you recollect that six months ago I asked you if some one had not cast a spell over you? My friend, there is the sorceress!"

"Colonel, I beg of you, deal gently with your daughter; she was but a child when she committed the-rogueries you reproach her with."

"What! you know then?"

is still more rare and more noble, with what magnanimity you have supported your distresses. And I will say to her that any father of a family, no matter how high his rank or position, might well be proud to call you his son-in-law."

This eloquence would probably have transported any other man than Paul. Him it seemed

"And you said nothing, and you passed it over; and you barely escaped death on the field! Blanche, if he had died, I would have killed you!"

66

Blanche was silent, but her countenance seemed to say, I should not have cared." "But if you knew all," continued the colonel, "why, then, haven't you married Mademoiselle Humblot?"

At this name Paul's stupefaction showed clearly that there was a part of the story that he did not know. The colonel related the affair from its beginning as he himself had just learned it. He spoke in high terms of Antoinette's beauty, and fortune, and various merits; but the lieutenant seemed more perplexed than dazzled. He sought in the countenance of Blanche for some commentary explanatory of her father's words, and Blanche, feeling his eyes upon her, trembled under their grave, scrutinizing, but gentle look. Astier's kind and clement eyes troubled her more than her father's rage. The lieutenant had never yet shown so much kindness toward her; and never, no, never, in their long warfare, had she felt so dreadfully afraid of him.

Paul

The colonel finished his speech by saying: "My friend, I will obtain for you a leave of absence and a pass for Morans. As it would not be befitting that you should leave any debts behind you at Nancy, I beg you to do me the honour of using my purse. This letter of your future wife (take it, take it!) will show you that, though not expected nor hoped for at Morans, you will be most welcome there. I shall myself come to your wedding. Meantime I shall bring about your reconciliation with the war department, and shall obtain for you a triumphal readmission to the regiment. The honourable distinction which was your due, and which my daughter has so diabolically prevented you from obtaining, shall not long be wanting, I promise you. I cannot engage to bring it to you as a wedding present, but I will tell Madame Humblot what manner of man you are; with what gallantry you have borne yourself before my eyes under the fire of the enemy; and, what

precious letter. His attention was directed to the three countenances of the Vautrin family; he seemed to be seeking some hidden meaning in the words of the colonel, and interrogated with pensive and troubled eye the physiognomy of the two ladies.

At last he seemed decided.

"Monsieur Vautrin," said he, "may I see you a moment in private? I have a few words to say to you."

When they were in the ante-chamber he continued:

"Colonel, in the whole world there is no better man than you. You have never harmed any one but your country's enemies, and even them you would have spared if the affair could have been arranged in any other way. Madame Vautrin is a wife worthy of you. The lining is of the same quality as the stuff. Now, I believe it a moral impossibility that the association of two rights should produce a wrong, and I refuse utterly to believe that Mademoiselle Vautrin has done wrong for the mere pleasure of wrong-doing."

"But what possible motive?"

"Bless me! I did not foresee that it would be so difficult to explain myself. But I must go on now I have begun. You have had time to know me thoroughly, and you know I am not a conceited puppy nor a fortune-hunter. You will understand that I am not a man to bring sorrow upon my friends for the sake of throwing myself at the head of people I never saw. What I have now to say will seem to you mad enough, but you must think what you will. Colonel, I have the honour to ask of you the hand of Mademoiselle Vautrin, your daughter, and I make my retreat lest you drive me from your house as you did before from your regiment."

As he finished he opened the door and slipped out quietly, leaving the colonel utterly dumbfounded.

"Blanche! Augustine!" cried he; "my daughter! my wife! we have done a mischief, my dear children! The poor devil's wits are surely crazed! Will you believe that in answer to all I have said to him he has asked my permission to marry Blanchette?"

The young girl in her turn uttered a loud cry-but it was a cry of joy.

"I-I, who have so much deserved punishment! Oh! mother, mother, the thousandth part of God's goodness has not been told!"

THE SHADOW.

AFTER A BALLAD OF HEINE'S.

I.

"Donna Clara, many years

Loved with hopes and loved with fears,

Willeth now my heart's undoing;
Willeth it wilfully and unrueing!
Donna Clara, sweet is life,
With its passion, with its strife;
But the grave is dark and cold-
Thronged with horrors manifold!
Donna Clara, spare thee sorrow!
Wilt be wedded on the morrow?
May Ramiro come beside-
Greet thee Don Fernando's bride?"

"Don Ramiro, all thy words

Pierce my heart like poisoned swords.
Ah! shake off this passion-weakness;
Bear with manly strength and meekness.
Many fairer maids there be;
God has come 'twixt me and thee.

Don Ramiro, conqueror

Of the armies of the Moor,

Conquer thy own love and sorrow;
See me wedded on the morrow."
"Donna Clara, thou hast said it;
I will come to see thee wedded;

I will dance with thee as one
Who was never heart-undone.
Till to-morrow, fare thee well!"
"Fare thee well!" The window fell.

In the darkness, like a stone,
Don Ramiro stood alone.

II.

Merrily the bells have rung,
As by joyous impulse swung;
And the people, blythe and gay,
In the streets kept holiday.
In the old cathedral dim
Peeled the organ, rose the hymn,
While the fairest in the land
To the bravest gave her hand.

And at coming on of night
All the palace flamed with light,

And a rich and noble throng
Filled its halls with mirth and song.

Donna Clara, envied bride,
With the unloved by her side,

With pale, passionless countenance,

Waited to lead out the dance.

"Lady, why this troubled gaze? Why this tremble and amaze?" "Look, Fernando! Who there stands, Cloaked in black, with folded hands*

It seems a knightly figure tall." "Lady, a shadow on the wall!"

III.

But the shadow slowly nears,
And she trembles, and she fears.

To her face her spirit rushes,

Pale she grows, by turns, and blushes. "Don Ramiro!" said she, thickly,

And her breath came short and quickly. With a vacant gaze, but steady, "Dance we at thy bridal?" said he.

Donna Clara forth he leads; Wildly, wildly round he speeds! "Don Ramiro," Clara spoke, "Wherefore in thy sable cloak?"

He, in hollow voice, awe spreading: "Bad'st me come unto thy wedding!" "Don Ramiro, icy cold

Are the hands that mine do hold!"

Said that hollow voice, awe spreading: "Bad'st me come unto thy wedding!" "Don Ramiro," Clara saith, "Earthy chill and damp thy breath!"

Still that hollow voice, awe spreading: "Bad'st me come unto thy wedding!" "Don Ramiro"-faint and low

Clara whispered "let me go!"

But that hollow voice, awe spreading: "Bad'st me come unto thy wedding!"

Donna Clara on he leads;
Wilder, wilder round he speeds.
"Don Ramiro," gasped she low,
"In God's name now let me go!"

Don Ramiro, at the name,
Vanished like a sudden flame.

Donna Clara knew no more;
Sunk down, swooning, to the floor.

IV.

Life flows back into her cheek; Does she see?--does some one speak? "Donna Clara, sweetest bride"She is by Fernando's side. Sitting still where she had been When the Shadow glided in. "Donna Clara, sweetest bride," Said a low voice at her side, "Why this fixed and troubled gaze? Why this tremble and amaze?" Ice-blanched Donna Clara's cheek, While her pale lips strove to speak: "Don Ramiro-where?" Her lord Drawing a stern brow at the word, Bent and whispered, firm and low: "Donna Clara, seek not to know!"

VERSES.

S. S. CONANT.

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had pass'd,
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak-thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene--

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, pale corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

REV. CHARLES WOLFE.

DEATH AND THE DRUNKARDS.1

There was in Flanders, once, a company of foolish gallants who spent their time in taverns and stews, and indulged themselves in gambling and debauchery of all kinds. Night and day they did little else but dance to the sound of lutes and harps, and play at dice, and eat and drink beyond their might; so that by such abominable superfluity they, in a cursed manner, made sacrifice to the devil within his own temple; attended in their orgies by tumblers, and young idle fruit-girls, and singers with harps, and old bawds, which be the very devil's officers, kindling and blowing the lecherous fire that is annexed to gluttony.

It was grisly to hear these gallants swear, their oaths were so great and damnable; and, as if the Jews had not done violence enough to our blessed Lord, they, in their imaginations, tore his body, each of them laughing at the daring wickedness of the others.

These three rioters were one morning drinking as usual in a tavern, and as they sate they heard a bell clink before a corpse which was being carried to its grave. Then one of them called to his boy and said, "Go and ask readily what corpse this is now passing forth by the gate, and look thou report his name well."

"Sir," quoth the boy, "I knew it two hours before you came here. He was an old companion of yours, and was slain suddenly; for as he sate drunken on his bench, there came a secret thief men call Death (that kills all the people in this country), and with his spear he smote his heart in two, and then went his way without speaking. He hath slain a thousand this pestilence; and, master, ere you come into his presence, methinks it were full necessary to beware of him, and to be evermore ready to meet him. Thus taught me my

dame."

"By Saint Mary," said the host of the tavern, "the child says truly; for this fearful thing hath slain this year, within a village about a mile hence, both men, women, and children, so that I trow he has his habitation there. It were great wisdom to be well advised about him."

Then up spake one of the rioters and said, "What is it such peril to meet with him? I vow by Christ's bones that I'll seek him by stile and street. Hearken, my boys, we three

This is a prose version of Chaucer's "Pardonere's Tale," told by one of the Canterbury pilgrims.

are one: let each hold up his hand, and become brothers, and we will kill this false traitor Death. Before night he shall be slain, --he that so many slayeth." And so saying, he shouted a terrible oath.

Then these three having plighted their troths to live and die by each other, started up, all drunken in their rage, and went towards the hamlet of which the taverner had spoken; and as they went reeling along the way, they roared out with their thick voices, 'Death shall be dead if we can catch him."

They had not gone half a mile, when lo! just as they were crossing a gate they saw a poor old man, who greeted them full meekly and said, "Now, Heaven save you, lords!" The proudest of these three rioters answered, What, thou sorry churl, why art thou wrapped so closely over, save thy face? Why dost continue to live in such great age?"

At this the old man looked him in the visage, and said, "Because I cannot meet a man, neither in city nor in village, even though I walked into the Indies, who would change his youth for my age; and therefore I must still keep my age as long as Heaven pleases. Death will not have my life, alas! And thus walk I, like a restless caitiff; and, on the ground which is my mother's gate, I knock night and morning with my staff, crying, Dear mother, let me in. Lo! how I vanish flesh and blood. When shall my weary bones be still? Mother, with you would I change the chest that has been so long a time in my chamber, yea, for a hair shroud to wrap me in. But she will not do me such kindness, for which full pale and welked is my face. Yet, sirs, it is not courteous in you to speak roughly to an old man except he trespass in word or deed; for it is said in holy writ, as you may yourselves see, that ye should not rise against a hoary head; therefore do no more harm now to an old man than ye would a man should do to you in age, if that ye abide so long; and so peace be with you ever! I must go my ways."

"Nay, old churl, by St. John thou partest not so lightly," swore one of these rioters. "Thou spakest right now of that traitor Death that slayeth all our friends in this country. Thou art his spy; and believe me thou shalt either tell where he is, or by the holy sacrament thou shalt rue it; for, truly, thou art one of his accomplices to kill us young folk, thou false thief."

Now, sirs," then quoth this old man, "if you truly wish to find Death, turn up this

crooked way, for by my faith I left him in that grove under a tree, and there he will stay, nothing hiding himself for all your boasting. See ye that oak? right there shall ye meet him."

Thus spake the old man; and away ran these three rioters till they came to the tree, under which behold they found well nigh eight bushels of fine gold florins. They were so glad of this sight that they sought no longer after Death; but looking round them they sate down on the hard roots of the tree, nothing heeding the uneasiness of the seat, so eager were they to be near the precious hoard.

day?

"Brethren," said the worst of the three, "take heed what I shall say. Fortune hath given us this treasure to the end we may live all our lives in mirth and jollity. As it came lightly, lightly let us spend it. Who would have thought," continued he, swearing a great oath, that we should have met such luck toIf this gold could but be carried out of this grove home to my house, then were we in high felicity; but it may not be done by day, for men would say we were strong thieves, and hang us for possessing our own treasure; no: it must be carried by night, wisely and slily; therefore I am of opinion that we draw lots, and he who draws the lowest shall run to the town with blythe heart, and bring us bread and wine; while the other two shall subtly keep the treasure, and when it is night we will take it by one assent where we may think best."

Then he brought the lots in his hand and bade them draw, and the lowest fell on the young one; and anon he went forth toward the town. Now all as soon as he was de parted, the rioter who spake before said thus unto his fellow:

"Thou knowest well thou art my sworn brother; therefore will I tell thee thy proft. Our fellow is gone and here is gold, and that full great store, which is to be shared among us three; but if I can shape it so that it may be parted among us two, had I not done a friend's turn to thee?"

The other answered, "I cannot think how that may be: he knows well that the gold is with us. What, therefore, should we do! What could we say to him?"

"Shall it be counsel, then?" said the first "If so, I will tell you in few words how we can bring it about.'

shall be stronger than one. Look, when he is set down, that thou rise anon, and make as though thou playest with him, and while ye are struggling as in game, I will stab him through his two sides; and do thou do the same with thy dagger. And then, my dear friend, shall this gold be parted 'twixt thee and me; and so shall we be able to fulfil our desires, and play at dice at our own will."

Thus these two hazarders agreed to slay the third, who, as he went along the road kept rolling up and down in his heart the beauty of these bright and new florins. "O Lord!" quoth he, "that I might but have this treasure to myself alone! There would be no man under the heavens that should live so merry as I."

And at the last the fiend put it into his thought that he should buy poison to slay his fellows: for the fiend found him living in such a wanton way, that he lusted to bring him to sorrow; therefore he made this hazarder determine to do the homicide, and never to repent. So he went straightways unto an apothecary in the town, and prayed him that he would sell some poison to kill the rats in his house, and there was also a polecat that, as he said, slew his capons, and he would fain be rid of such destroying vermin.

The apothecary answered, "Thou shalt have a thing, that if it be taken by any creature in this world, though it be no more in quantity than a grain of wheat, he shall anon lose his life; yea, he shall wither away in less time than thou wilt go a mile, the poison is so strong and violent."

Then this cursed man took into his hand the poison in a box, and went into the next street and borrowed three large bottles, and poured the poison into two of them, keeping the third clean for his own drink. And when with sorry grace he had filled his great bottles with wine, he repaired again to his fellows.

What need is there to say more? For even as they had planned his death, even so they slew him, and that quickly. And when it was done, thus spake the worst of these rioters :

"BECAUSE,"

FROM VICTOR HUGO'S "PUIS QU' ICI TOUTE AME."
Because every soul

Feels incessant desire
To give to some other
Its fragrance and fire;

Because all things give,

Below and above, Their roses or thorns To that which they love;

Because-May gives music

To murmuring streams, And Night, to our pains,

Gives Nepenthe in dreams;

Because the sky gives

The bird to the bower, And morn drops its dew

In the cup of the flower;

Because when the wave

Falls asleep on the strand, It trembles, and gives

A kiss to the land;

For these reasons, my own,
My heart is inclined
To give thee the best

I have in my mind.

I give my sad thoughts,

My griefs, and my fears; Take these, as the earth

Takes the night's shower of tears.

Of my infinite longing,

Take, dearest, thy part; Take my light and my shadow, O child of my heart!

Take the unalloyed trust

Which our intercourse blesses; And take all my songs,

With their tender caresses.

Take my soul, which moves on
Without sail or oar,
But pointing to thee

As its star evermore.

And take, O my darling,

My precious, my own!
This heart, which would perish,
Its love being gone.

JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.