whole face beaming with joy. She rises, and seats herself at yonder pretty writing-table-the perfection of its kind.

I wonder what was in the letter! Perhaps the answer will tell us; yes, I see enough for our purpose; the taper fingers move hastily and tremulously, but the fair running hand is distinct enough; one paragraph will suffice:

"They made me deem you perjured: they told me you had married a richer bride. My letters, aye, the last which I wrote, imploring you to tell me at least the truth, were returned-I believed by you! What wonder if, then, they worked their will? I was passive in their hands, and became his wife-God forgive me for it! I hoped I should die, but I found that life will stay when happiness is gone. Yet let me do him justice; he was all that was good and noble, and I loved him as if he were my father. But he died, and then I came here. May you come, do you ask? Yes, and quickly. It seems too happy, and as if it were all a dream. Ah, come soon! I know how you have suffered can you forgive me, and, Reginald, them, for my sakenay, higher, for God's sake?"

Poor pretty little widow! you have been deemed proud, and cold, and vain, and yours has been the silent misery of a breaking heart! Ah! why do we judge of others? "The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not with its joy." Were our vision clearer, our tongues might be less bitter. If we cannot remedy the one, surely we may the other. I wish each would begin with himself; and then what a peaceful world this might be!

his easiest of easy chairs, and listlessly scans the morning paper, or trifles with, rather than really partakes of, the delicious viands before him. His features are regular, and his whole appearance singularly refined and aristocratic. He ought to be handsome, with such a face and such a figure! And yet there is something disagreeable, if not absolutely repulsive, in the tout ensemble. Perhaps it may be the lines with which dissipation has already marked his faceperhaps the expression of hauteur and ennui which clouds his brow. Be it what it may, however, his lordship is evidently suffering from an access of ill-temper this morning-probably the effects of last night's excess. And he casts the paper impatiently from him, with a long yawn of disgust and weariness. Bring me some letters, Jervis," he says to a servant who entered the room.

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"Yes, my Lord. There is a large packet of them. Your Lordship has not opened any for many days: will your Lordship have them all, or only this morning's?"

His Lordship deigned no reply, and the man, after waiting for a few moments in respectful silence, withdrew; soon returning with a considerable number in his hand. He was an elderly, highly respectable, closely-shaven personage, with a cold hard eye and carefullytrained voice, which sounded as if he was speaking under perpetual self-constraint; and yet from eye and voice often escaped a flash of sarcastic meaning, wholly unnoticed by his master, simply because, except as a mere servant, a machine governed by his voice, he never thought of him at all.

Jervis placed the letters beside his master's plate, and Lord Carlet opened one or two languidly; then, scarcely glancing at them, replaced them on the table.

"Throw these into the fire, Jervis, and all of the rest which are bills-you can open them and see. Very impertinent tradespeople are becoming."

The last sentence was muttered to himself, whilst Jervis quickly and silently obeyed his order. At last he paused.

"Here is a letter, my Lord."

"The signature?"

"Desbourne, my Lord."

"A formal invitation to a slow place. Write a refusal, Jervis-decided, but civil. He has good property, no near connexion except myself. Make it very civil, Jervis."

"Yes, my Lord."

Several more letters were thus disposed of,

from old friends, tradesmen pressing for their due, and delicate billet-doux which breathed of no masculine hand. One only of the packet remains, and Jervis opens it; but suddenly a change passes over his usually impressive countenance, a writhe of agony convulses his features, and he devours the contents, heedless of his master's angry eye.

Lord Carlet had been watching his movements with quiet nonchalance; but now he stares at him with haughty astonishment. It is of short duration, however; for, with the bound of a madman, Jervis is upon him, his white face gleaming beside him-his trembling hands at his throat. "Villain-murderer!" he shouts, in a hoarse, strange voice, "you have ruined my child-my little Clara-my youngest-my best beloved. O that she had died first!" And he wrestled with desperate energy.

A brief struggle, and he lies panting and exhausted on the floor, Lord Carlet standing over him, a scornful smile upon his lip. He gazed at him for a moment; then, withdrawing his foot from his chest, turned coldly away.

"Get up, and leave the room. You are no longer in my service. Here is a check on my banker for the amount of wages due to you, and another for £500, which you will give to your daughter-your light o' love daughter," he added, looking fixedly at Jervis, who had risen and stood a few paces from him, trembling with fury.

"Do you hear?" And he laughed, in a low, mocking laugh. "Tell her this is the last I shall send her. Now go. I do not like these scenes."

With deadly anger in his face, and threatenings in his gestures, Jervis quitted the room.

A few hours after, Lord Carlet was riding in the Park, sitting his noble thoroughbred as easily, talking as gracefully, as if grief, and crime, and misery were to him but empty words. A few weeks after, and the newspapers were filled with the horrid details of the mysterious assassination of Henry Lord Carlet; and about the same time the suicide of Clara Jervis, a girl of respectable station and great beauty.

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"Rat-tat."

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*

*

Well, my dears, what do they say? Let us hear."

In one minute, Mother darling." The speakers are two dark-haired, dark-eyed girls, of about fifteen or sixteen, and a lady (in the mournful widow's dress), of middle age, whose face, though pale and marked with suffering, still bears traces of great beauty. A fairhaired child of some seven summers stands beside her; and one a year or two older sits at her feet,

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'Mamma, how long Alsie is reading Gervas's letter!"

"Patience, little Harry; your sister has hardly had time to look at it."

"I have just skimmed it through, Mother dear; he will be home for Christmas. Think, little ones--think, Lotta-think, Marianne-our darling old Gervas home for Christmas! He will be with us in a few days; his ship has just come in, and he has obtained leave of absence. O, Mother darling, how delightful! Shall I read it aloud?"

'Do, dear; but first let Lotta tell us how dear Hubert is."

"Very well, sweet Mother. He and Gervas seem to have written by agreement, for he too is coming home for Christmas. O, Mamma— O, little ones-O, Lotta--I must scream! What fun it will be-Hubert and Gervas; "just like old times-just."

"Had we not better read our letters to inamma, Alsie?" interrupted the graver Lotta, who saw the tears gather in her mother's eyes at the allusion to the past. "I am sure mamma, to say nothing of Harry and Minnie, wants to know all about it."

"Mother dear," she whispered, as they concluded, "we shall have a happy Christmas, shall we not?"

raven tresses.

"God bless you, my wife," murmured the sick man. "You have done for me all you could; but it will soon be past. I am dying.”

The woman did not answer; but as she pressed her lips on the burning brow, a tear stole its way down her faded cheek. As she rose from her stooping position she felt her dress pulled by a little hand.

"Mammy, Ellie hungry - Ellie and Lillie hungry."

Tears were running down the little one's face. O what a thin, aged, little face it was! What premature, melancholy intelligence shone in the hollow eyes!

"My darling-my darling," exclaimed the woman, bitterly, catching the child in her arms, and straining it convulsively to her bosom, "I have nothing-not a morsel of bread."

The child looked wistfully in its mother's face, then rested its head on her bosom, silently and

sadly, with little of a child's sorrow in its melancholy face.

As the mother rocked herself mechanically to and fro, as if hushing the little thing to sleep, though there was no drowsiness in those open blue eyes, the door opened, and a short, vulgar. looking woman bustled in.

"Here's a letter for you, Mrs. Mortimer; and I hope there is something in it will help to pay my little account. It's hard honest people can't get their own. But, hoity-toity, what's the matter?" she continued, even her eye arrested by the hopeless misery of the woman's face. "God help us," she ejaculated, sinking on her knees beside the pallet, "for man has cast us off!"

MY DEAR C,

And God did help them. He sent His angel and took them to Himself.

"Rat-tat."

A busy, buzzing school-room.

"Eh? What is it, Janie? Want to speak to me about your letter do you say? Should I like to see it? Yes, Fred is a great favourite of mine. What are you blushing about, Janie? One would think he was not your brother, silly child. Not from Fred? Who then? Seymour Fortescue? O, true—him!”

Reader! the Post was the means of stealing from me a pretty little niece, and giving Seymour a pretty little bride. Are we not both righthe to defend, and I to abuse it? F. M.

PARIS, Feb. 19. The marriage of the Emperor is now a thing of such ancient date in the public mind, that it could hardly appear to be more forgotten had it happened ten years ago. However, as you are not on the spot, you may be excused for feeling some interest in the event, and I shall give you some details on the subject. Some days previous to the marriage, but after it had been officially announced, Mademoiselle Eugenie de Montijo and her mother left their apartment in the Place Vendôme, and took up their abode at the Palais de l'Elysée. In France, when a young lady's marriage is announced, she remains in retirement, only receiving the visits of members of her family until after the ceremony. Mademoiselle de Montijo conformed strictly to this rule, excepting only the official visits of public functionaries, whose addresses she was of course obliged to receive.

On the evening of the 29th of January she was fetched in one of the state carriages, attended by her mother and the ladies appointed to attend her, from the Elysée to the Tuileries, where the civil marriage was performed. Mademoiselle de Montijo was dressed elegantly, but as simply as any young lady might be on such an occasion: she had not a single jewel on her dress, which was of pink silk; and she wore a wreath of white flowers on her head. After the ceremony, there was a concert; and it was considered in bad taste that the Empress, for such she was in point of fact, should remain till it was over, to be exhibited whilst still only half married however, she returned to the Élysée that night; and the next morning, accompanied by her mother and her ladies, she left the Elysée in a state carriage for the Tuileries, from whence she set out, accompanied by the Emperor in the state carriage, which had been used for the sacre of Napoleon I. The crowds were immense, but there was no enthusiasm; the Empress was very pale, but looked handsome,

Many, who had heard of her only as a wonder ful horsewoman, a sportswoman, and had expected to see a handsome but bold and mascu line-looking person, were agreeably surprised when they saw a young, delicate-looking girl, very pale and timid (at least at that moment), and returning courteously, by repeated inclinations of the head, and the sweetest of smiles, the salutations from those around. Her toilette on this occasion was most magnificent; on returning from Notre Dame, after changing her dress for a bonnet and cloak, she and the Emperor set out in a private carriage and four for St. Cloud, where they went to pass a week. Their first appearance in public after their marriage was at the magnificent ball given them by the Senate; a most splendid affair, but woeful are the histories related of the fate of the ladies' toilettes. The crowd was immense; and ere they reached the ball-room the dresses had suffered cruelly; the light gauzy materials, with their ornaments of ribbons or flowers, were, after being crushed on the staircase, in a pitiable state, and it was difficult to distinguish what had been flowers or ribbons; ornaments and handkerchiefs were lost, as it was too dangerous to stoop to recover them, even where the owners were conscious of their loss. I heard of one lady, whose head-dress (no one says wig in these days), got entangled in the epaulette of an offcer, who, unconscious of the prize he had made, was carrying off the trophy, when the lady's husband came to her aid, and Mars returned Venus her head-dress, with many apologies. These sort of accidents might happen frequently, for the custom of wearing head-dresses is very general; almost all the women, in the evening more particularly, wear false tresses with their own hair; but there are many, even among the young, who, not content with these aids, shave their heads, and have a complete head-dress. It is rarely now that one sees a woman of fashion without luxuriant tresses, and a complexion where "the rose vies with the lily," to use a

somewhat hackneyed expression; however, as even the complexions follow the fashion, and women are pale and interesting, or rosy and brilliant, as the mode decides, it is not impossible but that pallor may now become all the rage, for the Imperatrice is very pale; so fear not, ye tender fathers, husbands, and lovers, should your daughters, wives, or lady-loves suddenly, or gradually, as the case may be, lose the bloom you now admire so much, and which some of the unenlightened among you fondly attribute to the youth or health, or both united, of the beloved object: the interesting pallor which may soon succeed the bright bloom of to-day, is no more a proof of delicate health than the blooming cheek of robust health.

The event of the day is the appearance of a comedy in prose, of five acts, by Madame Emile de Girardin, one of the most brilliant wits of the day, whether in conversation, in her novels, her plays, in the charming poems which have lately been too "like angels' visits, few and far between." Madame Emile de Girardin unites qualities which do not often accompany each other-profound observation, with great brilliancy and originality. There is a French phrase which particularly applies to her conversation and to her literary productions; both are petillant d'esprit. The title of this comedy is rather strange-"Lady Tartuffe." The heroine, whose soubriquet is Lady Tartuffe, Virginie de Blossac (represented by Mademoiselle Rachel), is a woman young, handsome, ambitious, the daughter of a gentilhomme and of an adventuress, possessing the noble blood of her father, mingled with the gipsey blood of her mother; with the pride of the one, and the craft of the other, Virginie de Blossac's aim is to marry the old Marechal d'Estigny, whose grand nephew, Hector de Benneville, is about to marry Jeanne de Clairmont. Virginie de Blossac is secretly in love with Hector, but hopelessly; Jeanne is as fresh, as naïve, and as innocent as Virginie is bypocritical, cunning, and unprincipled. She determines that the marriage of Hector with Jeanne shall not take place; and her machinations, profoundly calculated and skilfully arranged, after keeping the audience in suspense for some time, end in her own total discomfiture. But I have given you a very imperfect analysis of the piece; indeed it is difficult to give a good one. The rôle of Mademoiselle Rachel is one which requires all the tact, finesse, and extraordinary talent of the great artiste; but she is perfect in it. Mademoiselle Emilie Dubois, who enacted the part of Jeanne, is a debutante, pretty, graceful, and fifteen what qualities for an ingenue! Her success was complete; she seemed made for the role of Jeanne, and Jeanne for her. The Emperor and the Empress were present at the representation. The late arrests have excited a good deal of indignation here; but few dare express this sentiment. Fancy being awakened at six o'clock in the morning by the people of the police entering your room, turning over your most private letters and papers, and then carrying

you off to prison, where, after they have kept you some time, they come and release you, saying they are very sorry: it is not you, but some one else, whom they mistook you for, and whom they then go and search for; but that is a poor consolation when you have had your letters and papers read by strangers, and you have passed a day and a night, perhaps a longer period, in prison. Sometimes they have made these visites à domicile, as they are called, and not finding the person they sought, have broken open desks, boxes, &c., &c.; read all the papers they found, of whatever nature, and then gone on their way. One young man was arrested, and the portrait of his cousin seized because the gentlemen of the police chose to assert it was the portrait of the Comte de Chambord, by which it seems that one cannot choose what portraits one may have in one's house. By the way, the portrait of Napoleon III., with the imperial crown and the wonderful moustache, have disappeared from the shop windows; I dare say because they injured the cause of his Majesty, and cooled the enthusiasm of his admirers (?). If the Government were to decree that all those wishing for permission to have the portrait of M. de Chambord in their apartment might obtain it on condition they had also this portrait of Napoleon III., with the robes, crown, and though last not least, the moustache, I think few would have M. de Chambord's portrait; the penalty would be too severe for even the staunchest legitimists. There are several likenesses of the Empress in the windows of the printsellers, and crowds are round them all day long. I have not seen any that at all do her justice; one would think, with the desire portrait-painters have to embellish royal sitters, that they might at least have done justice to the beauty of the young Imperatrice; but such is not the case. I suppose they are so accustomed to have recourse to their imagination that a faithful likeness is beyond their powers.

The Empress is likely to become popular; she is very gracious, very amiable, and extremely generous and charitable: she has already given large sums to the poor; she was very anxious that the amnesty should be granted on her marriage day, but she failed in obtaining this so much talked-of, so long-expected boon. Notwithstanding the repeated assurances of Louis Napoleon, and the official organs of the press, of the stability and strength of the Government, the measures they adopt seem to tell a different tale: surely generosity is more indicative of strength and confidence than severity! A number of persons were, it is true, pardoned; but the number fell far short of what had been expected, although the Moniteur swelled the list by placing in it the names of those whom Death, less tardy than Mercy, had released from their sufferings in a miserable exile.

With a character so full of dissimulation as that of Louis Napoleon, it is difficult to divine his real sentiments, and few judge of what he thinks by what he utters; but the idea of the invasion of England is, generally speaking, rejected here; and in the Message he announces