bless me!" thought I, "when you come to see a real French village, and compare it with a scene representing one at a London theatre,-and then a STAGE RURAL BALLET Crossed my imagination-scene, a beautiful wooded country in France, with a cottage on one side; lively music; Mr. Gilbert comes on as a peasant, in a blue satin jacket with white silk sleeves, tight white breeches, and silk stockings, which prove that he has not been to plough that morning, at any rate,—he taps at the cottage door, and Miss Ballin looks out at the window, and, although it is just sunrise, she is up and dressed, with flowers in her hair, with a close-fitting velvet bodice, and gauze petticoat made very full, and quite enough bustle to keep up the interest of the ballet. He lifts up his leg as high as he possibly can, and asks her to be so obliging as to come down and dance with him. She says she has no particular objection, and leaves the window to descend the stairs, or ladder, which leads to her cock-loft. The swain now gathers a nosegay, all ready tied up; twirls round several times, to see that he is all right; hears the door of the cottage opening, trips across to give his bouquet to his love, when it is snatched by Miss Ballin's mother (Madame Simon, or old Barnes), who reprehends the conduct of Mr. Gilbert for coming a-courting at that time of day, tells him to go and work for his bread, and not be idling about there. The rustic swain asks the old lady to feel how terribly his heart beats; the mother informs Mr. Gilbert that his head is more likely to feel the beating.

Says he, at my heart I've a beating ;"
Says I," then take one at your back."-KENNY.

She drives him off, and then goes to market, this market being, in all probability, further than that of Covent Garden,-and, the cat away, the young folks intend (like the mice) to have some play. So Mr. Gilbert re-appears, and clapping his hands, eight of his young companions, Messieurs Heath, Sutton, Conway, Burdett, Jones, Northover, Hartland, and Simpson appear. All these are in such an independent state in happy France, that they are enabled to quit their village toil; and the most singular circumstance is, that all eight are accidentally attired exactly alike, with pink vests, straw hats, and light blue smalls, with a black stripe down the seam. (Of these youths the first named is about sixty years of age, and the latter approaching seventy-three, which renders it the more kind of them to come out and fatigue themselves at that time in the morning.) But there appears an excellent reason for this complaisance, because eight young female villagers also dressed alike, (excepting one unfortunate, who has mislaid her white silk shoes, and is obliged to venture out in black prunella, thereby disarranging the uniformity which is so pleasing in well-regulated hamlets,) come now to the rendezvous. Each youthful swain in a moment selects his partner,—and sweet is the love that meets return! Then all the sixteen point simultaneously to the cottage, and then touch their hearts and wedding-ring fingers, and then point to Mr. Gilbert, who shrugs his shoulders, extends his arms widely, and nods. At this period Miss Ballin runs from the cottage-door; Mr. Gilbert is approaching her, when she pretends to be bashful before so many witnesses; so, to hide her blushes, she fetches a spinning-wheel from the cottage, which will not, and never would revolve. Mr. Gilbert, not liking this move, gently leads the spinster forward, and asks her to take a little dance

with him. A pas de deux then is performed, the main point of which is to show that a villager may have very elegantly shaped legs. When this is over, the sixteen make a bungling sort of shuffling, forming a good contrast with the principals. Just at this very nick of time three more young ladies arrive, rather over-dressed for the inhabitants of a French village (the coryphées), Misses Froud, Lane, and Hall. They do not take the slightest notice of their assembled friends, but immediately begin to dance with their backs turned towards them, which is certainly anything but genteel behaviour. But what can you expect from rustics? At the conclusion of this, the old lady returns from market, and is naturally surprised and angry to find the young people kicking their heels about, instead of being at labour. After some threatening, and much entreaty, she forgives the enamoured pair; and Mr. Boulanger arrives most opportunely, as the baillie of the village, joins the hands of the youthful couple, who then dance a matrimonial pas de deux, without a single faux pas, and this sets the whole party off in a pas-generale."

'Now this is not holding the mirror up to nature; for nothing was ever seen in a French village that has a resemblance to this description. But I am rambling. Never mind-I am out on a ramble.

'Arrived in due time at the barriers of Paris. Diligence stopped, and examined by several gensdarmes. Thought of old England, and as to how I should feel if some of the dragoon guards were to poke their heads into a stage-coach at Mile-end turnpike. Comparison in favour of my own country. Frenchmen such tigers, they must have a military government.

'Drove to La Fitte and Company's bureau des diligences, surrounded by a host of chattering commissioners. The gensdarmes examining coats, luggage, parcels of all the passengers- very troublesome. The sandy-haired journalist whispered to me, "that the scene reminded him

forcibly of the notable event recorded in Genesis, of the confusion, and consequent dispersion, which took place amongst the confederated builders of the Tower of Babel, in the plain of Shinar." 'What the deuce did they think I had about me?'

THE MEETING OF THE DEAD.

It is said that, after twenty years, when Heloise was buried in the same grave as Abelard, he opened his arms to receive her corpse.

Twenty years!-a hermit lone,

Clad with moisture, girt with stone,
Earth, dim earth, above, around,
By dark roots of ivy.bound
Fir and cypress, bonds that coil
Through the slowly-yielding soil
As it swells to give them room
In their passage from the tomb,
Gathering life from that beneath
Which has drunk the dew of death.

Twenty years!-there came a voice
Piercing through this hideous shade,
Giving to my soul its choice

If 'twould be immortal made,
And above the stars rejoice;
Or if, shrunk, confined, and hid
By the heavy coffin lid,
Here it would abide, and dare
Pangs the frame immured must bear-
Loathsome tortures round it cast,
Fearful pains that ling'ring last,-
Stifling, wringing, pressing woes,
Knowing that they will not close
Till the lagging hour shall come
When once more the yawning tomb
Opes its cavern, foul and wide,
To receive a vestal bride.

Twenty years! I've waited well!
Here I chose, even here, to dwell,
Soul and body, in this cave;
Sentient, free, but yet a slave-
Yes, in faith, hope, power, still free,-
Slave to memory and to thee!

Thou liv'dst on-I knew the same
Spirit touch'd us with its flame,-

That the same bright fount supplied
Both our beings from its tide.
All I hoped, believed, and taught,
Lived and flourished in thy thought;
What was dim to others' sight,
Gleamed to thee as purest light.
Once I hoped I could not die,

Leaving thee to think alone,-
That each wondrous mystery

Must to each alike be known;
But my baffled human lore
Reached its goal, and knew no more.

Twenty years have lingered on,
And thou wert on earth-alone!
Every thought for ever mine,
In the cell or at the shrine;
Every feeling thrilling yet,
Such as neither could forget,
When our cloistered walls in vain
Held us both in parted pain.

Thou could'st live!-then not despair;
Such as hatred bade us share,
Penance, torture, varied ill,
None of these have power to kill;
Knowledge, science, skill, and power,
All we seek and toil to gain,
Leave but this, when all is o'er,
That our wisdom is in vain;
Passions, wishes, struggles, schemes,
Are but meteors-shadows--dreams.
Love alone, such love as ours,
Gives the soul unwonted powers,
Courage to survive all harm,
Patience and enduring calm;
Thou to live through life for me,
I to live in death for thee!

LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

Note. The man who, by his great qualities and his faults, by the boldness of his opinions, the brilliancy of his life, his innate passion for polemics, and the rarest talent of imparting instruction, contributed in the highest degree to cherish and disseminate a taste for study, and urge that intellectual movement from whence, in the thirteenth century, arose the university of Paris-that man was Pierre Abelard.

Wherever he appeared, an admiring crowd followed his footsteps; a desert, into which he withdrew, became the theatre of an immense auditory. He amazed the schools, he shook the church and the state; and, to add to the singular fame which he acquired, he was beautiful in person, a poet, and a musician. He was loved to adoration by one of the noblest and most exalted of her sex, who loved like St. Theresa, wrote like Seneca, and whose fascinations of mind were found irresistible even by St. Bernard himself, the adversary of Abelard.'

Ouvrages Inédits d'Abelard, par M. Victor Cousin.

Stanley dreams of Isabelle, with whose name Amelia thereby becomes acquainted. STANLEY had no sooner left the house than it struck him that he was bound by every charitable feeling to proceed without delay to the residence of Isabelle. And yet, where did she reside? How could he ascertain? He might perhaps from Madame Poupetier; but how extremely incorrect it would appear if he applied to her then. And if even he did apply, and the application were successful, he could not, with even the semblance of propriety, call at that hour upon Isabelle; and if he did call, and found that she had reached home in safety, he of course would be unable to see her to dissuade her from any desperate act she might contemplate. And if he found that she had not returned, what would he do then? Puzzled by the various promptings of prudence on the one hand, and inclination on the other, he walked to and fro in a state of irresolution the most absolute, until a cab drew towards him, when he entered it mechanically, and at once proceeded home.

Amelia, who would never retire until he returned, had for hours been waiting most anxiously for him. She had been in tears. She had endeavoured to believe that it was wrong to be sad, and that her grief had its origin in selfishness; still she could not help grieving; the tears would continue to flow. The very moment, however, Stanley returned, she hastened to remove everything indicative of sadness, and looked cheerful and happy, and smiled with her wonted sweetness. Nor was this hypocrisy. If even it had been, it might perhaps be held to have been venial; but it was not. She did feel happy on his return; her smile of gladness was sincere; and when she flew at once to meet and to embrace him, she but obeyed the impulse of her heart.

Have you passed a pleasant evening, my love?' she inquired. 'Yes-yes,' replied Stanley; 'very pleasant-considering that my Amelia was not with me.'

'You wish me to believe that you do not flatter?' said Amelia, with a playful expression. Well, well, I do believe it. Oh yes; if I did not, I should doubt your sincerity. But why are you not cheerful? I am with you now!'

'I only feel fatigued,' replied Stanley, passing his hand languidly over his eyes.

'You must be, I am sure. You shall have some refreshment, and then for a long sweet sleep.'

Stanley looked at Amelia, and drew a comparison between her and Isabelle, of which the result was unhappily in favour of the latter. Isabelle was more strikingly beautiful than Amelia. It would indeed have been impossible for her to have been more gentle, more elegant, or more amiable; but her features were more regular, she possessed more beauty, which has in all cases an undue influence when the comparison is merely superficial. This result, however, failed to make a deep impression then. The endearing fondness of Amelia, which was

ever most conspicuous when his spirits were most depressed, caused him to feel that he in reality possessed a jewel which could not be too highly valued. He became, therefore, speedily reconciled; and, after reproaching himself for having entertained for an instant a wish that he had not been married, he returned those endearments which had been lavished upon him by Amelia, and thus rendered her perfectly happy.

On retiring to rest, the effect of the excitement of the scene he had just quitted was that of inducing immediate sleep; but the circumstances connected with what he considered the chief feature of that scene effectually prevented his sleep being calm. He was haunted by Isabelle. In imagination he saw her before him ; now with a phial to her lips, then with a dagger at her heart, and anon upon the brink of a precipice, from which he tried to snatch her in vain. He seemed fixed to the earth-he could not stir. He called to her-she heeded him not. There she stood, looking more lovely than ever, in a position of imminent peril, while he had not the power to move a single step with the view of saving her from destruction. Again he called: she heard him, but shrieked, and disappeared. He felt himself fixed to the earth still; but presently a white mist arose from the gulf into which she had fallen, and when the wind had dispelled it, he saw her upon the verge of the precipice again. He now experienced the same feelings of terror as before, and again she dashed off, and again the mist restored her; yet so desperately intent upon destruction did she appear, that she dashed off again and again, but as often as she did so the mist reinstated her almost instantaneously upon the brink. She seemed unhurt; but his apprehensions for her safety were dreadful, and they increased every time she appeared. And thus throughout the night was he tortured, writhing to break his imaginary bonds, but finding himself utterly unable to move an inch towards her whom he panted to save.

In the morning, therefore, he did not feel greatly refreshed; but he rose at the usual hour, with a vivid recollection of all that he had in imagination seen, and reflected upon each circumstance as gravely as if the whole had in reality occurred. While engaged in these reflections, Amelia watched the peculiar expression of his countenance closely, and while at breakfast said, in a playful manner, 'Who is Isabelle ?'

Stanley started at the question, and the blood rushed to his cheeks as he echoed, Isabelle!-for he thought it very strange that Amelia should put such a question at such a time, and half suspected that some kind friend had informed her of certain circumstances, of which she might as well have been kept in ignorance. Isabelle!' he repeated. What Isabelle ?'

'Why, the Isabelle !-the little Isabelle !-the Isabelle whom you so often addressed in your sleep.'

'Oh! I recollect!' cried Stanley, smiling; for he really felt very much relieved. 'Isabelle !-I remember! Of course!-I suppose I must introduce you to little Isabelle. Oh! she is such a beautiful creature, if the vision be faithful.'

'The vision? But do you not know her?'

'Know her! Why, she is to be my second! The sweetest little dear you ever beheld! Such eyes!-such hair!-such ancles! And yet-no-her dress was too long; I did not see her ancles; but I am