arabesques and appropriate devices that it seemed as if no postage-stamp amongst us all was worthy of being placed therein. Around the page on which we, of British origin, appeared, was a wreath, composed of the rose, shamrock, and thistle, while on the opposite page was an exquisite miniature - likeness of Queen Victoria, with the Royal arms of England placed beneath.

It was the most triumphant moment of my existence when I found myself fixed in so proud a position. What mattered to me now the mishaps I had enduredthe weary days that had been appointed to me, or the slights I had occasionally suffered? All had now fled away, like the unquiet visions of a troubled dream, and there remained alone the certainty of my present good fortune.

As soon as the album was complete, it was borne into the presence of Prince Dolgaroski, who expressed bis entire satisfaction with the result. When left alone, he began to turn over the leaves of the splendid volume, and passed some time in investigating its contents. More than once a deep sigh escaped his lips. Was it possible that he, so largely endowed with personal advantages-so rich in wealth and honours-should have a wish ungratified, or a care to trouble his thoughts?

He threw himself languidly on a damask coach, and glancing around upon the splendid apartment, murmured, halfaloud, "What does all this avail me while I am alone in the world?" Then, shading his eyes with one of his hands, he seemed for awhile to be lost in reverie. At length, looking up with a faint smile, he continued, "To-morrow I must try to know my fate."

On the following day, our album (for now I considered myself an integral part of the magnificent tome), placed within its case of crimson velvet, was borne away from the saloon by a domestic, and laid at the prince's side in his britska. It was a cold autumn day, and he was enveloped in a rich sable cloak, as he reclined in a corner, evidently buried in thought, while some inward perturbation of spirit was occasionally indicated by the restlessness of his attitude. The

carriage was borne along rapidly by four spirited horses, and after an hour or two of speedy travelling, the equipage drew up before the entrance of a spacious country mansion, within whose open portals appeared many domestics in and out of livery. The Prince soon learned that the lady of the mansion was out. "And the Countess Léonie, is she not at home?" he inquired of the mâitre d'hotel. Being answered in the affirmative, he sprang out of his carriage, ascended the long flight of steps leading to the vestibule, and preceded by two servants in rich liveries, passed through a long corridor, at the end of which, a pair of foldingdoors were opened, and we entered a spacious, lofty saloon. I use the word we advisedly, for the Prince bore in his hand the costly album wherein I occupied a place.

Near one of the windows, seated on a Turkish couch, with a small table by her side, on which lay books and flowers, was a young lady, who rose up with gentle dignity to receive her visitor. No ordinary person was the Countess Léonie, whom we were now approaching.

Her clear, olive complexion was set off by the soft radiance of her dark eyes, which were partially veiled by long drooping lashes, and her rich, sable locks were wreathed à la Grecque around her small, well-turned head. Her costume, though rich in texture and varied in hue, was full of elegant simplicity. In her aspect and manner there was a strange blending of Eastern languor with that graceful piquancy which often renders French ladies so fascinating and agreeable. In her reception of the Prince, it seemed as though she were perfectly self-possessed; and yet an occasional tremer might be detected in her voice when she replied to his inquiries after the health of her ladymother, and a few other observations on common-place topics. There was an evident constraint also in his manner, at the beginning of his visit, but he quickly regained courage and craved permission to place at her feet the magnificent postage stamp album, which he had brought for her inspection.

She blushed,-hesitated,-and then observed playfully that it was too exqui

"

"Well may you link it with the thought of Paradise," replied the Prince, “if it is allowed a place at your feet; would to heaven that I might be permitted to place myself there also, and thus share its bliss!"

"Léonie remained silent; but she did not frown on him who had thus intimated his devotion to her. A deeper blush kindled up her features as he pressed his lips upon her small jewelled fingers; and even while she gazed upon the illuminated pages of her album, the glance of her dark eyes rested timidly for a moment on him who had presented her with this costly token of his affection.

Gentle reader! I have no more adventures to relate. My lot is now fixed in a Russian palace, and my usual restingplace is on a small malachite table placed in the Princess Léonie's saloon; and amid the many splendid gifts she has received from her husband, on none does her eye rest more complacently than on the album which was the earliest offering of his love.

A truly palatial apartment is this aforenamed saloon, with its fine marble pillars, its costly mirrors, its rich damask hangings, its many graceful and artistic objects of vertu, combining within its noble limits the brilliant elegance of Parisian taste with the luxurious splendour of oriental magnificence.

What a contrast between my former and my present home! But alike in both are found kind and loving hearts; alike in both is she whose image I bear admired and revered; for it is a fact that even among the nations who are most opposed to the policy of England, and who most bitterly condemn her course of action, the domestic virtues of Queen Victoria win their esteem, and soften their feelings towards the nation over whom she so worthily reigns.

In conclusion, I have only to say that the lessons of patience and hope taught me in more adverse times are not now forgotten; and that I recommend the motto which was given me in my darkest hour for the adoption of my readers, be

LOUISA HALL.

LENTEN HYMN. THROUGH the minster's sounding pile, Transept old, and arched aisle,

No sweet tones of chant steal by;
No proud anthem soars on high;
But the ancient litany

Lifts its supplicating cry-
Echoes through the chancel shade;
Dies when mouldering banners fade.

Yes! and it is well. That song
Sweeps not from the choir along.
It is well that litany

Rises there so solemnly!
It is well the gaze is fraught
With unutterable thought.

It is well the faded cheek
Seems of penitence to speak.

But it doth not aught avail
That the cheek is damp and pale-
That the form is bended low,
That the eye has lost its glow,
That no choral hymn notes ring
Through the vast fane echoing-

That the Miserere prayer
Thrills upon the solemn air,

If the heart of hearts within
Be not weeping for its sin;

If it be not inly rent

Steeped in sorrow penitent.
Lord! before thy throne we bend!
Now let grief and comfort blend.

To thy mourning children turn;
Let thy wrath no longer burn.

Thou art merciful, O God!
And Thy sharpest, chastening rod
Falls, in love, to win the heart
From its idols vain to part.
Now we kneel before Thy shrine,
Melt us by a glance divine;

Now Thy blessed spirit give;
Now let true repentance live!
Teach us now to keep our fast,
With contrition for the past.

Fasting from our sinful ways,
Let us journey all our days.
Breathe a blessing ere we go;
Let thy peace our souls o'erflow.

Keep us humble, stayed on Thee,
Till we cross death's narrow sea.
E. J. E.-G.

Shaking his head,

The lightning gleamed on the damp-stained walls
And the broken marble floor,

As Martin entered the gloomy hall,
Passing under the doorway tall

Where lay the shattered door.

The dust lay thick on the staircase wide,
And the fungus rankly grew

Upon the hearth, and the ivy clung
To roof and wall, and its tendrils flung
The broken casement through.

But little cared Martin so long as he'd shelter

By degrees the song ceased,

On the neck of his beast

The reins were let fall by the slumbering priest,
And heedless and fearless of what may betide him,
He's borne where his mule and Dame Fortune may
guide him.

It's pleasant enough on a winter's night,

When curtains are drawn and the fire is bright,
To hear the plash of the driving rain
Beating against the window-pane,

But it's quite the reverse, I can safely assure ye,
To be out in a storm at the height of its fury,
With no chance of shelter beneath any sort of roof,
And without an umbrella, or even a waterproof;
Or, like Martin, to wake

In the midst of a brake,
Unknowing where you are, or which way you

should take,

While a storm rages round in a way really fearful,
Is not a look-out you'd denominate cheerful.

In this state of things Martin, 'tis needless to tell,
Having first lost his way, lost his temper as well,
And breaking a stick in
The wood, began kicking

His mule's sides, and gave him what boys call a licking.

Then, hoping the beast might by chance find the right way,

He rode through the forest-by no means a light

So, stabling his mule in a small antechamber,
Proceeded himself up the staircase to clamber,
And finding a chamber whose roof appeared water-
tight,

Muttering meanwhile, "What a horrible sort o' night!"

Lay down on the floor,

And quickly a snore

Began to mix up with the tempest's loud roar; And heedless of thunder or lightning and weather, He's snoring like all the Seven Sleepers together.

What is it rouses Martin, as from his slumber starting,

Upon his head's antipodes he sits and stares around?

Through the cobwebbed keyhole gleaming, a ray of light is streaming,

And on the monk's bewildered ears there comes a cheery sound

Of seng, and laugh, and merriment, and wine-cups' clinking sound,

Fit his senses to confound.

While the worthy priest sat staring, there came a lull the cheer in,

And then he heard a footstep approaching to his door,

And then there came a rapping, as of some one gently tapping

As if some one was tapping upon the bolted door; And a voice said, "Father Martin, if you please, unbolt the door."

Only that, and nothing more. Starting to his feet in fear, he, in accents far from cheery,

Asked, scarce above a whisper, who his visitant might be ;

But the voice in accents stronger, cried, "Hesitate no longer,

But open, Father Martin, or 'twill be the worse for thee;

Open at my master's bidding, and you'll see what you shall see.

Open, then, immediately!"

He opened the door, and a blaze of light
Dazzled the worthy father's sight,
Until, by dint of shading his eyes,
He was able to see, with vast surprise,
No apparition gaunt and grim,
Or shape of uncouth form and limb,
But a maiden dressed with remarkable taste,
With a very neat ankle and very small waist,
Who, curtseying low before the priest,
Prayed him to honour her master's feast,
The finishing touch to the mirth imparting
By the wished-for presence of Father Martin.

The priest bowed low as the maiden spoke-
So low, indeed, that it seemed a joke,'
But whether 'twas in politeness, or whether
Her pretty shoes of Morocco leather
Had caught his eye, or her ankles neat-
He looked remarkably close at her feet!
Then feeling for something his robe inside,
He followed her down the staircase wide.
Loudly rose the revellers' shout

As Martin, the priest, and his guide drew near; But he faltered not, though she looked back

With a smile that was more than half a sneer.
Gay were the guests in the brilliant hall-
Rich the banquet before them placed,
As the priest was led to an empty seat
That next the lord of the feast was placed.
Courteously spoke the stranger lord,
But Martin never returned a word,
For though he was all unused to fear,
He couldn't help feeling somewhat queer,
As he saw on the heads of host and guest,
In spite of the way their hair was dressed,
Two singular-looking knobs that rose

Just where the hair on the temples grows;
Servant, and gallant, and lovely dame,
It was all alike-they were all the same.
A lovely lady at Martin's side

To make him drink had vainly tried ;
But Martin's feelings conceive, if you're able,
When, glancing by chance beneath the table,
He saw, almost touching his own priestly jetty coats,
A tail that protruded from under her petticoats!
Too clearly he saw his position periculous -

He was sitting at supper with Ancient Nicholas !

Meanwhile the host had vainly pressed
Dainties and wine on his silent guest,
Till losing patience, at last he cried,
To the beautiful lady at Martin's side,

"He's as mute as a fish-just try your hand, Astarte,

At opening the mouth of this dreary old party."
Astarte to Martin once more gave the cup,
But he put it aside, and then slowly rose up,
Amidst shouts from the fiends, as they saw his
intention,

"Hear, hear! Bravo, Martin! Chair Order! Attention !"

And, though slightly bindered by chaff and joke, 'Twas thus the reverend father spoke :

"The wine shines bright in the golden cup

Which ye fain would have me quaff, But I pledge ye now in a liquor rare, Which is better than yours by half." From under his robe he drew a flask

Of water a Pope had blessed,

And sprinkled it round on the demon crew,
On servant, and host, and guest.

Oh, what a clamour then befell-
Shriek and howl, and groan and yell!

As the walls fell in, and the fiends flew out,
From the holy water sprinkled about.

Martin's brain reeled round,

He sank on the ground,

And by the road side next morning was found;
His tale he told,

And young and old

Admired the pluck of the father bold;

All but one scoffing heretic, for, as I understand, he Swore the bad spirits Martin saw, were all Brett's

British Brandy!

FLORIAN.

"LE COUP DE JARNAC."

A CHANSON OF FRANCE.

To Montmorenci's grassy plain

(Fair are the sunny fields of France) King Henri rides with a gallant train, (The sun shines bright on shield and lance) The banners wave, the lists are set,

(Merry it is in the tented field)

And the best and the bravest of France are met. (Knights can die, but never yield). Chateigneraye was as brave a knight (Noble birth claims noble deeds) As ever rode in thickest fight; (Honour to him who fights and bleeds) Once amid the whirling strife, (Minstrels love a warlike host) He saved the noble Jarnac's life. (Valour scorns its deeds to boast). But Chateigneraye spoke words in jest (Tongues slay more than warriors' swords) That rankled deep in Jarnac's breast; (What poignard sharp as sland'rous words?) Wrath brought hate, and hate brought blows, (Bitter the strife of former friends)

In mortal fray they now must close.
(Heaven itself the right defends.

The night before the combat fell,
(Careless of men the world goes round)
Chateigneraye had revelled well;
(Merry it is when goblets sound)
Jarnac spent the live-long night

(Chill and dark is midnight drear) In pious prayer and holy rite.

(The knights' best armour is constant prayer). King, and knights, and ladies sweet,

(Warlike deeds please lovely maids) Watch the foemen as they meet;

(Warriors love the clash of blades) The lark is singing in the height,

(Pleasant it is the woods to roam) But all unheard 'mid sounds of fight.

(Old men tell their tales at home). Chateigneraye showers blow on blow, (Valiant hearts are best defence) Yet foils him still his watchful foe; (Italy's sons are cunning of fence) "Well struck, Jarnac!" is the cry, (Strength must yield at last to skill) Falls his foe with severed'thigh,

(Coolest head must conquer still). Chateigneraye lies in bloody dust,

(Steadfast hearts can conquer fate) But Jarnac deals no mortal thrust: (Mercy softens sternest haste) "Sire," he cries, "his life is thine!" (Bravest hands will soonest hold) "Take thy friend-he once was mine," (Generous deeds outvalue gold). Leech's skill was vainly tried,

(Dames a wounded knight should tend) In fierce despair Chateigneraye died. (Haughty hearts will break, not bend) When knights of France their revels hold (Wine makes young the warrior hoar) The "Coup de Jarnac" still is told, (The tale is doue-the song is o'er).

FLORIAN.