tuitive: and according to the system which converts the callow down of the young ravens into their perfect plumage, it is to be inferred that Providence had also provided the well-fitting gingham gown and shapely prunella shoes and bonnet à la belle. Certain it was that Célestine, at two and twenty, lived alone, and took exceeding good care of herself; and not alone of herself, but of a certain Monsieur Gustave, a lawyer's clerk, who used to come and visit her every evening at dusk. Before I obtained this authentic information, I thought that the visitor at dusk was a duke in disguise; and him I might at least have attempted to supersede in her affections. But when I found that it was a lawyer's clerk pursuing an honest courtship "pour le bon motif,” (as Paris politely designates matrimony,) I felt that my motives were by no means to be spoken of with his. I no longer took pleasure in watching the lovely Célestine plait her frills, or quill her pélérines, in the well-fitting gingham gown; on the contrary, I took exceeding great pain. I was, nevertheless, always on the watch. I used to watch her watching for the arrival of Monsieur Gustave. Nay, I knew her delight to be so exquisite when her door opened and the well-known hand was laid upon her shoulder, that I took, at last, to watch for him myself, and even longed to communicate to her the interesting fact, when I discovered him, from my front-window, about to enter the court-yard, full three minutes and a half before she could . be apprised of it herself. Poor girl!-had I not known of his arrival, I should have guessed, by her heightened complexion, and the rapidity with which she dashed the flat-iron up and down, to the irreparable injury of many a flounce, the moment she caught the sound of his step upon the stairs! What would I have given to have been loved by Célestine as she loved that lawyer's clerk! My eyes were always upon them. To an ironer enfin a clear light is indispensable-and there were, consequently, no curtains to her room. I had a sort of curiosity (pour le bon motif) to ascertain the progress of such an attachment as theirs; and as I said before, it ended with my finding such an attachment indispensable to my happiness; not such an attachment, however, but that very identical attachment. There is no sort of folly a man will not commit when he is in love, even with a clear-starcher. As I could not make Célestine my love, I made her my washerwoman; and in order to increase the measure of my benefits, bought dozens of shirts loaded with dozens of frills-and dozens of dozens of pocket handkerchiefs, as if I had been suffering from dozens of influenzas and catarrhs. I determined to try her constancy by the amount of my weekly bill-not reflecting how dirty a fellow Célestine was entitled to think me, on finding that three dozens of shirts and six dozens of pocket-handkerchiefs a week scarcely sufficed me. It was only on hearing from my valet her observation, that since she was a laundress, she had never met with a gentleman who required so much keeping clean, I determined to pay her a visit, and not rely upon my pocket-handkerchiefs to officiate as billets-doux. How lovely she looked when I entered the room-presiding over half a dozen wash-tubs, each having its appropriate nymph or undine. I have little doubt that my six dozen had occasioned a necessity for an extra three or four; and never shall I forget the air of deference with which Célestine dried her hands from the suds-placed a chair for me -wiped it down with an apron which left soapy traces on the steamand awaited-my orders! At first, the warm humidity of the atmosphere delighted me. It was like living in a vapour bath, or a Sicilian climate. Even the saponaceous particles in the air revived me. I felt proud-I felt happy-I felt almost as great a man as the lawyer's clerk! For him, indeed, I had never seen the nimble fingers of Célestine wipe down a chair! Every day after that visit, the chair was set for me; though after the first, there was no further occasion for its de-saponification. Endless variety presented itself in the domestic life of the lovely clear-starcher which I might have vainly sought for in households of more aristocratic nature. The Duchess of Monday is the Duchess of Saturday; and from July to eternity, the monotonous propriety of the inane fashionable remains monotonously inane! But at Célestine's, one day did not certify another. There were the washing days-the drying days-the ironing days; and I soon began to take as much delight in the bright atmosphere and scorched emanations of the latter as in the moist vapour of the former. I tried all three in alternation. There was always something that required improving in the plaiting of my frills to demand my personal superintendence; and as the prudent lawyer's clerk wore, of course, no jabots-nay, perhaps restricted himself to dickies-I had so far the advantage over him. The ouvrières declared that they had never had so particular a gentleman under their irons as "Monsieur Gants de fil.” On the other hand, the moral existence of the piquante and charming Célestine was everything that the most fastidious man could exact. She required no bleaching fluid-she wanted no starch;-she was clear from spot as a lawn kerchief of her own washing! By degrees, as I had the gratification of seeing the lawyer's clerk less punctual in keeping his terms, I began to dream of the possibility of converting a clothes'-line into the silken tie of matrimony. As Simonides hath it Γυναικος ουδε χρημ' ανηρ ληίζεται and if Ma'mselle Célestine did not make me a matchless wife, at least she would make me an irreproachable laundress. I went on watching and watching-and Célestine washing and washing-and the course of true love for once ran smooth-ay, smooth as though it had been ironed! My new modes of life, though soap-orifically tranquil, rendered me the happiest of men, till one day, on the entrance of Mademoiselle Célestine's neat wicker basket, containing my half dozen dozen shirts and mouchoirs of supererogation, I detected a supercilious smile on the lips of my valet. Now, though a man may make up his mind to the desperate act of committing matrimony with a fair one of low degree (yet why not speak it out, since I did not marry her, and say boldly with a blanchisseuse de fin?) I could not make up my mind to be laughed at for my weakness by my valet de chambre. One can bear the sneers of the world-for the world lives at a distance-but the sneers of the fellow to whom one disburses wages once a quarter, come nearer home. Yet where was my remedy! If I dismissed the facetious rascal, his successor might prove equally jocose, and another, and another. foresaw a whole perspective of grinning footmen! How did I know, moreover, that this jocular fellow was not laughing at me more as a dupe than as a lover? Perhaps he was further behind the scenes than myself in this new edition of "Love in a Tub?" Perhaps he was aware that Célestine and the lawyer's clerk were in league to deceive me? Never did I feel more bored than when this suspicion entered my head. From that moment, the pungent aroma of soap became hateful to me, and the sight of starch, even in a grocer's window, made me turn blue. I was thoroughly in the suds! I have but one system of policy on such occasions. When anything or any one bores me, I take up my garments and flee. I always beat a retreat. If I get into any other species of scrape, I stay and fight it out; but there is no shame in running away from a woman. So, at least, I said to myself when (having fairly stared Monsieur Gustave out of the laundry, and instead of paying my court in his place, paid nothing but my weekly bills,) I ordered post-horses, and made the best of my way to Baden-Baden. To have come to any explanation with the lawyer's clerk would have been double derogation. I should have expected to find des bulles de Savon discharged at me, instead of des balles de pistolet. I therefore judged it best to place a distance of four hundred miles betwixt me and the bore of such an affair. That raven hair may blanch-that lofty brow But mine shall keep these perfect-mine shall throw Round thy sad failing age the hopes and power of youth. Thy path is now amid the bright and gay, Thyself so gay and bright; but change must come ; Then shalt thou know how deeply I have loved- THE OATH. BY THE BARONESS DE CALABRELLA. AT a later hour than usual one evening in the black and dreary month of November, lights were still to be seen in the humble Parsonage House, situated in the village of Tylehurst. The pious old curate, who had resided in it for more than half a century, had read the usual evening service to his grandchild and their only attendant, the latter had retired to rest, but the old man still lingered, and seemed anxious to retain his grand-daughter near him. He had that day heard that the home which had sheltered him for so many years was soon to become the abode of another. He had risen from his knees resigned, if not consoled; but as he looked on the little object of his fond and anxious love, the orphan girl bequeathed to him in her infancy by a dying son, and since cherished in his inmost heart as the living image of her lost father-as he beheld her eyes raised to his in anxious inquiry, and remembered that she also must go forth a houseless wanderer, the cup of sorrow overflowed, and, folding his loved Mary in his arms, he wept over her long and silently. The affectionate girl, who had never before seen her grandfather so affected, almost feared to ask the cause of his unwonted emotion, and with her arm fondly encircling his neck, she remained silent, while her tears mingled with his as they chased each other down his furrowed cheek. "We must go hence, my precious Mary-we must leave our home!" at length uttered the curate" and the flock I have so long guarded and watched over, till their joys and sorrows have become my own, will henceforth be tended by a stranger." "But why, grandfather-why must we go? Surely all here love you, and none would wish to part with you? What would have become of that poor boy who caused his parents so much sorrow, and then came home to die, hardened and unrepentant, if it had not been for your warning voice and pious counsel, which led him to see his error and turn to his Saviour for mercy? And what will become," continued she," of the poor old men and women who cannot, from their age and infirmities, go to church to hear the word of Godwho will read the Bible to them to comfort them under their afflictions, if you are going away? And where are we going?" added she, something of new-born pleasure springing up in her young mind at the prospect of change-a journey, perhaps and Mary's eyes became bright through her half-dried tears. "I cannot answer your questions, to-night, my child; to-morrow's dawn will, I hope, find me resigned to the will of Him who, with the trial, will doubtless give me strength to bear it. Good night, my Mary!" said he, as he fondly embraced the child of his tenderest love ere he released her from his arms and bid her seek her pillow. But Mary could not sleep; and soon after daylight, she was at the door of their nearest neighbour, to relate all she knew of her grandfather's affliction, and his assertion that they were to leave the Parsonage. Something of the kind had been whispered about in the village the evening before, and already had the parishioners determined to use their utmost endeavours to keep with them him who they styled their friend and father (such, indeed, had he been to one and all!) Mary's early visit confirming the previous rumour, it was soon spread abroad, and as it chanced to be market-day in the neighbouring town, a large assembly of the parishioners gathered together, and when the 'squire passed through their village, submitted to him their wishes, and besought him to aid them with his advice. As the cause of this dreaded change arose from the death of the late rector, and the promise of the bishop, in whose gift was the living, to bestow it on a young man, who, in his turn, had promised the cure held under it by the poor old curate to a friend of his own— the parishioners could only appeal to the new rector, or to the bishop of the diocese; and the latter being at hand, while the immediate residence of the former was unknown, they determined on signing a memorial, to be drawn up by the 'squire, importuning the bishop's interference, and beseeching him not to suffer the removal of the pious and worthy minister who had so long dwelt among them, and whose ministry had, for so many years, made them a happy and united flock. Not a signature was missing to this memorial;-the bed-ridden, the infirm, were supported while they affixed their names or their markthe young and helpless had their hands guided by their parents, who bid them pray for the success of their petition. When all was complete, the 'squire himself took it to the curate; and though the poor old man had known and felt himself beloved by his little flock, this proof of their faithful attachment nearly overcame the calm he had been struggling, by prayer and reflection, to re-establish in his usually placid mind; but when he found it the wish of his parishioners, and urged by the 'squire, that he should himself wait upon his bishop with this memorial, he felt that something was yet to be attempted for their good, and he prepared to set out, with his beloved Mary, on their journey-for though in reality but a short distance, and, in these days, coming within the denomination of a drive, it was, in the primitive years of which we are writing, considered a journey, especially for one who, like our curate, rarely passed the boundary of his parish. The Bishop of - was a man distinguished for his courteous and accessible habits as much as for his learning and piety. Our travellers were at once admitted to his presence, and the aged curate received with that kind and cordial warmth to which his years and known character entitled him. His story was soon told; and as the bishop's eye glanced rapidly over the rich tribute to his worth contained in the memorial he presented, his interest became greater, and his wish to befriend his petitioner increased. "My promise of this living," said his lordship," was long since given to the gentleman who has now so hurriedly appointed a curate to succeed you. I hope my influence with him may be sufficient to induce him to rescind the appointment, and that you may still be continued to watch over the flock on whom your ministry has evidently not been expended in vain. I will write this very day," added he, "and you shall know the result of my mediation as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, comfort yourself, my dear sir, with the hope that all will be well, and that the issue of this, as well as every other event, is in the hands of Him who knows best what is good for us." The aged pastor and his grand-daughter returned to their beloved parsonage-he with a faint hope that it might still afford a shelter to his remaining days, and she in all the freshness and innocence of happy youth, satisfied that the bishop, whose presence had been so imposing to her, could not be unsuccessful in his promised interference. |