rustling amid the boughs overhead attracted her attention, and the next moment a singularly handsome young man sprang to the ground and presented her bird.

*

*

*

[The sequel may be guessed; the young stranger's manner implied that he had now seen one that he should not readily forget.] * Amalie discovered that the youth's name was Julian; and that he was democrate et misanthrope, but she undertook to convert him. Even with the very prettiest of preceptors, conversion is not the work of a day; so leaving it to its progress, we will take the opportunity of stating who Julian was-alas! a roturier. His father had carried on an extensive trade in precious stones, had travelled much, and profited in more ways than one by his travels; he early realized a competence, and, what is much rarer, early began to enjoy it. He married an English girl, and settling in the valley where he was born, led a life of seclusion, study, and domestic content-a state of existence so often a dream and so rarely a reality. Julian was brought up with every care; his natural talents were cultivated as seduously as books could cultivate them. But the knowledge of the library is not that of the world. The death of Julian's mother was soon followed by that of his father, and at nineteen the youth was left to a world from which he turned with all the desolation that attends on the first acquaintance with sorrow and death. The affection between himself and his parents had been so strong and undivided, that life seemed left without a charm when bereaved of their love.

Julian arrived in Paris-his heart full of passion, and his head full of poetry-the one to be deceived, and the other to be disappointed. His wealth, his prepossessing appearance, and some scientific introductions, for his father had been the correspondent of eminent men, opened to him several of the first houses in Paris; but such society soon made him aware that he was only there on sufferance; that "thus far and no further," was the motto of aristocratic courtesy; he felt himself the equal-ay, the superior-of half the gracious coxcombs that surrounded him, and yet an accident of birth and fortune placed him at an immeasurable distance from those whose manner mocked him with the semblance of equality.

[This obstacle and an affair of honour drive Julian from Paris to his native valley.]

A low, chill wind moaned through the streets of Paris, and a dull, small rain scarcely penetrated the thick fog which hung on the oppressed atmosphere :-in a high wind and a brisk shower there is something that exhilarates the spirits; but this damp, dreary weather relaxes every nerve, unless indeed they be highly strung with some strong ex

citement, that defies every external influence

but, ah! of such life has but few instances. All great cities present strange contrasts; the infinite varieties of human existence gathered together mock each other with the wildest contrasts; and if this be true of all cities and all times, what must it have been in an hour like that of which we now write, and in a capital like Paris! The revolution was now raging in all its horrors; a terrible desire for blood had risen up in the minds of men, and cruelty had become as much a passion as love. In one street a band of ruffians insulted the quiet night with their frightful orgies; in the next a worn and devoted family clung to each other, and trembled lest the wind as it moaned past might bring the footsteps of the ministers of a nation's vengeance, or rather of a nation's madness. Here was a prison crowded with ghastly wretches sickening on hope defered, till it grew into fear; there a palace where the purple availed no longer, while its wearied and wretched inmates sought courage from despair. Hate, terror, rage, revenge, all the most ghastly elements of human wretchedness and crime, were in commotion, and Paris was filled with riot and change. Yet into one luxurious haunt of rank, wealth, and grace it would seem as if no alteration had made its way. The blue satin draperies of the little boudoir, which was fitted up as a tent, were undisturbed, and the silver muslin curtains reflected back the soft light of the lamps; while roses, on which months of care had been bestowed for an hour of lavish bloom, the red light from the cheerful hearth, the rich carpet, over which the step passed noiseless, the perfumes that exhaled their fragrant essence-all mocked the desolation without. Leaning upon a couch near the window was the Comtesse Amalie, pretty as ever, changed in nothing save costume, which was suited to the classical mania of the day; her hair was gathered up in a Grecian knot, the little foot wore a sandal, and the white robe, à l'antique, was fastened by cameos. Suddenly a door opened and the rain damp upon his cloak, and his hair glittering with its moisture, entered Julian; he was changed, for he looked pale and exhausted, and lip and brow wore the fixed character and the deeper line which passion ever leaves behind. Amalie rose, and, with an expression of the tenderest welcome, took his cloak from him, and with her own mignon hands drew the fauteuil towards the fire, and then placing herself on a little stool at his feet, looked up in his face with an asking and anxious gaze, perhaps the most touching that a woman's features can assume to her lover. Amalie did not love Julian as he loved her-it was not in her nature-but her light and vain temper was subdued by his earnest and impetuous one; she feared him too, and fear is the great strengthener of

a woman's love. Besides there is something in intense passion that communicates itself, as the warmth of the sun colours the cloud, whose frail substance yet incapable of retaining the light or heat. Amalie had no sympathy with the poetry of his character; but it gave grace to his flattery and variety to himself, to say nothing of the advantage of contrast with all her other adorateurs. Moreover his influence with the Jacobin clubs had warded off dangers that had crushed other families noble as that of De Boufflers. Julian, like all of an imaginative turn, deceived himself, and worshipped an idol which he had created rather than an object which existed. For some time Julian sat in moody silence, his gaze fixed on the wood embers, as if absorbed in contemplating their fantastic combinations. Amalie changed her attitude, rallied her lover on his abstraction, and asked him if it was fair to seek one lady's presence and then think of another.

"Think of another!" exclaimed he, springing from his seat: "Good God, Amalie! is there one moment, fevered and hurried as is my existence, in which you are forgotten? I love you terribly! ay, terribly! for it is terrible to have one's very soul so bound up in but one object. I would rather at this very moment see you dead at my feet than even dream of you as loving another."

The Countess turned pale; there was nothing in herself that responded to this burst of passion, and terror was her paramount sensation. "You are too violent," said she, in a faltering voice.

"Too sincere, you mean," replied he. "Amalie, our present life is intolerable;-I cannot endure longer these stolen and brief interviews. Why should we thus waste life's short season of existence? we shall not live long, let us live together. Amalie, you must fly with me."

Madame de Boufflers looked-what she was-astounded at this proposition. "What nonsense you are talking to-night," answered she, forcing a laugh.

"You do not love me!" and his clear light eyes flashed upon her with a strange mixture of ferocity and tenderness.

She shrank before the glance, and whispered," If I did not love you, why are you here? but think of the scandal of an elopement; les convenances of society must be respected."

"Curse on these social laws! which are made for the convenience of the few and the degradation of the many. Amalie, I cannot, will not steal into the house of that insolent aristocrat, your husband, like a midnight thief. You must leave him, and let my home become yours. I will watch over you,-pass my life at your side,-anticipate your slightest wish, but you must be mine own. The law for divorce will soon pass the Assembly, and

then let me add what tie or form you will to the deep devotion of my heart, my own, my beloved Amalie, as my wife."

"Your wife!" interrupted the countess, old prejudices springing up far stronger than present feelings." How very absurd; think for a moment of the difference in our rank."

A spasm of convulsive emotion passed over his face, the veins rose on the high forehead, the blood started from the bitten lip, but in an instant the expression was subdued into a stern coldness; and if Julian's voice was somewhat hoarse the words were slow and distinct. "Amalie," said he, taking her hands in his, "my whole destiny turns on the result of this interview. Have you no fear of my despair ?"

Amalie could have answered that she felt very sufficiently afraid at that moment, but, for once in her life she was at a loss for a reply; she remained silent, almost embarrassed, certainly bored, and Julian went on.

"I will not shock your gentle ear by words of hate against the class to which you belong; but a fearful reckoning is at hand; and I am among those who will exact it to the uttermost. I warn you fly from them-be mine, for your own sake."

"Really, Monsieur Julian," said she, 66 your conduct to-night is most unaccountable. Come, do pray be a little more amusing."

"Monsieur Julian!" repeated he, in a deep whisper; "is it come to this? Amalie, do, I implore you, think how desperately I love you. You may believe that on your part has been the sacrifice; but what has it been on mine? For your sake I have trifled with rights I hold most sacred; I have tampered with mine own integrity; I have held back from the great task before me; I have been a faint and slow follower of that glorious freedom which now calls aloud on all her worshippers for the most entire devotion; and yet I have shrank back from the appointed duty. Amalie, come with me-be my inspiration; feel as I feel, think as I think, cast aside the idle prejudices of a selfish and profligate court, and be repaid by passion as fervent, as fond, and as faithful as ever beat in man's heart for the woman of his first and only love."

"This is really too much of a good thing," thought the countess, whose mind wandered from the love before her to the scandal and ridicule likely to be caused by her flight. "Il faut respecter les convenances,' was her chilling reply.

Julian dropped her hands, and approached the door; he opened it, but he lingered on the threshold. "Do you let me go, Amalie ?" whispered he, in a scarcely audible voice.

"I am sure," replied Madame de Boufflers, pettishly, 66 you have not been so agreeable that I should wish to detain you."

The door closed, and his rapid steps were heard descending the narrow staircase; at length they died away.

"I really must put an end to this affair, it is becoming troublesome; my young republican is growing pedante et despote. He has none of the graces of my cousin Eugene." And Madame de Boufflers threw herself into the fauteuil, and indulged in a discontented reverie, in which Julian's faults and Eugene's merits occupied conspicuous places; together with the garniture of a new species of sandal which she meditated producing. In the meantime Julian pursued his way through the dark and dreary streets, suffering that agony of disappointed affection which the heart can know but once. Love is very blind indeed, but let the veil once be removed, though but for a moment, and it never can be replaced again. Then how quicksighted do we become to the errors of our past worship, and mortification adds bitterness to regret. "And is it for one," exclaimed he, who holds the factitious advantage of a name, to be better worth than my deep love, that I have sacrificed the cause to which I was vowed, and have paused on the noblest path to which man ever devoted his energies? But the weakness is over; a terrible bond shall be made with Liberty-Liberty henceforth my only hope, my only mistress !"

The evil spirit of love left his soul for a moment, but returned, though with a strange and lurid aspect, bringing with him other and worse spirits than himself-hate, revenge, blood-thirstiness-all merged in and coloured by the excited and fanatic temper of the time. He stopped before a large hotel, from whose windows the red light glared, as if it mocked the darkness of night as much as the revel within did its silence. There was that mixture of luxury and disorder which at once so shocks and attracts the imagination. Its hangings were silk, the chairs and sofas satin, but they were torn and soiled; the servants were many, but ill-dressed and awkward; all the light elegance for which the hotel had been noted in its former proprietor's life (the Duc de N. had perished by the guillotine) had disappeared; the character of its present master was impressed on all around him. A door opened into a vast chamber crowded with fierce and eager faces, every eye assuming the expression of murder as the ruthless Danton called down their vengeance on those whom he denominated their old and arrogant oppressors.

"Some there are," exclaimed he, as he caught sight of Julian's pale and expressive countenance," who delude themselves with the belief that their own preferences are sufficient cause for exception-who merge the public cause in private interests. What are such but cowards and traitors? unworthy to bring one stone towards the great temple of

liberty about to overshadow the world, but whose foundations must be laid in blooday, blood!"

A hoarse and sullen murmur rather than acclamation ran through the crowd, and a few minutes elapsed ere the business of the night proceeded. Then began those fearful denunciations, which seemed to loosen every tie of nature-the father witnessed against the son, and the son against the father; the young, the aged, the innocent, the beautiful, were alike marked as victims. Suddenly Julian arose: a close observer might have noted that his brow was knit, as it is in inward pain, that his lip was white, as if the life-current had been driven back upon the heart, prophetic of the future, which doomed it to freeze there for ever; but to the careless eye he seemed stern, calm, ferocious as the rest, while he denounced Amalie, Comtesse de Boufflers, as an aristocrat, and an enemy to the people. Danton looked at him for an instant, but cowered before the wild and fiery glance that met his own.

To denounce, to condemn, to execute, were, in those ruthless days, but the work of fourand-twenty hours. The next noon but one an almost insensible female form was carried, or rather dragged, to the scaffold. It was the Comtesse Amalie. Her long bright hair fell in disorder over her shoulders; the executioner gathered it up in a rough knot-he had been told not to sever it from the graceful head. At that moment the prisoner gave a bewildered stare around—a wild gleam of hope illumined her features-she stretched out her arms to some one passionately in the crowd, "Julian, save me !" The executioner forced her to her knee-the axe glittered in the sun, and the head fell into the appointed basket, while a convulsive motion shook the white garments around the quivering trunk.

"I looked on the faces of his judges, and felt there was no hope," said an old man, as he led away the promised bride of his son, now a prisoner, doomed to death on the morrow.

"Yet the one they call Julian looks so young, so pale, and so sad, there is surely some touch of pity in him; at least, I will kneel at his feet, and implore him for mercy on Frederic."

The old man shook his head, but accompanied her to Julian's hotel, where the eloquence of some golden coins procured her admittance. She found her way to a large and gloomy chamber, where he sat surrounded with books, papers, and charts, mocking himself with a frenzied belief in the coming amelioration of the world, while his own home was a desert and his own heart a desolation. He did not perceive the fair and agitated creature that knelt at his feet, till her supplicating and broken voice roused his

attention. He listened till her words died away into the short thick sobs of utter agony, unable to bear the picture it had conjured up of its coming wretchedness.

66

Pity from me!" he exclaimed, with a quick fierce laugh; "Pity!—I do not know the meaning of the word. You might as well address your prayers to yonder bust of the stern old Roman, who sealed his country's

freedom with the life-blood of his child."

The girl unconsciously looked towards the harsh features, made yet harsher by the black marble in which they were carved. And she started, for she felt that even that stern and sculptured countenance had more of human sympathy than the pale lip and cold eye of the living listener; yet love is desperate in its hope; she flung herself at his feet, she hid her face on the hand which she grasped, for she dared not look up and meet that fixed and passionless face; but still she pleaded as those plead who pray for a life far dearer than their own.

"He is so young-so good-there is so much happiness before us; his poor old

father will die-he has no other child-and I he must not look to me to supply his place. God of Heaven! have you never loved-have you no recollections of affection that can move you to pity others!"

"I have!" said Julian; and rising from his seat, he took the arm of the agitated girl, and led her to a recess in the apartment, and drew back a curtain. Horror for a moment suspended every other feeling; for, laid upon a cushion, the long fair hair streaming around, was a female head, preserved by some curious chemical process; the eyes were closed, but as if in sleep; colour had departed from lip and cheek, and something beyond even the rigidity of stone was in the face. The petitioner turned from the dead to the living, whose ashy colour, and wild fierce eye, struck more terror to her soul than the mournful mockery of the head, where life's likeness was fearfully rendered. Julian gazed on the dread memorial which he had snatched from the scaffold, with that strange mixture of hate and love, the mind's most terrible element, whereof comes despair and madness; then turning slowly to the bewildered girl, said, in a low voice, but whose whisper was like thunder when the flash is commissioned to destroy,

"That head belonged to my mistress-she was an aristocrat-and I denounced herJudge if there exist one human being whom my pity is likely to spare."

His wretched petitioner gazed upwards, but hopelessly, and staggered against the

wall.

"I would be alone," said Julian, and led her to the door.

She left him silently. She now knew prayers were vain. That night her lover

perished beneath the guillotine;-the same blow struck to the heart of the fond and faithful girl-death was merciful, for both died at the same moment By some inscrutable sympathy with the love which yet moved him not to spare, Julian had them buried in the same grave.

telles, such as elegant folks scribble with [The poetry includes a few sparkling bagarhodium pens. The most striking in merit Guests-Beauty, Poesy, and Piety-by Lord are the pieces of graver cast: as, the Three Morpeth; Count Sarno's Farewell to his Sons, by Mrs. George Lenox-Conyngham; the Fane of Memory, by the Countess of Blessington; the Exile's Adieu, by the Archdeacon Spencer; some anonymous_Stanzas to Melancholy; and our quotations :]—

THE GLOVE.

From Schiller. By Sir William Somerville, Bart. BEFORE his Lion-garden gate,

The wild beast combat to await-
King Francis sat-

Around him were his nobles placed,
The balcony above was graced

By ladies of the court in gorgeous state.
And as with his finger a sign he made,
The iron grating was open laid,
And with stately step and mien
A lion to enter was seen.
With fearful look
His mane he shook,
Stared around him on every side;
And yawning wide

And stretch'd his giant limbs of strength,
And laid himself down at his fearful length.
And the king a second signal made—
And instant was open'd wide
A second gate on the other side,
From which with fiery bound
A tiger sprung,

Roar'd aloud from his frightful jaw,

Who, when he the lion saw,

And in a circle, round and round,
His tail he flung;

And stretch'd out his tongue,
And with glittering eye,
Crept round the lion slow and shy,
Then horribly howling,
And grimly growling,

Down by his side himself he laid.
And the king another signal made-
The open'd grating vomited then
Two leopards forth from their dreadful den-
They rush on the tiger, with signs of rage,
Eager the deadly fight to wage-
Who fierce with paws uplifted stood,
And the lion sprang up with an awful roar,
Then were still the fearful four:
And the monsters, on the ground
Crouch'd in a circle round,
Greedy to taste of blood.

Then fell from the terrace above,
From beauteous hand a glove,
And the tiger and lion between,'
To drop 't was seen.

And the Lady Kunigund, in bantering mood,
Spoke to Kuight Delorges, who by her stood-

If the flame which but now to me you swore,
Burns as strong as it did before,
Go pick up my glove, Sir Knight."
And he with action quick as sight,
In the horrible place did stand;
And with dauntless mien,,
From the beasts between

My native spot, my native spot,

Where first I saw the day;
Oh, ne'er through life to be forgot,
Where'er my footsteps stray.
Where first I knew a mother's love,
And felt a mother's kiss;
And day-dreams of the future strove
With childhood's present bliss.
Alas! the present faded fast,

The future never came;

And life is but a wither'd waste,

And joy is but a name.

Yet midst the wreck of hopes o'ercast,
The weight of worldly ills,
With mournful pleasure still the past
My aching bosom fills.

There's naught maturer age can find
To equal those bright hours,
When the sunshine of the opening mind,
Deck'd coming life with flowers.

Each happy scene returns to view,
The loved, the dead, are there;
All gilded with the brilliant hue

Which childhood bade them wear.

My thoughts yet dwell on each loved haunt,
Beside each favourite tree;

The verdant path, the grassy mount,

An universe to me.

These speak of years of innocence,
Of many a sportive game,

Of schemes of youthful confidence,
And airy plans of fame.

Now vanish'd all-the sports have fled,
Ambition and her train

No more excite this wearied head

The loved are wept in vain.

Yet still my native spot is dear,
When memory bids it rise;

Still hallow'd with a heartfelt tear,
Still chronicled with sighs.

[We must not omit to notice the Lines on Haddon Hall, by the Hon. E. S. Wortley, as being imbued with the poetical romance of the place.

The plates, as usual, are in superb style. Portraits and figure scenes predominate in loveliness; but Turner has contributed two splendid scenes-Havre, and the Palace of the Fair Gabrielle; and Stanfield, a terrific picture of a Storm.]

The Juvenile Forget-me-Not. [TWENTY-SEVEN pieces in prose and verse, and eleven engravings, form the attractions of this charming little volume. Its story and sentiment are unexceptionable, and its few sketches of natutal phenomena are just in the style for the dear young readers to understand.

The English Farmyard, by Mrs. S. C. Hall, has traits of piety and affection, which cannot be too early instilled into the youthful mind and heart. The following extract contains some interesting facts for children, in the form of a dialogue.]

THE FIRST MARINERS.

By the Rev. Charles Williams. "WHAT a delightful evening!" said Frederick Elwood, when seated with his father and sister in a well-known nook at Hastings, just below the summit of a rock; "how finely, too, does the ocean stretch out before us! and above-what a glorious sky!" ***

"Do you remember, papa, who were the most celebrated navigators in early times ?" inquired Frederick.

Mr. E.-The Phoenicians, my dear. They piloted the fleets of Solomon, which "returned every three years, bringing gold and silver, ivory, apes, and peacocks;" they were also the merchants of the Egyptians, whose ships they manned and steered, and whose general use of money, hundreds of years before it was known to the Greeks, shows a familiarity with commercial enterprise truly astonishing. Maritime commerce among the Arabians was far from being so important as that which was carried on by caravans overland. Still they engaged in it at an early period; and one of their writers relates a singular fact in reference to the people at Oman. They cross over, he says, to the islands (the Laccadives) that produce the cocoa-nut, carrying with them carpenters' and all such tools; and having felled as much wood as they want, they let it dry, strip off the leaves, and with the bark of the tree they spin a yarn, wherewith they sew the planks together, and so build a ship. Of the same wood they cut and round a mast; of the leaves they weave their sails, and the bark they work into cordage. Having thus completed their vessel, they load her with cocoa-nuts, which they bring and sell at Oman.

E. That is capital, papa; so the tree makes a ship and a cargo. I should think it is the only one in the world that can do so. But I remember you told us many things about it when you described how leaves were changed into peaches, apricots, and nectarines.

Mr. E.-I did, my dear; and on some future day we must resume the history of maritime discovery, and trace it downwards, from the Phoenicians and Arabians to Columbus, who found out America; and Cook, the circumnavigator of the globe; and Parry, who went in pursuit of the North Pole.

F.-How we shall enjoy that, Emma! though I hope we shall never sail far from home. But, papa, the creatures who live in the sea were, I should think, the first mariners, after all.