MILITARY HONORS TO PORTE-COCHÈRE.

WERTHER.

Had I only heard the story which I am about to relate, I should not have believed it to be true; but I speak as an eyewitness, and I could call more than fifteen hundred persons to substantiate its correctness. On the return of Louis XVIII. from Ghent in 1815, he stopped at Cambray; he refused the lodgings which had been offered him in the palace of the bishopric, because the bishops had, during the Hundred Days, figured on the Champ de Mai; and he passed the night in the house of one of the richest inhabitants of the city. From 1816 to 1820, on the anniversary of the passage of Louis XVIII. through Cambray, the troops of the garrison were assembled on the parade ground, and there, formed in platoons, they defiled before the house which Louis XVIII. had inhabited; the officers saluting the porte-cochère with their swords. In 1820 this ceremony took place for the last time; the officers defiled before it on that occasion with their backs turned, shrugging their shoulders, and with such other strong marks of contempt that it was never attempted again. | who is full of rage—he is quite a curiosity.”

Goethe represented at the congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, the sovereign of whom he was both the minister and friend. The great age of the poet, his fine figure, and his immense renown, drew upon him the attention and homage of all the plenipotentiaries of the congress. An Englishman, who had just arrived, and was but little familiar with German literature, inquired with a good deal of curiosity of one of his countrymen the name and title of a man whom the most distinguished persons only accosted with veneration. He was told that it was the celebrated Goethe, the illustrious author of Werther. He was satisfied with what he heard, and approaching Goethe, saluted him and said:

THE GLASS EYE.

The true Emperor of Austria, H. M. Metternich the first, has but one eye; but this loss is so ingeniously concealed by a glass eye, that it is generally unknown, even in Germany. M. de Metternich, formerly a very handsome man, was still young when he lost the sight of his left eye in consequence of disease. The globe of the eye remained entire, but dulled and without light. A skilful artist, whose talent and discretion were well paid, succeeded in covering this globe with a moveable envelope of enamel, perfectly like the right eye, with all | its color and brilliancy. The envelope is affected by every motion of the globe of the eye, and the illusion is so perfect, that M. de Metternich was enabled to figure in all the congresses, to pass his life in the world, and to marry twice, without his secret having been discovered. A singular circumstance betrayed it to the public.

"I have just arrived, sir, from Paris; I have seen your Werther, it is a charming work, and has amused me extremely."

"How, sir?"

"It is one of the pieces at which I have laughed most heartily; there is particularly one actor, named Potier,

The only reply that Goethe made was to turn his back upon the speaker, pronouncing the word pfest (horse)!

HEROES IMPROVISED.

About the year 1817 or 1818, Lieutenant-General Count Cæsar Berthier had been named inspector-general of infantry in the 12th military division, of which the head-quarters, now at Nantes, were at that period at la Rochelle.

The isle of Rhé, which was a part of this division, had a garrison of two battalions of infantry; the General was to inspect them. He was received at Saint Martin, the principal, or rather the only city of the island, in the house of the mayor. This functionary thought it would be well in the presence of a Lieutenant-General of the King's armies, to make some display of the royalist sentiments which animated him. The General professed the most perfect indifference George IV. King of England, had expressed a desire in matters of political opinion, and it was not long beto obtain for his gallery the portraits of all the sove-fore he grew weary of the loquacious loyalty of the reigns of Europe. His most distinguished painter, the municipal magistrate. celebrated Lawrence, was sent for this purpose to the continent. Lawrence concluded that George IV. would be pleased to have the portrait of Metternich, were it only as an appendage to that of the Emperor Francis.ments you profess." He asked the permission of the Prince, and obtained several sittings from him.

On one of these occasions, Lawrence observed that a ray of light fell directly on the left eye of M. de Metternich, and that the Prince supported it without lowering the eyelid, and even without contracting the brow. He at first admired the eagle glance which could thus resist the sun; but fearing that such a position would finally fatigue the Prince, he engaged him to change it. But M. de Metternich found himself comfortably seated, and preferred to remain where he was. Lawrence insisted several times upon the change, and was unable to comprehend the obstinacy of M. de Metternich, until the valet de chambre informed him by a sign, that the left eye of the Chancellor of Austria had nothing to fear from the sun.

"Sir," said he to the mayor, "your opinions do you much honor; but I see in your house things which appear to me but little in accordance with the senti

"How, General?"

"What is the meaning of these pictures, on which I see the name of the Emperor, battles, capture of cities, &c. &c.? Do you think that we are still at that period? Are you ignorant that all the paintings representing scenes under the empire have been removed from the museum and the gallery of the Luxembourg? Ought it not to be so in the house of a functionary appointed by the King?"

"But, General, these pictures, to which I attach no sort of importance, are the only ornaments of this room."

"If you call those things ornaments, I have nothing more to say; it seems to me, however, that you might find better."

"I would have already had them removed, General,

but they were placed there at the time that the paper | lottery had not been called the royal lottery of France' was; it has changed color everywhere except under the the circumstance that I have just mentioned would pictures, and my saloon would be frightful if there were have sufficed to make it deserve the title. four large squares of fresh papering in the midst of hangings already much faded."

sent, or to come, wished to purify literature, the sci- | being purchased in the city, were a little better and ences and the fine arts, he struck from the list of the smarter than any bought in the country. It was not members of the institute a certain number of men the bonnets and gowns we cared for, but the heads whose political opinions were considered suspicious.

Among this number were Messrs. Etienne and Arnault. It was necessary to supply their places. M. Desèze presided at the sitting during which the new members were to be named. In examining the ballots, M. Desèze came across a ticket on which were the names of Molière and J. J. Rousseau.

M. Desèze spoke in severe terms of this vote, which over the fence and going, as we say in the country, he said was an insult to the Academy.

Dark times I knew my poor friend had had—much This is the story promised in our last No., from Miss Sedg-sickness, many deaths, many, many sorrows in her wick's "Love-Token for Children." It is, in the language of family; and I was thankful that she had continued to

son to young readers;" yet "Mill Hill," or "Widow Ellis and enjoy such a pleasure as flowers are to those that love her son Willie," would have been selected in preference, but them.

:

materials for building, straw by straw and feather by feather; for, as I suppose all little people know, birds line their nests with some soft material, feathers, wool, shreds, or something of the sort that will feel smooth and comfortable to the little unfledged birds. Strange, is it not, that a bird should know how to build its nest and prepare for housekeeping! How, think you, did it learn? who teaches it? Some birds work quicker and more skilfully than others. A friend of mine who used to rear canaries in cages, and who observed their ways accurately, told me there was as much difference between them as between housewives. Some are neat and quick, and others slatternly and slow. Those who have not observed much are apt to fancy that all birds of one kind, for instance, that all hens are just alike; but each, like each child in a family, has a character of its own. One will be a quiet, patient little body, always giving up to its companions; and another for ever fretting, fluttering, and pecking. I know a little girl who names the fowls in her poultry-yard according to their characters. A lordly fellow who has beaten

friend, expecting she would come out to meet me, but I found she was not able to do so; and, when I saw her, I was struck with the thought that she would never living leave the house again. She was at first overcome at meeting me, but, after a few moments, she wiped away her tears and talked cheerfully. "I hoped," she said, "my journey would have done me good, but I think it has been too much for me; I have so longed to get back to father's house, and to look over these hills once more and though I am weak and sick, words can't tell how contented I feel; I sit in this chair and look out of this window, and feel as a hungry man sitting down to a full table. "Look there," she continued, pointing to a cherry-tree before the window, "do you see that robin? ever since I can remember, every year a robin has had a nest in that tree. I used to write to father and inquire about it when I was gone; and when he wrote to me, in the season of bird-nesting, he always said something about the robins; so that this morning, when I heard the robin's note, it seemed to me like the voice of one of the family." "Have you taught your children, Mary," I asked, all the other cocks in regular battle, who cares for "to love birds as well as flowers?"

"I believe it is natural to them," she replied; "but I suppose they take more notice of them from seeing how much I love them. I have not had much to give my children, for we have had great disappointments in the new countries, and have been what are called very poor folks; so I have been more anxious to give them what little knowledge I had, and to make them feel that God has given them a portion in the birds and the flowers, his good and beautiful creation."

"Mother always says," said Lyman; and there, seeming to remember that I was a stranger, he stopped. "What does mother always say?" I asked.

"She says we can enjoy looking out upon beautiful prospects, and smelling the flowers, and hearing the birds sing, just as much as if we could say 'they are mine!"

“Well, is it not just so?” said Mrs. Lyman; "has not our Father in heaven given his children a share in all his works? I often think, when I look out upon the beautiful sky, the clear moon, the stars, the sunset clouds, the dawning day; when I smell the fresh woods and the perfumed air; when I hear the birds sing, and my heart is glad, I think, after all, that there is not so much difference in the possessions of the rich and poor as some think; 'God giveth to us all liberally, and withholdeth not.'”

"Ah!" thought I, "the Bible says truly, 'as a man thinketh, so is he.' Here is my friend, a widow and poor, and with a sickness that she well knows must end in death, and yet, instead of sorrowing and complaining, she is cheerful and enjoying those pleasures that all may enjoy if they will; for the kingdom of nature abounds with them. Mrs. Bradly was a disciple of Christ; this was the foundation of her peace; but, alas, all the disciples of Christ do not cultivate her wise, cheerful, and grateful spirit."

I began with the story of the robin-family on the cherry-tree, and I must adhere to that. I went often to see my friend, and I usually found her in her favorite seat by the window. There she delighted to watch, with her children, the progress of the little lady-bird that was preparing for her young. She collected her

nobody's rights, and seems to think that all his companions were made to be subservient to him, she calls Napoleon. A pert, handsome little coxcomb, who spends all his time in dressing his feathers and strutting about the yard, is named Narcissus. Bessie is a young hen, who, though she seems very well to understand her own rights, is a general favorite in the poultry-yard. Other lively young fowls are named after favorite cousins, as Lizzy, Susy, &c. But the best loved of all is one called "Mother," because she never seems to think of herself, but is always scratching for others; because, in short, she is, in this respect, like that best, kindest, and dearest of parents, the mother of our little mistress of the poultry-yard.

To return to the robin. She seemed to be of the quietest and gentlest, minding her own affairs, and never meddling with other people's; never stopping to gossip with other birds, but always intent on her own work. In a few days the nest was done, and four eggs laid in it. The faithful mother seldom left her nest. Her mate, like a good husband, was almost always to be seen near her. Lyman would point him out to me as he perched on a bough close to his little lady, where he would sit and sing most sweetly. Lyman and I used to guess what his notes might mean. Lyman thought he might be relating what he saw when he was abroad upon the wing, his narrow escapes from the sportsman's shot, and from the stones which the thoughtless boy sends, breaking a wing or a leg, just to show how he can hit. I thought he might be telling his little wife how much he loved her, and what good times they would have when their children came forth from the shells. It was all guesswork, but we could only guess about such matters, and I believe there is more thought in all the animal creation than we dream of.

Once, when he had been talking in this playful way, Lyman's mother said, "God has ever set the solitary birds in families. They are just like you, children; better off and happier for having some one to watch over them and provide for them. Sometimes they lose both their parents, and then the poor little birds must perish; but it is not so with children; there are always some to take pity on orphan children, and, besides, they

can make up, by their love to one another, for the love they have lost."

I saw Lyman understood his mother; his eyes filled with tears, and, putting his face close to hers, he said, "Oh no, mother! they never can make it up; it may help them to bear it."

When the young birds came out of their shells it was our pleasure to watch the parents feeding them. Sometimes the father-bird would bring food in his bill, and the mother would receive it and give it to her young. She seemed to think, like a good, energetic mother, that she ought not to sit idle and let her husband do all the providing, and she would go forth and bring food for the young ones, and then a pretty sight it was to see them stretch up their little necks to receive it.

Our eyes were one day fixed on the little family. Both parents were perched on the tree. Two young men from the village, who had been out sporting, were passing along the road. "I'll bet you a dollar, Tom," said one of them, "I'll put a shot into that robin's head." "Done!" said the other; and done it was for our poor little mother. Bang went the gun, and down to the ground, gasping and dying, fell the bird. My poor friend shut her eyes and groaned; the children burst out into cries and lamentations; and, I must confess, I shed some tears-I could not help it. We ran out and picked up the dead bird, and lamented over it. The young man stopped, and said he was very sorry; that if he had known we cared about the bird he would not have shot it; he did not want it; he only shot to try his skill. I asked him if he could not as well have tried his skill by shooting at a mark. "Certainly!" he answered, and laughed, and walked on. Now I do not think this young man was a monster, or any such thing, but I do think that, if he had known as much of the habits and history of birds as Lyman did, he would not have shot this robin at the season when it is known they are employed in rearing their young, and are enjoying a happiness so like what human beings feel; nor, if he had looked upon a bird as a member of God's great family, would he have shot it, at any season, just to show his skill in hitting a mark. We have no right to abate innocent enjoyment nor inflict unnecessary and useless pain.*

The father-bird, in his first fright, darted away, but he soon returned and flew round and round the tree, uttering cries which we understood as if they had been words; and then he would flutter over the nest, and the little motherless birds stretched up their necks and answered with feeble, mournful sounds. It was not long that he stayed vainly lamenting. The wisdom God had given him taught him that he must not stand still and suffer, for there is always something to do; a lesson that some human beings are slow to learn. So off he flew in search of food; and from that moment, as Lyman told me, he was father and mother to the little ones; he not only fed them, but brooded over them just as the mother had done; a busy, busy life he had of it.

Lord Byron somewhere says, that he was so much moved by seeing the change from life to death in a bird he had shot, that he could never shoot another. I may lay myself open to the inculcation of a mawkish and unnecessary tenderness, but I believe a respect to the rights and happiness of the defenceless always does a good work upon the heart.

"Is it not strange," said Lyman to me," that any one can begrudge birds their small portion of food? They are all summer singing for us, and I am sure it is little to pay them to give them what they want to eat. I believe, as mother says, God has provided for them as well as for us, and mother says she often thinks they deserve it better, for they do just what God means them to do." It was easy to see that Lyman had been taught to consider the birds, and therefore he loved them.

Our attention was, for some days, taken off the birds. The very night after the robin's death, my friend, in a fit of coughing, burst a blood vessel. Lyman came for me early the next morning. She died before evening. I shall not now describe the sorrow and the loss of the poor children. If any one who reads this has lost a good mother, he will know, better than I can tell, what a-grief it is; and, if his mother be still living, I pray him to be faithful, as Lyman was, so that he may feel as Lyman did when he said, "Oh, I could not bear it if I had not done all I could for mother!"

The day after the funeral I went to see the children. As I was crossing the field and walking beside the little brook I have mentioned, I saw Sam Sibley loitering along. Sam is an idle boy, and, like all idle boys I ever knew, mischievous. Sam was not liked in the village; and, if you will observe, you will see that those children who are in the habit of pulling off flies' wings, throwing stones at birds, beating dogs, and kicking horses, are never loved; such children cannot be, for those that are cruel to animals will not care for the feelings of their companions.

At a short distance from the brook there was a rocky mound, and shrubbery growing around it, and an old oak-tree in front of it. The upper limbs of the oak were quite dead. Sam had his hand full of pebbles, and, as he loitered along, he threw them in every direc tion at the birds that lighted on the trees and fences. Luckily for the birds, Sam was a poor marksman, as he was poor in everything else; so they were unhurt till, at length, he hit one perched on the dead oak. As Sam's stone whistled through the air, Lyman started from behind the rocks, crying, "Oh, don't—it's our robin !'' He was too late; our robin fell at his feet; he took it up and burst into tears. He did not reproach Sam; he was too sorry to be angry. As I went up to him he said, in a low voice, "Everything I love dies!" I did not reply, I could not. “How sweetly,” resumed Lyman, "he sung only last night, after we came home from the burying-ground, and this morning the first sound Mary and I heard was his note; but he will never sing again!"

Sam had come up to us. I saw he was ashamed, and I believe he was sorry too; for, as he turned away, I heard him say to himself, "By George! I'll never fling another stone at a bird so long as I live.”

It must have done something towards curing his bad habits to see the useless pain he had caused to the bird and the bird's friend; and the lesson sank much deeper than if Lyman had spoken one angry or reproachful word, for now he felt really sorry for Lyman. One good feeling makes way for another.

To our great joy, the robin soon exhibited some signs of animation; and, on examination, I perceived he had received no other injury than the breaking of a