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and pudding, or pork and pease-soup, and pease-pudding, called by sailors "Dog's-body," is substituted.

In harbour, however, in any part of the world, and at sea whenever it can be procured, fresh beef is always provided; the allowance being, one pound per day instead of the threequarters of a pound of salt beef or pork, and half a pound of vegetables instead of the flour and pease. Sometimes 11 pounds of bread, (called Soft Tack,) is substituted for the biscuit, and the men are at liberty to vary their allowance by taking raisins, currants, and such, in lieu of a portion of their flour. Coffee is frequently served in place of cocoa, and when at sea, one pint of wine, or a quarter of a pint of spirits, (generally rum,) is substituted for beer. The rum is always mixed with three parts of water, making a beverage called " grog," and never given to the crew in a raw state. Whenever apprehension of scurvy is entertained, and the men have been long on salt provisions, some lime-juice and sugar is mixed with the grog, which then becomes cold punch, thereby insuring that the anti-scorbutic, the adoption of which has eradicated that frightful disease, is duly administered; for Jack's predilection for grog is proverbial, and he would swallow it even were it impregnated with more questionable substances than lime-juice and sugar, else his character is traduced by those who accuse him of " tapping the admiral."

Let those who toil hard to subsist their families,-who suffer when incapable of working from sickness, or who frequently fail to obtain employment though ever so well inclined,-who have in the mean time, rent, taxes, and the various calls that perplex the house-keeper, to provide, ponder over the statement we have made, and reflect whether the Government has been unmindful of the seaman's interests and comforts, or whether our tars have any reason to complain. Increased pay they should receive in case of war, not because their labour is (everything considered) underpaid at present, but because they could then earn very considerably more in the merchant's employment, and a poor man's labour being the only capital he possesses, he should, in a free land, be undoubtedly permitted to carry it to the market where he can make the most of it. In every other respect we consider the man-of-war seaman's condition, one that must be envied by three-fourths of our artisans and even small tradesmen, who struggle hard amidst care and anxiety to keep up appearances, and make "both ends meet." "The British sailor is, in fact," to use the words of a distinguished author* "better fed, better lodged, better and cheaper clothed, and better taken care of in sickness, than any man who must earn his subsistence by the sweat of his brow." In our next we shall give a scale of the crew, the pay of each rank, and the mode of messing the officers and men.

JACOB TONSON.

THE TOnSons were a race of booksellers, who did honour to their profession for their integrity, and by their encouragement of authors.-Jacob Tonson was Dryden's publisher, and they were on terms of great familiarity in their correspondence. Tonson's letters are perfectly the tradesman's-pleased with the translation of Ovid, which he had received for the third Miscellany, but not with the price; having only 1446 lines for 50 guineas, when he had expected to have had at the rate of 1518 lines for 40 guineas; adding that he had a better bargain with Juvenal, "which is reckoned not so easy to translate as Ovid." The current coin was at that time wretchedly debased. In one letter, Dryden says, "I expect forty pounds in good silver; not such as I had formerly. I am not obliged to take gold, neither will I; nor stay for it above four-and-twenty

hours after it is due."

Sir John Barrow. See his "Life of Earl Howe."

THE CITY OF PETRA.

Ar the close of our notice of Mr. Stephens's "Incidents of Travel," allusion is made to the excavated city of Petra. Although many accounts of it have appeared since its discovery by Burckhardt in 1812, a short description of the principal features of this extraordinary remnant of the early world-the principal city of the land of Edom-whose antiquity is supposed to go back to the time of Esau, "the father of Edom," and where a long line of princes dwelt even before "kings reigned over Israel," may be interesting to a considerable portion of our young readers.

"This ancient and extraordinary city is situated within a natural amphitheatre, of two or three miles in circumference, encompassed on all sides by rugged mountains, 500 or 600 feet in height. The whole of this area is now a waste of ruins, dwelling-houses, palaces, temples, and triumphal arches, all prostrate together in undistinguishable confusion. The sides of the mountains are cut smooth in a perpendicular direction, and filled with long and continued ranges of dwelling-houses, temples, and tombs, excavated with vast labour out of the solid rock; and while their summits present nature in her wildest and most savage form, their bases are adorned with all the beauty of architecture and art, with columns, and porticoes, and pediments, and ranges of corridors, enduring as the mountains out of which they are hewn, and fresh as if the work of a generation scarcely yet gone by.

"Nothing can be finer than the immense rocky rampart which incloses the city. Strong, firm, and immovable as nature itself, it seems to deride the walls of cities, and the puny fortifications of skilful engineers. The only access is by clambering over this wall of stone, practicable only in one place, or by an freaks, has ever framed. The loftiest portals ever raised by the entrance the most extraordinary that Nature, in her wildest hands of man, the proudest monuments of architectural skill and daring, sink into insignificance by the comparison. It is, perhaps, the most wonderful object in the world, except the For about ruins of the city to which it forms the entrance. . . . two miles this mountainous passage lies between high and precipitous ranges of rocks, from 500 to 1000 feet in height, standing as if torn asunder by some great convulsion, and barely wide enough for two horsemen to pass abreast. A swelling stream rushes between them; the summits are wild and broken; in some places overhanging the opposite sides, casting the darkness of night upon the narrow defile; then receding and forming an opening above, through which a strong ray of light is thrown down, and illuminates with the blaze of day the frightful chasm below. Wild fig-trees, oleanders, and ivy, were growing out of the rocky sides of the cliffs, hundreds of feet above our heads; the eagle was screaming above us; all along were the open doors of tombs, forming the great Necropolis of the city; and at the extreme end was a large open space, with a powerful body of light thrown down upon it, and exhibiting in one full view the façade of a beautiful temple, hewn out of the rock, with rows of Corinthian columns and ornaments, standing out fair and clear, as if but yesterday from the hands of the sculptor. Neither the Coliseum at Rome, grand and interesting as it is, nor the ruins of the Acropolis at Athens, nor the pyramids, nor the mighty temples of the Nile, are so often present to my memory. The whole temple, its columns, ornaments, porticoes, and porches, are cut out from, and form part of, the solid rock; and this rock, at the foot of which the temple stands like a mere print, towers several hundred feet above, its face cut smooth to the very summit, and the top remaining wild and misshapen as Nature made it. The whole area before the temple is perhaps an acre in extent, inclosed on all sides except at the narrow entrance, and an opening to the left of the temple, which leads into the area of the city, by a pass through perpendicular rocks, 500 or 600 feet in height."

idea of the various edifices of which this wonderful city is com. A short description of a temple and the theatre will give an posed :

"Ascending several broad steps, we entered under a colonnade of four Corinthian columus, about thirty-five feet high, into a large chamber of some fifty feet square, and twenty-five feet high. The outside of the temple is richly ornamented, but the interior is perfectly plain, there being no ornament of any kind upon the walls or ceiling; on each of the three sides is a small chamber for the reception of the dead.

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"In the bosom of the mountain, hewn out of the solid rock, is a large theatre, circular in form, the pillars in front fallen, and containing thirty-three rows of seats, capable of containing more than 3000 persons. Above the corridor was a range of doors opening to chambers in the rocks, the seats of the princes and wealthiest inhabitants of Petra, and not unlike a row of private boxes in a modern theatre. The whole theatre is at this day in such a state of preservation, that if the tenants of the tombs around could once more rise into life, they might take their old places on its seats, and listen to the declamation of their favourite player.'

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The author, in some eloquent and instructive reflections amidst the ruins of this doomed and desolate city of the land of Edom, thus concludes :-" I had just completed one of the most interesting days in my life; for the singular character of the city, and the uncommon beauty of its ruins, its great antiquity, the prophetic denunciations of whose truth it was the witness, its loss for more than 1000 years to the civilised world, its very existence being known only to the wandering Arab, the difficulty of reaching it,-gave a thrilling and almost fearful interest to the time and place, of which I feel it utterly impossible to convey any idea."

ROMANCE AND REASON.

"REALLY, my dear," said Madame de Montsallier, "really I cannot comprehend your sorrows. You ought to be the happiest person in the world."

"I do not deny my happiness," replied Elise, sinking back in her fauteuil with an abstracted air.

"But you enjoy nothing. You pass all your days in apathy, a sort of half sleep, from which nothing can arouse you. I could not live so for four-and-twenty hours."

"I assure you, my dear cousin, I am not unhappy." "With what admirable coolness you make that declaration! I never heard anything like it," cried Madame de Montsallier, getting almost angry. "Eh! bon Dieu! truly I believe you. The advantages you possess, would make four reasonable women happy, if divided among them. To begin, you are young." "Ah!" sighed Elise," and you think that to reckon only twenty years, is all that is necessary to be happy?"

Yes, I do," replied Madame de Montsallier, quickly; "but unhappily that blessing is never understood till it is lost. But that is not all, Elise; you are pretty, very pretty."

took her measures very discreetly, and was very careful not
to compromise the aspirant whom she favoured. She had fixed
upon her brother-in-law, the Marquis de St. Nizier. Made-
moiselle de Saurens had known him from her infancy; he
was naturally placed on a footing of intimacy with her, and
if he had had to do with a person at all like the rest of the
world, he would have stood an excellent chance of success.
James de St. Nizier was young, accomplished, handsome, and
of elegant manners. But Elise had met many such already;
besides, she was accustomed to his presence, and all his re-
doubled cares and attentions produced no visible effect. She
had, as she said, the greatest possible esteem for him, but she
regarded neither his presence nor his absence. This complete
indifference was not without effect; St. Nizier, who at first
had agreed to his sister's scheme with indifference, became
really and seriously in love, when he found it probable that he
should not succeed. He, however, was too prudent to hazard a
refusal, and, in order to maintain the advantage he possessed,
carefully confined himself within the limits of friendship.
Such was the position of the personages of our story, on the
day when Madame de Montsallier suffered her impatience at
the apathetic melancholy of her cousin to manifest itself.

"Well," said she at length, still turning over De Bourdon's book, "well, the bathing season has commenced everywhere. Where shall we go, Elise?"

"Have not you been turning over that book these two days, for the very purpose of deciding that question?" said Elise, faintly smiling.

"Yes; but as I am absolutely determined to carry you off, I must find out what will suit you. You tell me that all the world is at Plombières, Vichy, Causerets, Bagnères; and for my own part, I do not desire to meet much company at the baths, since I go there only for my health."

"Well then, let us seek some fountain, where there is not such a concourse of fashion as to renew a Paris life; some place where we may pass a month free from the persecution of the pleasures of the great world, and the inconveniences of a residence from home."

Madame de Montsallier shook her head, and returned to the "Guide to the Mineral Waters." "Excellent! cried she at length; "I have found such a place, my dear. Shall we go to Aix? Not to Aix in Savoy, but to Aix in Provence."

"Certainly, it will be a peaceful retreat," said Elise, with an air of nonchalance. "What are the virtues of the waters; do they

"I know it," replied she, in an indifferent tone; "but what work miracles?" advantage is it to me, since I am not a coquette?

"Well! we ought always to be glad to be able to give pleasure, even if it be only to oneself, when one looks in the glass. Then you are rich, independent."

"And do you believe that this fortune, this independence, are also infallible means of securing happiness?" interrupted Elise, with an air of melancholy disdain. "In my eyes the delights of vanity and luxury afford no satisfaction, and this somuch-envied liberty is but a miserable isolation."

"It rests with yourself to renounce it," cried Madame de Montsallier.

"Yes," said Elise with a sigh, "by marrying. Do not speak of it, I beg of you, my dear cousin."

The conversation ended here, and Madame de Montsallier, to conceal that kind of pet and impatience which the wearisome melancholy of Elise always created, began to run over the pages of a book which lay open on the table. There was but little sympathy between the dispositions of the two cousins, but yet they loved one another warmly. The Comtesse de St. Montsallier was lively, good-humoured, and frivolous; she had been a little of a coquette, and her chief care now was to ward off the hand of time, and preserve as long as possible the relics of her beauty.

Mademoiselle Elise de Saurens possessed both beauty and fortune; she had been left an orphan in her infancy, and had been brought up by a grandmother, who had indulged her every fancy. She was in fact satiated with pleasure; the world had lost all interest with her, and she sought that excitement in the pages of the poet and the novelist, which she no longer found in reality. Her over-fond grandmother died when Elise was about twenty, and she was now residing with her cousin, who acted as her chaperon. From the first, Madame de Montsallier determined in her own mind, that marriage would be the best remedy for the increasing apathy of her cousin; but she

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The greatest of all miracles," replied Madame de Montsallier, with a serious air," they restore our youth." "Well, we will make trial of their virtues." "Yes, the doctor assures us that these waters contain a principle which restores the freshness and beauty of youth; which renders the skin exquisitely white, elastic, and firm."

"But, my fair cousin," interrupted Elise," your complexion stands in no need of such cosmetics."

"My dear child, this is an affair of precaution; I wish to make use of the water of Aix, to prevent future wrinkles, and in spite of your twenty years, you must do the same."

Elise passed her hand over her white and polished forehead, already marked with a slight indentation between the eyebrows.

"Wrinkles!" said she, with a sigh and a smile; "See, I have one already."

Madame de Montsallier was now all hurry and anxiety to depart. The marquis, who did not wish to appear too solicitous of the society of Mademoiselle de Saurens, framed an excuse to absent himself, and departed, saying that he should probably rejoin them at Aix.

The two ladies set out alone in a travelling carriage, accompanied only by their waiting-maids and a valet who followed in a berlin. Elise, who at first felt relieved by the fresh air and the excitement of travelling, soon relapsed into her accustomed apathy; there were not even any annoyances or discomforts at the inns. All their wants were provided for, all their wishes anticipated.

After five days' travelling, they found themselves at Avignon. They had hitherto rested every night, but they now determined to push on, that they might reach Aix in the morning.

A little before day-break, the carriage was stopped, and the door being opened, the ladies were addressed in the polite and classical phrase, "Your money or your life!" Starting from her

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slumbers, Madame de Montsallier fell trembling at the bottom of the carriage. Mademoiselle de Saurens, quietly looking out, exclaimed, Certainly these must be brigands-real brigands; I thought they had ceased to exist." "You must get out, ladies," cried one of the ruffians, in a strong Provençal accent, and there was no alternative but to obey. The postillion lay under the horses, and was kept in awe by a robber with a long carbine ; Madame de Montsallier was seated on a bank between the two weeping chambermaids; the valet had fainted outright; and there stood Elise, amid a dozen brigands in velveteen jackets, leather gaiters, scarfs round their waists, and their faces covered to the eyes with red handkerchiefs. She looked on the scene as they ransacked the trunks, with a strange feeling, but it was not fear.

because he is not quite so old. He has only one good point about him, he is brave, and his only chance now is to go as a soldier, for he has spent all he has."

"Poor young man!" murmured Elise pensively, not daring now to look out again.

"Will Ma'mselle take the bath this morning?"

"In a quarter of an hour," replied Elise, and Mariette departed.

What a history had been related! Elise again looked out through her blinds, and beheld Marius Menier walking slowly with his head bent down, and with a sad and melancholy air. In that fine, poetic figure, in those features, she fancied she could trace the bitterness of a noble mind, agitated by passion and remorse. Truly he was the hero of a romance. At length he disappeared, and Elise slowly descended to the bath. Her mind had at length found occupation; her thoughts were never absent from the unfortunate brigand. She was absorbed in the romance of her imagination. Her walks were neglected, all occupations were uncared for, save her speculations behind her venetian blinds, as each day Marius Menier appeared in his favourite walk beneath the plane trees.

Their researches did not appear to satisfy the bandits. Cashmeres and blonde lace had no charms for them. A greyhaired old ruffian came up to Mademoiselle de Saurens, and demanded where their money was concealed. "You have it all," she replied; "the valet was our purse-bearer. "What?" cried he; "why that was but enough to pay your expenses to Marseilles." "But we carry a letter of credit." At this news the robber began to swear horribly. "At any rate I will have Madame de Montsallier grew weary of Aix, and at length, this," he cried, snatching at a little gold chain around her neck. although reluctantly, Elise consented to return. St. Nizier, She was now really frightened; his rough fingers were about her whose love was stimulated by the unconcern of her he sought, throat, she thought he was going to kill her, her knees trembled would not again leave them. He was, besides, apprehensive that and her voice was stifled; she became insensible, and on recover- his sister's unguarded exultation, at the trick she had played the ing her senses found herself in the arms of a young brigand, brigands with her golden foot-stool, might induce a second from whose handsome features the handkerchief which had attack. On the evening of their first day's journey, they arrived concealed them had fallen. He spoke a few hurried words at a solitary auberge, where no horses could be procured for assuring her of her safety, and assisted in placing her upon the several hours; and after many vain endeavours, they found themcushions which had been thrown out of the carriage. "Who-selves obliged to remain there that night. St. Nizier was soever you are," said Elise, "accept my thanks-you have anxious, and he took the precaution of sending a messenger to saved my life." The robber made no reply, but hastily replacing the nearest police station, and in the course of the evening three his disguise, called the band together, and in an instant they gendarmes arrived as if accidentally, and, the beds being all were gone. She put her hand to her neck, but her chain was occupied, took up their quarters in the kitchen. gone also; she was troubled. "It is strange!" she murmured to herself, as they renewed the journey ; "very strange !"

Madame de Montsallier amused herself all the way to Aix with the thought of her dexterity in outwitting the brigands, for she had concealed twelve thousand francs in gold in the stuffing of the stool she put her feet upon.

When they reached Aix, Madame de Montsallier lost no time in making all necessary depositions and setting on foot every possible inquiry after the robbers, but all in vain. Meanwhile, she boasted every where of her well stuffed foot-stool. Soon after their arrival, they were joined by M. de St. Nizier; the season was delightful, the country in all its beauty, and the fine air of that lovely climate had its influence; but still Elise was thoughtful and pre-occupied. Her mind still dwelt upon the handsome brigand, and she busied herself with a thousand fancied ills, which might have forced him to embrace so fearful a profession.

One morning she was seated at her window which looked upon the gardens of the bath-house, when she beheld a man, who, walking slowly along the terrace, laid himself down at the foot of a spreading plane tree, and throwing aside the book he had been reading, leant against the trunk and seemed to sleep. It was he, the old grey riding coat and shabby straw hat could not disguise the noble figure and handsome features of the bandit-chief. Elise remained fixed in fearful astonishment. This then was he, whom she had pictured to herself as an unhappy youth of noble mind, forced by some miserable but unconquerable fate to link himself with robbers; his delicate solicitude for her safety satisfied her it was so and now, what if he should be discovered, what if some other eye than hers should recognise him?

At this moment one of the attendants of the bathing house entered. Elise resolved to question her: she pointed out the object of her inquiry and asked if he was known.

"Oh yes, Ma'mselle," said Mariette, in a disdainful tone, as if the name she mentioned were enough to satisfy all interest, 'tis Marius Menier."

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"But who is he? Is he of this neighbourhood?" 'Yes, Ma'mselle, but he is no credit to us. He was well off once, but he is a mauvais sujet; his father left him a pretty property; he has squandered it all, and many a poor girl owes her ruin to him; and now he is a gambler, he is lazy, haughty, quarrelsome, and in short he has more faults than there are Ave Marias in my chaplet, and he is only not quite so wicked as the devil,

Elise, to whom St. Nizier had mentioned the precautions he had taken, retired to her chamber with a troubled mind. She could not but participate in his fears, but she trembled not for herself, but for the hero of her romance. When she looked around the large apartment in which she found herself alone; when she beheld the bare white-washed walls and rude tiled floor, and the great old-fashioned bed which in itself seemed a sort of prison, walled in with heavy curtains, where perhaps the spiders were spreading their ancient and complicated nets, she shuddered. She could not compose herself to rest, and seating herself in a large leather chair she began to read. Nature however asserted her privilege, and the maiden slept; but her sleep was troubled with dreams. It seemed to her as if a doubtful twilight replaced the darkness, and on the rocks before her window, shadows were moving; presently several men seemed to approach the house, and try the doors and windows, and one sprang forward and tried to scale the walls. With an instinctive movement she thrust forth her hands to hurl him back, but her lips refused to utter any sound. Presently a sharp and distinct noise awakened her senses; she sprang up, and beheld before her the same man with his broad-brimmed hat, beneath which his eyes sparkled, and the red handkerchief concealing the lower part of his face. She stood as if petrified. At that instant the report of fire-arms was heard. The robber sprang towards the open window. "I am lost," he exclaimed, "the gendarmes are here." Elise recovered her self possession : "You shall be saved," said she, "hide yourself beneath the bed." Marius Menier, full of astonishment, obeyed.

A knock was heard at the door, which was opened directly by Mademoiselle de Saurens, and James de St. Nizier rushed in, followed by two gendarmes.

"Where is he?" cried St. Nizier.

"There is none here but me. What is the matter?" "Robbers have attempted the house; a beggar, who was sleeping in the barn, gave us warning: we went out and beheld one climbing in at your open window."

"You must have been deceived; I was reading here," said Elise, pointing to her open book," and was alarmed by the report of your pistol."

"You were too hasty, M. de St. Nizier," said one of the gendarmes; "if you had but waited till he had got in, we would have had him, dead or alive."

"But you would have been dreadfully frightened," said St. Nizier, "and it was that, that I cared for."

"All is over," said Mademoiselle de Saurens, commanding her trembling voice as well as she could; " the danger is over, and you had better go down."

"But, Mademoiselle," said St. Nizier, " you are pale and you tremble; you must not remain here alone." "No, no," said she quickly; "I will go to Madame Montsallier, and nobody need stay here.' So saying, she took her candle, and when all the rest had passed, went out, locked the door, carried away the key, and hurried to her cousin's room. When she reached it, she fainted. Early the next morning, Elise mounted the narrow staircase which led to her chamber, and, with an indescribable feeling of apprehension, she opened the door. No one was there. She lifted her eyes to heaven; "My God! he is then saved

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In passing by the window her foot was arrested by some hard substance; she stooped and picked up a knife, ground to a sharp edge, on the handle of which two M's, intertwined, were engraved on a silver plate.

St. Nizier, whose love was still increasing, and who perceived some feeling he could not fathom, would now not quit her; Elise still sought retirement, and had no desire for Paris. They spent three months in Switzerland, and then, at the desire of Elise, they revisited Aix, when she soon drew from Mariette the fortunes of her hero. He was once more rich; his uncle, who had cast him off on account of his debaucheries, had died intestate; Marius Menier had succeeded to his inheritance, and was now spending it in the capital. Elise no longer made objections to proceeding to Paris.

One evening when she was, as was her wont, plunged in sadness and mournful apathy, Madame de Montsallier determined to carry her to the opera; to a great musical performance, the first representation of Robert le Diable. Mademoiselle de Saurens suffered herself to be dressed without feeling any interest in that serious occupation which so much distracts the minds of most women. Yet her attire so well became her, that Madame de Montsallier could not help exclaiming, "My dear Elise, I never saw you look so charming." It was true her pale face bore traces of suffering; but yet her languid head, which seemed to yield beneath the weight of some unknown grief, shone divinely beautiful beneath the crown of roses. James de St. Nizier felt his eyes fill with tears when he looked on her. When she arrived at the opera, she at first felt little interest, but at the last scene Madame de Montsallier made her sit by her in the front of the box ;-thenceforward the opera was disregarded. There, in the pit, separated from her but by a few yards, sat Marius Menier, not as she had heretofore beheld him, but well dressed, perhaps rather over dressed. Her eyes were fixed on him, and he failed not to recognise her. From this time her visits were frequent to the opera; and Menier was equally regular in his attendance.

About this time, James de St. Nizier was obliged to visit England on business; he remained absent six weeks. The day after his return he accompanied his sister and Elise to the opera. Marius Menier was in his accustomed place, and St. Nizier was not slow in remarking the young man whose looks were constantly fixed on his box. His cousin, Jules de la Chassaigneraie, happening to drop in, he pointed out the object of his attention and asked if he knew him. "I know his name," he replied," the box opener says it is Menier; he is met everywhere, except in good society."

Elise bent over the front of the box to hide her confusion; she had never before heard his name spoken before her, except by Mariette.

The next day, St. Nizier proposed that, as the season was almost closed, they should go to Aumont, to enjoy the beauties of the spring; Madame de Montsallier, who enjoyed nothing so much as movement, joyfully assented, and Elise was fain to comply also.

One morning Elise was sitting in the drawing-room holding a book in her hand, not one page of which had she turned over; there she remained with her hands resting on her knees, and her eyes fixed on the lines which she saw not. St. Nizier surprised her in this attitude.

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May I inquire," asked he, in a slightly ironical tone, "what book it is which so deeply interests you?"

"Really I cannot say," she replied, "I was not reading; I find it difficult to fix my attention."

"I know nothing here can interest you, for nothing passes which is sufficient to affect your mind, your heart, your imagina

tion. It is often so with myself, but I must remedy the evil. It is necessary for me to seek another world; to break through my old habits, and I intend to travel."

"What," said Elise with a sigh, "and you will leave us?" "I have long thought of taking a voyage to our foreign colonies; I have some relations in the Isle of Bourbon."

"But why is it necessary that you should cross the waters to the other end of the world?" And then, seeing that he did not reply, she added reproachfully, "You are weary of us." No, no," said he, "but I am unhappy here."

46

A ray of light suddenly struck upon Mademoiselle de Saurens, she blushed slightly, and hastily rose to meet Madame de Montsallier, who just then entered. For the first time, she suspected the love which James de St. Nizier bore towards her.

On the afternoon of this day they were all in the drawingroom. The weather was dreadful; the wind howled in the chimneys; the lightning flashed, and large drops of rain began to fall. What a terrible storm!" said Madame de Montsallier; "let us close the shutters and light the candles."

Just then, the keeper of the lodge at the park gate entered, and informed them that a gentleman had sought shelter from the storm, and Madame de Montsallier immediately sent down a messenger to request him to accept the hospitality of Aumont for that night. The stranger soon appeared, but although he was graciously received by Madame de Montsallier, yet St. Nizier, who was about to advance, stopped short, and saluted him coldly, and Elise stood immoveable with surprise and pleasure; it was Marius Menier who had been taught this stratagem by love. They sat down, and Menier looked about him with an expression of countenance on which restraint, uneasiness, and impudent boldness, were curiously blended.

"The storm has been dreadful," remarked Madame de Montsallier, "it was most fortunate that you have found a shelter." "Yes, ma'am," said Menier, putting his hat on the floor and leaning back in his chair, I've had a regular soaking; I'm as wet as a sop."

A glance of intelligence passed between St. Nizier and his sister. "Fine weather for young ducks; 'twill make the gardens grow, as we say in my country, but what's that to us who an't gardeners? 95

No one replying, he continued, after staring all round the

room:

"Very handsome house this; pray does it belong to you?" "It is the property of this lady, Madame de Montsallier, my sister-in-law," replied St. Nizier, who had quite recovered his good humour.

The stranger made a very low bow.

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May we not," continued St. Nizier, "have the pleasure of knowing whom Madame de Montsallier has the honour of receiving?"

"Assuredly, sir; the honour is on my side. My name is Menier.

"I am acquainted with a M. Menier, an officer in the dragoons; I presume he is related to you."

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Possibly; I have a cousin a soldier, but I don't know his rank. He enlisted and went to the siege of Algiers, and I did hear he got some pretty hard knocks among the Bedouins."

Whilst this conversation was going on, the dreams of poor Elise vanished. Her head seemed to turn round. This, then, was the hero of her fancy,-this man, vulgar, insipid, and affected.

Dinner was at length announced. The stranger, dragging on his yellow gloves, hastened to offer his arm to Mademoiselle de Saurens, who had not spoken a word, or even looked at him; she trembled as she felt him press her hand, and the thought that she had tacitly given him the right to behave thus, filled her with terror and despair; but when, about to sit down, she saw that he wore round his neck the very chain which the old robber had endeavoured to seize, tears of grief and indignation rolled over her cheeks. Madame de Montsallier perceived her uneasiness, and inquired the cause. She recovered herself, and attributing it to the storm and thunder, which had affected her nerves, and brought on headache, seated herself at table. The dinner was a martyrdom. The vulgarity and coarseness of Marius Menier became every moment more offensive, and even Madame de Montsallier, who had been at first amused, began to be heartily weary of her guest. Immediately after dinner, Elise retreated to her chamber, and did not reappear that evening.

Here in sadness and solitude many thoughts passed through her mind; all her follies were now perceived, a new light

streamed upon her, and many resolutions against the indulgence of phantasies were made.

Late at night, as she sat alone, busily occupied in burning many papers written whilst indulging the fancy now dissipated for ever, she was alarmed by a slight noise. "Is that you, Lucy? " said Mademoiselle de Saurens.

No answer was returned, but the door softly opened, and Marius Menier entered. Elise sprang towards the bell, but he intercepted her.

"Do not be alarmed, Mademoiselle," said he, "you must know I have no evil intention against you."

"Leave me, Sir, leave me, or I will alarm the house." "What is the meaning of all this?" said he, with surprise; you seem to have forgotten me. Have we not made love to one another these two months? at a distance, it is true, but still I spoke to you with my eyes, and you have answered—”

"Stop, Sir, I beg of you," interrupted Elise, full of indignation. "You shall hear me," said Menier, in an angry tone. "I am not to be silenced in this manner. I am as good to-day as I was last Monday, when your eyes smiled upon me at the opera ; those eyes which I adore. Yes, on my word of honour, I love you as I never yet loved a woman. My intentions are honourable, and why should you disdain me? I have ten thousand francs a-year, slap down on the nail. I may have been a little wild or so perhaps, but I have reformed now, and marriage will be a good wind up. I came here led by love, and in the expectation of pleasing you."

"You deceive yourself, Sir," cried poor Elise," you deceive yourself, and I cannot pardon this insult, unless you leave the room this instant."

"I will not," cried Menier, raising his voice. "I tell you, I came here, because, for these two months, you have been seeking me-"

"I did wish to have an interview with you," interrupted Elise, but you have quite mistaken the motive."

66

She stepped to her secretaire, and drew forth the knife she had found at the auberge. "I wished to return this instrument to you, and to seek in exchange the little chain you wear round your neck."

The countenance of Menier grew black as night, and his eyes flashed fire: Elise trembled, and in fancy she already felt the sharp blade in her heart. The pause was but for a moment. Menier took the knife, and cutting the chain, threw it on the table, and merely saying, "Let all that has passed between us be forgotten-Good night, Mademoiselle," he left the room. Elise shut and double-locked the door; then falling on her knees, returned thanks to Heaven for her deliverance.

The next morning James de St. Nizier and Madame de Montsallier were waiting in the breakfast-room for Elise, who, contrary to her custom, came down late.

"Good morning, my dear," said Madame de Montsallier, "you may enter fearlessly; our amiable guest is gone without the ceremony of leave-taking.'

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"So much the better," said Elise, with a deep sigh. There was a pause. St. Nizier, with his eyes fixed on the newspaper, appeared to be reading.

"My dear," said Madame de Montsallier, in a tone much sadder than was usual with her, "we must return to Paris tomorrow; we shall be too lonely here, when James has left us." "What!" said Elise with an air of concern and surprise, "does M. de St. Nizier set off to-day?"

"I do, Mademoiselle," said he, without raising his eyes: but his trembling voice betrayed deep and melancholy feeling. There was another pause, and then Elise rose and approached Madame de Montsallier, whose eyes were full of tears. Leaning her head on the countess's shoulder, she whispered softly, "My dear cousin, tell him-tell him that I wish him to stay here."

GAIETY.

GAIETY and a light heart, in all virtue and decorum, are the best medium for the young, or rather for all. I who have passed my life in dejection and gloomy thoughts, now catch at enjoyment, come from what quarter it may, and even seek for it. Criminal pleasure, indeed, comes from Satan; but that which we find in the society of good and pious men is approved by God. Ride, hunt with your friends, amuse yourself in their company. Solitude and melancholy are poison. They are deadly to all, but, above all, to the young.-Luther.

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PARAGUAY AND THE DICTATOR FRANCIA *. PARAGUAY has hitherto been almost unknown in England, for scarcely had the country been released from the oppressive policy of the Spanish government, and an opening made for the introduction of foreign commerce, than it fell under the power of a despotic ruler, who, although at first professing the greatest liberality, was all the while meditating the accomplishment of his schemes of tyranny. In these he has too well succeeded, and for many years Paraguay has been but one vast prison, and Francia, its stern, cold, and cruel jailer. Neither ingress nor egress has been permitted, and scarcely anything but vague rumours of its condition and government has been made public, until the publication of the volumes mentioned below. Paraguay," say the authors in an address to their readers, prefixed to Francia's 'Reign of Terror,' “was a land which, when we took up the subject, was enveloped in a vague and misty celebrity. Most people who had read anything of the New World, knew that there was a beautiful and fertile region of that name a long way inland in some part or other of South America; that it produced a sort of tea, as generally used in those parts as we use the Chinese plant in England; that it had been the seat of the Jesuits; that it had become, in common with all parts of Spanish America, indepen dent of the mother country; and that it had at last come under the rule of a strange and incomprehensible person called Dr. Francia. Such, in general terms, was the extent of knowledge which the bulk of English readers possessed of Paraguay."

Messrs. Robertson have now come forward to supply this want, and in their volumes have given us very ample information, derived from the knowledge obtained during personal observations in the country from the beginning of the year 1811, when they formed a mercantile establishment at Assumption, to October, 1815, when they were banished by the Dictator, and since that period, from knowledge obtained during a residence at Conientes and Buenos Ayres. They give us a detailed account of Francia's character and progress, which possesses a deep interest; their personal adventures are related, and in their description of the society of Paraguay, and of the neighbouring country, much curious information is given; take for instance this specimen of Candioti, the prince of the Gauchost, as our authors term him.

"This prince of the Gauchos was a prince in nothing more than in that noble simplicity which characterised his whole deportment. He was too high in his own sphere of action to fear competition; too independent to condescend to civility for mere personal advantage; and tco ingenuous to admit into his breast a thought of acting the hypocrite. He continued sitting on his horse, and kept up a familiar chit-chat with all around. Every now and then he lighted his cigar by striking fire with a flint and steel on tinder kept in a polished tip of horn, which was embossed with silver, and had a gold chain attached to it, by which the lid, or rather extinguisher, depended, while the horn was in use. As I looked at him I could not but admire his singularly handsome face and dignified mien. His small mouth, and strictly Grecian nose; his noble forehead, and fine head thinly strewed with silver locks; his penetrating blue eyes, and countenance as hale and ruddy as if he had spent his days in Norway, instead of riding over the Pampas, were all remarkable. Then, for his attire, according to the style and fashion of the country, it was magnificent. His poncho had been made in Peru, and, beside being of the richest material, was embroidered on a white ground in superb style. Beneath it he wore a jacket of the finest India cloth, covering a white satin waistcoat, which, like his poncho, was beautifully embroidered, and adorned with small gold buttons, each depending from a little link of chain of the same metal. He had no cravat, and the collar and front of his shirt displayed, upon fine French cambric, the richest specimens of tambouring which could be furnished in Paraguay. His lower vestment was of black velvet, open at the knees, and, like the waistcoat, adorned with gold buttons, depending also from little links of chain, evidently never intended for connexion with the button-holes. From under this part of his dress were to be seen the fringed and tamboured extremities of a pair of drawers, made of the fine Paraguay cloth. They were ample as a Turko

*Letters on Paraguay, by J. P. and W. P. Robertson, 2 vols. 12mo. London, 1838, Murray; and Francia's Reign of Terror. Sequel to Letters on Paraguay, by J. P. & W. P. Robertson, 1 vol. 12mo. London, 1839. Murray.

+ Inhabitants of the Pampas or plain country.

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