to have children who take part with your enemies." that they turn their favorite flowers to a more practical account. Nobody made any reply, and after a little Following the example of some other distractmore faint attempts at fault-finding, the old doc-ed décorés, who I found were sharing my honors, tor fell asleep. I placed a piece of money-I believe, in my case, it was silver-in the hand of the girl; and, re shape of a smile and a “Merci bien, monsieur !” was again left alone-(“desolate," a Frenchman would have said)—in the crowded and carousing Boulevard. About six months later, after a journey to Scotland, which made me lose sight of Maria, Iceiving about five hundred times its value, in the drove up the streets of C, after my return to my native Greenwich, which, with its beautiful park, its Blackheath, its splendid and glorious monument of English greatness, its historic associations, I dearly love, and eager to see the dear girl, never stopped until I was in her arms. "How you have grown," said she, with a sweet and happy smile. "Grown! indeed; do you take me for a child?" cried I. laughing. "And you! how well and pleased you look; always at the bow-window, too; I saw you as I came up." To meet a perambulating and persuasive Bouquetière, who places a flower in your coat and waits for a pecuniary acknowledgment, is scarcely a rare adventure in Paris; but I was interested-unaccountably so-in this young girl: her whole manner and bearing was so different and distinct from all others of her calling. Without any of that appearance which, in England, we "I am very seldom there now," said she, with are accustomed to call "theatrical," she was such a strange smile. "Why?" a being as we can scarcely believe in out of a ballet. Not, however, that her attire departed— "Because I live over the way," replied she, except, perhaps, in a certain coquetish simplicity still smiling. "Over the way!" said I. "Yes, my dear girl; alas! for the mutability of human things-Maria Walker is now Mrs. Radstock." I could not help it; I laughed heartily. I was very glad. I had been interested in the young man, and the dénouement was delightful. The firm of Walker and Radstock prospered remarkably without rivalry, despite a great increase in the neighborhood; but the experience of the old man, and the perseverance of the young, frightened away all opposition. They proved satisfactorily that union is indeed strength. Young Radstock was a very good husband. He told me privately that he had fallen in love with Maria the very first day he saw her; and every time I hear from them I am told of a fresh accession to the number of faces that stare across for grandpapa, who generally, when about to pay them a visit, shows himself first at the Bowwindow. THE FRENCH FLOWER GIRL. I WAS over a cup of c -from the conventional mode: its only decora tions seemed to be ribbons, which also gave a character to the little cap that perched itself with such apparent insecurity upon her head. Living a life that seemed one long summer's day-one floral fête-with a means of existence that seemed so frail and immaterial-she conveyed an impression of unreality. She might be likened to a Nymph, or a Naiad, but for the certain something that brought you back to the theatre, intoxicating the senses, at once, with the strange, indescribable fascinations of hot chandeliers-close and perfumed air-foot-lights, and fiddlers. Evening after evening I saw the same girlgenerally at the same place-and, it may be readily imagined, became one of the most constant of her clientelle. I learned, too, as many facts relating to her as could be learned where most was mystery. Her peculiar and persuasive mode of disposing of her flowers (a mode which has since become worse than vulgarized by bad imitators) was originally her own graceful instinct --or whim, if you will. It was something new and natural, and amused many, while it displeased none. The sternest of stockbrokers, even, could not choose but be decorated. Accordingly, this new Nydia of Thessaly went out with her basket one day, awoke next morning, and found herself famous. Meantime there was much discussion, and more mystification, as to who this Queen of Flowers could be-where she lived-and so forth. In this mood my eyes fell upon a pair of orbs Nothing was known of her except her namefixed intently upon me. Whether the process Hermance. More than one adventurous student was effected by the eyes, or by some pretty little-you may guess I am stating the number within tingers, simply, I can not say; but, at the same moment, a rose was insinuated into my buttonhole, a gentle voice addressed me, and I beheld, in connection with the eyes, the fingers, and the voice, a girl. She carried on her arm a basket of flowers, and was, literally, nothing more nor less than one of the Bouquetières who fly along the Boulevards like butterflies, with the difference bounds-traced her steps for hour after hour, till night set in—in vain. Her flowers disposed of, she was generally joined by an old man, respectably clad, whose arm she took with a cer tain confidence, that sufficiently marked him as a parent or protector; and the two always contrived sooner or later, in some mysterious man ner, to disappear. After all stratagems have failed, it generally and strange interest which I had taken in the occurs to people to ask a direct question. But girl; and it would have required something more this in the present case was impossible. Her- potent than a straw hat-however coquettish in mance was never seen except in very public crown, and audacious in brim-to have shaken places—often in crowds—and to exchange twen- my belief in her truth and goodness. Her presty consecutive words with her, was considered ence, for the accustomed few minutes, in the a most fortunate feat. Notwithstanding, too, afternoon or evening, became to me-I will not her strange, wild way of gaining her livelihood, say a necessity, but certainly a habit;—and a there was a certain dignity in her manner which habit is sufficiently despotic when sufficed to cool the too curious. As for the directors of the theatres, they exnibited a most appropriate amount of madness on her account; and I believe that at several of the theatres, Hermance might have commanded her own terms. But only one of these miserable men succeeded in making a tangible proposal, and he was treated with most glorious contempt. There was, indeed, something doubly dramatic in the Bouquetière's disdain of the drama. She who lived a romance could never descend to act one. She would rather be Rosalind than Rachel. She refused the part of Cerito, and chose to be an Alma on her own account. It may be supposed that where there was so much mystery, imagination would not be idle. To have believed all the conflicting stories about Hermance, would be to come to the conclusion that she was the stolen child of noble parents, brought up by an ouvrier: but that somehow her father was a tailor of dissolute habits, who lived a contented life of continual drunkenness, on the profits of his daughter's industry;-that her mother was a deceased duchess-but, on the ther hand, was alive, and carried on the flourishing business of a blanchisseuse. As for the private life of the young lady herself, it was reflected in such a magic mirror of such contradictory mpossibilities, in the delicate discussions held apon the subject, that one had no choice but to ...sbelieve every thing. One day a new impulse was given to this gosp by the appearance of the Bouquetière in a startling hat of some expensive straw, and of a make bordering on the ostentatious. It could not be doubted that the profits of her light labors were sufficient to enable her to multiply such fnery to almost any extent, had she chosen ; but in Paris the adoption of a bonnet or a hat, in contradistinction to the little cap of the grisette, is considered an assumption of a superior grade, and unless warranted by the "position" of the wearer, is resented as an impertinence. In Paris, indeed, there are only two classes of womenthose with bonnets, and those without; and these stand in the same relation to one another, as the two great classes into which the world may be divided the powers that be, and the powers that want to be. Under these circumstances, it may be supposed that the surmises were many and marvelous. The little Bouquetière was becoming proud-becoming a lady;-but how? why? and above all-where? Curiosity was never more rampant, and scandal never more inventive. For my part, I saw nothing in any of these appearances worthy, in themselves, of a second thought; nothing could have destroyed the strong "A fair face and a tender voice have made me-" I will not say "mad and blind," as the remainder of the line would insinuate--but most deliciously in my senses, and most luxuriously wide awake! But to come to the catastrophe "One morn we missed her in the accustomed spot-" Not only, indeed, from "accustomed" and probable spots, but from unaccustomed, improbable, and even impossible spots-all of which were duly searched-was she missed. In short, she was not to be found at all. All was amazement on the Boulevards. Hardened old flaneurs turned pale under their rouge, and some of the younger ones went about with drooping mustaches, which, for want of the cire, had fallen into the "yellow leaf." A few days sufficed, however, for the cure of these sentimentalities. A clever little monkey at the Hippodrome, and a gentleman who stood on his head while he ate his dinner, became the immediate objects of interest, and Hermance seemed to be forgotten. I was one of the few who retained any hope of finding her, and my wanderings for that purpose, without any guide, clew, information, or indication, seem to me now something absurd. In the course of my walks, I met an old man, who was pointed out to me as her father-met him frequently, alone. The expression of his face was quite sufficient to assure me that he was on the same mission-and with about as much chance of success as myself. Once I tried to speak to him; but he turned aside, and avoided me with a manner that there could be no mistaking. This surprised me, for I had no reason to suppose that he had ever seen my face before. A paragraph in one of the newspapers at last threw some light on the matter. The Bouquetière had never been so friendless or unprotected as people had supposed. In all her wanderings she was accompanied, or rather followed, by her father; whenever she stopped, then he stopped also; and never was he distant more than a dozen yards, I wonder that he was not recog nized by hundreds, but I conclude he made some change in his attire or appearance, from time to time. One morning this strange pair were proceeding on their ramble as usual, when, passing through a rather secluded street, the Bouquetière made a sudden bound from the pavement, sprung into a post-chaise, the door of which stood open, and was immediately whirled away, as fast as four horses could tear-leaving the old man alone with his despair, and the basket of flowers. Three months have passed away since the dis appearance of the Bouquetière; but only a days since I found myself one evening very dull | afar; for as our fullest power was never yet at at one of those "brilliant receptions," for which Paris is so famous. I was making for the door, with a view to an early departure, when my hostess detained me, for the purpose of presenting me to a lady who was monopolizing all the admiration of the evening-she was the newlymarried bride of a young German baron of great wealth, and noted for a certain wild kind of genius, and utter scorn of conventionalities. The next instant I found myself introduced to a pair of eyes that could never be mistaken. I dropped into a vacant chair by their side, and entered into conversation. The baronne observed that she had met me before, but could not remember where, and in the same breath asked me if I was a lover of flowers. I muttered something about loving beauty in any shape, and admired a bouquet which she held in her hand. The baronne selected a flower, and asked me if it was not a peculiarly fine specimen. I assented; and the flower, not being re-demanded, I did not return it. The conversation changed to other subjects, and, shortly afterward the baronne took her leave with her husband. They left Paris next day for the baron's family estate, and I have never seen them since. tained, it is a treasure which must be sought, its extent and distance being unknown. No man can tell what he can do, or suffer, until tried; his path of action broadens out before him; and, while a path appears, there is power to traverse it. It is like the fabled hill of Genius, that ever presented a loftier elevation above the one attained. It is like the glory of the stars, which shine by borrowed light, each seeming source of which is tributary to one more distant, until the view is lost to us; yet we inly know there must be a life-giving centre, and, to the steady mind, though the goal of life be dim and distant, its light is fixed and certain, while all lesser aims are but reflections of this glory in myriad-descending shades, which must be passed, one by one, as the steps of the ladder on which he mounts to Heaven. Man has an unfortunate predilection to pervert whatever God throws in his way to aid him, and thus turn good to evil. The minor hopes which spur to action are mistaken for the final one; and we often look no higher than some mean wish, allowing that to rule us which should have been our servant. From this false view rises little exertion, for it is impossible for man to believe in something better and be content with worse. We all aim at self-control and in I learned subsequently that some strange stories had obtained circulation respecting the pre-dependence while in the shadow of a power which vious life of the baronne. Whatever they were, it is very certain that this or some other reason has made the profession of Bouquetière most inconveniently popular in Paris. Young ladies of all ages that can, with any degree of courtesy, be included in that category, and of all degrees of beauty short of the hunch-back, may be seen in all directions intruding their flowers with fatal pertinacity upon inoffensive loungers, and making war upon button-holes that never did them any harm. The youngest of young girls, I find, are being trained to the calling, who are all destined, I suppose, to marry distinguished foreigners from some distant and facetious country. I should have mentioned before, that a friend calling upon me the morning after my meeting with the baronne, saw the flower which she had placed in my hand standing in a glass of water on the table. An idea struck me: "Do you know any thing of the language of flowers?" I asked. Something," was the reply. "What, then, is the meaning of this?" "SECRECY." THE DIFFICULTY. HERE is an aim which all Nature seeks; the flower that opens from the bud-the light that breaks the cloud into a thousand forms of beauty-is calmly striving to assume the perfect glory of its power; and the child, whose proud laugh heralds the mastery of a new lesson, unconsciously develops the same life-impulse seeking to prove the power it has felt its controls us, whispering innerly, “Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther;" but how apt is selfindulgence to suit this limit to its own measure, and suffer veneration and doubt to overgrow and suppress the rising hope of independent thought. "I am not permitted to know this, or to do this," is the excuse of the weak and trivial; but the question should be, “Can I know or do this?" for what is not permitted we can not do. We may not know the events of the future, or the period of a thought, or the Great First Cause, but we may hope to see and combine the atoms of things-pierce the realms of space-make the wilderness a garden-attain perfection of soul and body; and for this our end we may master all things needful. There is nothing possible that faith and striving can not do; take the road, and it must lead you to the goal, though strewn with difficulties, and cast through pain and shade. If each would strain his energies to gain what he has dared to hope for, he would succeed, for since that which we love and honor is in our nature, it is to be drawn forth, and what is not there we can not wish. Our greatest drawback is, not that we expect too much, but that we do too little; we set our worship low, and let our higher powers lie dormant; thus are we never masters, but blind men stumbling in each other's way. As maturity means self-controlling power, so he who gains not this is childish, and must submit, infant-like, to be controlled by others. This guidance we must feel in our upward course, and be grateful for the check; but as we have each a work to This is the real goal of life shining dimly from do, we must look beyond help to independence own. The school-boy receives aid in learning that he may one day strive with his own power, for if he always depends on help he can never be a useful man. happiness. Thus God would equalize the lot of all where necessity would create difference; it is only when states are forced unnaturally that misery ensues. When those who would seem to be men are children in endeavor, we see that God's will is not done, but a falsehood. The greatest of us have asked and taken guidance in their rising course, and owned inferiority with He who seeks for himself no path, but merely follows where others have been before, covering his own want with another's industry, may find the road not long or thickly set, but he does and gains nothing. He who bows to difficulty, set-out shame; but his is a poor heart that looks to thing at the foot of the hill instead of struggling to its top, may get a sheltered place-a snug retreat, but the world in its glory he can never see, and the pestilence from the low ground he must imbibe. We may rest in perfect comfort, but the health that comes of labor will fade away. The trees of the forest were not planted that man might pass round and live between them, but that he might cut them down and use them. The savage has little toil before him, but the civilized man has greater power of happiness. Would a man be powerful, and bid his genius rule his fellow-men? he must toil to gain means; while his thought reads the hearts that he would sway, he must be led into temptation, and pass through pain and danger, ere he can know what another may endure. Would he pour golden truth upon the page of life? he must seek it from every source, weigh the relations of life, and concede to its taste, that he may best apply it, for the proverb must be written in fair round hand, that common men may read it. Would he picture the life of man or nature? he must go forth with heart and eye alive, nor turn from the sorest notes of human woe, or the coarsest tones of vice; he must watch the finest ray of light, and mark the falling of the last withered leaf. Would he be actively benevolent? winter cold, nor summer lassitude must not appall him; in season and out cf season he must be ready; injured pride, wounded feeling must not unstring his energy, while stooping to learn from the simplest lips the nature of those wants to which he would minister. In all accomplishment there is difficulty; the greater the work, the greater the pains. There is no such thing as sudden inspiration or grace, for the steps of life are slow, and what is not thus attained is nothing worth. In darkness the eyes must be accustomed to the gloom when objects appear, one by one, until the most distant is perceived; but, in a sudden light the eyes are pained, and blinded, and left weak. At school, we found that when one difficulty was surmounted another was presented; mastering "Addition" would not do-we must learn "Subtraction;" so it is in life. A finished work is a glory won, but a mind content with one accomplishment is childish, and its weakness renders it incapable of applying that-"From him that hath not shall be taken away even that he hath;" his one talent shall rise up to him as a shame. Atle sphere insures but little happi be inferior ever; and shameful indeed it is, when those who are thus poor imagine or assume a right to respect as self-supporting men. How painfully ridiculous it is to see the lazy man look down on his struggling wife as the "weaker vessel," or the idle sinecurist hold contempt for the tradesman who is working his way to higher wealth by honest toil. Were the aims of living truly seen, no man would be dishonored because useful. But wait awhile; the world is drawing near the real point, and we shall find that the selfdenying, fearless energy, that works its will in spite of pettiness, must gain its end, and become richest; that the man who begins with a penny in the hope of thousands will grow wealthier than his aimless brother of the snug annuity; for while the largest wealth that is not earned is limited, the result of ceaseless toil is incalculable, since the progress of the soul is infinite! MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.* 66 A GLANCE AT THE PREFECTURE DE POLICE." POOR Mahon's melancholy story made a deep impression upon me, and I returned to Paris execrating the whole race of spies and "Mouchards," and despising, with a most hearty contempt, a government compelled to use such agencies for its existence. It seemed to me so utterly impossible to escape the snares of a system so artfully interwoven, and so vain to rely on innocence as a protection, that I felt a kind of reckless hardihood as to whatever might betide me, and rode into the Cour of the Prefecture with a bold indifference as to my fate that I have often wondered at since. The horse on which I was mounted was im- · mediately recognized as I entered; and the obsequious salutations that met me showed that I was regarded as one of the trusty followers of the Minister; and in this capacity was I ushered into a large waiting-room, where a considerable number of persons were assembled, whose air and appearance, now that necessity for disguise was over, unmistakably pronounced them to be spies of the police. Some, indeed, were occupied in taking off their false whiskers and mustaches; others were removing shades from their eyes; and one was carefully opening what had been the hump on his back, in search of a paper he was anxious to discover. I had very little difficulty in ascertaining that these were all the very lowest order of "Mouchards," whose sphere of duty rarely led beyond the Fauxbourg or the Battyriolles, and indeed * Continued from the November Number soon saw that my own appearance among them led to no little surprise and astonishment. "You are looking for Nicquard, monsieur?" said one, "but he has not come yet." "No; monsieur wants to see Boule-de-Fer," said another. "Here's Jose can fetch him," cried a third. "He'll have to carry him, then," growled out another, "for I saw him in the Morgue this morning!" "What! dead?" exclaimed several together. "As dead as four stabs in the heart and lungs can make a man! He must have been meddling where he had no business, for there was a piece of a lace ruffle found in his fingers." "It would seem that every adventurer, every fellow destitute of home, family, fortune, and position, thinks that his natural refuge lies in this Ministry, and that I must be his guardian." "I never thought so, sir." "Then why are you here? What other than personal reasons procures me the honor of this visit?" "As Monsieur de Fouché will not believe in my sense of gratitude, perhaps he may put some faith in my curiosity, and excuse the natural anxiety I feel to know if Monsieur de Maurepas has really benefited by the pleasure of my society." "Hardi, monsieur, bien hardi," said the Minis "Ah, voila!" cried another, "that comes of ter, with a peculiar expression of irony about the mixing in high society." I did not wait for the discussion that followed, but stole quietly away, as the disputants were waxing warm. Instead of turning into the Cour again, however, I passed out into a corridor, at the end of which was a door of green cloth. Pushing open this, I found myself in a chamber, where a single clerk was writing at a table. "You're late to-day, and he's not in a good humor," said he, scarcely looking up from his paper, "go in!" Resolving to see my adventure to the end, I asked no further questions, but passed on to the room beyond. A person who stood within the door-way withdrew as I entered, and I found myself standing face to face with the Marquis de Maurepas, or, to speak more properly, the Minister Fouché. He was standing at the fire-place as I came in, reading a newspaper, but no sooner had he caught sight of me than he laid it down, and, with his hands crossed behind his back, continued steadily staring at me. "Diable !" exclaimed he, at last, "how came you here?" "Nothing more naturally, sir, than from the wish to restore what you were so good as to lend me, and express my sincere gratitude for a most hospitable reception." "But who admitted you?" "I fancy your saddle-cloth was my introduction, sir, for it was speedily recognized. Gesler's cap was never held in greater honor." "You are a very courageous young gentleman, I must say very courageous, indeed," said he, with a sardonic grin that was any thing but encouraging. "The better chance that I may find favor with Monsieur de Fouché," replied I. "That remains to be seen, sir," said he, seating himself in his chair, and motioning me to a spot in front of it. "Who are you?" "A lieutenant of the 9th Hussars, sir; by name Maurice Tiernay." mouth that made me almost shudder. He rang a little hand-bell as he spoke, and a servant made his appearance. "You have forgotten to leave me my snuffbox, Geoffroy," said he, mildly, to the valet, who at once left the room, and speedily returned with a magnificently-chased gold box, on which the initials of the First Consul were embossed in diamonds. "Arrange those papers, and place those books on the shelves," said the Minister. And then turning to me, as if resuming a previous conversation, went on "As to that memoir of which we were speaking t'other night, monsieur, it would be exceedingly interesting just now; and I have no doubt that you will see the propriety of confiding to me what you already promised to Monsieur de Maurepas. That will do, Geoffroy; leave us." The servant retired, and we were once more alone. "I possess no secrets, sir, worthy the notice of the Minister of Police,” said I boldly. "Of that I may presume to be the better judge,” said Fouché calmly. “But waving this question, there is another of some importance. You have, partly by accident, partly by a boldness not devoid of peril, obtained some little insight into the habits and details of this Ministry; at least, you have seen enough to suspect more, and misrepresent what you can not comprehend. Now, sir, there is an almost universal custom in all secret societies, of making those who intrude surreptitiously within their limits, to take every oath and pledge of that society, and to assume every responsibility that attaches to its voluntary members-" "Excuse my interrupting you, sir; but my intrusion was purely involuntary; I was made the dupe of a police spy." 66 Having ascertained which," resumed he, coldly, "your wisest policy would have been to have kept the whole incident for yourself alone, and neither have uttered one syllable about it, "I don't care for that," said he, impatiently; "what's your occupation?-how do you live?-nor ventured to come here, as you have done, tc with whom do you associate?" "I have neither means nor associates. I have been liberated from the Temple but a few days back; and what is to be my future, and where, are facts of which I know as little as does Monsieur de Fouché of my past history." display what you fancy to be your power over the Minister of Police. You are a very young man, and the lesson may possibly be of service to you; and never forget that to attempt a contest of address with those whose habits have taught them every wile and subtlety of their |