this last. I knew only this: that the lonely grave was there. I had a friend the less; and the world went on as before.

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

BY MARIE LACOSTE.

Dead, and buried away out of sight, like the hero of her story, was, it seemed to be, all cognizance of the secret between Mrs. Armytage and myself. Our strange midnight meeting, the visit to the dead, all was to be as though it had not been. So she willed it; for when we met casually some days after, she greeted me with perfect self-possession, as though these things were but " a dream that is told." Only by some subtle, womanly tact she avoided being alone with ine, and when our regiment left for a distant station, there was nothing but a common-place farewell spoken in the presence of others; yet I fancied the warm clasp of her hand, the earnest stedfast look in her eyes at last meant to say that her trust in me had not proved groundless, and that she trusted me still. But perhaps it was only fancy.

Some months later, when we were beginning to look forward to going back to England, I was startled by hearing the Colonel say, as he laid down the "Daily News :" "So that fellow Armytage is dead? A good thing for his wife, I should say?"

And I went home thinking many strange thoughts, to dream of Oscar Temple lying dead as I had seen him but a few short months ago.

"There is a reaper, whose name is Death,

And with his sickle keen

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between."

PARAPHRASED FROM THE ITALIAN.

Love on thy forehead sits, as on a throne,
Beams in thine eyes, and warbles in each tone
Of thy sweet voice, plays in thy flowing hair,
Rests on thine eyelids, laughs upon thy lips,
And from this charm to that in joyance trips
Thy neck, a lustrous column, props his palace fair;
The dwelling-place of love; only thy heart
Love cannot find, I see-and weeping I depart

*

Lo veggio ni Fronte, amor, cune in suo seggio
Sul coin negli occhi, sulli labbia, amor,
Sol d'intorno alt suo cuore amor non veggio.

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,
Where the dead and the dying lay—
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls—
Somebody's darling was borne one day.
Somebody's darling! So young and so brave,
Wearing still on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; Pale are the lips of delicate mould

Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from the beautiful, blue-veined face
Brush every wandering, silken thread;
Cross his hands as a sign of grace—
Somebody's darling is still and dead.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,

Murmur a prayer soft and low, One bright curl from the cluster takeThey were somebody's pride, you know. Somebody's hand hath rested there :

Was it a mother's, soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in those waves of light?

God knows best. He was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay; Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; There he lies-with the blue eyes dim,

And smiling, childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab at his head“Somebody's darling lies buried here!"

PART. I.

SCENES OF PAST TIMES.

Chantilly, the noble mansion of Montmorency and Condé, had not yet suffered the outrages of that dreadful revolution which reduced so many stately dwellings to ashes, and carried desolation and misery into many a happy family, it was still in its first beauty, untouched by time or violence; and showed that magnificence which even Bosseut himself could not help praising, and those superb alleys, and those fountains perpetually playing, those places or chambers full of life and joy, now, alas! so solitary. Richly-caparisoned horses neighed in the courtyard, held by valets dressed in the Duke de Conde's livery and by the dragoons of the Duke de Condé's regiments; servants carrying arms, portmanteaux, and all the preparations for a long journey, jostled each other in the corridors, and everything told of a departure. In the saloons, more silent than usual, the friends, relations, and dependants of the Duke of Conde, seemed under the influence of some suppressed and sad feeling; and in a cabinet elegantly furnished, its walls hung with blue satin and adorned with exquisite paintings of a former age, sat a handsome and imperious-looking woman, whose face bore the traces of former beauty, but seamed and lined with care and trouble. She was sorrowfully bidding adieu to her only son, the Duke d'Enghien, he who in after years was called by the enemies of France, the great Condé. This young man, whose eagle-like profile, proud features (or expression) made his appearance remarkable, seemed deeply affected; he listened pale and silent to the last and tender words of his mother, often turning a furtive glance towards his sister Mademoiselle de Bourbon, who, standing behind her mother wept bitterly, supporting her drooping head upon the shoulder of a young girl. This group appeared to attract all the thoughts of the young man, and no wonder, for their graceful attitude was worthy the pencil of an artist; and the loveliness of Mademoiselle de Bourbon was only exceeded by the beauty of her friend, who pale and agitated, dare not weep, a feeling of delicacy preventing her giving way to deep distress and grief. Her eyes wandered from the Duke to his sister, and you could read in them all the inward struggles of her heart. She coloured deeply when the duke, after having received the blessing of his mother on his knees, approached them:

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Adieu, my sister," said he. "Always

love me and think of me. I shall meet misfortune like those heroes whom you admire so much."

"Dear brother," said the weeping girl, "soon return to us; and do not needlessly expose yourself to danger."

He smiled and tenderly kissed his sister, then turning to Mademoiselle du Vigean:

Adieu,' said he, bending a look of the deepest affection upon her. "Adieu! do not forget me." She looked at him and tears came unhidden from her eyes, and all the grief of parting was written on her proud forehead.

He hastily left the room, and now the sound of clarions was heard without, and the retreating tramp of horses announced his departure. The ladies ran out on the balcony to give a last look at the retreatin form of the young duke going to a battle-field, from which perhaps he might never return. Martha du Vigean, kept back by a feeling of delicacy, remained behind; another young girl, named Mademoiselle d'Epiron, came up to her and took her hand, saying: "The duke loves you and is gone. Í pity you from my heart!"

PART. II.

In the splendid palace of the Louvre, adorned by the kings of France, with all the grandeur which art and wealth could lavish upon it (in the costliness and lavishness expended upon that and other public edifices, we may see the germs of the Revolution produced by the discontent caused by the misery and oppressive taxes to which the people were subjected), Queen Anne of Austria (that fair and unhappy queen, whose frivolity and recklessness made her married life a long train of misfortune and misery) was entertaining a select circle at the Louvre, where the gravity of the Spaniard seemed completely to have extinguished the national French gaiety. The king, who that day had had a fresh quarrel with his queen, and, as he thought, new cause for jealousy, seemed more melancholy than usual, and had retired to the little saloon, where he played chess with his master of the horse, Cinq Mars, then in the height of favour. The Cardinal de Richelieu was talking in a low voice earnestly to M. le Prince, while the queen, whose lovely complexion was heightened by a black velvet robe with a tiara of diamonds round her exquisitely-shaped head, was smilingly watching some young girls who were dancing minuets and passe-pieds (then the fashionable dances) in an adjoining saloon, the doors of which were

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I have preferred the crown of thorns; and I do not now repent my choice."

Mademoiselle du Vigean said, in a tone full of melancholy: "You are happy. Is it possible then to be happy in this world?”

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'Only in subduing your passions and seeking rest in God alone," answered Mademoiselle d'Epiron. "You will find it so one day."

"Alas!" said Mademoiselle du Vigean, "do not I feel every day this weariness of mind; this want of repose; this melancholy of constant suffering; this disgust for all the things of this world? I have suffered so much!"

"My poor friend," replied Mademoiselle d'Epiron, "the news is true then?"

"Yes," replied Martba, sorrowfully; "the Duc d'Enghien is obliged to give way to the will of his father and the king, and is going to marry a niece of the all-powerful minister, Madame Maille de Brege"

A torrent of tears prevented her going on for some time, and at last she said:

"He tells me that he will protest against the force his father puts upon his inclinations; and that later he hopes to break off this hateful marriage." Then Martha bent her head full of false hope.

"My friend," said the Carmelite, earnestly, "is it upon such a hope that you build your future life; and for it reject the warning of your conscience and the voice of God, which speaks to your heart. Undeceive yourself! undeceive yourself! The duke loves you, it is true, but he is an honourable man, and will feel that nothing can break this engagement. You will then languish in sorrow and trouble of mind, you will lose your repose, and you will arrive at old age with your hands empty and your heart withered up. What a fatal destiny for you!"

"Yes, what a destiny!" said Martha, bitterly, "because a prince has loved me."

"You are not alone in your sorrow," said the novice. "I have loved, too, and am not ashamed of owning it in the presence of God. [It was the Chevalier de Fiesque.] I loved a man worthy, by his piety and goodness, of the esteem of all, and hoped to serve the Lord with him in the sacred tie of marriage. God has taken him away from me, and His will be done! He has taken me for ever under the shadow of his tabernacle, and there I have found peace and happiness."

"And as for me, how shall I find it?" cried Martha, in a tremulous voice.

་

'In the renouncement of yourself, my sister. Either that you accept marriage, which is a holy state, or that happier-far happier-you give yourself up to that spouse who never deceives, and devote yourself to his service."

"And always to live here this austere life in death," said Martha, bitterly, "all the joy of life departed?"

"Yes, to live here," said Mademoiselle d'Epiron; "to live here, forgetting the world, its joys, its loves, and its bitterness, to live here

hidden with our Saviour, tasting the peace and liberty of the children of God, even to the day of perfect peace. Is not this life better than all the fêtes of the Louvre, and the delights of Chantilly?"

Mademoiselle du Vigean thought for some moments, and then said: "Why then shall I longer fight? I can never marry. Pray for me that I may be resigned and forget the days of my happy dreams." And she wept, overcome by her feelings.

The novice took her by the hand, and in silence showed her a crucifix, upon which was written, "Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and ye shall find rest to your souls."

PART IV.

Many years had peacefully flown away in the convent of the Carmelites, when one day two ladies, whose exterior announced their high birth, came to visit the nuns known among the sisters as Anne Marie de Jesus and Marthe de Jesus. The former from delicacy of health had lost all the beauty which had been the admiration of the Court, but the peace of heaven rested on her calm face; the second (Marthe) under her black veil still preserved that extreme beauty and that sovereign grace which had so enchanted the conqueror of Recoroy. The two ladies who came to see them were also serious, and indeed sad; and the old courtiers would hardly have been able to recognise in those worn and mournful faces the bright and joyful daughter of Gaston, all animation and grace, and Margarite, the beautiful heiress of Rohan. They had been earnestly conversing together for some time, and at last Mademoiselle de Montpensier said to her friend Anne de Jesus (formerly Mademoiselle d'Epiron), "Yes, I have often regretted that I did not follow my own inclination, and that I did not come here to live with you, my dear friend. What misery I should have been spared-what storms I should have escaped in this quiet haven! Now here I am in the midst of my career brokenhearted, despoiled of all my wealth, in disgrace at Court, weary, full of bitter regrets, and, what is worse than all, despised by the man for whom I have sacrificed everything."

(The Duke of Laurun, secretly married to Mademoiselle de Montpensier, afterwards left her.)

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Ab, madame," interrupted Madame de Rohan Chabot, raising her eyes (full of tears) to Heaven, "at least the curse of a mother does not weigh upon your heart. I accomplished my own will; I married the man whom I loved; but at what a price! I have never seen my mother since. Even on her deathbed she never retracted her fatal words."

(Mademoiselle de Rohan married, against the

wish of her mother, the Count de Chabot, and her disobedience made her unhappy for life.) She was silent, and bowed her head with an expression of fear and grief.

"How happy both of you are," continued Mademoiselle de Montpensier; "and if you suffer, at least the peace of your conscience and hope of eternal life will soften your sorrow. Ah, pray for us unhappy ones.'

The two nuns, with soothing words, strove to comfort these unhappy ladies, one broken down in health and fortune at the destruction of all her hopes and the disdain of a husband to whom she had sacrificed everything; the other cast down by fear under the weight of her mother's curse.

When they were gone, Mademoiselle du Vigean said to her companion, "Come let us pray for them."

"And let us thank God, who has called us to his service," said Mademoiselle d'Epiron ; then taking the Imitation of Christ which was on the table, she opened it, and showed to her companion this passage, which expressed their destiny: "It is in resisting our passions, and not rendering ourselves slaves to them that we find true peace of heart."

THE FLOWER AND THE RING.

BY ADA TREVANION.

When we two met upon the way,

It was a dark, sad-fated day;
The air was cold, the sky was grey.

Ah! it was not the time of flowers,
When daylight counts the longest hours,
And hills are green with freshening showers.

As from the sheltering tress we pass'd,
The wind from off the hill blew fast,
And spoils of Winter round us cast.

Yet just within a wayside bower, When o'er us fell the sleety shower, He found one early violet flower.

That flower is before me now,
I see again his eager brow,
I hear again his warm love-vow.

But on my hand there is a ring;

What maddening thoughts its shine can bring, Although it is so small a thing!

A voice falls on me like a blow,

It lays my happy visions low,

My wither'd heart dies down in woe.

Oh, would to God I could awake, Or sleep for ever for his sake, Upon the shore of that dear lake,

To which we wandered on that day, When all the sky was hung with grey, And the wild wind was out at play.

For there my hand in his was press'd,
And there my head was free to rest
A little moment on his breast.

And there, while my tired form might sleep,
My soul would still a vigil keep,
And still in slumber love and weep.

A GROUP OF EPIGRAMS.

WRITTEN AFTER GOING TO LAW.

The Law, they say, great Nature's chain connects,
That causes ever must produce effects :
In me behold reversed great Nature's laws-
All my effects lost by a single cause!

BY HOOD.

How monarchs die is easily explained,

And thus it might upon their tomb be chiselled: As long as George the Fourth could reign he reigned, And then he mizzled!

FROM THE FRENCH.

Our God requireth a whole heart, or none, And yet he will accept a broken one.

"God help me!" cried the poor man,
And the rich man said "Amen."
The poor man died at the rich man's door-
God helped the poor man then.

A gentleman hearing a lady praise the eyes of a certain prominent clergyman, wrote the following: I cannot praise the Doctor's eyes: I never saw his glance divine; For when he prays he shuts his eyes, And when he preaches he shuts mine!