Any оcks snail toss on the mountain air-
Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine;
She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare,
And warm thy veins with generous wine!

* Mon cœur, au lieu de sang, ne roule que des larmes. LAMARTINE.

And deep in the seething foam agai
Let every quivering oar be drowned!
We will rock on the ocean's solemn rell,

Or follow the charging music's mirth,

And the vine's bright blood shall crown the bowl That brims for us with the Life of Earth!

vealed the thought which had wrecked it. The name which had never passed his lips, since she who bore it ceased to be an inhabitant of earth, was now constantly repeated in tones which drew tears from eyes "unused to weep."

He was removed by his friends to a lunatic asylum. After a long and dangerous illness, his brain began gradually to resume its proper functions. Several relapses, however, were experienced, and it was not till the spring and summer had passed, that his mind was fully restored.

He then returned, feeble and wasted, to his native village. With the consent of his father, he took up his abode with the parents of the lost one, and occupied the chamber in which she breathed her last. He passed the days sitting in her chair, looking out upon the landscape which she had loved to gaze upon, and in reading the New Testament which had lain in her bosom.

For a few days his strength seemed to increase; but there was little to justify the hope of his friends that he would be restored to health.

The aged pastor visited him, and kindly inquired respecting the state of his soul toward God.

"He is too strong for me. I cannot contend with Him," replied the humbled sufferer.

"It is well for us to be convinced of that truth. It should lead us to acquaint ourselves with Him and

be at peace."

After some further inquiries and appropriate counsels, the pastor withdrew, strongly hoping that that chamber would be the scene of spiritual birth, and as strongly fearing that it was again to bear witness to the power of death.

The apparent improvement in the health of Carlton was of short continuance. Once only was he able to walk to the grave-yard, and rest upon the turf which was now green upon the grave of Eliza.

"Tell my father," said he, one day to the physician, who had not expressed his opinion upon the case, "that I shall not recover."

"Have you no desire to live?" said the pastor, who was present.

"I think I can say with her, 'Thy will be done.' I see that life is altogether a different thing from what I supposed. If it were God's will that I should continue here, I could perform as an hireling my day. But he excuses me, and I am content; though I have to regret that I have been of no benefit to my fellow men."

His departure was much more sudden than was expected. On going to his chamber in the morning, his friends found that his spirit had fled. Her New Testament was between his hands, which were clasped upon his bosom. Apparently he had passed away as gently as did the former owner of that precious volume.

"He that seeketh findeth! What a blessed assur

ance!"

THE breeze is blowing fresh and strong;
The rocking shallop chafes its chain,

And the billows are breaking in swells of song,
That call me forth to the deep again :

A fiery charger paws the sand;

A hound looks up with watching eye,

To scour the forest and valley land,

And bay with the winds on the mountain high!

Let horns be heard in the gray ravine,
And stormy songs from off the sea!
There's blood in my heart, where tears had been,*
And the blood of Youth is bold and free!
Leave, weary Soul, the hermit-lore

Which kept this arm from the Life of Earth-
Lie down to rest on the quiet shore,
While the dust, exulting, marches forth!
Thou hast wasted weak and pale, oh frame,
That once wert ruddy as the dawn!

But the Earth, thy mother, is filled with flame,
Whose sturdy warmth to thee has gone.
Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air-

Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine;
She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare,
And warm thy veins with generous wine!
*Mon cœur, au lieu de sang, ne roule que des larmes.
LAMARTINE.

Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power,
On the wild slopes of craggy hills;
Thou shalt bare thy breast to the arrowy shower,
And catch in thine arms the icy rills:
Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same,
When fevered cares in the spirit start,
As a pine, when the mountain is swathed in flame,
Keeps green and fresh in his spicy heart!

Thou shalt where the battle clarions blare,
go
With the fierce, heroic rage of old;
The lust of the soldier thy brow shall wear-
Thy heart shall swell like a banner's fold.
In the shrieking hail thou shalt stand, my frame,
Nor shrink from the path of thine arm's employ,
When the thews are steel and the veins are flame,
And Death to thee is a terrible joy!

Then, tighten the girth and loose the rein!
Unleash the keen, impatient hound,
And deep in the seething foam again
Let every quivering oar be drowned!
We will rock on the ocean's solemn rell,

Or follow the charging music's mirth,
And the vine's bright blood shall crown the bowl
That brims for us with the Life of Earth!

CHAPTER I.

means by which women can earn a livelihood in this detestable country. Now in France you might go into one of the shops kept by women, or make pastry in a confectionery. But in this country men monopolize all the labor, with the exception of sewing and

The appearance of the other woman was commonplace, but she had a frank and kind expression that redeemed her bad looks. They were both French; the blonde had evidently a Parisian air, whilst the other as evidently came from one of the provinces.

"Ah, Madame Eboli!" said the latter, "now that I am going to join my husband in New Orleans, what is to become of you? You must not stay in this tiresome Philadelphia, where the women have no grace, no tournure; and the men never wear a moustache! not even an imperial! It is not astonishing that I should be able to bear it, having been condemned from my earliest youth to a country-life, where I was sometimes compelled to bring myself in contact with such rusticity! But you who come from our dear Paris, what a blow to your feelings to be placed among these savages! What a horror!"

"My dear friend," returned Madame Eboli, "the world has of late altered in my eyes. The outward forms of men had once an effect on me; now, I see little beauty in even the finest features where there is no expression of sympathy for the unfortunate. As to remaining any longer in this city it is impossible. My funds had been exhausted two days previous to your sending me that last piece of sewing. I cannot get sufficient employment by my needle to support myself and Eleonore, and if I could I should fear the consequences. Bending over my work from early morning till late at night, makes me very ill. I have now a constant pain in my side. It is but nine months since I crossed the sea, when my poor husband died, and I wish to be near the sea, for then I do not seem so far away from him whose grave it is-"

"You are a good musician, can you not teach the piano or the guitar?"

"Ah, Madame Persaune! I have tried that, but no one would take lessons of a stranger. My garb was an evidence of my poverty, and in their eyes of my inefficiency; my face had the sufferings I have endured written upon it."

"It is true that the ground is occupied by those of high reputation and long standing, and I see no other

now and pack my trunks. God be with you and dear little Eleonore! You must accept this from me. God bless you!"

The good woman hurried away before Madame Eboli could speak. Her friend had left her a wellfilled purse. "There is money enough," thought she, "to take me to New York. In New York I shall find countrymen, and it may be friends. If I die, they will then take care of Eleonore."

"Dear mother, kiss me!" said the little three-yearold Eleonore.

"Yes, my child, and we will leave this place, and I will take my angel to New York, where I may find some old friends. My aunt thought of going there with my boy cousins. Were I only to see her dear face once more! She always loved me, and when I married poor Gustave and my father and mother cast me from them, she addressed me with words of kindness. Dear aunt!-and my sweet sister too. Alas! I shall never see her more. Dear sister Eugenie! so young and so beautiful. But come, Eleonore, bring thy doll; we will go to New York this very day."

The poor woman was too ill, however, to accomplish this, so it was put off till the following day. A good dinner gave her renewed strength, it being the first she had eaten for many weeks.

They were several days on the journey, and late on the afternoon of the day of their arrival, Madame Eboli, with her child in her arms, stopped at the door of a small house in Seventeenth street. By dint of gestures and broken English, the Irish, who were its inhabitants, were induced to relinquish a room to her. She had wandered the city through, until weary and way-worn, her feet refused her further support.

She sank on a bed exhausted with fatigue, anxiety, and want of food. Her child she had fed with cakes, and the little creature had fallen asleep, wearied by the excitement of the day.

Many and bitter were poor Madame Eboli's reflections. She cared little for herself, but she thought that her tender and beautiful Eleonore was without a home and without friends. Not a countryman had she seen that whole day, and she had been followed by the jeers of the rude and ignorant German and Irish who form our suburbs, and who felt no pity for the poor stranger who could not make herself understood.