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soft voice, arrested my words, and changed my

purpose:

"Ah! Prenez garde de tomber, ma chère Louise. Sans l'amour de ton cœur-"

"Taisez-vous, Philippe; vous jurerez tout autant, pour gagner l'amitié de tout le monde! Ha, ha, ha! on s'ennuie d'une même chose, l'excès ne vaut rien en quoi que ce soit !"

I had no inclination to be found eavesdropping, so I glided gently to one side, where the cliff projected more forwards, presenting a gentle descent, which I had not before noticed. However, I had not proceeded far, when curiosity got the better of my good manners; and, yielding to the impulse, I turned my head towards the occupiers of the rustic steps. Evidently, they had not noticed me. I paused. It was as I expected: they were lovers.

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"Ne les touchez-pas," cried the lovely girl, as Philippe endeavoured to secure some of the flowers from her lap, and of which she was making a wreath. Ne les touchez-pas," she repeated, but to no purpose, her companion had seized the only rose there, and proceeded to place it in her bosom, whispering something, which at the time I lost from the distance that separated us.

"Ah! le voici ! C'est fin. N'est ce pas une belle guirlande, eh! Philippe ?" she exclaimed, holding up the wreath, at which he made a snatch, but suddenly she playfully withdrew it, Louise for such her companion a few mi- and in the act, half rising from her seat, her nutes before called her-was young, and, more-foot slipped, and she fell to the bottom of the over, one of the two, or at most three, beauties steps, which were almost perpendicular. I met with among the peasants of that part of Normandy. Unlike most of her neighbours, she was fair. There was little adornment to her person, which was naturally beautiful in its proportion. A large dark-green merino dress was looped up to her waist, beneath which was the striped cotillon, and under it one of a bright red. Her stockings were of the same colour; and her foot was encased in a beautiful little sabot, or shoe perhaps it should be called, for, though the sole was of wood, the upper portion was of leather, opened repeatedly from the instep to the toe. A showy chequered handkerchief was fastened neatly over her shoulders and bosom; while the whitest and prettiest cap in the whole department of the Lower Seine com- The unexpected visitor was evidently well pleted her attire. Her features had more of Eng-known to Louise, and was not unrecognized by lish than French in their appearance; her eyes were light hazel, and remarkably full and expressive; her nose regular; her chin small; and her mouth

""Twas beaming smiles,

And loaded with the honey of expression." Indeed, in this was the great charm of her beauty. There was no deception. She was evidently one of those beings whose beauty is rendered perfect, resulting, as it did so, almost entirely from expression; and where the face acts as the mirror to the heart, it presents a beauty doubly enchanting, for this reason, that, if expression give beauty, the beauty must result from a good heart, and from a loving and trustful disposition. Her hair, which was of a light brown, and exquisitely soft, was brushed smoothly about half-way down her cheek, while from the side of her ear fell one or two short ringlets. The style was simple, but very beautiful; at least, such was my idea on the subject. That of my fair readers may differ. It was not the last Parisian mode, perhaps; but it pleased me, and would have done so equally had it been-and it was, for aught I know-the fashion there of a hundred years ago. The youth by her side was dark. He appeared thoughtful, save when a smile or glance at his

Philippe and myself descended simultaneously to her rescue, and raising her, we found she had fainted. A little water from a spring close by soon revived her. Presently we started, on hearing a voice tremblingly demand if she were hurt. A shudder convulsed the frame of Louise. "A little bruised, nothing more," was the reply; but a blush stole rapidly over her cheeks, suffusing with warmth her face, a moment before so pale and motionless. I proceeded to brush the soil from her dress, as the spot on which she had fallen was a heap of fine sand cast up and left by the tide. Had it been rock, she must have been seriously injured, if not killed upon the spot.

Philippe. He was tall, but very thin; his cheeks were hollow, his eyes deeply sunk; and the melancholy expression of his every manner told at once that the mind, with its relentless gnawing, was feeding upon and daily wasting his frame. I had not time to make any further remarks, as politely yet kindly declining my services, they left me, each supporting their gentle and terrified burden. Louise, as she turned away, thanked me kindly, though almost inaudibly.

The next day I was on my passage to England.

"Maybe this old aunt of Louise, and with whom you tell me she lived, has given you further information of the heroine of our conversation," said I, addressing a stranger whom I had "picked up" while lying on the shingle at Brighton. He was a young Frenchman, and occasionally the idea crossed my mind that I had seen him before; but the next moment assured me it could not be. "It is strange," I continued, "that the occurrence should be known to each of us; but tell me-pardon my inquisitiveness-what became of the gentle Louise after Philippe and her friend led her from the scene of the accident?" It was some minutes ere

he replied; at length he gave me the following narrative, which I shall lay before my readers as nearly in his own words as possible.

"After leaving you, and I am sure not without thanking you for your services (Louise was never forgetful of a kindness), they took the road direct to Ville d'Eu. It was almost noon when they arrived, and poor Louise was much exhausted from the fatigue and her accident, complaining of a violent pain in her side. Her aunt, with whom she lived, immediately bade her retire. She did so. An explanation of course ensued, rendered tedious to Philippe, and excruciating to his companion, by the unmitigated questionings of the garrulous old aunt. But the longest story must have an end, and, the recital over, Laurent St. Vrai (such was the name of Philippe's companion) rose, and took his leave."

"Laurent St. Vrai! Do you know anything of his history?" I demanded.

Like my previous question, this produced a long silence on his part. I did not disturb him: at length he answered

"I do."

Louise trembled, she shook violently in every limb. He repeated how in youth, nay in very childhood they had been betrothed; how that their parents had watched with unfeigned pleasure the growing affection between them. Again he told his love, his hopes, his fears; when the blighting thought crossed his mind he had a rival.-No sooner had the thought arisen than it found words. He was not deceived. Louise burst into a violent flood of tears. She loved another. From that moment he became changed. It was whispered he was ill, that he had over exerted himself on the farm and needed rest. For awhile he left his native village, and had returned on the very day you saw him, after an absence of a few weeks. He-" My companion paused, turning away his head. I looked to see if he had not vanished, so sudden was the pause in his narrative; but almost at the same instant he faced me, saying

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"You would know, I perceive, the result of Louise's accident. The morning following that on which it happened, Laurent was early at the door of her aunt's cottage. Louise had grown worse during the night; a parching fever, conI made no remark, and he continued: suming with its burning influence all the health"At the time you saw him he had attained his ful moisture from her skin, had seized on her one-and-twentieth year. He was the only son with rapidity and violence; she grew yet worse of a rich farmer, and had been from early child--still more so each succeeding day. The me hood the playmate and companion of Louise.dicin of the village desired further advice, or the Childish friendship grew to an affection such result would be fatal, from a serious internal inas is between brother and sister, for Louise felt jury. He named a man, celebrated in Paris; it towards him as such; but he-it were better if was Monsieur G- But how were his ser he had not-but he loved her, fondly, pas- vices to be obtained? Louise's aunt was poor, sionately, and with a devotion rarely attending as were all her relations and acquaintances. the passion of a man's heart." Philippe did his best, but the amount was fear"Pardon me," I observed, interrupting him; fully deficient of the sum required. Unexpect "I cannot agree with that observation. Granted, edly Monsieur G. arrived. Laurent had plenty," by all means, that he loved her; but to the if he had not wealth; that plenty enabled him rarity of the devotion in the genus homo I can-to post to Paris, returning with the man on not assent. Such would be a very selfish view of nature; yet," I added, "do not misunderstand me: I would not have you think I imply that you are selfish; I see you were speaking in praise of an absent and estimable man." It was first my intention to have erased this portion from my manuscript, relating to the rarity of devotion in a man's heart, in case my fair readers should accuse me of flattering their gentler feelings; but my promise of exactitude in my narrative forbids the expunging it. During the above observation my companion gazed at me with a vacant stare, and on my concluding, resumed the thread of his subject, and proceeded as though nothing had broken or interfered with it.

whose exertions depended the fate of her he so hopelessly loved. Together they arrived at the cottage, and were admitted with an exclamation of surprise by the old aunt, who preceded them to the sick chamber (it was on the ground floor). They entered.

"On a low neat bed lay the beautiful Louise, pale as the whitest marble; she breathed heavily, and seemed to have paused in conversing to one beside her. It was Philippe. The cure with the médecin stood on the opposite side, and motioned them to silence as they approached. Instantly they paused, and the emaciated being again spoke, though very, very feebly.

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It is a dreadful thing to die so youngpainful, I should say. I am happy-should be very happy but for you, Philippe-very, very happy. Heaven, they say, is beautiful, a paradise we cannot picture-but I leave you hereleave all I-I-love,' and she sank exhausted on the pillows.

"Yet so it was," he continued. "He watched her every look, her every word, her every expression. He became the companion of her walks, not chasing one with the other as they had done, nor laughing in reckless merriment as was their wont. But the change was not with her: her laugh was all as blithsome, and her step all as Philippe and the curé gave vent to their light. The change was in himself. Laurent had feelings. They had kind hearts. They could assumed a quiet, subdued tone in his conver- sympathize. They wept. sation; he spoke of their childhood, of their "Do not make me grieve too,' said the fastchildish affection, and of his perfected love. | weakening Louise. I cannot bear to see you He watched for a reply. There came none. I weep-tears are not for men. Do you weep

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that I shall so soon be gone?' and she raised her thin and feeble hand towards heaven. But I will love you still, Philippe-yes-love you there—there—' and again from exhaustion she paused.

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'Dear, dearest Louise, you must not, you cannot die yet-hope, hope!' cried the heartbursting Philippe, and his burning tears fell rapidly on her hand.

"I do hope,' was her instant rejoinder, I do hope, but not-not as I once hoped. I know you love me—you told me so-have told me so a thousand times-and you will think of me perhaps when I am gone. A little cross will mark the place were Louise shall rest; you will visit it sometimes, but do not weep. A grave is a sad thing in itself, Philippe, and I would not have the grass upon it grow fresher with your tears. They will fall only on the dust-the hard dry earth; they will be dried up by a pitiless breast, that cannot feel for your grief as I feel. No, the cold earth will forbid their reaching here,' and she laid her hand on her partially uncovered bosom, throbbing with the sorrow she fruitlessly endeavoured to conceal. Pray, Philippe, pray,' she continued; and should you weep, tears have a voice-a silent, eloquent voice, and they will be heard there by other than poor Louise; for God is there. It is he, Philippe, who gives consolation.

Yes. God! God!

The Father to whose bosom, through the Virgin's intercession, we may come. There I will love you still, be to you still Louise, as I am here, but not in this fragile body-no clay-no earth-nothing of the world; all of it will be forgotten save-save a memory of you, Philippe -Yes—yes—my spirit shall love you stillmore, more fondly-more enduring-eternally! and fainting, she sank on his shoulder. The good curé raised a small crucifix, and prayed over the beautiful girl, thinking she was breathing her

last.

“Monsieur G―― at this moment rushed to the bedside, threw open the window, endeavouring to revive the almost lifeless form. He succeeded, and administered a composing draught, desiring that Louise might be left alone-perhaps she might sleep. He was obeyed. They all left the chamber, Monsieur G and the médecin alone remaining."

Again suddenly my companion paused. I turned-he was in tears, but with impatience

Of course such a circumstance did not remain long unknown. Laurent's parents, who till then had not reverted to their proposed marriage between him and Louise—for ‘riches ever beget pride,' and the parents of Louise being dead, and they not wishing their only child to marry a poor cottager's daughter, hushed the matter up, that Laurent might marry according to his wealth. However, this discovery of the good fortune of Louise changed their plan. They insisted, now, on the marriage as vigorously as they had once endeavoured to stifle its promised fulfilment. They produced papers and persuasions; she was to be Laurent's. Philippe was forbidden her presence, and her old aunt joined with Laurent's parents; it was whispered she did so for a bribe. Louise was silent, thoughtful, and pale.

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About two weeks since, Laurent had wandered It was not for long they were separated. on the hills, and seated himself on one of the

ridges forming numerous and gigantic steps to their table-land summits. He was contemplating the old chateau as it lay bathed in the light of a noon-day sun, with the well-watered and richly-cultivated land forming the valley. Nor did the cultivation pause here. It extended over the summits of the circle of hills, which have, from the centre of the valley, the appearance of a monster ring, with the bright green ocean sparkling as an emerald, and connecting the chain or ring, golden with the stubble of the lately carted corn, for it was a very backward season, and the plough had not yet turned over the productive earth. He was lost in reverie, and scarcely noticed the approach of a meditating girl. It was Louise. They spoke. They his; but not so her heart. She was deeply inconversed long. Another moment, and she was debted to Laurent, deeply indeed-indebted for her life; nor was this forgotten by his parents. She was the only thing he wished for, that he might be perfectly happy; that happiness was within his grasp. But no, he would not seize on it. He loved her, but her heart could not be his.

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him. They proceeded through the valley, and Gently he requested her awhile to accompany arrived at the park, where, in the shady avenue of elms immediately facing the posterior view of and plunged deep in thought. However, he the chateau, lay Philippe. He was gloomy, sad, "That night was passed in silence. The sup-half with subdued passion, half with awakened started up on their approach; he stood trembling per was untasted-sleep was forgotten-rest was spurned.

dashing them away, he proceeded—

"The morning came-Louise was better. The sorrowing parted with something of a smile; such a smile as hope ventures half-trustingly to yield to. Day passed by day, and health sluggishly returned. What joy, what happiness to Philippe, and not less so to the disconsolate Laurent St. Vrai."

I smiled an answer, and impatiently he continued

love. In a moment Laurent St. Vrai grasped his hand; he spoke not, but placing it in that of Louise, darted away, and was lost among the foliage. That same night Philippe received from is yours. I resign her for ever-and depart for Laurent a letter, containing these words- She England!"

"For England?" I exclaimed, "I would seek the acquaintance of such a noble fellow. Where -where is he?"

"About this time Louise became possessed "Monsieur, he is here!" was the reply, acof a considerable sum, left by a distant relation.companied by gentle inclination of the head.

"Laurent de Vrai! And you are he?" I exclaimed.

The bow was repeated, and together we walked on-I not a little proud of the acquaintance of a man, who could so truly love, that he would rather see the object of his love the wife of his rival, than destroy her happiness by building up his own, and he (I fancied) not a little gratified in the society of one who could at least admire, if he could not appreciate, this CONQUEST Over the passions of the heart.

THEY SEEK TO BIND MY HAIR WITH FLOWERS.

BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ.

They seek to bind my hair with flowers,
A bridal robe they bid me don;

I cannot wear that orange wreath,
I cannot put that garment on.
They say the shrine is ready deck'd,
The holy priest is waiting now;
How could I meet his stedfast gaze,
And breathe the mockery of a vow?

My hand, 'tis true, I yet might give,
And he who asks deserves it well:
My heart long since another won,

Who keeps it in his burial cell.
Yes, though that vault is dark and lone,
There do my thoughts-my hopes abide :
"Twould wrong the living and the dead
If I became a stranger's bride.

Are there not maids whose opening charms Surpass these failing charms of mineIn whom, distinguish'd by each grace,

True hearts with features rare combine? Choose then amongst the beauteous throng, Who, blameless, genial love may own; But leave me, leave me to my grief, And let me live and die alone.

I have no part in marriage vows,
Though free, this hand I must not yield;
"T were guilt to keep the secret now,
I have so long-so well conceal'd.
And faithful to the loved-the dead,
Nor robe nor garland can I don;
I will not wear the orange wreath,
Nor put a bridal garment on!
Banks of the Yore.

REMEMBER, AND FORGET.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

Yes, we must part, since fate compels,
And wealth denies its boon;
And thou'lt forget the one who dwells
Afar-forget her soon:

Yet no; thou wilt not! Look not so:
Forgive my doubts; but yet
Think of my love, forget my woe-
Remember, and forget.

Remember each sweet twilight walk

Down in yon silent glade,
Where first of love I learnt to talk,
A happy, blushing maid!
And then, when once we quarrell'd, all
The tears our eyes that wet;
Think not of them, our smiles recal-
Remember, and forget.

When he, your rival (do not frown,
He is no rival now),

So constant in his visits grown,

Deem'd I'd his suit allow,

You know I laughed; but still you fear'd
His wealth I might regret :

Forget all that; he was unheard-
Remember, and forget.

Remember all our tender vows

Breathed by the rushy stream;

Our meetings 'neath yon hawthorn's boughs-
How oft of them I'll dream!
But think not of my jealous pride,

When first dear Ann I met :

I thought the sister was the bride-
Remember, and forget!

Why should we doubt that we shall meet?
A year will quickly pass;

To me 'twill seem an age complete,
But Hope will tend Time's glass;
And trust in thee will speed it on:
So banish all regret ;

Forgive my girlish follies, John-
Remember, and forget.

I've just another word to say,

And then must bid adieu !
You'll mingle with the great and gay,
And they will flatter you;

But oh they cannot love as I-
Nay, I've no doubts; but yet
Those foreign dames, that look and sigh,
May teach thee to forget.

Well, there's my hand, and-here's my lip!
God bless thee, fare thee well!
May guardian angels watch the ship
That bears thee from our dell!
I'll pray for thee-dear John, adieu!
Those tears-my cheek is wet!
Oh, love, forget my faults: be true-
Remember, and forget.

FIRST LOVE.

BY GEORGE J. O. ALLMAN.

"On n'aime bien q'une seule fòis c'est lá premiére." LA ROCHEFOUCAULT,

First love is like a drop of dew
That trembles on a flower;
But after-love is like a drop
Left by a passing shower.
First love is like an untouch'd peach,
Rich in its virgin bloom;
But after-love is but its feint,

Wove from the silken loom.
First love's an ocean in a tear,

Tiny, yet deep and great;
But after-love is parch'd and dry,
Stagnant and desolate.

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Some folks," continued Charles, "pretend to the expounding of dreams, and defining their portents shadowed forth in each vagary of the dreamer's fancy: but as to their explaining their origin, duration, and the strange intermixture of the possible and the impossible in them, it is far beyond their power. The true nature of dreams has yet to be explained; still it is pretty clear that if we lie down to rest in the full enjoyment of health and spirits, happy dreams are the result; but if we retire with a mind and body ill at ease, the contrary is generally the ease. In my opinion they are influenced much as to the subject by the occupation of the previous day, or by expectations for the morrow; and often perhaps wholly created by something actually taking place in the dreamer's presence, but perverted into the improbable by the half dormant faculties of the mind."

"Most philosophically discussed," said his companion, laughing. "However, I am not much of a dreamer: I sleep far too soundly for

that."

66 Are you not?" replied the other; " then let me tell you that I am; and it was but the other night I had the queerest dream-”

'Marvellous or horrible, Charles-which ?" "A dash of both," was the reply. "Capital! out with it, if you can; and I am your listener for better or worse."

So, Tom Snorard, anticipating a treat, drew his chair closer to the fire, and disposed himself in a snug listening attitude, while his friend commenced:"

"I imagined that I had been, one dreary winter's day, for a long journey on horseback, and was returning homeward, when a heavy storm of snow and rain overtook me, to the no small discomfiture of myself and my steed. I

was soon drenched to the skin, and being still some distance from my journey's end, gladly pulled up at a small inn by the roadside. It cer tainly was not a place, judging from external appearances, that I would have chosen for a halt under other circumstances; nevertheless, 'any port in a storm,' saith the proverb; and having seen to the wants of my jaded hackney, I eagerly betook myself to a huge fire burning in the kitchen of the inn (the best room the house afforded). Around it several others, situated like myself, had already ensconced themselves; and I must say that it was the glimpse of its ruddy, crackling blaze which I had caught through the halfclosed window-shutters from without, that influenced me not a little in seeking shelter at this place. How it is I know not; but when one hears the fury of the elements, the wind moaning, and the rain beating out of doors, and finds one's ownself snug within and free from their effects, the mind feels an idea of coziness and felicity to which it is a stranger otherwise. Thus it was with me; and the glowing warmth of the fire, with the application of other creature comforts, soon revived my drooping spirits; all of us, in short, grew the merrier as the weather grew the rougher; so, as there appeared small prospect of the storm abating speedily, to enable me to resume my homeward track, I resolved on taking up my night's quarters in the house. Here an unforeseen difficulty presented itself; the few bedrooms the establishment could boast had already been engaged. Fortunately for me, there was a second bed in one of them ing aside, therefore, all scruples, I made terms with the occupier of the other; and it was agreed that I should be tenant of the said bed for the night. This satisfactory arrangement completed, and a hearty supper partaken of, my companion and I retired. The accommodation was none of the best, the bed none of the softest, the room none of the most comfortable; notwithstanding, I, in spite of the hollow murmurings of the wind, the rattling of the sleet against the broken casement, and the coursings of a large family of the genus mus under the miserable floor of the room, soon found myself on the high road to the realms of Morpheus."

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"And was that all your dream ?" observed Tom Snorard, with a disappointed air.

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