The countess was evidently more embarrassed.

"Why were you not sincere with me?" said he, softly, and took her hand. "Your secret is known in the neighbourhood, why would you conceal it from me?"

The countess started up terrified. "Is it possible?" said she and her voice faltered. "Can the old man have-Oh, count! what do you know-what is known?"

"Do you think," said the count, "that I watch my advantage so servilely?" and his tone was tender and sincere. "I will see and hear nothing. Enjoy in peace what you have dearly enough bought, by a sacrifice of two years. But, dear countess, I have children, who may hereafter complain of my pliability and indulgence. I must therefore do something to fulfil the duty of a father. Another in my place would here require he would lay before you proofs on which to ground his claims, but I spare your heart, and respect your secret. The friend is silent-it is the father only entreats."

"Alas!" cried the countess, and tears streamed from her eyes, "what do you require of me?"

The grand chamberlain drew a paper out of his pocket. "You know," he continued calmly, "that my property is greatly embarrassed. Your husband left you large estates, and a great fortune; I am silent on his will, of which I make no use; but this wound which I give to my interest must not continue bleeding in my children. Sign, therefore, this writing, my dear friend. You undertake therein to discharge a part of my debts, which have been occasioned by my service in the state, and your secret will ever remain concealed."

He fetched a pen. The countess in the meantime recovered her presence of mind. "Allow me," said she, more tranquilly, "to request that you will present me the proofs on which you ground your suspicions?"

"Why so?" said he, smiling, "the government will, perhaps, soon communicate some to you.'

"The government?" said the countess, terrified.

"You know," continued he, "the steady course of justice; you will be cited.

It is cer

tainly only a form, but still unpleasant. You must appear and take your oath."

The countess seized the pen hastily. "Your children shall lose nothing," said she, and signed. The grand chamberlain kissed the hand which returned him the paper, and went gaily to his carriage.

Herr von Welt returned the next day. "We are betrayed," said the countess, and threw herself weeping into his arms.

"Betrayed?" said he, astonished.

"The old priest must have chattered," said the countess.

"Indeed!" says Welt, "he has not spoken these nine months, for he is dead."

The countess looked confounded. She related to him the visit of the grand chamberlain, his behaviour, and her signature.

"That is a deception," cried Welt, "he has taken you by surprise; but he shall not long enjoy his triumph." He hastened out of the room, ordered his horse, and rode to the grand chamberlain. The count came to meet him on the steps.

"I have a word to say to you, count," said Welt; "but I should wish it to be in private." "A word also with you, for it is time to sit down to dinner, and you must be our guest," said the grand chamberlain affably, and led him into the room.

"Count," said Welt, "you expressed a suspicion yesterday to the countess, in which I am concerned."

"Quite right," replied the count; "people told me of these conjectures, and I repeated them to the countess."

"Count!" said Welt, "by what can you prove your conjectures?”

"We will talk about it after dinner," said the grand chamberlain; "it is already on the table. Our conversing longer may occasion surprise, and you do not, of course, wish that we should furnish the people with more materials for conjectures?"

"You take your oath," said the grand chamberlain, "and remain in possession of your property."

crab to the calf. The grand chamberlain at last kicked him from him with an exclamation, and the darling fell screaming at his mother's feet.

"The child grows unbearable," cried the grand chamberlain, as he rubbed the calf of his leg, which was smarting with pain; and the mother wiped the tears from the cheeks of the little one. "Poor child!" said she, "has he hurt you?"

"Go on spoiling him," said the count, "and he will one day give your heart as much pain as he has now done my calf."

"Only do not torment him," said the mother, stroking his cheeks; "he must be allowed to grow like the tree of the field. It was so that Jean Jacques wished boys to be educated." "But he is to be a gentleman of the chamber," said the father, "and you will at last make a Jean Jacques of the boy. He will then be good for nothing at most but to be a stableboy."

"When the children are grown up," said she, coldly, "you may present them at court; that you may understand, but do not interfere in their education. You do not wish the tender plants to wither before their time."

The grand chamberlain was silent, and looked vexed; the countess expatiated on the virtues of her children, and the cruelties of certain fathers, who had no steady principle of education.

The storm subsided by degrees, and they rose from table. Welt impatiently reminded the count of his promise, who conducted him into his room.

"Precisely so," continued the grand chamberlain, "the ardour of first love is gone by, but we live together, we bestow our attention on strangers, and leave our wives to be entertained by others: we walk onwards lost in thought, and forget that a wife is following."

"Count!" said Welt embarrassed, "you describe the most minute features of the picture. But we have digressed from the main point of our conversation."

"And I think we have been constantly discussing it," said the grand chamberlain; he went to his bureau and took out a paper"will you have the kindness to deliver this to the countess? You may read it, Herr von Welt; it is the ratification of my promises. You see I therein renounce my claim according to the will."

"The countess will be astonished at your generosity," said Welt; "but she delivered you a contract yesterday which she requires back."

"Indeed!" said the grand chamberlain, "then I beg you to return me my writing.— But, Herr von Welt, you have withdrawn yourself entirely from court.-Do you know that people have made observations upon it? Thence arise conjectures; you must have rendered a few people jealous. I give you warning, my dear friend; no one can hurt you, but they seek to revenge themselves on the countess." "How is that possible?" said Welt, astonished.

"I do not know what this question means, count?"

"You were not a witness at our marriage; you did not accompany us to the altar: may I be allowed to ask by what means you know we are married?"

"I think you must be joking," said Welt; "how I know?—people have told me so.” "You consider that as a proof, then?" said the grand chamberlain quickly.

**You embarrass me," said Welt; "I knew it before I had the honour of seeing you, and my eyes convinced me."

"What have you seen, then?" asked the

count.

"Oh!" said Welt, "there are certain trifles which soon discover that connection. One is more familiar together, one is not so attentive to the choice of expressions when speaking together, and sometimes one differs about the mode of education."

puts the consciences of his royal highness's subjects to proof, can put her upon her oath."

Welt looked over the paper much agitated. "I will give your renunciation to the countess," said he, getting up.

"And if she wishes her contract again," said the grand chamberlain, smiling, "it lies here amongst my papers."

"Count," said Welt, "the countess will not be behind you in generosity. Her property comes from her husband, who bore your name, and I am convinced she will be happy to appropriate a part of the property to support the splendour of his family."

He took a friendly leave of the count, who accompanied him to the hall door.

"Will you not soon travel?" said the grand chamberlain, as they descended the steps.

"Possibly very soon," said Welt; "I mean to accompany the countess, who is anxious to be in a warmer climate."

"Well, the observations you make on your

journey cannot be otherwise than instructive," ! said the grand chamberlain. "But, my dear friend," he continued, "when in London or at Madrid you see a man sitting opposite a lady, and the lady lets fall her fan, and he does not

Of desert isles where savage tribes abide,

And glorious shores and regions of old fame: Then were his trophies from all lands display'd, Belt, baracan, and bow of wondrous frame, High nodding crest, and deadly battle blade,

and the lady yawns-and they yawn at Madrid as well as here then believe me, they are man-and wife."

Herr von Welt threw himself on his horse. "Ride fast," said the count laughing; "make haste home; a gallop will confound the neighbours, who always walk their horses home to their wives."

Welt laughed, and spurred his animal. The grand chamberlain soon after satisfied his creditors, and returned to court.

THE HOUSEHOLD FESTIVAL.

"Twas when the harvest moon came slowly up, Broad, red, and glorious o'er dark groves of pine;

In the hush'd eve, when closed the flow'ret's cup, And the blue grape hung dewy on the vine, Forth from a porch where tendrill'd plants entwine, Weaving a shadowy bower of odorous things, Rich voices came, telling that there were met

Beauty and youth and mirth, whose buoyant wings, Soaring aloft o'er thoughts that gloom and fret, Gave man release from care, or lured him to forget.

And, as the moon rose higher in the sky, Casting a mimic day on all around,

Lighting dim garden paths, through branches high, That cast their chequer'd shadows on the ground; Light maidens, dancing with elastic bound,

Like fairy revellers, in one place were seen; And gentle friends were slowly pacing where

The dark, thick laurels formed a bowery screen; And merry children, like the moonlight fair With their wild pealing laughter fill'd the perfumed air.

Another hour,—and in a lighted room, Where glorious pictures lined the lofty wall They sate in social ease :-no brow of gloom, No sadden'd, downcast eye, that might recall Sorrowful musing, dimm'd the festival.

It was in honour of a gallant youth Those friends were met,-the friends he dearest loved,All wishing he were there-and well, in sooth, Might his gray father unto tears be moved, Listening to his grateful praise,-his tears were unreproved.

Her bright eyes sparkling with delight and love, Told his young sister of his travels wide,

Of pleasant sojourn in some palmy grove, And Indian cities in their gorgeous pride;

And, in her joyful phrase, she told how he, Ere their next meeting, o'er the wave would come, Like a glad spirit, to partake their glee, And cast delight and interest round his home: Gaily she told, how sitting in that room

When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane, He should himself his marvellous tales relate. -Alas! encircled by the Indian main, That night beneath a tamarind-tree he sat Heart sick with thoughts of home and ponderings on

his fate.

The heavy sea broke thundering on the shore, The dark, dark night had gather'd in the sky, And from the desert mountains came the roar Of ravening creatures, and a wild, shrill cry From the scared night-birds slowly wheeling by.And there he lay, beneath the spreading tree, Feverish and faint, and over heart and brain

Rush'd burning love, and sense of misery, And wild, impatient grief, and longings vain Within his blessed home to be at rest again.

Another year--and the relentless wave Had wash'd away the white bones from the shore;And, mourning for his son, down to the grave Had gone the old man with his locks all hoar;The household festival was held no more ;And when the harvest-moon came forth again, O'er the dark pines, in red autumnal state,

Her light fell streaming through the window pane Of that old room, where his young sister sate With her down-droop'd head, and heart all desolate. MARY HOWITT.

ON EARLY RISING.

I hope that you are not an early riser. If you are, throw this into the fire-if not, read it. But I beg your pardon; it is impossible that you can be an early riser; and if I thought so, I must be the most impertinent man in the world; whereas, it is universally known that I am politeness and urbanity themselves. Well then, pray what is this virtue of early rising, that one hears so much about? Let us consider it, in the first place, according to the seasons of the year-secondly, according to peoples' profession-and thirdly, according to their character.

Let us begin with spring-say the month of

"

March. You rise early in the month of March, about five o'clock. It is somewhat darkishat least gloomyish—dampish—rawish-coldish-icyish-snowyish. You rub your eyes and look about for your breeches. You find them, and after hopping about on one leg for about five minutes, you get them on. It would be absurd to use a light during that season of the year, at such an advanced hour as five minutes past five, so you attempt to shave by the spring dawn. If your nose escapes, you are a lucky man; but dim as it is, you can see the blood trickling down in a hundred streams from your gashed and mutilated chin. I will leave your imagination to conjecture what sort of neckcloth will adorn your gullet, tied under such circumstances. How ever, grant the possibility of your being dressed --and down you come, not to the parlour, or your study-for you would not be so barbarous-but to enjoy the beauty of the morning, -as Mr. Leigh Hunt would say, "out of doors.' The moment you pop your phiz one inch beyond the front wall, a scythe seems to cut you right across the eyes, or a great blash of sleet clogs up your mouth, or a hail shower rattles away at you, till you take up a position behind the door. Why, in goodness' name, did I leave my bed? is the first cry of nature-a question to which no answer can be given, but a long chitter grueing through the frame. You get obstinate, and out you go. I give you every possible advantage. You are in the country, and walking with your eyes, I will not say open, but partly so, out of a country gentleman's house worth five thousand a year. It is now a quarter past five, and a fine sharp blustering morning, just like the season. In going down stairs, the ice not having been altogether melted by the night's rain, whack you come upon your posteriors, with your toes pointing up to heaven, your hands pressed against the globe, and your whole body bob, bob, bobbing, one step after another, till you come to a full stop or period, in a circle of gravel. On getting up and shaking yourself you involuntarily look up to the windows to see if any eye is upon you-and perhaps you dimly discern, through the blind mist of an intolerable headache, the old housekeeper in a flannel night-cap, and her hands clasped in the attitude of prayer, turning up the whites of her eyes at this inexplicable sally of the strange gentleman. Well, my good sir, what is it that you propose to do? will you take a walk in the garden and eat a little fruit-that is to say, a cabbage leaf, or a Jerusalem artichoke? But the gardener is not quite so great a goose as yourself,

and is in bed with his wife and six children. So I leave you knocking with your shoulder against the garden gate-in the intervals of reflection on the virtue of early rising in spring.

March, April, and May are gone, and it is summer-so if you are an early riser, up, you lazy dog, for it is between three and four o'clock. How beautiful is the sunrise! What a truly intellectual employment it is to stand for an hour with your mouth wide open, like a stuck pig, gazing on the great orb of day! Then the choristers of the grove have their mouths open likewise; cattle are also lowingand if there be a dog-kennel at hand, I warrant the pack are enjoying the benefits of early rising as well as the best of you, and yelping away like furies before breakfast. The dew too is on the ground, excessively beautiful no doubt-and all the turkeys, how-towdies, ducks, and guinea fowls, are moping, waddling, and strutting about, in a manner equally affecting and picturesque, while the cawing of an adjacent rookery invites you to take a stroll in the grove, from which you return with an epaulette on each shoulder. You look at your watch, and find it is at least five hours till breakfast-so you sit down and write a sonnet to June, or a scene of a tragedy;—you find that the sonnet has seventeen lines-and that the dramatis personæ, having once been brought upon the stage, will not budge. While reducing the sonnet to the bakers' dozen, or giving the last kick to your heroine, as she walks off with her arm extended heavenwards, you hear the good old family bell warning the other inmates to doff their night-caps-and huddling up your papers, you rush into the breakfast-parlour. The urn is diffusing its grateful steam in clouds far more beautiful than any that adorned the sky. The squire and his good lady make their entree with hearty faces, followed by a dozen hoydens and hobbletehoys-and after the first course of rolls, muffins, dry and butter toast, has gone to that bourne from which the fewer travellers that return the better-in come the new-married couple, the young baronet and his blushing bride, who, with that infatuation common to a thinking people, have not seen the sun rise for a month past, and look perfectly incorrigible on the subject of early rising.

It is now that incomprehensible season of the year, autumn. Nature is now brown, red, yellow, and everything but green. These, I understand, are the autumnal tints so much admired. Up then and enjoy them. Whichever way a man turns his face early in the morning, from the end of August till that of