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it, for which he received a rap on the fingers in the shape of a communique, and admonition not to do it again. En attendant, Abd-el-Kader is to be seen driving in the Bois-de-Boulogne in an open carriage, dressed in his white burnous. His features are very little changed, although his beard has a few silver streaks in it. He assisted at an ascent of a balloon at the Hippodrome the other day, and was of course the object of great curiosity.

senator (M. Goulhot de St. Germain) presented a petition asking for the suppression of salacious photographs, which swarm in France, and particularly in Paris. M. Dupin, the Censor, as they call him (in remembrance of Cato, whom he somewhat resembles when public liberties are not in question)-declared that corruption ought to be cut off at its root, or laws were useless; and that what our society wants is general reformation-" Quia leges sine moribus vana." The high classes are as bad as the low ones. Only look at the theatres; there are some pieces, such as Biche au Bois," which are nothing but a living exhibition, offering types of two hundred photographs worse than those petitioned against!

The Court is gone to Fontainebleau: I wonder their Majesties stayed in Paris until so late in the season. The little Prince's indisposition, it is true, caused a short delay: he had an attack of cholerine, but is well again. There are to be more hunting-parties, pic-nics in the forest, and all kinds of festivities at the château this year than on former visits, but the Emperor will not be there: he goes to Plombières, thence to the camp of Châlons, and will afterwards join the Empress and the Prince at Biarritz. Before leaving Paris the Empress visited the prisons for young criminals (at that for young girls she would go everywhere), and spoke to the poor children with great kindness, asking them the cause of their imprisonment, and giving them words of consolation. One told her that she was condemned for stealing apples. "What, in prison for an apple !" exclaimed the august lady, and turning round to a lady in her suite, "Who of us, I should like to know," said she," has not stolen apples?" The word was charming in the mouth of this graceful daughter of Eve. When on the point of leaving the prison her Majesty was told that one of the poor captives was dying; she iminediately insisted on seeing her, and, after bidding the poor girl to put her trust in God, she asked her if there was any wish she would like to see realized before dying. After receiving an answer from the poor pale lips, the Empress promised the girl that her desire should be realized. I have not heard what the wish was. But what has made our gracious sovereign very popular amongst the Turcos, now garrisoned in Paris, is, that she has hired two hundred of the best places nightly, at the theatre Porte St. Martin, for the African heroes, to see the very splendid fairy-pieee, in five acts and eighteen scenes, called "La Biche au Bois," which is now exhibiting not only naked legs but naked women to the delighted Parisians, who brave the heat for such a moral show. One cannot imagine what could induce the Empress to choose such a spectacle for these men, already too sensual; and all are to see it-such is her Majesty's pleasure. Of course we cannot help criticising the august taste, and much has been said about it by the common-sense public; indeed, the Attorney General Dupin (a senator) has just protested against such exhibitions, and has, without intending it--for he is too good a " courtier" for that-condemned this act of his sovereign in very strong terms. In a discourse delivered at the Senate-house in a secret committee the other day, when expatiating on the frightful extravagance of women, a

"La

The heat, I think, has made our police choleric, as they are seizing right and left a pamphlet by M. Tridon, that had been in circulation for more than a year, and which fell the other day into their claws. It is a political affair. Then comes "La Tribune Ouvrière," which shared the same fate; as also "Les Petites Comédies de l'Amour," by Mademoiselle Léonie Leblanc-an actress who is termed "hommes de lettres," and who deemed her inite necessary to the general corruption. The police also found an edition of "Les propos de Labienus" of M. Rogeard, translated into the Russian language above all others, at a bookseller's the other day. You may remember that this pamphlet is a violent attack against the imperial author of the "Life of Cæsar."

The divine Patti was married the other day, in some of the Parisian papers, to a journeyman jeweller. Who invented this canard no one knows: this is the sixth or seventh time the lady has been disposed of; it must take half her brother-in-law's time in writing to express his ire at such inventions. But what should we poor correspondents do in this time of dearth, if imaginations did not work in our behalf!

We have had two more balloon ascents, on an expedition of trial-one at Paris, the other at Lyon. The one at Paris was in the form of a hippopotamus, and carried machinery that was to make it go in whatever direction M. Delamarne (its inventor) chose. It started from the Luxembourg garden, and, in spite of a very soft wind, was obstinate, and would go its own way, which was not M. Delamarne's, and came down, without accident, at Vincennes. Α second attempt was as unsuccessfu!; however, paying spectators were very numerous, so that I dare say the chief object was attained by the adventurous aréonaute. Nadar had about the same success at Lyon. Godard soared up into the clouds, in his Mongolfierè, at night, in a village near Paris, and then gave us a splendid display of fireworks, of which one spark might have caused the loss of the balloon and man; but where is the pleasure, if man's life is not in danger? that is the pith of the thing. Godard came down again in the middle of Paris, on the Boulevard Prince Eugène, and received a regular ovation from the crowd.

was applauded there; so at last he was obliged to cease preaching and leave Vienna.

And now we are thinking of nothing but the fêtes promised us at Cherbourg, fêtes at which we expect that the Prince and Princess of The musical world was in great delight last Wales will assist. 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 announced.

Our journalists cannot let poor Listz alone: his last attitude before the public has evidently displeased them they relate a rather funny story apropos of his conversion. A German poet, Frederic Werner, a protestant, author of several comedies, was, like Listz, miraculously converted, after having been, like him, very worldly. L'Esprit Saint touched him one night, as by moonlight he saw the host carried out of the cathedral of Cologne to a dying person. Like Listz he went to Rome, entered the holy orders, and in 1815 obtained great success in the pulpit at Vienna. The diabolical director of the theatre there imagined to profit by Werner's great repute, so put his comedies on the stage, and the success was still greater for the author of comedies than for the priest. Werner was in despair, he thundered against the theatre; the more he thundered the more he

The village, Fontaine-les-Nonnes, is a very charming spot, where, once upon a time, before the Revolution, the Ladies Bénédictines reigned sovereigns; but one morning the nuns were turned out of their convent, their grounds sold, and their chapel turned into a stable. A little while ago the estate was purchased by a rich family, who immediately not only restored the chapel to public worship, but also embellished it, employing the best artists in Paris-Oudinot to paint the windows, Ary Scheffer's daughter to paint saints and angels, &c., &c. Then on the day fixed, guests were invited from Meaux and the surrounding châteaux, and also from Paris; the Archbishop of Meaux presided at the ceremony and the chapel was opened in the midst of crosses and banners, and Rossini's two beautiful pieces composed for the occasion. Au revoir, Your's truly,

S. A.

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, and stinging it through with varied sweetnesses.

BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.

"There it is, my child," said father. I think that his words fell into a little half dose into which I had dropped, for we had ridden at least twenty miles since we left the cars, at the little brown depôt by the side of the river. So, as it drew towards night, I was tired betwixt the car and the carriage ride, and a drowsy mist began stealing over me, as the mists did over the great mountains on the right, when iny father's words brought me back suddenly into a keen, strong life.

green

I sat up straight of a sudden, and looked out. My heart beat fast. I saw the blue vapour of the smoke as it rose slowly up through the trees, and a moment later, we dashed over the little brook bridge, and the house came in sight the gray house with the gainbrel roof, that I had never seen but that I had heard of so long, and often, that it seemed familiar as our

own.

A great house, wide and low, a little back from the road, with the plum trees in front, and the well-sweep on one side, and the old orchard

in my

This old country house, this old gray, gambrel roofed farm-house was the one where my father had been born, and I was coming home to it now ninth year, because almost the saddest thing which can happen in this world to a little dead! My mother, with her pale, sweet face, child, had come suddenly to me-my mother was and the soft brown hair that shaded it; my mother, with the tender smile about her lips, and the love in her deep blue eyes; my mother, whose sweet, tender voice seemed still to call to me softly, though I knew how dark, and cold, and silent was the grave where she lay!

So my father had brought me home to the old house where he was born, and to the old grandmother there, whose heart he knew held for me now the warmest place this side of heaven. We drove up to the gate, papa lifted me out swiftly, and carried me up the little gravel path into the great wide hall, and here she met ine-my grandmother.

I looked up into the wrinkled face of an old, old lady, in a black dress and a snowy cap, who

bent down and took me up suddenly, and kissed me, and then cried

"Oh, Edward, my boy' is this the child?" she sobbed.

"This is the child-the little motherless child," said my father, and then he went out suddenly without so much as shaking hands with her, and again my grandmother cried over me. And from that hour I loved her.

I felt at home at once, in the old house. I went through its wide, low, still rooms before it was dark. I followed the girl when she went out into the yard to call the chickens to supper. I saw her scatter the small corn like flakes of yellow snow amongst the great flock of chickens that crowded around her- I saw the boy driving the cows up from pasture, and I wanted to go out and see the little white calf inside the barn, but it was too late, they told me, and I must wait for another day.

When I entered the house again, somebody came out suddenly and caught me with a soft, tight, tender grasp

"Oh, my child, my dear child!" said a voice that seemed broken down with some grief and love, and then I was hugged and kissed, in a strange, eager way, fond as my mother's, and yet not just like hers either.

"Who are you?" I said, as soon as my amazement, which was almost fright, would let me find a word to say.

"Dear child, it is not likely that you have ever heard of me. I am your Aunt Miriam." "Oh, yes, I have-I know," and I looked up in her face with a great curiosity.

It was a very fair face, with something of my father in its features, only these were softer and more delicate. The eyes were brown, the hair was almost black. They said she was faded, that she had been beautiful in the dew and bloom of her youth. I thought she was so still, though there was some pain or grief over all her face-my Aunt Miriam's. Once, only once I had heard papa and mamma talking about her. I lay in the crib in their room, for I was ill, and they thought I was sleeping at the time. I heard papa telling mamma her story. She was younger than he, his pet and idol once, he said. But she had run off and married a bad man, "a great rascal," papa called him. She had deceived them all. After that he would never see her, never so much as speak her name. And I heard mamma plead for her, in that soft, sweet voice, which I felt must reach the heart of any man, but papa answered, sternly,

"Lucy, my wife, it is in vain. There is hardly anything in the world that I would'nt do for your dear sake, but Miriam deceived me onceI shall never trust her again."

I remembered all this, looking in my aunt's sweet, sad face, and I knew now why she had come forward to welcome me.

"I had a little girl once, Lucy, a year younger than you," she said, stroking my curls. "She lies now by the side of her father, as deep and as still as your mother lies!"

My aunt's words made me cry. Her husband

and her child were dead! I wondered if he was a bad man, as my father said, to the last. At that very moment I heard his voice calling me.

"Go, child, go," said my aunt, in a quick, frightened way. "Your father must not know

that I have seen you."

I could think of nothing but my poor, brokenhearted, solitary aunt, all the time we sat at supper. Iloved myfather, and I knew that I was doubly loved now that my mother was dead— the very apple of his eye, "the one precious gift of his lost Lucy." But I knew, too, that he was a stern, resolute man; that once offended or deceived, it was in vain to sue for pity or pardon from such as he. But I knew, too, that that stern nature had been softened by the death of my mother, and that now, if ever, was the time to reach it. My aunt was hungry and thirsty in her grief and loss, for the love and forgiveness of her brother.

In the morning my father would leave, and neither his mother or his sister had dared to tell him that she was in the house. I think some impulse had carried my aunt out of herself when she heard my voice in the farm-yard, and that in her great hunger for human love, she had rushed out and grasped me, and covered my face with her greedy kisses before she was aware of what she was doing.

I was somewhat afraid of my father, and yet he was tender and gentle to his one little girl as the fondest mother. Still the thought of Aunt Miriam's grieved face made me bold. Before supper was over, I made up my mind. When he drew back his chair from the table, I went to him and climbed his knee

"Papa," I said, "would you like to do something that would make me very happy?"

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To be sure I should, my darling, with your mother's eyes," and he held me tight, he hugged me close, as when she was alive even he had hardly done.

"Then come with me."

I slipped my hand into his. I led him through the wide hall, and into the back sitting-room. Aunt Miriam sat by the window in the twilight, and through the evening wind floated the strong, rich fragrance from the orchard, as though it were wafted from the spice islands that lie at slumber in eastern seas. It was not dark yet, and as she turned swiftly, the brother and the sister saw each other's faces.

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Miriam !" said my father, and he stood still. "Oh, Edward!" cried my aunt, and she, too, stood still.

Then I spoke, it seemed the time for me. "Her husband is dead, and her little girl, and she is all alone in the world. Oh, papa, I heard that day, when you thought I lay sound asleep in my crib, and mamma pleaded with you to forgive her. She cannot speak now from the grave where she lies so still, but I know she would say what I do now, if she stood here by your side, and because you would not answer her prayer in life, answer it after her death, and pity and forgive poor Aunt Miriam!" As the words 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"Miriam," he said, "you have heard the child. For her sake, and for the sake of her dead mother-come to me."

He put out his arms, and with a low cry, such as I never heard before, and such as I have not

he folded her once more to his heart. So there was peace betwixt the brother and sister, and this was the work that I did-the blessed work that angels might be glad over in the gray old house at my grandmother's.

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

LAURENCE STERNE. By Percy Fitzgerald., (London, 1864. 2 vols. 8vo.)

THE WORKS OF LAURENCE STERNE.(Edinburgh, 1803. 8 vols. 16mo.)

Lovers of humour cannot fail to be interested in the appearance of a Life of Sterne to fill the space in the literary biography of the eighteenth century, hitherto unoccupied except by a few pages of autobiography and two or three brief sketches.

The opportunity is favourable to attempt, with the light of the information which Mr. Fitzgerald's careful inquiry has elicited, an impartial estimate of one who, whatever may have been his shortcomings, has given to English literature two of its noblest as well as most delightful characters.

The Sternes were a respectable and wellconnected Yorkshire family, whose greatest name was that of Richard Sterne, a clergyman, who, persecuted by Cromwell, received at the Restoration the reward of his loyalty in the bishopric of Carlisle and speedy translation to the archepiscopal throne of York. A son of the | archbishop married the heiress of Elvington, an estate near the city of York; and of the six or seven children of this union, Roger, the Shandean's father, fared most ill. While one brother enjoyed the easy dignity of a country squire, while for another family influence smoothed a path in the church, and his sisters married well, Roger was sent to push his fortunes in the wars. He made several campaigns under Marlborough in the Low Countries, and there he married at Bouchain, on the 24th September, 1711, the widow Agnes Hebert or Herbert, the stepdaughter of an Irishman named Nuttle, a noted suttler, N. B., he was in debt to him," adds Sterne's autobiographical sketch, suggestively.

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The Peace of Utrecht caused the young ensign's regiment to be disbanded, and at this most unfortunate time, Laurence, his parent's second child, was born at Clonmel, in the south of Ireland, on 24th November, 1713. The kindness of Ensign Sterne's mother afforded the family a refuge at Elvington for ten months or more, until the regiment was reorganized

under Colonel Chudleigh. Their weary wanderings began again with a march to Dublin, from Dublin to Exeter, and back again to Dublin for a residence of three years. They lived there in a large house, and spent “a great deal of money," in imitation of the reckless extravagance around them. The Vigo Expedition separated the ensign from his family for a season, and brought back to us the Montero cap, and the story of brother Tom and his sausagemaking widow. Several years of garrison life in different parts of Ireland followed, relieved by the hospitality of relatives, whom they were so fortunate as to find, in two instances, estabblished in the vicinity of their quarters. Near Wicklow occurred Master Laury's fall under the water-wheel, and wonderful escape from death. While at Mullingar the little boy probably attended the school at Portarlington, close by, of Monsieur Lefevre, who had a son in the army. The recollections of these exiles, blossomed years afterward into the pathetic tale of the dying officer and his son, Uncle Toby's protegé.

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In 1727, Lieutenant Sterne, for he was now promoted, bade a final adieu to his wife and children, and accompanied his regiment to defend Gibraltar against the "Termagant of Spain." That duty accomplished, he sailed for Jamaica, where the yellow fever seized him, weakened as he was from the effect of a severe wound received in a duel which he had fought in a quarrel "about a goose," while at the Rock. He died March, 1731. My father," writes his son, was a little smart man, active to the last degree; most patient of fatigue and disappointment, of which it pleased God to give him full measure; he was in his temper somewhat rapid and hasty, but of a kindly, sweet disposition, void of all design, and so innocent in his own intentions that he suspected no one; so that you might have cheated him ten times a day if nine had not been sufficient for your purpose." (Works of Sterne, vol. 1, p. 11.) There is little doubt that this unfortunate officer suggested that brave soldier and guileless gentleman, my Uncle Toby; while from his Irish 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 same 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 we are acquainted through the memoirs of his wife.

Before his father's departure from Ireland, Laurence had been placed at the Halifax free grammar school, of which his uncle Richard, of Elvington, was one of the Governors. He was then eleven years old, and "must have brought with him learning sufficient to read English and to be promoted to the Accidence," according to the quaint provision of the char. ter. He must, therefore, have gotten over the preparatory stages at home-the "five years with a bib under his chin; four years in travelling from Chriscross row to Malachi; a year and ahalf in learning to write his own name. He was now to consume the seven long years and more TUTTO-ing at Greek and Latin. This was also the probation Mr. Shandy's son passed through." (Fitzgerald's Life of Sterne, vol. 1, p. 82). During the two years of the seven, the school was without regular masters, to which, if charitably inclined, we may impute Sterne's sad inaccuracies of spelling. An account of the lion of the season, which was published in the London Chronicle shortly after the appearance of "Tristram Shandy," and which has been attributed to the author himself, tells us that at Halifax "he would learn when he pleased, and not oftener than once a fortnight." One of his boyish tricks has been rescued from oblivion he climbed to the newly-whitewashed ceiling and wrote his name in large capitals, for which he was severely whipped" by an usher; but his master, seeing promise in the bright lad of "future preferment," forbade the letters to be erased.

Sterne received great kindness from his relatives at Elvington, and through their liberality he was sent to Jesus College, Cambridge, over which his great grandfather had once presided. The London Chronicle, to which reference has just been made, contributes the little information which we have of his student life. "At the University," says the sketch, "he spent the usual number of years, read a great deal, laughed more, and sometimes took the diversion of puzzling his tutors. He left Cambridge with the character of an odd man, who had no harm in him, and who had parts if he would use them." (Fitzgerald's Life of Sterne, vol. 1, p. 96). He was not, however, entirely idle, for he obtained a sizarship, and a scholarship which his ancestor had founded. He took his Bachelor's degree in January, 1736, and received ordination at the hands of the Bishop of Chester, August 20th, 1738. Uncle Jaques, the churchman of the family, a hot whig, whose unconditional loyalty to party was fast making him a considerable pluralist, now came to the rescue,

Sterne's unwillingness to continue his contributions to political papers, dried up this spring of preferment.

A hundred years ago, the county gentry resided in York in the winter, and balls, races, and assizes interrupted the monotony of a cathedral town. A witty young cleric, whose advancement seemed secure through family influence, could not fail to be received into society with favour; but with the susceptibility which was always to distinguish him, our Vicar soon wore the chains of a young Staffordshire lady, Miss Elizabeth Lumley, the daughter of the Rector of Bedal. His suit was not disdained, although narrowness of income enforced delay; for "the lap of the church was not covered with a fringed cushion, although not wholly naked." After a long visit in York, Miss Lumley returned home, and Sterne at once moved into the apartments which she had occupied. Fanny, a sympathizing maid-servant, who had waited on his mistress, proposed a little supper to cheer him. The memory of the " quiet and sentimental repasts" rose up before him. The moment she" began to spread the little table" his heart" fainted within" him. "One solitary plate, one knife, one fork, one glass," adds Mr. Sterne, in despair, taking an inventory of the table furniture. "I gave a thousand penetrating looks at the chair thou hadst so often graced, then laid down my knife and fork, and took out my handkerchief and clapped it across my face, and wept like a child. I do so at this very moment, my dear L.; for as I take up my pen my poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and tears are trickling down upon the paper as I trace the word L." (Fitzgerald's Life of Sterne, vol. 1, p. 138). "Miss L.'s" heart was not hard enough to resist such affection, and we find her again in York, although suffering from ill-health. "One evening that I was sitting by her," relates Mr. Sterne to their daughter, "with an almost broken heart to see her so ill, she said: 'My dear Laurey, I can never be yours, for I verily believe I have not long to live; but I have left you every shilling of my fortune'

and upon that she showed me her will. This generosity overpowered me. It pleased God that she recovered, and I married her in 1741.” (Sterne's Works, vol. 1, p. 13). The wedding day was Easter Monday, March 30th. Beside her own little property of forty pounds a year, Mrs. Sterne brought with her, through the kindness of " a friend in the South," the living of Stellington, two miles from Sutton, worth about as much more; so that the young couple were well provided for in times when the scale of charges at the fashionable watering-place of Harrowgate, where the united rental of the guests at one table alone sometimes amounted

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