tenance, and a rosy-cheeked boy, whose face beamed with an innocent and joyous beauty, awoke him from his reverie. It now flashed upon him that the cottage had received new inmates; and as the children appeared, from their manner and dress, to belong to a class somewhat above that of peasants, he signified his respect for them, and intimated the purpose of his presence, by taking off his hat, and extending the hand which held it.

It was the beginning of autumn, and the children were regaling themselves with the first offerings of that delightful season. On seeing the suppliant posture of the aged mendicant, the little fellow, from a generous impulse of humanity, arose to present Owen with his portion of the fruit; and his sister, approving of his benevolent purpose, seconded his intentions by sustaining him on his toes as he strained to reach the poor man's hat. Owen blessed the lad with the pious unction of one who prized a blessing, and with a smile, which bespoke the breathings of his heart, declined the proffered donation. The generous contest brought to the door the mistress of the mansion; and on casting her eye upon the good-natured aspect of the mendicant, she approved of her son's charity, and as Owen still declined the fruit, she presented him with a more substantial offering.

The look and manner, no less than the fair eyes and beauteous countenance of the boy, riveted the poor man's attention. He gazed upon him with a benevolent rapture; and a tear of joy stood in his dimmed eye, as the child courted his caresses. He could have willingly forgotten his age, and descended to infantine familiarity, but, casting a look upon his worn garments, he gave a deep sigh, and, remembering the disadvantage of his condition, he once more blessed the smiling boy and departed.

In

The scene, however, had impressed itself deeply on his mind: he could not forget the cherub lad for whom he had obtested heaven; and he felt himself interested in the boy, without being exactly able to give any definite reason. his walks he was in the constant habit of looking upon children beaming with beauty, and joyous with superfluous health; but he had never met with one whose countenance gave such anticipations of future greatness as the rosycheeked boy of Vine Cottage. He retired to rest with the L. 37.1.

Q

image of the boy before him; he arose next morning, and the scene of yesterday was involuntarily recalled. Obeying a strong impulse, he stored the bag that hung by his side with such fruits as he had collected for the children of his patrons, and bent his footsteps towards the residence of the little stranger. The boy recognized him as he approached; and, perhaps, flattered by the commendations and caresses of the preceding day, betrayed his satisfaction in the haste in which he announced to his mother the presence of poor Owen, for they had already made themselves acquainted with his history, so far as it was known in the neighbourhood. Eager to remove from himself the imputation of having returned so speedily, from merceuary motives, he spread before the delighted children the contents of his bag, and, having witnessed the gladness with which they had been accepted, he took his departure. Day after day he paid a visit to Vine Cottage, and always for the same purpose-that of gladdening his aged eyes with the sight of happy innocence, and of contributing to the harmless indulgence of one of nature's choicest works-a manly boy.

During his first visits Mr. Wentworth, the tenant of the cottage, was not at home, and, when he returned, he did not view the partiality of poor Owen for his son with the same feelings of kindness as his wife had manifested. Misfortune had made him somewhat morose; the world, he thought, had wronged him; and, misanthropic from adversity, he was sceptical respecting the disinterestedness of individuals. Owen was a professed mendicant; and beggar and knave had long been, in Mr. Wentworth's vocabulary, synonymous. He neither understood his motives nor desired his visits: his child could not profit by his attentions; and to guard against the possible consequences he prohibited Owen from again ap proaching the cottage. His wife had long felt the necessity of acquiescing in her husband's determinations; and, on this occasion, she did not feel inclined to offer any opposition. Her little son missed the daily presence of the old man, and made one or two anxious inquiries respecting his absence, and then, with the privilege of childhood, turned to his toys and forgot his aged friend.

(To be concluded.)

SINGULAR SUPERSTITION.

FROM VICTOR HUGO's "DERNIERES JOURS D'UN CONDAMNE,"

TRANSLATED BY M. L. B.

An absurd thing then occurred to me. A man came to relieve my old gend'arme, whose hand-selfish ingrate as I am-I had not even pressed. Now, another replaced him, -a fellow with low forehead, buffalo eyes, and ungainly figure. Beyond this, I paid him little attention, but, with my back turned to the door, and seated before the stable, I endeavoured to cool my burning forehead with my hand, and many thoughts troubled my mind.

A light slap on my shoulder made me turn my head: I was alone with the new gend'arme who addressed me nearly in these words :--" Criminal, have you a good heart?"

"No!" said I,

The bluntness of my reply appeared to disconcert him, and with some hesitation he observed,-" Nobody is wicked for the pleasure of being so.'

"Why not?" I replied, "If you've only this to say to me, leave me, or come to the point at once.'

"Pardon me, criminal," he answered; "two words with you only; say, if you could make a poor man happy, and it cost you nothing, would you do it?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Are you come out of Bedlam? You've chosen a singular vessel from which to imbibe happiness.-I make anybody happy?"

He lowered his voice and assumed a mysterious air, which by no means detracted from his idiotic appearance.

"Yes, criminal! yes, happy! yes, fortunate! This you can make me, and thus: I am a poor gend'arme; the service is heavy, and the pay light; I am obliged to have a horse, and its keep ruins me. Now, to make up for it, I put into the lottery; one must have some calling, but even in this I cannot gain, unless I have good numbers. I have, by every means, sought sure ones, but I always fall short of the right by one; if I stake on 76, it turns up 77, and in vain have I continued to stake money on the same number, it never comes. Patience, if you please, I have nearly done. Now, * There are ninety numbers, four of which are drawn every month. Suppose you play upon No. 14, there are eighty-nine chances against

a favourable opportunity occurs to me. It seems, pardon me for naming it, criminal, that you are to die to-day; and it is certain that dead folks, who have perished as you will do, know all about the lottery beforehand. Will you promise, therefore, to come to-morrow evening (this is what you can do) and give me three numbers-three good ones- Hey? Peace I've no fear of apparitions, and this is my address, -Popincourt Tavern, staircase A, No. 26, at the end of the gallery. You'll know me again, wont you? But come this evening, if 'tis more convenient to you."

I should have scorned to answer the ideot, only a foolish hope just then crossed my mind; in a position desperate as was mine, a man sometimes fancies he could file a chain with a hair.

'Hearken," said I, playing a part as much as he could do, who is about to die, "I can indeed make you richer than a monarch, by the gain of millions, but only on one condition." He opened wide his stupid eyes.

"What? What?—Any thing to please you, criminal. "Instead of three numbers, I promise you four,-only change dresses with me."

"If it be only that," cried he, beginning to undo the top buttons of his uniform. I rose from my chair, observed all his movements, and my heart beat strongly, for I already beheld the doors open before the uniform of a gend'arme, and the square, the street, and the prison behind me.

But my man already wavered :-"Psha! said he, isn't it to leave this place?"

I saw that all was lost; but nevertheless ventured a last wild, useless effort.

"Do it," said I, "and your fortune is made!"

"Ah, well!-no!" he interposed, "think of my numbers, in order to make them good, you must be dead."

I sat down again dumbfoundered, and more utterly lost to hope than I had ever been.*

you. You may stake from one franc to any sum upon a number; if it comes out, you receive 250 times your stake.-M. Tarver.

This excerpt, from a work by the celebrated French novelist, Victor Hugo, appears in "Le Caméleon," a monthly periodical, edited by Mons. J. C. Tarver of Eton, a magazine which, with the great advantage of a marginal translation of idiomatic phrases, which no dictionary gives, we can cordially recommend to all French readers.

MRS. BILLINGTON.

"This lady made her debut in Dublin with Daly, and failed; she now accompanied her husband to Waterford, with a view of merely singing for benefits and at concerts. Billington was a pleasant and clever man, and I introduced him to the house of a great musical amateur in Waterford, to whom Mr. Rice had given me a letter. Cubit our singer I also took there; and as we were beginning to get up some difficult pieces of music, and wanted a female voice, Billington asked permission to bring his wife, whom till this moment no one had heard of.

"Young and lovely as she was then, I need hardly describe what was the impression she produced on our party, by a union of the most musical science with the greatest natural gift which the annals of English singing can boast of. Our astonishment was equal to our admiration; and the next day I told Vandermere, who went with me to Billington's lodgings, and heard her sing. There, without an instrument and in a low room, she pleased him sufficiently to obtain the immediate offer of an engagement; but her failure in Dublin had so discouraged her, that she was fully convinced at this period she should never succeed on the stage. The cause of failure being very obvious, (that timidity which people of genius at all times feel in their outset,) I volunteered my services to read to her one or two singing characters, as a means of inducing her to study them: my offer was cordially accepted; and but a few mornings had elapsed before she was not only perfect in the words, but the spirit of Rosetta and Clarissa. A stage-rehearsal was now resorted to, and she soon became au fait to the business.' On this acting groundwork, she collected confidence, and gave the manager leave to put her name in the bills. Her success at Waterford was equal to her deserts; yet, strange to say, at the conclusion of the season she was unprovided with an engagement; and Billington knowing my destination, came to me, to use my interest with Mr. Palmer in procuring him (only) a situation. I accordingly wrote to Bath, and received an answer that the arrangements for the orchestra had been long since completed, but that if Mr. Billington and wife