weakness." Then suddenly, and reading as he spoke, | government, wished to renounce the world, and emhe exclaimed, "But what means this? He refuses you, and proposes for you! Listen, my child. brace a monastic life, he was deterred by Marguerite, who observed to him, with that correctness of judgment which distinguished her, that the duty of kings did not lie in consulting their own repose, but in watching over that of their subjects; and Louis renounced his intention. After his death, which took place the 25th August, 1270, Marguerite retired into the convent of the nuns of St. Claire, which she had founded in the Faubourg St. Marcel, and died there in the year 1295. She had been the mother of eleven children. THE TWO BROTHERS. A PARABLE. Two brothers were in a field; the sky stretched "That means, uncle," said Mademoiselle de Bar, who had followed her cousin, unperceived, "that I am punished for my silly vanity; that Louis refuses me, believing me to be your daughter, and that Marguerite's goodness has prevailed over my beauty." Marguerite of Provence, married the 27th May, 1234, to Louis the Ninth, devoted herself to promote the happiness of her husband, and thus the felicity of both was complete. She accompanied Louis every-over head in all its vast and various beauty, and the where: fatigues, dangers, scenes of warfare, however repugnant to the feelings of the woman, were unable to daunt the love-inspired courage of the wife. In the expedition to Egypt, having remained at Damietta while the king was engaged in battle, the town was besieged by the Saracens. Marguerite learned that her husband was made prisoner; then, losing all hope of being delivered by him, she caused all her women to leave the apartment, and throwing herself at the feet of an old chevalier, a devoted servant of the King of France; she told him she would never rise till he had granted the favour she solicited of him. The old chevalier having given his word to do so. the queen added, shedding floods of tears, "My lord, what I implore of you, on the faith which you have plighted me, is this, that if Damietta is taken by the Saracens, you will plunge your sword into my breast, and let me not fall living into their hands." Upon which the chevalier, a worthy servant of this noble queen, simply replied, "I thought of it, madame." Three days after, she brought into the world a son named Tristan, on account of the melancholy circumstances attending his birth. While still suffering and confined to her bed, she heard that the garrison was about to surrender. She immediately sent for the principal instigators of the resolution, and spoke to them with so much wisdom and eloquence that she made them renounce a design which would have involved the ruin of the crusaders. Some days after this, a faithful servant of Louis the Ninth's succeeded in entering Damietta; he was not the bearer of any parchment, but he carried to the queen, as a gift from the king, a little flower, which, notwithstanding the length of its journey, was still as fresh as if just taken from the ground, with this word only engraved upon the bulb, "Espère," (Hope.) This flower was unknown to the queen, but it had been the bearer to her of so much happiness that she preserved it during her whole life. The following year, restored to her husband, to liberty, to tranquillity, to her country, she did not forget the little harbinger, whose rosy hues had been to her the first token of returning day amid that night of despondency and gloom. She planted the bulb of her flower in the earth, and soon saw it germinate, grow, and at last bear new red flowers; it was thus that the ranunculus was imported from Syria to France. When Louis the Ninth, enfeebled in health, exhausted by the fatigues of war, and wearied with grass beneath, of tender green, was jewelled with blossoms and redolent with fragrance. At one side of the field was a high brick wall of the neatest construction; the top was covered with a stone coping, and the surface was so even and so accurately laid out, that you could not detect the slightest variation in the size or projection of the bricks. The elder brother sat down and examined the wall; the younger roamed through the field and caught butterflies. There came a soft wind laden with the breath of odorous furze; it swept over the earth, and tall plants and feathery grass stood up to greet it for a moment, and then bowed before it in joyful homage. The younger bared his forehead and unclosed his lips, as if to quaff some rare and pleasant beverage; then he bent his head as the flowers had done, and did reverence to the kindly breeze as if in gratitude. But the air around the elder was quiet and scentless, for he sat in the shelter of the wall. From On the far seas lay a broad stripe of sunlight, and the edges quivered and sparkled as though every ripple were breaking into a shower of stars. the horizon came a boat with a single sail; white and shining was it in the distance as it caught the wandering sunbeams, but when it crossed that path of light it grew shadowy and sombre-just as the purest human soul seems dark when it is steeped in the lustre of divine truth. The younger stood still and gazed earnestly on the glowing sea and the shadowy boat; and his soul grew sad within him, for he longed for freedom and beauty, and though he was permitted to behold them, he might not as yet enjoy them. But his sorrow had a bliss in it which his sportiveness had never known. The elder saw not what his brother saw, for his eyes were fixed on the wall, and he had begun to count the bricks. There came a bird through the air, and it alighted on the stone coping of the wall. Then it spread its wings as though it would rather be sustained by the air than the earth, and began to sing a heavenly melody. There was unrest in its song, yet did it ever suggest a repose deeper than slumber-it filled the ear and the heart, and seemed to lift the soul on its high-soaring notes, only to leave it conscious, when they ceased, that it had not risen and could not rise as they did. It seemed to show at once that exertion was fruitless and inaction miserable, yet its voice was so beautiful that if it would have sounded for ever, life might have passed away like a dream in listening to it. But even its fullest cadences foreboded a close. The heart of the younger throbbed and swelled, and his eyes filled with burning tears. Hastily he brushed them away, that he might gaze more fixedly on the bird; he held his breath lest he Poetry. should lose a single note, yet could he scarcely enjoy In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of the Author, is them because he feared each might be the last. He stretched out his arms as though he would have embraced the bird, but he dared not stir a step lest his movement should startle it away. But the elder could not see it, though it was so close to him, for he had now looked at the wall so long that it seemed as if he could see nothing else. Over his face had stolen a solid but cheerful expression, as of a mind to which hopes, fears, and fancies, were alike unknown; tormented by no misgivings that there was aught real or valuable save that which it possessed itself. And his lips made so ceaseless a humming as he reckoned the number and calculated the size of the bricks, that the heavenly music was to him a harsh discord, and its place was not even supplied by the suggestiveness and solemnity of silence. Into the skies came a quiet star, and its light was peace, mild as a mother's eyes, reproving as the voice of the heart in a solitary churchyard. He who looked upon it grew first sorrowful and then holy, and this was the preparation for happiness. But the younger could not look upon it, for his gaze was on the bird, and the bird was beginning to rise, upborne by its waving wings. He sprang forward with a mad eagerness, and lo! he had forgotten the existence of the wall, and he stumbled and fell violently against it, and sank to the ground wounded and bleeding. Alas, poor lunatic!" said the elder, as he looked over his shoulder at the prostrate form, and then returned to the study of his bricks. The younger lay motionless in the soft grass,-his limbs were convulsed and his breast contracted with pain; and the voice of the bird was hushed, and his soul spoke to him through the silence and bade him despair. But the cool breeze which he had so loved still played upon his temples, and the clustering flowers pillowed his aching head, and the timid forget-me-not, dearest of all, looked on him with its blue child-eyes, as though it would comfort him. Nature pays ever love with love, and if her balms heal not, yet are they mighty to soothe. Above him shone the tranquil, unchanging star, and to this he lifted his straining and feeble eyes, till in gazing upon it, he had well-nigh forgotten his sufferings; and gradually there came into his heart the power of patience, which has this virtue, that as sorrows deepen it increases, so that if they should be deep and wide as the sea, they cannot avail to drown it. lay there, exhausted and mournful, but full of endurance, and not without hope. So he And the elder still stares upon his wall, and more and more vacant is the glassy shine of his soulless eyes,—more and more unmeaning the ceaseless smile upon his stony lips. Safe is he in the shadow of Ins wall, and beside its faultless precision the universe seems a chaos. But, one day, that wall shall fall upon him and crush him, and when it is gone there will be nothing left for him upon earth, but a lonely and miserable death. Reader, which of the brothers wouldst thou rather be? yet, is there not a way between? WHEN once enthusiasm has been turned into ridicule, everything is undone, except Money and Power. — Corinne. printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selections, it is printed in Italics at the end.] VILLAGE LYRICS. No. V. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER, W. BRAILSFORD. ALL the day, the summer day, Each fragrant bed of thyme; New treasures in the lime. All the day, the summer day, A little maiden sings; Never bird led life more gay, Or bee with laden wings. On her favourite bowers, She ever smiles and sings; Or grief with drooping wings. The wild bee wanders past, Each soft and gentle tone, Shall bring the evening chime; All the day, the summer day, Cling to the rose-leaves while you may, Yet sing, and may thy woman's song Aye glad the miller's home, And be your beauty through all showers THE HEART'S LESSON. A. H. T. MANY years must pass away Before the human heart The hour is come to part. Before the heart can seem, We do remember, in that hour, When lovely things are well-nigh gone, We turn to those whose steps have long The light within is gone. And voices, vet too dearly loved,- They are become so strangely cold, And we must learn at last, Back to the shining past. That golden world of ours, Those poor, long perished hours. THE SHADOW FROM THE VALLEY. THE child upon the mountain-side While the hush of purple evening But the valley lies afar, And the mountain is a slope of light, He looks athwart the forest, Where, like a shower of gems, Dance on the tawny stems; Awhile, the lingering glory Just gilds his wavy hair, Then Darkness, like an armèd man, And, with a wild Tu-whoo, -Ah! child, what canst thou do? Wring thy faint hands, and weep, Miscellaneous. "I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne. THE ASCENT OF MOUNT SINAI. "We were exactly two hours and twenty minutes in reaching the point of our destination; but we might have accomplished this task in a shorter time had we not ever and anon stopped to survey the interesting scene above and around us. The usual resting-places are at a spring of delicious water, about twenty minutes from the convent; the chapel of the Virgin, a small and plain oratory, commemorative, it is alleged, of a ridiculous miracle said to have been wrought by the Virgin in behalf of the monks, to deliver them from a formidable plague of vermin; a double gateway, formerly used as a confessional for the testing of pilgrims; and a small but agreeable wádí, extending across the mountain for about half an hour, and separating its northern and southern peaks, and in which are a well and cypress tree, and the chapel of Elijah, where, according to tradition, the prophet reposed when he fled from Jezebel. The steepest part of the mountain, perhaps, is between this place and the summit; and it usually occupies in the ascent about half an hour. The body of the mountain, like almost all the heights adjoining it, is of a deep red or flesh-coloured granite, the grains of felspar being net so large as in the Theban granite. At the highest point, however, it terminates in white granite, extremely fine in the grain, and containing comparatively few particles of hornblende or mica. It is thus literally, as well as poetically, the grey-topped Sinai' of Milton. A small sprinkling of the débris of porphyry or clay slate, or thin layer of the clay slate itself, resting upon the granite, is visible at one or two points as we go up. The mountain, when looked upon in the mass, appears to the eye almost entirely destitute of vegetation; but a good many plants and small bushes are discovered as you proceed over its surface. In some of the crevices and ravines we found patches of snow, the first on which Mr. Smith and I had trode for many years." HE that is most practical in Divine things, hath the purest and sincerest knowledge of them, and not he that is most dogmatical. Divinity, indeed, is a true efflux from the Eternal light, which, like the sunbeams, does not only enlighten, but heat and enliven; and, therefore, our Saviour hath in his Beatitudes connext Purity of heart with the Beatifical Vision.-Smith's Select Discourses. 1660. He that runs against Time, has an antagonist not subject to casualties.-Johnson. HE that wants true virtue in Heaven's logic is blind, and cannot see afar off.-Smith's Select Discourses. PRICH THREE HALF-PENCE. |