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it, for which he received a rap on the fingers in senator (M. Goulhot de St. Germain) presented the shape of a communique, and admonition not a petition asking for the suppression of salato do it again. En attendant, Abd-el-Kader is cious photographs, which swarm in France, to be seen driving in the Bois-de-Boulogne in and particularly in Paris, M. Dupin, the an open carriage, dressed in his white burnous. Censor, as they call him (in remembrance of His features are very little changed, although | Cato, whom he somewhat resembles when his beard has a few silver streaks in it. He as- public liberties are not in question)-declared sisted at an ascent of a balloon at the Hippo- | that corruption ought to be cut off at its root, drome the other day, and was of course the ob- or laws were useless; and that what our soject of great curiosity.
ciety wants is general reformation-" Quia leges The Court is gone to Fontainebleau : I won. sine moribus vane.” The high classes are as der their Majesties stayed in Paris until so late bad as the low ones. Only look at the in the season. The little Prince's indisposition, theatres; there are some pieces, such as “La it is true, caused a short delay: he had an at- Biche au Bois," which are nothing but a living tack of cholerine, but is well again. There are exhibition, offering types of two hundred photo be more hunting-parties, pic-nics in the fo- tographs worse than those petitioned against! rest, and all kinds of festivities at the château The heat, I think, has made our police chothis year than on former visits, but the Emperor leric, as they are seizing right and left a pamphwill not be there: he goes to Plombières, thence let by M. Tridon, that had been in circulation to the camp of Châlons, and will afterwards for more than a year, and which fell the other join the Empress and the Prince at Biarritz. day into their claws. It is a political affair. Before leaving Paris the Empress visited the Then comes “La Tribune Ouvrière,” which prisons for young criminals (at that for young shared the same fate; as also “Les Petites girls she would go everywhere), and spoke to Comédies de l'Amour," by Mademoiselle the poor children with great kindness, asking Léonie Leblanc-an actress who is termed them the cause of their imprisonment, and "hommes de lettres,” and who deemed giving them words of consolation. One told her unite necessary to the general corruption. her that she was condemned for stealing apples. The police also found an edition of “ Les propos “What, in prison for an apple !" exclaimed the de Labienus" of M. Rogeard, translated into august lady, and turning round to a lady in the Russian language above all others, at a her suite, “Who of us, I should like to know," bookseller's the other day. You may remember said she, “has not stolen apples?” The word that this pamphlet is a violent attack against was charming in the mouth of this graceful | the imperial author of the “Life of Cæsar.” daughter of Eve. When on the point of leaving The divine Patti was married the other day, the prison her Majesty was told that one of the in some of the Parisian papers, to a journeyman poor captives was dying; she iminediately in- jeweller. Who invented this canard no one sisted on seeing her, and, after bidding the poor knows : this is the sixth or seventh time the girl to put her trust in God, she asked her if lady has been disposed of; it must take there was any wish she would like to see half her brother-in-law's time in writing to realized before dying. After receiving an an- express his iro at such inventions. But what swer from the poor pale lips, the Empress pro- should we poor correspondents do in this time mised the girl that her desire should be realized. of dearth, if imaginations did not work in our I have not heard what the wish was. But what behalf! has made our gracious sovereign very popular We have had two more balloon ascents, on an amongst the Turcos, now garrisoned in Paris, expedition of trial-one at Paris, the other at is, that she has hired two hundred of the best Lyon. The one at Paris was in the form of a places nightly, at the theatre Porte St. Martin, hippopotamus, and carried machinery that was for the African heroes, to see the very splendid to make it go in whatever direction M. Delafairy-pieee, in five acts aud eighteen scenes, marne (its inventor) chose. It started from the called “La Biche au Bois,” which is now ex Luxembourg garden, and, in spite of a very hibiting not only naked legs but naked women soft wind, was obstinate, and would go its own to the delighted Parisians, who brave the heat way, which was not M. Delamarne's, and came for such a moral show. One cannot imagine down, without accident, at Vincennes. A what could induce the Empress to choose such second attempt was as unsuccessful; however, a spectacle for these men, already too paying spectators were very numerous, so that sensual; and all are to see it-such is her I dare say the chief object was attained by the
Majesty's pleasure. Of course we cannot adventurous aréonaute. Nadar had about the 2. help criticising the august taste, and much has same success at Lyon. Godard soared up into heen said about it hy the common sense pub the clouds, in his Mongolfierè, at night, in a
; indeed, the Attorney General Dupin (a village near Paris, and then gave us a splendid Fanator) has just protested against such exhi- display of fireworks, of which one spark might Ations, and has, without intending it--for he is have caused the loss of the balloon and man;
oo good a “courtier” for that condemned but where is the pleasure, if man's life is not in Jo this act of his sovereign in very strong terms. | danger ? that is the pith of the thing. Godard t a discourse delivered at the Senate-house in a caine down again in the middle of Paris, on the
pret committee the other day, when expatiating Boulevard Prince Eugène, and received a reguthee, the frightful extravagance of women, a lar ovation from the crowd. oltran
And now we are thinking of nothing but the was applauded there; 80 at last he was obliged feles promised us at Cherbourg, fêtes at which to cease preaching and leave Vienna. we expect that the Prince and Princess of The musical world was in great delight last Wales willassist. They say that preparations are week : Rossini composed, for the inauguration being made to receive them on board a French of a chapel at fifteen leagues from Paris, two frigate ; so I suppose it will be a very splendid pieces of religious music, which have been proaffair. The Emperor will be there, it is ex-nounced by amateurs very beautiful. pected, although it has not been officially an The village, Fontaine-les-Nonnes, is a very nounced.
charming spot, where, once upon a time, before Our journalists cannot let poor Listz alone: the Revolution, the Ladies Bénédictines reigned his last attitude before the public bas evidently sovereigns; but one morning the nuns were displeased them : they relate a rather funny turned out of their convent, their grounds sold, story àpropos of his conversion. A German and their chapel turned into a stable. A little poet, Frederic Werner, a protestant, author of while ago the estate was purchased by a rich several comedies, was, like Listz, miraculously family, who immediately not only restored the converted, after baving been, like him, very chapel to public worship, but also embellished worldly. L'Esprit Saint touched him one night, it, employing the best artists in Paris-Oudinot as by moonlight he saw the host carried out of to paint the windows, Ary Scheffer's daughter the cathedral of Cologne to a dying person. to paint saints and angels, &c., &c. Then on Like Listz he went to Rome, entered the holy the day fixed, guests were invited from Meaux orders, and in 1815 obtained great success in and the surrounding châteaux, and also from the pulpit at Vienna. The diabolical director Paris; the Archbishop of Meaux presided at the of the theatre there imagined to profit by ceremony and the chapel was opened in the Werner's great repute, 80 put his comedies on midst of crosses and banners, and Rossini's two the stage, and the success was still greater for beautiful pieces composed for the occasion. the author of comedies than for the priest.
Au revoir, Werner was in despair, he thundered against
Your's truly, the theatre; the more he thundered the more he
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
THE OLD COUNTRY HOUSE., beyond, with the breath of quinces and pears, of
apples and peaches floating through the still air, BY VIRGINIA P. TOWNSEND.
and stinging it through with varied sweetnesses. “There it is, my child,” said father.
This old country house, this old gray, gambrel I think that his words fell into a little half
| roofed farm-house was the one where my father dose into which I had dropped, for we had
had been born, and I was coming home to it now ridden at least twenty miles since we left the cars,
in my ninth year, because alınost the saddest at the little brown depôt by the side of the river.
thing which can happen in this world to a little
child, had come suddenly to me-my mother was So, as it drew towards night, I was tired betwixt
dead! My mother, with her pale, sweet face, the car and the carriage ride, and a drowsy mist
and the soft brown hair that shaded it ; my began stealing over me, as the mists did over the great mountains on the right, when iny
mother, with the tender smile about her lips, father's words brought me back suddenly into a
and the love in her deep blue eyes; my mother,
whose sweet, tender voice seemed still to call to keen, strong life.
me softly, though I knew how dark, and cold, I sat up straight of a sudden, and looked out. My heart beat fast. I saw the blue vapour of
| and silent was the grave where she lay! the smoke as it rose slowly up through the green
So my father had brought me home to the old trees, and a moment later, we dashed over the house where he was born, and to the old grandlittle brook bridge, and the house came in mother there, whose heart he knew held for me sight--the gray house with the gainbrel roof, now the warmest place this side of heaven. We that I had never seen but that I had heard of drove up to the gate, papa lifted me out swiftly, so long, and often, that it seemed familiar as our
| and carried me up the little gravel path into the own.
great wide hall, and here she met ine--my A great house, wide and low, a little back grandmother. from the road, with the plum trees in front, and I looked up into the wrinkled face of an old, the well-sweep on one side, and the old orchard | old lady, in a black dress and a snowy cap, who bent down and took me up suddenly, and kissed and her child were dead! I wondered if he was me, and then cried
a bad man, as my father said, to the last. At “Oh, Edward, my boy' is this the child ?" she that very moment I heard bis voice calling me. sobbed.
I “Go, child, go," said my aunt, in a quick, " This is the child-the little motherless frightened way. "Your father must not know child," said my father, and then he went out that I have seen you.” suddenly without so much as shaking hands I could think of nothing but my poor, brokenwith her, and again my grandmother cried over hearted, solitary aunt, all the time we sat at me. And from that hour I loved her.
supper. Iloved myfather, and I knew that I was I felt at home at once, in the old house. I-doubly loved now that my mother was deadwent through its wide, low, still rooms before it the very apple of his eye, “the one precious was dark. I followed the girl when she went gift of his lost Lucy.” But I knew, too, that he out into the yard to call the chickens to supper. was a stern, resolute man; that once offended I saw her scatter the small corn like flakes of or deceived, it was in vain to sue for pity or yellow snow amongst the great flock of chickens , pardon from such as he. But I knew, too, that that crowded around her— I saw the boy drive that stern nature had been softened by the death ing the cows up froin pasture, and I wanted to of my mother, and that now, if ever, was the go out and see the little white calf inside the time to reach it. My aunt was hungry and barn, but it was too late, they told me, and I thirsty in her grief and loss, for the love and must wait for another day.
| forgiveness of her brother. When I entered the house again, somebody In the morning my father would leave, and came out suddenly and caught me with a soft, neither his mother or his sister had dared to tell tight, tender grasp
him that she was in the house. I think some “Oh, my child, my dear child !” said a voice impulse had carried my aunt out of herself that seemed broken down with some grief and when she heard my voice in the farm-yard, and love, and then I was hugged and kissed, in a that in her great hunger for human love, she strange, eager way, fond as my mother's, and had rushed out and grasped me, and covered yet not just like hers either.
my face with her greedy kisses before she was “Who are you?” I said, as soon as my | aware of what she was doing. amazement, which was almost fright, would let 1 I was somewhat afraid of my father, and yet me find a word to say.
he was tender and gentle to his one little girl as “Dear child, it is not likely that you have the fondest mother. Still the thought of Aunt ever heard of me. I am your Aunt Miriam." Miriam's grieved face made me bold. Before
“Oh, yes, I have I know," and I looked up supper was over, I made up my mind. When in her face with a great curiosity.
he drew back his chair from the table, I went to It was a very fair face, with something of my him and climbed his kneefather in its features, only these were softer and “Papa,” I said, “would you like to do somemore delicate. The eyes were brown, the hair thing that would make me very happy ?”. was almost black. They said she was faded, “To be sure I should, my darling, with your that she had been beautiful in the dew and mother's eyes," and he held me tight, he hugged bloom of her youth. I thought she was so still, me close, as when she was alive even he had though there was some pain or grief over all her hardly done. face-my Aunt Miriam's. Once, only once I “ Then come with me.” had heard papa and mamma talking about her. I slipped my hand into his. I led him through I lay in the crib in their room, for I was ill, and the wide hall, and into the back sitting-room. they thought I was sleeping at the time. I heard Aunt Miriam sat by the window in the twilight, papa telling mamma her story. She was and through the evening wind floated the strong. younger than he, his pet and idol once, he said. rich fragrance from the orchard, as though it But she had run off and married a bad man, were wasted from the spice islands that lie at “a great rascal,” papa called him. She had slumber in eastern seas. It was not dark yet, deceived them all. After that he would never and as she turned swiftly, the brother and the see her, never so much as speak her name. And sister saw each other's faces. I heard mamma plead for her, in that soft, sweet “Miriam !” said my father, and he stood still. voice, which I felt must reach the heart of any "Oh, Edward !" cried my aunt, and she, too, man, but papa answered, sternly,
stood still. " Lucy, my wife, it is in vain. There is hardly Then I spoke, it seemed the time for me. anything in the world that I would'nt do for “Her husband is dead, and her little girl, and your dear sake, but Miriam deceived me once she is all alone in the world. Oh, papa, I heard I shall never trust her again.”
that day, when you thought I lay sound asleep I remembered all this, looking in my aunt's in my crib, and mamma pleaded with you to forsweet, sad face, and I knew now why she had give her. She cannot speak now from the grave come forward to welcome me,
where she lies so still, but I know she would “I had a little girl once, Lucy, a year younger say what I do now, if she stood here by your than you,” she said, stroking my curls. “She side, and because you would not answer her lies now by the side of her father, as deep and prayer in life, answer it after her death, and pity as still as your mother lies!”
and forgive poor Aunt Miriam !” As the words My aunt's words made me cry. Her husband I came to me in that hour-so I spoke them.
There was a little silence-then a sob. Then, now words to describe, she sank into them and papa took my hand and went up to his sister- he folded her once more to his heart. So there
he Miriam," he said, “ you have heard the was peace betwixt the brother and sister, and child. For her sake, and for the sake of her this was the work that I did—the blessed work dead mother-come to me."
that angels might be glad over in the gray old He put out his arms, and with a low cry, such house at my grandmother's. as I never heard before, and such as I have not
OUR LIBRARY TABLE.
LAURENCE STERNE. By Percy Fitzgerald. , under Colonel Chudleigh. Their weary wan(London, 1864. 2 vols. 8vo.)
derings began again with a march to Dublin, THE WORKS OF LAURENCE Sterne, from Dublin to Exeter, and back again to Dub(Edinburgh, 1803. 8 vols, 16mo.)
lin for a residence of three years. They lived Lovers of humour cannot fail to be there in a large house, and spent "a great deal interested in the appearance of a Life of of money," in imitation of the reckless extravaSterne to fill the space in the literary biography gance around them. The Vigo Expedition of the eighteenth century, hitherto unoccupied separated the ensign from his family for a seaexcept by a few pages of autobiography and two son, and brought back to us the Montero cap, or three brief sketches.
and the story of brother Tom and his sausageThe opportunity is favourable to attempt, making widow. Several years of garrison life with the light of the information which Mr. in different parts of Ireland followed, relieved Fitzgerald's careful inquiry has elicited, an im- by the hospitality of relatives, whom they were partial estimate of one who, whatever may have so fortunate as to find, in two instances, estabbeen his shortcomings, has given to English | blished in the vicinity of their quarters. Near literature two of its noblest as well as most de- Wicklow occurred Master Laury's fall under lightful characters.
the water-wheel, and wonderful escape from The Sternes were a respectable and well-death. While at Mullingar the little boy probaconnected Yorkshire family, whose greatest bly attended the school at Portarlington, close name was that of Richard Sterne, a clergyman, by, of Monsieur Lefevre, who had a son in the who, persecuted by Cromwell, received at the army. The recollections of these exiles, blosRestoration the reward of his loyalty in the somed years afterward into the pathetic tale bishopric of Carlisle and speedy translation to of the dying officer and his son, Uncle Toby's the archepiscopal throne of York. A son of the protegé. archbishop married the heiress of Elvington, an In 1727, Lieutenant Sterne, for he was now estate near the city of York; and of the six or promoted, bade a final adieu to his wife and seven children of this union, Roger, the Shan- | children, and accompanied his regiment to dedean's father, fared most ill. While one brother fend Gibraltar against the “ Termagant of enjoyed the easy dignity of a country squire, Spain.” That duty accomplished, he sailed for while for another family influence smoothed a Jamaica, where the yellow fever seized him, path in the church, and his sisters married well, weakened as he was from the effect of a severe Roger was sent to push his fortunes in the wars. wound received in a duel which he had fought He made several campaigns under Marlborough in a quarrel "about a goose," while at the Rock. in the Low Countries, and there he married at He died March, 1731. “My father," writes Bouchain, on the 24th September, 1711, the his son, “was a little smart man, active to the widow Agnes Hebert or Herbert, the step- last degree; most patient of fatigue and disapdaughter of an Irishman named Nuttle, “a pointment, of which it pleased God to give him noted suttler, N. B., he was in debt to him,” | full measure; he was in his temper somewhat adds Sterne's autobiographical sketch, sug- rapid and hasty, but of a kindly, sweet dispogestively.
sition, void of all design, and so innocent in his The Peace of Utrecht caused the young en- own intentions that he suspected no one; so sign's regiment to be disbanded, and at this that you might have cheated him ten times a most unfortunate time, Laurence, his parent's day if nine had not been sufficient for your pursecond child, was born at Clonmel, in the south pose.” (Works of Sterne, vol. 1, p. 11.) There of Ireland, on 24th · November, 1713.' The is little doubt that this unfortunate officer sugkindness of Ensign Sterne's mother afforded gested that brave soldier and guileless gentlethe family a refuge at Elvington for ten months man, my Uncle Toby; while from his Irish or more, until the regiment was reorganized servant Corporal Trim was drawn. Mrs. Sterne and her two danghters-death had reduced the , and five days after his nephew's ordination, obfamily from seven children to three-probably | tained for him the vicarage of Sutton-on-theremained in Ireland, as Mary, “the most beau- | Forest, a small living a few miles from York. tiful woman, of fine figure," married a Dublin A year or two later, a prebend's stall in the man, one Wimmins, a bankrupt spendthrift, cathedral came from the saine source ; but a difwho broke her heart. A brother of this Wim-ficulty which arose between the kinsmen from mins married a sister of Dr. Delany, with whom Sterne's unwillingness to continue his contribuwe are acquainted through the memoirs of his tions to political papers, dried up this spring of wife.
preferment. Before his father's departure from Ireland, / A hundred years ago, the county gentry reLaurence had been placed at the Halifax free sided in York in the winter, and balls, races, grammar school, of which his uncle Richard, and assizes interrupted the monotony of a catheof Elvington, was one of the Governors. He dral town. A witty young cleric, whose ad. was then eleven years old, and “must have vancement seemed secure through family influbrought with him learning sufficient to read | ence, could not fail to be received into society English and to be promoted to the Accidence," | with favour; but with the susceptibility which according to the quaint provision of the char. was always to distinguish him, our Vicar soon ter. He must, therefore, have gotten over the wore the chains of a young Staffordshire lady, preparatory stages at home-the “five years with Miss Elizabeth Lumley, the daughter of the a bib under his chin; four years in travelling Rector of Bedal. His suit was not disdained, from Chriscross row to Malachi ; a year and a- although narrowness of income enforced delay; half in learning to write his own name. He was for “the lap of the church was not covered with now to consume the seven long years and more a fringed cushion, although not wholly naked.” Turtw-ing at Greek and Latin. This was also After a long visit in York, Miss Lumley rethe probation Mr. Shandy's son passed turned home, and Sterne at once moved into the through.” (Fitzgerald's Life of Sterne, vol. 1, apartments which she had occupied. Fanny, a p. 82). During the two years of the seven, sympathizing maid-servant, who had waited on the school was without regular masters, to his mistress, proposed a little supper to cheer which, if charitably inclined, we may impute him. The memory of the “ quiet and sentiSterne's sad inaccuracies of spelling. An ac- mental repasts” rose up before him. The mocount of the lion of the season, which was pub ment she“ began to spread the little table” his lished in the London Chronicle shortly after the heart“ fainted within" him. “One solitary plate, appearance of “Tristram Shandy,” and which one knife, one fork, one glass,” adds Mr. Sterne, has been attributed to the author himself, tells in despair, taking an inventory of the table us that at Halifax" he would learn when he furniture. “I gave a thousand penetrating pleased, and not oftener than once a fortnight.” | looks at the chair thou hadst so often graced, One of his boyish tricks has been rescued from then laid down my knife and fork, and took out oblivion : he climbed to the newly-whitewashed my handkerchief and clapped it across my face, ceiling and wrote his name in large capitals, for and wept like a child. I do so at this very mo. which he was " severely whipped” by an usher; ment, my dear L.; for as I take up my pen my but his master, seeing promise in the bright lad | poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and of “future preferment,” forbade the letters to tears are trickling down upon the paper as I trace be erased.
the word L.” (Fitzgerald's Life of Sterne, vol. Sterne received great kindness from his rela- | 1, p. 138). “Miss Li's" heart was not bard tives at Elvington, and through their liberality enough to resist such affection, and we find he was sent to Jesus College, Cambridge, over her again in York, although suffering from which his great grandfather had once presided. ill-health. “ One evening that I was sitting
The London Chronicle, to which reference has by her,” relates Mr. Sterne to their daughter, just been made, contributes the little informa-“ with an almost broken heart to see her so tion which we have of his student life. “At ill, she said: 'My dear Laurey, I can never be the University," says the sketch," he spent the yours, for I verily believe I have not long to live ; usual number of years, read a great deal, but I have left you every shilling of my fortune' laughed more, and sometimes took the diversion -and upon that she showed me her will. This of puzzling his tutors. He left Cambridge with generosity overpowered me. It pleased God the character of an odd man, who had no harm that she recovered, and I married ber in 1741." in him, and who had parts if he would use ((Sterne's Works, vol. 1, p. 13). The wedding them.” (Fitzgerald's Life of Sterne, vol. 1, p. day was Easter Monday, March 30th. Beside 96). He was not, however, entirely idle, for he her own little property of forty pounds a year, obtained a sizarship, and a scholarship which his Mrs. Sterne brought with her, through the ancestor had founded. He took his Bachelor's kindness of " a friend in the South," the living degree in January, 1736, and received ordina. of Stellington, two miles from Sutton, worth tion at the hands of the Bishop of Chester, about as much more ; so that the young couple August 20th, 1738. Uncle Jaques, the church were well provided for in times when the scale man of the family, a lot whig, whose uncon of charges at the fashionable watering-place of ditional loyalty to party was fast making him a Harrowgate, where the united rental of the considerable pluralist, now came to the rescue, guests at one table alone sometimes amounted