thought you might know him, Misfortune is full of illusions. moiselle."

You have purchased it! is it possible? but then you surely know the artist?"

"I have already told you, Sir, that I am unacquainted with him," replied the young Indian. "You see as I do that this picture is of unexampled inferiority." I see, Mademoiselle, that it is a piece of canvass, which to every one but me has lost all value since it was painted."

"Nevertheless, I have purchased it at the price of forty thousand francs, and to-morrow it will be removed to my house."

"Removed! purchased for forty thousand francs! Mademoiselle, you are granting many favours in one; if I dared I would ask one of you, and that is, your reason for paying so dear for a picture which can have no value but for me, and of which you are pitilessly going to deprive me."

66

"I deprive you of it, Sir? that is far from my wish; you shall see it at my house as often as you desire. You are a painter?"

"I am not," replied the stranger, with a heavy sigh.

"You are not?"

No, Mademoiselle."

66

The young Indian looked at him with incredulity and surprise. "You have asked me," said she, after a moment's silence, my true reason for purchasing at the price of forty thousand francs a picture which is not worth a hundred. I will tell you, but on one condition."

And here her expressive glance fell upon the countenance of her listener.

"I will tell you all,” he replied; "there are only misfortunes, and no secrets in my life. You shall know all, Mademoiselle."

"Confidence for confidence, Sir. To-morrow then, at two o'clock, at the house of my aunt, the Princess of Karolis and d'Agra."

“Of Karolis and d'Agra!" exclaimed her listener, but the young Indian was already gone, leaving her card in his hand.

"Oh! Mademoiselle, when you know my history, since you desire to know it, you will see that the generous pleasure which you feel in looking at this picture, for which you have paid forty thousand francs, (for I know that you have thus saved a poor artist from want,) cannot be compared to the pain which I suffer in gazing upon it. And yet, there is a joy in the depth of this pain, a happiness beneath the misery-the happiness of self-approval. "But here is my story."

(To be continued.)

Poetry.

[In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of the Author is printed in Small Capitals, under the title; in Selections it is printed in Italics at the end.]

waters,

THE ARMADA. BY ENNA.

"THE Armada!-the Armada!" and the fearful tidings fly
As swiftly as the thunder-cloud rolls o'er the summer sky.
"The Armada!-the Armada!" her ships are swift and strong;
Oh, nearer, nearer, nearer now they plough the waves along.
May God preserve thee, England! Alas! the ancient isle!
Go wrap thyself in sackcloth, farewell thy pleasant sinile.
There's mourning in the quiet homes long cradled 'mid the
Mourning for thine heroic sons, thy pure and lovely daughters!
Oh, woe to thee, fair land! they go to swell the vassal train,
To veil the brow and bend the knee beneath the pride of Spain.
But, the courage of the people roused, another spirit spoke,
As though from out the thunder-cloud the fiery lightning broke;
And heart responded back to heart, -eye flushed again to eye,
As they gathered for their native land like those prepared to die.
Cheer up, ye noble Englishmen! sure God is with you now,
They say already o'er the sea His angry tempests blow.
Bethink ye of the Red Sea shore-bethink ye of the day
When He bowed the pride of Pharaoh. To your ships, my men,
away!

our scene.

A vague, but powerful and almost irresistible impulse impelled M. Jouvenal (for that was the name which our original had left in exchange in the hand of the Princess) to be punctual in his appointment with her.

At this period of his life, M. Jouvenal was very poor, and to complete his ill fortune he had no profession by which to gain a subsistence. It may be supposed that the sense of his humiliating position was made more painfully acute, when he found himself entering, as a visitor, the Princess's magnificent hotel.

"The Princess, my aunt, is not yet returned from the country," said the young Indian, as in her lofty and sumptuous apartment she advanced to receive him; "but that shall not interrupt our interview. To-morrow I will present you to her. In the mean

the land.

"And foremost there, with sword in hand, I saw the gallant
Howard,
And blessings on his noble head by old and young were shower'd.
God save thee, England's admiral! 'twere worth an Earldom's
pride
To battle in his own good ship at such a Captain's side.

And daring Drake, and Frobisher, to whom they say the sea
Is humble in its wildest moods as thy young babe to thee,
Have led to fight their stately ships, and giv'n their latest cheer;
They'll beat the Spaniard back again-away with coward fear!
"I saw a sight would stir the blood, tho' hundred years had cast
Their freezing shows upon the brow, each heavier than the last;
I saw our English chivalry, the glory of the land,
All clad in martial panoply, as chiefs for battle stand.
And there were our good yeomanry, all leaning on their spears,
And the thought came rushing on my mind of Cressy and
I raised my bonnet from my brow, Huzza for England's might!
Now who shall stand before the men who combat for the right ?'

Poictiers,-

"The shout went pealing up to heaven, like the pent ocean's swell,

Then suddenly o'er all the host a deep hushed silence fell;
For riding through the crowded ranks, with Leicester by her side,
Forth came our own Elizabeth in all her queenly pride.
I've gazed on noble Captains in the battle-field of yore,
But I never looked with such an awe on human face before;
There might be paleness on her cheek, but fire was in her eye,
And they who caught that glance stood fixed to conquer or to
die.

"Each word that kingly woman spoke was like a trumpet call,
It echoed so from heart to heart, the meanest man of all
Felt tenfold strength impel his arm, and he a dauntless knight,
Prepared a thousand Spaniards in her defence to fight.
Now who will fear our foemen's might, or bow the knee to Spain?
Nay, come broad Europe at her call, we'll turn them back again.
The future breaks upon my soul, I hear, I hear the cry,-
'All glory to the Lord of Hosts for England's victory!'
"Their beacons blazed along the shore, they watched them night
and day,

Till hope and fear in that stern calm alternate died away: Then rose the shout, 'Look seaward, ho!' and proudly o'er the main

The crescent squadron swept along the vaunted host of Spain. "Now haste ye, haste ye to your ships,' impatient Raleigh cried, And Cecil came, and Vavasour, and thousands at their side; The glad sea bore their bounding barks as eager for the fray; How sighed they for their native land, the quailing foe that day. "In vain their floating fortresses tower'd high above the water, The island warriors scale their sides, their decks are red with slaughter;

The thunder-clouds of battle rolled thickly o'er the fight, And hid the useless, shattered sails, the tottering masts from sight;

And when that fiery tempest's rage had hushed itself to sleep, Oh! fearful was the change, I ween, that day along the deep! No threat'ning fleets rode proudly there, no banner mocked the sky.

Joy, England! 'twas Jehovah's arm which won the victory!

"Now where art thou, proud Parma, thou com'st not to the fight?
The Island Queen is in the field, her soldiers' arms are bright;
And haste thee home, Medina, go bear the news to Spain,
She need not seek her stately barks, they'll ne'er come back again.
They're safe within our havens, our pennons o'er them tower,
Go, tell thy good King Philip we have room for all his power;
And those that 'scaped our sailors' arms are wrecks upon the

Though strewed with flowers the sportive hours

With Fanny that flew by,

I could not stay another day,

For India's gold-not I!

For still my bounding heart is free,

And longs for something new;

Then, Fanny, do not sigh for me,—
I shall not sigh for you!

The bird that hath not built its nest,
Is not more free than I;
The butterfly is not more blest,-
From sweet to sweet I fly.

My pathway lies through sparkling eyes,
I count them o'er and o'er;
Each dawning light appears more bright
Than that which shone before!
For ah! to love them all I'm free,
(I'll use that freedom too!)
Then, Fanny, do not sigh for me,—
I shall not sigh for you!

THE SPIRIT OF NATURE.
BY F. B.

IN the green laughing earth, and the sea, and the air,
That plays softly around, every object is fair;
Below there is beauty, and beauty above,

But all would be nought if it wanted but love.
Every charm would lie dormant, for love is the soul
That sustains, and directs, and gives life to the whole.
Those blithe little songsters that welcome the day,
Or disport in the greenwood, how happy are they!
What makes them so gladsome? their songs have a fire,
A spirit that nothing but love can inspire;
In each little breast doth his influence move,
And they owe all their beauty, their sweetness, to love.
The green tree bends over the mirror-like wave,
And loves in the glad dimpling waters to lave,
And the rich spangled meadow land casteth a gleam
Of a hundred bright flowers on the face of the stream;
And the stream giveth back the fair scene to the sky,
And then danceth onward, oh! right merrily.
Each portion responsive, thus Nature combines,
And love his sweet cord about all things entwines;
The harsh he will soften-the stubborn subdue-
Reject what is false, and cling fast to the true;
By him brighter hopes, purer wishes are given,
And he paints this our earth with the fair hues of heaven.
Oh! hard would our lot be, to journey through life,
To mix in its cares, and its sorrows and strife;

If we had not some kind heart on which we could rest
Where our hopes and our fears might alike be confess'd."
To share on this earth all our soul's purest love,
And point us to yet brighter prospects above.

Miscellaneous.

"I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne.

CHARLES I. A PRISONER IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

SOME few things I remember he said, which showed those eminent Christian virtues in him which were rarely to be found among any sort of men, scarce ever among princes. For about the latter end of the treaty, finding it was like to be ineffectual, "I wish," says he, "I had consulted nobody but my own self; for then, where in honour or conscience I could not have complied, I could have early been positive; for, with Job, I would willinglier have chosen misery than sin." I never saw him shed tears but once, and he turned presently his head away, for he was then dictating to me somewhat in a window, and he was loth to be discerned, and the lords and gentlemen were then in the room, though his back was towards them; but I can safely take my oath they were the biggest drops I ever saw fall from an eye, but he recollected himself, and soon stifled them.-See Philip Warwick's Memoirs of Charles I.

THE MERRY GIPSIES.

WE Gipsies lead a life of ease

As through the world we roam ; We pitch our tent where'er we please, And there we make our home.

By day we traverse hill and dale,
Through shady lanes we go;
And round our blazing fire regale

When midnight tempests blow.-Old Glee.

THE MAIDEN AUNT.-No. V.1

66

EDITH KINNAIRD.-CHAP. III.

EDITH Could not sleep, and with the first break of morning she rose, dressed herself, and went out into the park to cool her fevered cheeks and aching forehead in the pure dewy air. She was scarcely to be pitied for her wakefulness. "No greater grief," says the poet, than to remember the happy time, when we are miserable."-But there is a grief yet greater; it is to dream of the happy time and awake to find it gone for ever. If dreams did not renew the past, and resuscitate the dead, they might perhaps avail to refresh the soul as they do the body; but all who have endured the awakening from such dreams shrink from inhaling their poisonous sweetness again. They are the mirage in the desert of life, making its dryness intolerable to the fainting pilgrim.

Edith walked listlessly over the green-sward, scarcely heeding whither she went, but feeling a kind of satisfaction in the idea that she was the only person astir in those tranquil solitudes. She was full of bitterness, and ready to fall into that which has been called the most immoral of all infidelities-a distrust of human nature. The mist clung around her as coldly and closely as a painful remembrance, and the low wail of the wind seemed like the voice of the Future warning her to turn away from it if she could. The only sign of promise in her heart was that its bitterness was as strong against itself as against others. The past years lay before her like corpses, pale, withered, lifeless, and her conscience shrank from inscribing an epitaph upon their tombs; the coming years crowded to meet her, like hungry children, and bade her give them food lest they perish like their brethren. "Alas! what shall I do?" said she within herself; "I feel that I have lived to no purpose; a cold hand has brushed the bloom of childhood away, and grayness has fallen upon my heart. Is it my fault? How could I have done otherwise? Why do my thoughts look back and find no resting-place? Is there no power by which the moments can be bound over to minister to future comfort? But, what shall I do? I have lived only to myself, and now that I would fain do better, I have no one to live for. Well did Amy say that all love fails." She had reached a small side gate that opened into a lane beyond the grounds, and pausing, as is so natural when full of thought, at the first trivial obstacle which presented itself, she leaned on the low boundary wall, and covered her face with her hands. A footstep close at her side startled her; she looked up and saw the poor dumb lad whose story

(1) Continued from p. 92.

had so much interested her on the previous evening. With a deep reverence and eager smile he held the gate open for her and pointed along the lane, and Edith, not to seem ungracious, signified her thanks as best she could, and followed the direction of his finger; she was a little surprised to find that he, too, left the grounds, and continued to walk at a few yards distance behind her.

They advanced along a winding lane partly embowered by trees; the hedges were covered by showers of the graceful clematis, and the banks feathery with various kinds of fern. No sound broke the silence of morning but the note of a church-bell, swinging upon the air with a measured and still cadence that seemed the very breath of consolation. There are certain dispositions of sounds and accents which possess a mysterious power of subduing and soothing the feelings, by a sudden but gentle process quite as inexplicable to him who is the subject of it as to any body else. It is as though a voice said unto the raging sea, "Peace, be still!" and the mandate were instantly obeyed. Indeed the whole of our relation to sounds and tones does, perhaps, more than any other of the phenomena of our existence make us feel that the prison of the body is shutting us from the spiritual world, but that we are, nevertheless, in the midst of it. The feelings on which they depend are so intensely vivid, yet so absolutely indefinable; they seem to affect the soul through the body, yet does their passage so spiritualize the body, that one could almost believe them to reach it through the soul; their vehicle is furnished by a science so minute and elaborate; their essence is so impalpable and incommunicable; the profoundest silence seems but their temporary sleep, for we know that they live for ever; the grandest harmony seems but their crude and imperfect embodiment, for it ceases, and dies, and ever suggests something beyond itself, so that they may be said to forebode, if they do not represent a nature above the human; to be the beginning of a faculty which requires eternity for its development.

Some such thoughts as these were present to Edith's mind, though scarcely perhaps in so definite a shape, as she listened to the low pulsations of sound, soft and regular as those of a devout and subdued heart, and her eyes glanced from time to time upon her speechless companion. A turn of the lane brought them unexpectedly in view of the church whence the gentle summons was issuing. It was a small and ancient building, with many traces of original beauty visible through long neglect and grievous defacement, and with not a few signs of present care-not a few symptoms of the beginning of restoration. Even in its worst days the tapering spire had ever pierced the blue skies, the low-browed doorway had ever symbolized the mode of access to that upward path; and now it was evident that loving hands had been busy in guarding the foundations from damp, and the walls from decay,-in repairing what had been broken, and replacing what had been lost. The door stood open, and Edith saw that her attendant was pausing for her to enter, in order that he might follow her; she obeyed the silent invitation, went in, and yielding to the vague impulse of self-condemnation just awakened within her, kneeled down in the place nearest the door, and, bowing her forehead upon her hands, joined in the service with the feelings of a penitent. The deaf-mute was not far from her, and she could not help being struck by the reverence and apparent devotion with which he followed the movements of the congregation, and by the expression of