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or degree of movement. It may perform the apparent | story which Plutarch gives us of the trance of Thesrevolutions of days and years, in seconds and frag-pesius, and of the immense series of wonders he witments of seconds. But attach to it a pendulum of a nessed during the short period of apparent death. proper length, and its rates are immediately adjusted Strikingly similar to this is that remarkable account to the steady course of external nature. The new of Rev. William Tennent which must be familiar to regulative power is determined by the mass and grav- most of our readers. Something analogous is reity of the earth. It is what the diurnal rotation ported of that strange inner life to which we lately causes it to be. The latter, again, is linked with the called attention in the account of Rachel Baker. To annual revolution, and this, again, with some far-off the same effect the story, told by Addison, we think, millennial, or millio-millennial, cycle of the sun, and of the Dervise and his Magic Water, possessed of so on, until the little time-piece on our Editor's Table, such wondrous properties, that the moment between is in harmony with the magnus annus, the great cos- the plunging and the withdrawing of the head, bemical year, the one all-embracing time of the universe. came, subjectively, a life-time filled with events of The regulative action of the body upon the soul, al- most absorbing interest. But that may be called an though far less uniform, presents a fair analogy. In Oriental romance. Another instance we would reordinary health, the measured flow of thought and late from our own personal acquaintance with the feeling will bear some relation to the circulation of one who was himself the subject of a similar superthe blood, the course of respiration, and those gen- corporeal and supersensual action of the spirit. He eral cycles of the body, or human micro-cosmos, was a man bearing a high reputation for piety and which have acquired and preserved a steady rate of integrity. It was at the close of a day devoted to movement. It is true that there are times, even in sacred services of an unusually solemn kind that he health, when the thoughts burst from this regulative related to us what, in the familiar language of certain control, imparting their own impetus to the nervous denominations of Christians, might be called his refluid, giving a hurried agitation to the quick-panting ligious experience. It was, indeed, of no ordinary breath, and sending the blood in maddened velocity rature, and there was one part, especially, which through the heart and veins. But it is in sickness made no ordinary impression on our memory. We that such a breaking away from the ordinary check can only, in the most rapid manner, touch upon the becomes most striking. The pendulum removed, or main facts, as they bear upon the thoughts we have the spring broken, how rapidly spin round the whiz- been presenting. In the crisis of a violent typhus zing wheels by which objective time is measured. fever, during a period which could not have occupied, And so of our spiritual state. In that harmony be- at the utmost, more than half an hour, a subjective tween the inward and the outward, in which health life was lived, extending not merely to hours and consists, we are insensible to the presence of the reg- days, but through long years of varied and most ulative power. In the slightest sicknesses we feel thrilling experience. He had traveled to foreign the dragging chain, and time moves slow, and some- lands, and encountered every species of adventure. times almost stops. It is in this crisis of severe dis- He had amassed wealth and lost it. He had formed ease that a deeper change takes place. Some link new social bonds with their natural accompaniments is snapped; and then how inconceivably rapid may of joy and grief. He had committed crimes and sufbe, and sometimes is, the course of thought. Now fered for them. He had been in exile, cast out, and the long-buried past comes up, and moves before us, homeless. He had been in battle and in shipwreck. not in slow succession, but in that swift array which He had been sick and recovered. And, finally, he would seem to place it altogether upon the canvas. had died, and gone to judgment, and received the At other times, the soul goes out into a self-created condemnation of the lost. Ages had passed in outer future; a dream it may be called, but having, as far darkness, during all which the exercises of the soul as the spirit is concerned, no less of authentic moral were as active, and as distinct, and as coherently and intellectual interest on that account. Suppose arranged, as at any period of his existenee. At length even the whole physical world to be all a dream. a fairly perceptible beam of light, coming seemingly What then? No article of moral truth would be in from an immense distance, steals faintly into his the least changed; joy and suffering, right and wrong, prison-house. Nearer, and nearer still, it comes, would be no less real. Might they not be regarded although years and years are occupied with its slow, as even the more tremendously real, from the very yet steady approach. But it does increase. Fuller, fact that they would be, in that case, the only reali- and clearer, and higher, grows the light of hope, until ties in the universe? Nothing here is really gained all around him, and above him, is filled with the beby any play upon that most indefinable of all terms-nign glory of its presence. He dares once more look reality. If that is real which most deeply affects us, and enters most intimately into our conscious being, then in a most real sense may it be affirmed, that years sometimes pass in the crisis of a fever, and that a life-time-an intellectual and a moral life-time-burning frame. Only a prolonged dream, it might may be lived in what, to spectators, may have seemed to have been but a moment of syncope, or of returning sensibility to outward things. Such facts should startle us. They give us a glimpse of those fearful energies which even now the spirit possesses, and which may exhibit themselves with a thousand-fold more power, when all the balance-wheels and regulating pendulums shall have been taken off, and the soul left to develop that higher law of its being which now remains, in a great degree, suspended and inert, like the chemist's latent heat and light.

In illustration of such a view, we might refer to recorded facts having every mark of authenticity. They come to us from all ages. There is the strange

upward, and as he does so, he beholds beaming upon nim the countenance of his watching friend, bending over him with the announcement that the crisis is past, and that coolness is once more returning to his

perhaps be said. But dreams in general run parallel with the movement of outward time, or if they do go beyond it, it is never by any such enormously mag. nified excess. But besides the apparent length of such a trance, there was also this striking and essential difference. Dreams may be more or less vivid; but all possess this common character, that in the waking state we immediately recognize them as dreams; and this not merely by way of inference from our changed condition, but because, in themselves, they possess that unmistakably subjective, or dream-like aspect, we can never separate from their outward contemplation. They almost immediately put on the dress of dreams. The air of reality, so

fresh on our first awakening, begins straightway to gather a shade about it. As they grow dimmer and dimmer, the very effort at recalling only drives them farther off, and renders them more indistinct, just as certain optical delusions ever melt away from the gaze that is directed most steadily toward them. Thus the phantoms of our sleep dissolve rapidly "into thin air." As we strive to hold fast their features in the memory, they vanish farther and farther from the view, until we can just discern their pale, ghostly forms receding, in the distance, through the "gate of horn" into the land of irrecoverable oblivion. This characteristic of ordinary dreaming has ever furnished the ground of a favorite comparison both in sacred and classical poetry-"Like a vision of the night”—“ As a dream when one awaketh"-"Like a morning dream”—

Tenuesque recessit in auras

We need the corrective power of the idea that we ARE, not simply what we may now appear to be, but all we ever have been, and that such we must forever BE, unless in the psychology and theology of a higher dispensation there is some mode of separating us from our former selves. Now the soul is broken and dispersed. Then will it come together, and as in the poetic imagination of the resurrection of the body, bone meets its fellow-bone, and dust hastens to join once more in living organization with its kindred dust, so in the soul's anastasis will all the lost and scattered thoughts come home again to their spiritual abode, and from the chaos of the past will stand forth forever one fixed and changeless being, the discordant and deformed result of a false and evil life, or a glorious organization in harmony with all that is fair and good in the universe.

GEOLOGY has created difficulties in the interpre tation of certain parts of the Scriptures; but these are more than balanced by a most important aid, which in another respect, it is rendering to the cause of faith. The former are fast giving way before that sound interpretation of the primeval. record which was maintained by some of the most learned and pious in the Church, centuries before the new science was ever dreamed of. The latter is gathering strength from every fresh discovery. We refer to the proof geology is furnishing of the late origin of the human race, and of the absolute necessity of ascribing it to a supernatural cause. While there has been an ascending scale of orders, every new order has commenced with the most mature specimens. The subsequent history has been ever one of degeneracy, until a higher power came to the aid of exhausted nature, and made another step of real

Par levibus ventis, volucrique simillima somno. But these visions of the trance, are, in this respect, of a different, as well as deeper, nature. The subject of our narrative most solemnly averred that the scenes and feelings of this strange experience were ever after not only real in appearance, but the most vividly real of any part of his remembered existence. They never passed away into the place and form of dreams. He knew they were subjective, but only from outward testimony, and for some time even this was hardly sufficient to prevent the deep impression exhibiting itself in his speech and intercourse with the world to which he had returned. To his deeper consciousness they ever seemed realities, ever to form a part of his most veritable being. Our common dreams are more closely connected with the outer world, and the nearest sphere of sensation. They are generally suggested by obscurely felt bodily impressions. They belong to a state semi-con-progress in the supernatural organization of a supescious of the presence of things around us. But the others come from a deeper source. They are not

Such stuff as dreams are made ofBut belong to the more interior workings of the spirit, when disease has released it, either wholly or partially, from the restrictive outward influence. Still, whatever may be our theory of explanation, the thought we would set forth remains equally impressIve. Such facts as these show the amazing power of the soul in respect to time. They teach us that in respect to our spiritual, as well as our material organization, we are indeed "most fearfully and wonderfully made." They startle us with the supposition that, in another state of existence, time may be mainly, if not wholly what the spiritual action causes it to appear. We have heard of well-attested cases, in which the whole past, even to its most minute events, has flashed before the soul, in the dying moments, or during some brief period of imminent danger arousing the spirit to a preternatural energy. If there be truth in such experiences, then no former exercise or emotion of the soul is ever lost. They belong to us still, just as much as our present thought, or our present sensation, and at some period may start up again to sleep no more, causing us actually to realize that conception of Boethius which now appears only a scholastic subtlety—a whole life ever in one, carrying with it a consciousness of its whole abiding presence in every moment of its existence-tota simul et interminabilis vitæ possessio. But we may give the thought a more plain and practical turn. Even now, it may be said, what we have lived forms still a part of our being. However it may stand in respect to outward time, it is never past to us. We are too much in the habit of regarding ourselves only in ref erence to what may seem our present moral state.

rior type. The largest fishes, the most powerful reptiles, were first in the periods of their respective families. And thus it went on until the introduction of the human species. An attenuating series of physical and hyper-physical powers forms the only theory which, on the fair Baconian induction, will account for the phenomena presented. There are scientific as well as theological bigots, and both are equally puzzled to explain the facts on either set of principles to the exclusion of the other. It is chiefly, however, in regard to man that the argument acquires its great importance; as bearing directly on that first article, and fundamental support of all faith-the ver itable existence of the supernatural. This is not the same with faith in the Scriptures, and yet is most intimately connected with it. With the utter rejection of the latter, must soon go all available belief in a personal deity or a personal future state; and so, on the contrary, whatever in science shuts up the soul to a clear belief in the supernatural, even in its most remote aspect, is so much gained, ultimately, for the cause of the written oracles. And this is just what geology is now doing. She proves, beyond doubt, the late introduction of man upon the carth, and thus compels us to admit the most supernatural of all known events within a period compar atively very near to our own. The fact that, after a very few thousand years, the light of history is quenched in total darkness, presenting no further trace of man or human things, goes far to prove his prior non-existence. But it might, perhaps, be maintained, that of former generations, only the merest fragments had, from time to time, survived the wreck of physical convulsions, in which all outward memoranda of their older existence had wholly perished. Such memorials, it is true, might have departed from

receive their earliest moral nurture directly from the source of their so recent existence? What more credible than such an early intercourse as the Bible reveals-when God walked with men, and spake to them from his supernatural abode, and angels came and went on messages of reproof or mercy. How irrational the skepticism, which, when compelled to admit the one will still stumble at the other, as being velous for belief. There are those who are yet dis posed to assail with desperation the doctrine of man's late supernatural origin. But the danger from that source is past. Geology and the Scriptures speak the same language here. There is no need of any forced exegesis to bring them into harmony. It is only of yesterday that the Eternal Deity has been upon the earth. His footsteps are more recent than many of those natural changes science has taken such pains to trace. Geology has proved, beyond all doubt, the fact of man's creation; what then is there hard for faith in the revealed facts of his redemption? Is the supernatural origin of a soul an event more easy to be believed than a series of supernatural interventions for its deliverance from moral evil, and its exaltation to a destiny worthy of its heavenly origin?

the surface, but then geology must have found them. She has dug up abundant remains of types and orders, which, from their position in the strata, she is compelled to assign to a period anterior to that of man. There would have been no lack of zeal on the part of some of her votaries. More than once, on the supposed discovery of some old bone in a wrong place (to which it had been carried by some ordinary disturbance of the deposits), have they rejoiced there-in itself, and aside from outward testimony, too marat, "like one who findeth great spoil." But the evidence is now beyond all impeachment. Remains of every other type have been discovered. The relative periods of their different deposits have been ascertained. No stone, we may literally say it, has been left unturned; and yet, not a single joint or splinter of a human bone has been found to reward the search. The argument from this is of immense importance. The essence of all skepticism will be found, on analysis, to consist in a secret distrust of the very existence of any thing supernatural—a latent doubt whether, after all, every thing may not be nature, and nature every thing. Unnatural as it may seem, there are those who actually take delight in such a view. It hides from the consciousness a secret, yet real antipathy to the thought of a personal God, and the moral power of such an idea. Whatever disturbs this feeling excites alarm, lest all the foundations of unbelief (if we may use the word of a thing which has no foundations) should be rendered insecure by the bare possibility of such direct interference. Hence the moral power of well attested miracles, although it has been denied, even by religious writers, that there is any such moral power. It-talk is centring upon that redoubtable hero, Louis is the felt presence of a near personal Deity. It is the startling thought of the Great Life of the universe coming very nigh to us, and revealing the latent skepticism of men's souls. Although greatly transcending, it is like the effect produced by those operations of nature that startle us by their instantaneous exhibition of resistless power, and which no amount of science can prevent our regarding with reverence, or religious awe. With all our knowledge of physical laws, no man, we venture to say it, is wholly an atheist, or even a consistent naturalist, when the earth is heaving, or the lightning bolts are striking thick and fast around him.

Editor's Easy Chair.

NEXT to the winter weather, which is just now

beguiling the town ladies to as pretty a show of velvets and of martens, as the importers could desire

KOSSUTH. We are an impulsive people, and take off our hats, one moment, with a hearty good-will and devotion; and thrust them over our ears, the next, with the most dogged contempt; and it would not be strange, therefore, if we sometimes made mistakes in our practice of civilities. We fell, naturally enough, into a momentary counter current-started by anonyinous and ill-natured letter writers from the other side of the sea-in regard to KosSUTH, While he was riding the very topmost wave of popular admiration, a rumor that he had been uncivil and unduly exacting in his intercourse with the officers of the Mississippi frigate, struck his gallant craft and threatened to whelm her under the sea she was so triumphantly riding. The opportune arrival of the Mississippi, and the unanimous testimony of her officers to the respectful and altogether proper demeanor of the Hungarian hero, restored him to favor and even swelled the tide which sweeps him to a higher point of popularity than any other foreigner, LA FAYETTE excepted, nas ever reached in our republican coun try. How he has earned their respect, a biographica! sketch in another part of our Magazine will enable each reader to judge for himself.

Be it, then, near or remote, one unanswerable evinence of supernatural intervention gives a foundation for all faith. And this geology does. Only a few centuries back, on any chronology-a mere yesterday we may say she brings us face to face with the most stupendous of personal, miraculous interventions. No mediate stages-no transitional developments have been, or can be discovered-no links of half human, half beastly monsters, such as the old Epicureans loved to imagine, and some modern savans would have been glad to find. Nothing of this kind, but all at once, after ages of fishes, and reptiles, Linked to KoSSUTH is the new talk about the new and every kind of lower animation, "a new thing and strange action of that gone-by hero Louis NAupon the earth"-the wondrous human body united POLEON. Curiosity-mongers can not but be gratified to that surpassingly wondrous entity, the human soul, at such spectacle of a Republic as France just now and both new born, in all their maturity, from a pre-presents; where a man is not only afraid to express vious state of non-existence. So the rocks tell us; and the rocks, we are assured, on good scientific authority, can not deceive us" like the "poetical myths of man's unreasoning infancy."

Now what difficulties are there for faith after this? What is there in any of the earlier narrations of the Bible that should stumble us-such as the account of the flood, or the burning of Sodom, or the transactions at Sinai? The supernatural once established, and in such an astounding way as this, what more natural than that the new created race should

his opinions, but is afraid to entertain them! It must be a gratifying scene for such old hankerers after the lusts of Despotism, and the energy of Emperors, as METTERNICH, to see the loving fraternity of our sister Republic, called France, running over into such heart-felt action of benevolence and liberality as characterize the diplomacy of FAUCHER!

Stout EMILE DE GIRARDIN, working away at his giant Presse, with the same indomitable courage, and the same incongruity of impulse, which belonged to his battle for Louis NAPOLEON, now raises the war

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"My name is Lumley," says the imperturbable Director.

"Lumley-Lumley," says the master, "I do not know the name."

cry of a Working-man for President! And his rea- | sir, your face is strange, and your business is un soning is worth quoting; for it offers an honest, known." though sad picture of the heart of political France. "The choice lies," says he, "between LOUIS NAPOLEON and another. LOUIS NAPOLEON has the eclat of his name to work upon the ignorant millions of country voters: unless that other shall have similar eclat, there is no hope. No name in France can start a cry, even now, like the name of NAPOLEON. Therefore," says GIRARDIN, "abandon the name of a man, and take the name of a class. Choose your workingman, no matter who, and let the rally be The Laborer, or the Prince!""

There is not a little good sense in this, viewed as a matter of political strategy; but as a promise of national weal, it is fearfully vain. Heaven help our good estate of the Union, when we must resort to such chicanery, to guard our seat of honor, and to secure the guaranty of our Freedom!

The cool air-nothing else-has quickened our pen-stroke to a side-dash at political action: we will loiter back now, in our old, gossiping way, to the "asant current of the dinner chat.

the winter-music has its share of regard; and between Biscaccianti-whose American birth does not seem to lend any patriotic fervor to her triumphsand the new Opera, conversation is again set off with its rounding Italian expletives, and our ladies-very many of them-show proof of their enthusiasm, by their bouquets, and their bravos. It would seem that we are becoming, with all our practical cast, almost as music-loving a people as the finest of foreign dillettanti: we defy a stranger to work his way easily and deftly into the habit of our salon talk, without meeting with such surfeit of musical critique, as he would hardly find at any soirée of the Chausée d'Antin, or of Grosvenor Place. There is bruited just now, with fresh force, the old design of music for the million; and an opera house with five thousand seats, will be-if carried into effect--a wonder to ourselves, and to the world.

As our pen runs just now to music, it may be worth while to sketch-from Parisian chroniclean interview of the famous composer ROSSINI, with the great musical purveyor of the old worldMr. LUMLEY.

ROSSINI, it is well known, has lately lived in a quiet and indolent seclusion; and however much he may enjoy his honors, has felt little disposition to renew them. The English Director, anxious to secure some crowning triumph for his winter campaign, and knowing well that a new composition of the great Italian would be a novelty sure of success, determined to try, at the cost of an Italian voyage, ʼn personal interview.

ROSSINI lives at Bologna-a gloomy old town, under the thrall and shadow of the modern Gallic papacy. He inhabits an obscure house, in a dark and narrow street. Mr. Lumley rings his bell, and is informed by the padrona that the great master has just finished his siesta, and will perhaps see him. He enters his little parlor unannounced. It is comfortably furnished-as comfort is counted in the fleaswarming houses of Italy; the furniture is rich and old; the piano is covered with dust. The old master of sweet sounds is seated in a high-backed chair, with a gray cat upon his knees, and another cat dextrously poising on his lank shoulder, playing with the tassel of his velvet cap.

He rises to meet the stranger with an air of enni, and a look of annoyance, that seems to say Please

It is a hard thing for the most enterprising musical director of Europe to believe that he is utterly un known to the first composer of Southern Europe.

"You should be an Englishman," continues the host. "Yet the English are good fellows, though something indiscreet. They are capital sailors, for example; and good fishermen. Pray, do you fish, monsieur? If your visit looks that way, you are welcome."

"Precisely," says the smiling Director; "I bring you a new style of bait, which will be, I am sure, quite to your fancy." And with this he unrolls his "fly-book," and lays upon the table bank-bills to the amount of one hundred thousand francs. He knows the master's reputed avarice, and watches his eye gloating on the treasure as he goes on. "I am, may it please you, Director of the Opera at London and at Paris. I wish a new opera three months from now. I offer you these notes as advance premium for its completion. Will you accept the terms, and gratify Europe?"

The old man's eye dwelt on the notes: he ceased fondling the gray cat. "A hundred thousand francs in bank-notes," said he, speaking to himself. "You prefer gold, perhaps," said the Englishman. "Not at all."

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The old man's brow grew flushed. A thought of indignity crossed his mind. "There is then a dearth of composers, that you come to trouble an old man's peace?"

"Not at all: the world is full of them-gaining honors every season," and the wily Director talked in a phrase to stir the old master's pride; and again the brow grew flushed, as a thought of the electric notes came over him, that had flashed through Europe and the world, and made his name immortal. The Director waited hopefully.

But the paroxysm of pride went by; “I can not :" said the old man, plaintively. "My life is done; my brain is dry!"

And the Director left him, with his tasseled cap lying against the high chair back and the gray cat playing upon his knee.

IN English papers, the ending of the Great Exhibition has not yet ceased to give point to paragraphs. Observers say that the despoiling of the palace of its wonders, reduces sadly the effect of the building; and it is to be feared that the reaction may lead to its entire demolition. Every country represented is finding some ground for self-gratulation in its pecul iar awards; and the opinion is universal, that they have been honestly and fairly made. For ourselves, whatever our later boasts may be, it is quite certain that on the score of taste, we made a bad show in the palace. It was in bad taste to claim more room than we could fill; it was in bad taste, to decorate our comparatively small show, with insignia and lettering so glaring and pretentious; it was in bad taste, not to wear a little more of that modesty, which enscious strength ought certainly to give.

But, on the other hand, now that the occasion is over, we may congratulate ourselves on having made signal triumphs in just those Arts which most distinguish civilized man from the savage; and in having ost honor only in those Arts, which most distinguish

a luxurious nation from the hardy energy of practical workers.

It is an odd indication of national characteristic, that a little episode of love rarely finds a narrator in either English or American journalism; whereas, nothing is more common than to find the most habile of French feuilletonists turning their pen to a deft exposition of some little garret story of affection; which, if it be only well told, is sure to have the range of all the journals in France.

Our eye just now falls upon something of the sort, with the taking caption of "Love and Devotion;" and in order to give our seventy odd thousand readers an idea of the graceful way in which such French story is told, we shall render the half-story into English:

In 1848, a young girl of high family, who had veen reared in luxury, and who had previously lost her mother, found herself in a single day fatherless and penniless. The friends to whom she would have naturally looked for protection and consolation, were either ruined or away. Nothing remained but personal effort to secure a livelihood.

She rented a small garret-room, and sought to secure such comforts as she required by embroidering. But employers were few and suspicious. Want and care wore upon her feeble frame, and she fell sick. With none to watch over or provide for her, she would soon have passed off (as thousands do in that gay world) to a quick and a lonely death.

But there happened to be living in the same pile of building, and upon the same landing, a young Piedmontese street-porter, who had seen often, with admiring eyes, the frail and beautiful figure of his neighbor. He devised a plan for her support, and for proper attendance. He professed to be the agent of some third party of wealth, who furnished the means regularly for whatever she might require. His earnings were small; but by dint of early and hard working, he succeeded in furnishing all that her necessities required.

He penned a letter, in his rude way, full of his love, and of his desolation, and having left it where it would reach SOPHIE, when all should be over, he swallowed the poison. Happily-(French story is always happy in these interventions)—a friend had need of his services shortly after! and hearing sad groans at his door, he burst it open, and finding the dangerous state of the Piedmontese, ran for a physi cian. Prompt effort brought GIACOMO to life again. But his story had been told; and before this, the gay SOPHIE had grown sad over the history of his griefs. We should like well to finish up our tale of devotions, with mention of the graceful recognition of the love of the infatuated Piedmontesc, by the blooming Mademoiselle SOPHIE. But, alas! truth-as represented by the ingenious Journalist-forbids such sequel. And we can only write, in view of the vain devotion of the Sardinian lover-le pauvre Giacomo!

YET again, these graceful columns of French newsmakers, lend us an episode-of quite another sort of devotion. The other showed that the persuasion of love is often vain; and this will show, that the persuasion of a wife is-vainer still.

-A grave magistrate of France-no matter whowas voyaging through Belgium with his wife. They had spun out a month of summer with that graceful mingling of idlesse and wonder, that a Frenchwoman can so well graft upon the habit of a husband's travel: they had bidden adieu to Brussels, and to Liege, and were fast nearing the border-town, beyond which lay their own sunny realm of France.

The wife suddenly cuts short her smiles, and whispers her husband-" Mon cher, I have been guilty of an imprudence."

"It is not possible."

"Si: a great one. I have my satchel full of laces, they are contraband; pray, take them and hide them until the frontier is past."

The husband was thunderstruck: "But, my dear, I-a magistrate, conceal contraband goods?"

"Pray, consider, mon cher, they are worth fifteen hundred francs; there is not a moment to lose." "But, my dear!"

"Quick-in your hat-the whistle is sounding-' There seemed no alternative, and the poor man bestowed the contraband laces in his chapeau.

After some weeks, Mlle. SOPHIE (such is the name our paragraphist gives the heroine) recovered; and was, of course, anxious to learn from the poor Piedmontese the name of her benefactor. The poor fellow, however, was true to the trust of his own devotion, and told nothing. Times grew better, and The officials at the frontier, on recognizing the digSOPHIE had a hope of interesting the old friends of nity of the traveler, abstained from any examination her family. She had no acquaintance to employ as of his luggage, and offered him every facility. Thus mediator but the poor Piedmontese. He accepted far his good fortune was unexpected. But some unreadily the task, and, armed with her authority, he lucky attendant had communicated to the town auplead so modestly, and yet so earnestly for the un-thorities the presence of so distinguished a personfortunate girl, that she recovered again her position, and with it no small portion of her lost estate.

Again she endeavored to find the name of her generous benefactor, but no promises could wrest the secret from the faithful Giacomo. At least, thought the grateful SOPHIE, the messenger of his bounties shall not go unrewarded; and she inclosed a large sum to her neighbor of the garret.

l'oor Giacomo was overcome!-the sight of the moi ey, and of the delicate note of thanks, opened his eyes to the wide difference of estate that lay between him and the adored object of his long devotion. To gain her heart was impossible; to live without it, was even more impossible. He determined-in the Paris way-to put an end to his cankerous hope, and to his life-together.

Upon a ledge of the deserted chamber he found a vial of medicine, which his own hard-earned money had purchased, and with this he determined to slip away from the world, and from his grief.

age. The town authorities were zealous to show respect; and posted at once to the station to make token of their regard. The magistrate was charmed with such attention-so unexpected, and so heartfelt. He could not refrain from the most gracious expression of his reconnaissance; he tenders them his thanks in set terms;-he bids them adieu;--and, in final acknowledgment of their kindness-he lifts his hat, with enthusiastic flourish.

-A shower of Mechlin lace covers the poor man, like a bridal vail !

The French Government winks at the vices, and short-comings of representatives and President; but with a humble magistrate, the matter is different The poor man, bon-grè—mal-grè, was stopped upon the frontier-was shorn of his bridal covering; and in company with his desponding wife, still (so Gui NOT says) pays the forfeit of his yielding disposition, in a dusky, and grated chamber of the old border

town of

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