dying of want. Some hundreds of francs* would save them; and I pray you to come to them, and make provision for their urgent needs.' This letter was signed by Dr. Lambert, of Marseilles.

"My brother was a sailor, and had been lost at sea. He had married a good and pretty girl, whom he tenderly loved; but I had strongly opposed the match because she was poor. I had even written to him, before his marriage, advising him to break off the connection. My sister-in-law was a woman of spirit, and was justly indignant at my conduct. When she lost her husband, and became very poor, she was naturally reluctant to apply to me for aid. But the thought of her child's being thrown helpless upon the world made her at length disclose her connection with me to the benevolent medical man who attended her. The result was the letter I have alluded to.

"I accepted the manager's offer, and went to Marseilles. The first person I saw there was the physician who had written to me. He was waiting for me at the principal hotel. He thanked me warmly for coming so quickly in reply to his letter. My heart smote me, but I could not tell him that it was the manager's letter, and not his, that had brought me. But instead of going straight to the theatre, as I had intended, I walked with the doctor to my sister-in-law's.

"I found her in a dark and comfortless room. Near the bed of the poor sufferer stood an object which drew my first attention. This was her little girl, with large black eyes, beautiful curling locks, and a countenance finely formed and intelligent, though wearing a grave and pensive expression. How interesting she seemed to me!

"I felt, at first, as if I could have taken her fondly to my arms; but sordid avarice suddenly interposed, and struck me with the thought that, if I allowed myself to be moved, I must burden myself with new and heavy duties, which might press on me for life. I involuntarily shrank back at this base sug

*Franc, a silver coin worth about nineteen cents.

gestion of my hard heart. The physician saw the movement, and, good man as he was, he ascribed it to pity. The sight of this misery touches you,' said he; but the physician must look closely into the ills which he would cure. It is you who must be the physician here. Come nigh your poor relative.'

"When my sister-in-law noticed my approach, she made an effort to raise herself. There was upon her faded countenance a mixture of sadness and pride, which told me plainly it had cost her much to apply to me. She descended to no humiliating entreaty, but, raising her finger, which trembled with weakness and emotion, she pointed to her little girl, and said, in low, touching tones, 'See that sweet angel, that gift of Heaven! She will soon have no mother!'

دو

LI. THE SAME SUBJECT, CONCLUDED.

"EQUALLY true and disgraceful it is that this appeal did not counteract or wipe away the miserly fears which had beset me. I answered, even in cold tones, 'Why entertain such fears? You are young; you have a good physician; you need not despair.' Any other man would have added, 'You have a brother-in-law, too, who will give you every comfort in his power.' I added no such words. My only thought was how to escape from the threatened burden in the easiest manner.

"Meanwhile the little girl had been gazing on me with eyes which seemed to indicate that even she felt the want of cordiality in the relative who had come to her mother's side. At length, while I stood in my uneasy uncertainty, she came close to me, and said, 'Sit down upon the bed, for you are too tall to let me kiss you if you stand.' I sat down, and the child climbed upon my knee. Her mother closed her eyes, and lifted up her hands, as if praying in aid of the child's possible influence.

"Alas! feeling that my danger increased, I but hardened

my heart the more, and clung more closely to the idol that I worshipped. My brow even gathered into a frown as I gazed upon the child. She, however, was not deterred from kissing me. 'Will you be my father?' said she: 'I shall love you well. How like you are to him! He was good, very good: are you good also?' The touching grace of this infantile appeal cannot be described. I felt its influence, and it moved me- -to what? to untwine the arms of the child rudely from my neck, and set her down upon the floor.

"The effect of this repulse upon her was striking and instantaneous. She cast upon me a glance in which surprise, disappointment, and fear were mingled, and a tear, gathering in her beautiful eye, rolled slowly down her cheek. Her silent sorrow did what her endearments had utterly failed to do. A sudden revolution took place in my feelings. As by an enchanter's wand, the hateful aspect of my avarice and self-love was revealed to me. I shuddered at the sight, and, yielding to the better feeling awakened, I hastily took up the child, and exclaimed, laying my hand upon her head, 'Before Heaven and thy mother, I promise to be a father to thee, and never was child more tenderly cherished than I will cherish thee!'

6

Ah, had you seen the mother when these words were uttered! Such an excitement was produced, that the physician and myself were alarmed for her life. But joy seldom kills. Brother! brother!' murmured. she, as soon as she was able to speak, 'I had done you wrong.' It may be guessed that such a confession could only give me pain. I hastened to check the flow of grateful feeling which I did not deserve, by addressing myself to the medical man on the subject of my sister-in-law's removal to a better dwelling. He readily undertook to look out for such a place, which I could not well do, being a stranger in Marseilles.

"For three months after that period, I occupied a delightful cottage near Marseilles, with my sister-in-law and her child. To the former these months were months of unalloyed peace,

though, in spite of all care, she slowly sank into the grave. To me that period was a memorable one. The alteration in my sentiments being confirmed by the happiness I tasted from the hour of the change, I became a new being. When my sister-in-law died, my niece was left, of course, with me. Since that time she has never been from my side. Her joys have been my joys, and her life has been a part of mine. And I owe her so much! That tear of hers precious pearl gathered by my heart has been to it what the dew-drop of morn is to the unopened flower, expanding it for the entire day of existence."

WITH storm-daring pennon and sun-gazing eye,
The gray forest eagle is king of the sky.
O, little he loves the green valley of flowers,

Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer hours;
For he hears in those haunts only music, and sees
Only rippling of waters and waving of trees;
There the red robin warbles, the honey-bee hums,
The timid quail whistles, the sly partridge drums;
And if those proud pinions, perchance, sweep along,
There's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song;
The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss,
And there's nought but his shadow black gliding across.

thus runs the old lay,

In the gladsome month of lively May,

When the wild bird's song, on stem and spray,

Invites to forest bower;

Then rears the ash his airy crest,

Then shines the birch in silver vest,

And the beech in glittering leaves is dressed,
And dark between shows the oak's proud breast,
Like a chieftain's frowning tower:
Though a thousand branches join their screen,
Yet the broken sunbeams glance between,
And tip the leaves with lighter green,

With lighter tints the flower;

Dull is the heart that loves not then
The deep recess of the wild-wood glen,
Where roe and red-deer find sheltering den,
When the sun is in his power.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish may claim,
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from which he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung,

How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed