"Un liard-un seul liard, Madame, pour le pauvre petit d'un autre pays," were the words addressed to me by a little Savoyard, who, with his marmotte closely clinging to his shoulder, and his hurdy-gurdy hung round his neck, raised his fine eyes, and looked in my face with that indescribable expression which spoke even more than the forcible appeal he had uttered-"Le pauvre petit d'un autre pays!" There was something so plaintive in his voice, something so pleasing in his countenance, and something so truly eloquent in the simple sentence in which he preferred his petition, that I could not avoid pausing to hear it repeated, and to give the best answer I was able to "the poor little one of a foreign land."

His words had the talismanic effect of transporting me in an instant to his native mountains of Savoy, where, perhaps, his parents, brothers, sisters, and playmates dwelt in tranquillity; while he, a little houseless wanderer, was desolate among thousands-with no friend but his marmotte.

His story was simple. When he was ten years old, and his brother Pierre twelve, their parents conld support

them no longer; so they gave to the one a marmotte, and to the other a hurdy-gurdy, and sent them to make their fortunes in "the fine countries, over the mountains far away." But his brother Pierre was “bien malade,” and he had borrowed the hurdy-gurdy hoping that by his music and his marmotte, he might make as much mo→ ney as when they both laboured together, so that Pierre would not be sorrowful as well as sick. He had travelled through France and Italy, and he could do better now if his music were new; but his music was old, and people liked monkies better than marmottes; there was, however, he assured me, no comparison between them-his marmotte was "si gentille et si sage," and loved him so much, and knew him in his native land. When he grew rich he was to return home to his parents, and live with them in Savoy: but he got little money now, and feared it would be a long time, as Pierre was "bien, bien malade." I asked the little foreigner's address, gave him a present for his sick brother, and left him gaily carolling one of the songs of his native land, as, with lightened step and sparkling eye, he trotted round the square. I caught some of the words of his simple ditty, and knew it to be one of those which the Savoyards teach their children, to prepare their minds for the wandering life to which they are so often destined.

1 ..

Pour gagner les pays beaux,
Les montagnes je trotte,

Mon pere m'a donner chapeau

Un habit, ma culotte,

Avec ma marmotte.

The next morning I resolved to visit the habitation of the mountain peasants, and accordingly took my way through bye-lanes and alleys, until I found myself in the miserable court in which the little Savoyard had told me he lodged. The houses on one side had been destroyed by fire, and the scorched window-frames, broken glass, and tottering appearance of those on the other, induced me to pause before I entered the open door of his dwelling; I found it was one of those houses which are let in nightly lodgings to such as can afford to pay but a few pence for the third or fourth portion of a wretched bed. In the room which the little mountaineers occupied, there were five or six of those miserably attired couches, and the smoke and dimness of the atmosphere prevented me at first from distinguishing my little friend. He had just given his brother some milk, and turning suddenly round, upset his porringer, and sprang forward with all the energy of his country, exclaiming, "Ah! c'est Madame!-It is the lady. Oh, quelle joie, Pierre! Je suis ravi-ç'est la dame qui m'a donné de l'argent.-Ah! I am so happy." The sick boy raised himself on his pallet, and with feeble voice expressed his gratitude, in good French. Little Jaques took down his jacket from the window, where it was pinned, to screen from his brother's eyes even the little light that entered, and when I was seated on a broken box, he rolled more tightly the rags that pillowed Pierre's head, and I discovered the marmotte peeping from under the rug, which formed the only covering for the invalid..

Jaques' face varied with continual expression: when

his eye rested on me, he laughed; when he looked at his brother, he wept; then kissed his marmotte. His mind and body were in perpetual motion. But the deep melancholy so strongly imprinted on Pierre's face, borrowed no light from his brother's smiles. His dark eyes were sunk and dim: his black hair was pushed from his finely formed brow, and the parting of his ashy lips over his white teeth, gave his countenance the appearance of death. His bony fingers appeared almost deprived of the power of motion, and the short breathing and suppressed cough soon made me certain that Pierre would never again see the blue mountains of Savoy-never relate his adventures to his aged parents, or carol gaily the cheerful songs which describe so pathetically the charms of home, and his native wilds. "Can I in any way alleviate your sufferings, or make you happier than you seem at present?" said I to Pierre. "Merci, Madame I am indeed grateful. Venez encore :-I cannot speak just now,-demain, si vous pouvez venir.”

I promised to see him again on the morrow, and I willingly performed my promise; for I felt a deep anxiety to soften and relieve the sufferings of those almost infant strangers. I found Pierre supported on his wretched couch by the aid of his hurdy-gurdy, the box, and the bundle of rags, and a smile of welcome was on his pallid cheek. "My young friend," said I, "I have provided you a home, and one of comfort. Say, Pierre, can you be happy where I intend to place you, until you are sufficiently recovered to return to your country, or to begin your

travelling again?" Pierre shook his head. but, for a moment, his eyes assumed that brilliancy which I knew was natural to them when he was happy and in health.

In reply to some other questions, which arose, I trust, from a better motive than mere curiosity, he informed me, in French, that his mother was from Berne, in Switzerland; "And here," he continued, drawing a Bible from under his ragged pillow, "is the book she brought from her native canton: it was her last gift to me. If I am able, Madam, I will tell you when she gave it. The evening before I left the little glen where our cottage stood, I was seated on a stone at the side of a stream, that in winter swells into a mountain torrent: it came trickling down the rocks that overshadow our abode, and my tears fell fast into its current, as my eyes fixed on the darkly frowning mountains that would soon separate me from all I loved dear on earth. Jaques had climbed up the rocks after his marmotte, who was lively enough then, for the poor thing had known no trouble; and little Ma delon was at the cottage-door sewing some cloth to make a case for my hurdy-gurdy. My mother came out, and seated herself on the stone at my side. Pierre, dear child, do not weep so,' she said: 'you are going from us to fine countries, where the people are all too good to suffer you to want; and the time will soon pass over, and you will return.' I hid my face in her bosom, and wept aloud. 'Here,' she continued, as she drew forth her Bible, you have read in this book how good it is for children to dwell together in unity. My mother gave me this blessed