HIS ONLY AMBITION. (From the French of Auguste Lacroie.) BY ELIZABETH O'HARA. One summer evening, about eight o'clock, the Curé having read his daily portion in his breviary, was silently seated by a window which looked towards the village. The weather had been stormy, and the old Priest, who had just returned from a long pilgrim. age, was tranquilly inhaling the refreshing night airs, while Marguerite, his housekeeper, was putting aside the wooden platters, on which she had served her master's supper. Besides the dresser, there was a table, a chessboard, and box of dominoes, with which the Curé and his old servant be There lived some years ago, in a pretty village in Auvergne, one of the poorest of priests who had ever served among the valleys of Cevennes. His little hut would have created no envy in the lowest laborer employed in searching for antimony in the cavities of those mountains. Leaning against its small grey church, surmounted by an iron cross, it looked more like the cell of a lonely hermit, or one of those ref-guiled the long winter evenings. Op. uges against the storm which charity has erected on these craggy roads, than a human dwelling. But from the platform on which it stood, one could command the fertile plains of Simagne, bordered by the silver waters of the Allier. Behind the church on the mountain side, a few secattered cabins arose, resembling a caravan climbing up the rocky way; and on this side, the eye ran from cliff to cliff, all along the chain, comprising the Puy-de-Dome, the Plomb du Cantab, and the Montd'Or. posite to it stood an oak chest; and near a small door-the most remarka ble piece of furniture, though patriarchal in its primitive roughness-the Priest's seat. An ivory crucifix, a present from a wealthy penitent, rose over an ebony prie dieu. In an angle formed by the heavy chimney, a clock lifted its dial above its roughly-painted case, and a few chairs of the commonest work completed the furniture. As to the door by the bed-side, that led to Marguerite's room, which was even more unfurnished than her master's. Marguerite, a respectable, important looking personage, but short and fat, and long passed the canonical age, was the true sovereign of these dominions. The legitimate master had long abdicated in her favour, and, save some slight abuses of power, some gentle scoldings, her government was most useful to their common interest, and suited the Curé's carelessness in worldly matters, especially in any cencerning his interests. His indifference in this respect was a text for Marguerite's unorthodox sermons, and a cause of sad forewarn ings, in which the eternal I was not always forgotten. Such was the dreary desert that the Curé of had inhabited for more than ten years. [Our readers will easily understand the scruples which prevent our giving the name of his village, or altering the least details of this simple story by a fictitious one.] He was an active old man of about sixty, with a kind and benevolent countenance. The simplicity of his character had not injured his high talent, nor had the austerity of his own life diminished his indulgence towards others. His faith was lively, and his zeal for his congregation had no bounds but those nature had laid on his physical strength. Charity enabled him to perform mira- The day of which we speak had been cles. Neither the most rigorous cold of that oppressive sort, in which frowns of winter, its heavy snows, the fathom- gathered on the old woman's brow in less mountain ravines, or the gloom- proportion to the clouds hovering above iest night, could prevent his accom the mountain; and her hasty moveplishing his apostolic duties. And ments betrayed a sort of irritability, all was done cheerfully, without the which wanted but slight provocation to least feeling of vanity, with that simple qetray itself. The Curé, on the conmanner which dissipated all ideas of trary, seemed as calm as ever; but a sacrifice. keen observer might have discovered a HIS ONLY AMBITION. certain triumphant look, scarce in accordance with his usual modesty; and when his eye glanced on Marguerite, it had a malicious twinkle quite opposed to his daily precepts of Christian charity and humility. work! 237 You have never fifty francs You are right; for if Providence does Night, however, drew on; the heavens not interfere, I do not see where we are were dark, the moon only showing to find a crust for our old age, since you itself at long intervals, and the wind can keep nothing of what you gain now. played dolefully among the branches Look at yourself, if you please. Is of two lofty chesnuts, which shaded the there a poorer man in your parish cottage door. than you are? Where are the fine promises you made me at Easter? Here is the Assumption coming, and what are we to do? What have you made by all your walks to-day? Nothing. "After all your walking to-day, bed would be much better for you than sit. ting in that draught," Marguerite suddenly remarked in a tone of maternal authority. "The wind from the plains is not healthy; a storm is not far off; if you will sit up, you ought at least to shut the window." "Ah, ah," said the Priest, mysteriously. them" "Well, then, some poor silver pieces. But I am not tired, Marguerite. As-how will you buy a surplice out of to the unhealthy night air, you are right, and I obey you, although," he added aside, as he shut the window, "the storm most to be dreaded at present is in, not out of the house." Marguerite did not, or would not, hear him, and he reseated himself. "What has vexed you to-day?" he continued. "I am sure 1 have done nothing-you are wrong to be angry with me.' The storm at length burst. "Wrong am I?" she cried in indignationwrong? I ought to be quite satisfied with you to go roaming about the whole day, without eating or drinking, at your age! Very praiseworthy, certainly; but we shall see the end of it, and say I told you so." At this moment, a flash of lightning lit up the room. The Curé and his housekeeper signed themselves; and she lit a small lamp in the chimney cor Marguerite was interrupted by a violent clap of thunder, which shook. the house, while the lightning traced its fiery course along the mountain's side. The old woman seized a blessed branch, which she dipped in the holy water suspended by the wall, and began to shower the sacred drops about, while the Curé recited a fervent prayer. The rain now poured down in torrents, and he tranquilly continued "Marguerite, you must look out for a tailor who can make a surplice properly and quickly, for your master." "What?" she said, fancying she had misunderstood him. "What are you saying?" "That you have forgotten that the 25th of July will soon be here.', "Well!" "Well! I called to-day on Madame la Baronne Dubief, who wishes to have ten perpetual masses for her husband's souf; and she begged my acceptance of these two hundred francs in recompense." As he spoke, he drew out a wellfilled purse, and Marguerite, stretched forth her hand to take it, as if to convince herself that she was not dreaming, when the Curé, uttering a loud cry, suddenly rose. A strong red light was reflected on the mountain's side: he ran to the door-the flames were burst The next day all was over; one house only, the poorest of all had perished, but the Cure had lost the greater portion of his gown in the flames. ing from the roof of a house in the mid-pearances. He was not one of those dle of the village. "Fire! fire!" he who condemn every concession to the cried. "Marguerite, make haste! run- prejudices of society; and still less was ring the church bell to give the alarm." he one of those vainglorious apostles She hastened to an inner door which who pride themselves on their ragged led to the belfry, and the Curé, catch garments. He felt his poverty, but ing up his hat and cane, hurried to the bore it bravely; and was always ready place of ruin. to renounce his most legitimate wishes in favor of another's wants; and thus, during ten years, he had not been enabled, with all his privations, to amass the small sum necessary to the accom plishment of his greatest ambition--a new gown. By dint of thinking of it, and, thanks above all to Marguerite's constant dinning on the subject, the wish had acquired the tenacity of a fixed idea; and certainly, to judge by the deplorable appearance of the old surplice, "Alas! my good Marguerite," her there was nothing unreasonable in his master answered, scratching his ear desire. One could only, on seeing it, like a school-boy caught out in some deplore the evil destiny which contrick, "it is very different with the stantly withdrew the long coveted obmisfortunes of those poor people down there." "Fortunately," said Marguerite, as she finished stitching on a piece, whose color did not match particularly well with the rest of the cloth, "fortunately, thanks to Madame la Baronne's generosity, the evil is not without a remedy." "Well, you can preach a sermon, and make a collection for them-some one will help them, for certain." "We must hope so. But ought we not to set the example, Marguerite?" "There you are again, with your ridiculous ideas--your false views. Every one should help his neighbor according to his means--the rich with money: priests with their exhortations. Remember that you have hardly enough for bare necessaries." "Remember that they have nothing." "But you must have a new gown." "They have neither bread nor clothes." "Good patience!" exclaimed the housekeeper, suddenly struck with a new light. "Dieu de ciel! What have you done with the money you shewed me yesterday?" "Marguerite," he answered, in some confusion, "you need not order my gown yet I will make this hold till Christmas." He had voluntarily relinquished the means of making this purchase; but self-denying as he was, and willing to sacrifice his own dignity to another's wants, we must not suppose him in'sensible to the necessity of proper ap ject at the very moment when its at tainment seemed most secure. Years had rolled on, holydays had succeeded each other, and still the poor Curé re. peated, with indefatigable persever ance "I will buy it next year-at Easter at Whitsuntide-at the Assumption -at Christmas." -at Ten times he had gone round the fatal circle; the seasons were renewed the holydays returned with a pitiless regularity, leaving each time a more perceptible trace of their passage on the folds of the unfortunate gown. With the next spring, an unexpected event renewed the Curé's anxiety-a pastoral visit from the Bishop was suddenly announced in his diocese. This news at first threw him into that sort of stupor which arises from imminent danger; he had a vertigo, as if the earth were trembling beneath his steps-then a feverish anxiety and supernatural activity succeeded to this prostration of mind. He went and came, was everywhere, doing a hundred things at the same moment; he talked alone and aloud, using all the means by which cowards seek to shun their fears; but all efforts had one miserable resulthe was obliged definitely to renounce all hopes of honorable escape. He saw himself appearing shabby, mean, prelate frowned, when he saw the poverand seedy-looking-like a man of dis-ty-stricken gown of the venerable Cure, solute life before his ecclesiastical su- who trembled like a criminal before his perior; when Providence came once judge. more to his succour, in the person of a charitable widow, to whom Marguerite had confided his troubles. No time was to be lost-a tailor was sent for from a neighboring village. The man was poor, and they not only gave him the cloth, but paid him beforehand for his work. On returning homewards, the tailor, who liked a drop, stopped at a little inn, where wine-the poor man's consolation-so bewildered him, that he forgot the distinctions between meum and teum. The Curé supported this new stroke with the lethargic insensibility of one who has no longer strength to suffer. They caught the thief; but the Priest would not prosecute him-saying to himself that one misfortune could not repair another, and alleging to the world that the money squandered by the tailor was a gift, not a theft. "Is your parish then so very poor, sir?" asked the Bishop, "your income so parsimonious, that you cannot afford that care of your person necessary to your sacerdotal dignity?" Marguerite, then, thought her master had gone mad. "If your lordship would excuse-" "We are far, sir,', the prelate gravely continued, "from those happy times when the Church, honored in herself, needed no other ornaments than the virtues of her servants. Priests now are neither martyrs nor apostles; they are men of the world, who re-animate the cause of religion by rendering it respectable and agreeable. To act otherwise, Monsieur le Curé, is to show an unskillfulness or false pride which are equally blameable." "Monseigneur, my poverty alone is in fault, I assure you" He stopped short; even in self-justification he could. not palliate the truth. "I know all. I know that your improvidence and undiscriminating charThe redoubtable day arrived, and the ity compromise the necessary standing chimes of many bells told of the bish- of a minister of the church, and I loudop's presence. The Curè, accompa-ly blame your conduct. Go, sir, and nied by his Sacristan and two choris- remember, that in sacrificing what we ters, went to receive his lordship at the owe to ourselves, we risk failing in the entrance of the village; and the local respect we owe to others." authorities, in full costume, bore the canopy under which he would walk to the church. The Curé, proud and hap py in the dazzlingly white robes which covered his gown, firmly advanced at the head of his little escort, and the procession proceeded along the gaily decked street to the church. Mass was performed, and then he paid his respects to the prelate. As soon as the Curé was gone, the Bishop turned to those around him and said, with a smile, "The lesson was rude, but it was necessary: I think our good Curé will be cured for some time of his excessive liberality. At all events, Monsieur l'Abbe," he added, addressing himself to one of his chaplains, "take care that you quietly send a new gown to my worthy penitent, with three hundred francs for his poor parishioners." His lordship was seated between his two chaplains, who stood by him in a respectful attitude, and the first persons Before returning to his house, the of the village. He was a very hand- Cure, who had been painfully effected some man, about forty years old; his by this scene, prayed long in the church manners were highly polished; his -a cold chill struck on him—and on birth and countenance were alike no- leaving he was ill and feverish. Marble, and he expressed himself with the guerite scolded less roughly than usual, grace and fluency of one accustomed and obliged him to go to bed. to speak in courts. The old Priest felt abashed the moment he doffed his convenient white robes; and the young A few days afterwards, a doctor stood mournfully by that humble pallet. Marguerite was sobbing in her apron. A stranger entered; on one arm he THE GERMAN BEER GARDENS. bore a gown of the finest black; in the other hand he held a heavy purse. "From Monseigneur," he said. The sick man smiled sadly. "Thank his lordship, I beg-in the name of my successor--and recommend to his kindness an ardent preacher, to whom I listened too little." ite. He pointed to the weeping Marguer [OF NEW ORLEANS.] BY DR. G. M. WHARTON. Frogs and the rapier may be characteristic of France, garlic and silver stirrups of Spain, figs and trills of Italy, potatoes and patriotism of Ireland, porter and conceit of England, oats and caution of Scotland—but beer and the waltz reign over Germany! The Teuton believes that the world is a kreisel-a whirligig-and he turns with it about the sun. And the moon revolves around the earth, and Teufels "Just Heaven!" he added in a lower tone; "I have doubtless been ambitious, but since it is so difficult to gain a new gown in this world, grant, I implore, that the poor may be less numerous-drock revolves on his own heels. The and housekeepers more tractable." These were his last words. CUPID-A. D. 1600. There was once a gentle time Thenne a rosie, dimpled cheeke, But thatte time is gone and paste; But another Cupide's come With a browe of care and gloome; Oh, for the olde, true, true-love time, seasons come in a round-Spring with her budding breast-Summer with her ripened charms, "all too full for puritanic stays"-Autumn, the maternal —and Winter, a graylock crone with wheezing breath, but giddily attached to the teetotum dance; and der Herr waltz, with their circling year. Glorious waltz! thou, like music, wast stolen from the spheres, and all nature proclaims thee! Byron, le diable boiteux, satirically sung thy praise, but the kindly, phlegmatic Dutchlander alone enjoys thee. All other nations thou dost coquet with, but on the bosom of his thou reposest like a wife! Such were our meditations on visiting the two German gardens on the Old Basin, beyond the cemeteries, on Sunday evening last. The "National" and the "Tivoli" are their several designations. The latter is perhaps the finer of the two, certainly the more aristocratic, as you pay a dime admission fee. Within the enclosure both are laid out alike: A large yard shaded by trees under which are numerous little rustic tables and benches, separated by short intervals, and capable of accommodating two couples each; lamp-posts interspersed; shell-walks; a bar with strong liquors and warm water at one extremity; beer-men with large baskets filled with beer jugs, which pop like champagne bottles, and emit a frothy, yellow fluid, that will make you sleep before it makes you tipsy, and, in the center, the dancehouse--a circular building, the flooring surrounded by a balustrade, with a sin |