great men whom his discriminating genius had selected from those multitudes who sought wealth and distinction in the dreadful scenes of the revolution, now directed the movements and policy of the French nation. Wonderful changes took place. Of the friends of the royal family, some were scattered through foreign lands, and others were hiding themselves in the suberbs of Paris, and the villages of the kingdoms, deprived of wealth and honors, and comforting themselves as well as they could, with faint hopes of future restoration to dignity.

To none was the reverse more painful than the Prince de Périgord. He belonged to a race whose wealth was as boundless as their pride, and his life had been passed in the presence of royalty, where he was ever a welcome and honored guest. Bound to the court by such ties, he became the conspicuous object of proscription. He remained in his palace until his life was threatened, and then, in sorrow and humiliation, left it for a humble dwelling, in a retired district of the city. He was now childless, for the heir of his name and title, resisting the commands of the new government, died within the walls of the Bastile. Of his remaining child, his reflections were bitter indeed. Sorrow had so softened his stern nature, that he could not but consider him the victim of cruel prejudices. Of his fate he knew nothing. Once he heard of him as buried in the shades of the Sorbonne; and again, that he had visited foreign lands; but his face he had never seen, since the day when he was driven from his home. It was then he found, nor for the first time, how fond and soothing was the attention of his faithful niece. Adéle was ever cheerful, her spirits ever buoyant. Her gentle voice was ever whispering hope and future happiness. Her soft hands smoothed the gray hairs upon his aged and furrowed brow. When she was near him, he forgot his grief, and to her guidance he entirely surrendered himself. She it was who warned him that the soldiers of the government were haunting his Chateau, and that instant flight alone could preserve him from destruction. How she discovered all this, the old man wondered; but upon the subject her lips were always sealed, and to his anxious inquiries she only replied with a laugh and a jest.

On the morning of the famous day above mentioned, the streets of Paris were thronged with citizens and soldiers. Strong patrolls of cavalry were constantly seen passing towards the court of the Louvre. The Cafes were thrown open, and crowded with numerous idlers in their holiday dress. Here might be seen a picturesque bivonac, and there the passage of a splendid cortége. The Boulevards, the Palais Royal, and all the places of public resort, were filled with crowds evidently expecting some uncom

mon occurrence.

The dwelling of the Prince de Périgord was in the Rue St. Méry. He lived alone with his niece, on the first floor of an

angular, old fashioned building. How different was his position now, from that on the night of the féte, when with his son hanging upon his arm, he was the proud entertainer of the noblest men in France!

The old man had just risen from his oaken arm chair, to look out upon the noisy bands constantly passing the window, when Adéle, simply but tastefully attired, came dancing into the room. Her raven tresses were braided, like a Grecian beauty's, over her white forehead. A Cashmere was negligently flung over a dress of fleecy whiteness. Her eyes sparkled like two bright gems. There was innocence, and health, and beauty. She wore the straw hat of a grisette, but it could not hide the brilliancy of her complexion-her fresh and indescribable loveliness.

"Uncle, uncle," she cried, "take your cane and hat, and let us walk to the Louvre; there will be a glorious sight there to-day. Napoleon is going to address the citizens; the troops will all be there, and the Empress is to appear in the court, with her children, and the Bishop of Autun is to bless the Emperor and his family!"

The old man sighed. "Adéle," he said, "would you have me gaze upon the triumphs of my enemies, and the pride of those who have driven their rightful king from his throne?"

"Nay, but uncle," she replied, "who knows whom we shall see there? Perhaps we shall meet some kind friend, who will recognize us, distressed as we are, and intercede with the Emperor for our pardon."

"No-no," returned the Prince, "there is not one left now, to succor the last offspring of the house of Périgord."

Again he sighed, for he thought of the child that was dead, and of him whose early prospects his own rashness had blighted.

"Now, father, do for this once consent, and oblige your Adéle." "My child-my dear, dear child-for you I will do any-every thing; your life has been embittered by my sorrow; I consent."

"I am grateful, indeed I am," said Adéle, "And I dreamed last night that something would come of this day's spectacle. I had a golden dream of a Palace and a long train of courtiers, gorgeously attired-a dream of luxury and magnificence. But come, here is your cloak, uncle. Now, do you hear the sound of the tocsin the loud roar of the cannon, and the shouts of the people? Oh! it will be a splendid sight!"

While Adéle was thus gaily giving loose to her ecstacies, she guided the old lord down the stone steps into the streets. It was nearly noon. The suberbs were mostly vacated; the vast mass of inhabitants were pressing onwards to the Louvre, to witness the consummation of their patriotic hopes.

The garden or plain behind the Louvre was destined to be the scene of the ceremony. The French troops, drawn up in order about the Court, presented the most remarkable specimen of military display in the world. A temporary balcony had been raised, spread with gorgeous and costly carpets, and decorated with the insignia of the Emperor, and illustrations commemorating his most distinguished victories. Upon it were erected a throne and fauteuils, for the Emperor and the illustrious members of his court, over which waved the Oriflamme-the national standardas much adored as though under its waving folds defeat were impossible.

The military then began to perform a series of complicated revolutions, a matter of but small pains to those who had learned their tactics at Austerlitz and Moscow.

There was a flourish of trumpets, and amid the acclamations of his subjects and the ringing bruit of artillery, the grand object of these preparations presented himself to the public eye. By his side walked the famous Bishop of Autun, arrayed in gorgeous pontifical robes, and bearing in his hand a golden cross. The Emperor had changed but little since the night at the palace of Périgord. If at all, his eye was brighter and more restless, and his form somewhat more compact; but there were the same compressed lips and tranquil features. The appearance of the Bishop of Autun was remarkable. He had the air and manners of a man of rank. His eye was unspeakably dark and penetrating. There was an habitual sneer upon his upper lip, which was full and voluptuous. His person was massive and apparently unwieldy, though in consequence of his priestly attire, its outline could not be well distingushied. But, save the expression of his eye, there was nothing to reveal the workings of his mind. His features seem to be moulded in bronze, so complete was their immobility.

He smiled exultingly as he addressed Napoleon.

"Sire! you have won the hearts of the French people."

The Emperor made no reply, but advancing to the edge of the Balcony, waved his hand to the multitude. At once silence reigned throughout the vast assemblage. All eyes were fastened upon the beloved form of the Conqueror; every ear was open and eager to catch the least sound of his voice.

"FRENCHMEN!

This is a glorious and patriotic spectacle; this day repays, more than repays me, for all my toils. The citizens of Paris, ever foremost in the discharge of their duty, have this day surpassed themselves. Frenchmen! behold the standard-the colors of France. It is to my Generals you owe it, that they now wave over the throne, spotless and unstained. It is to my Ministers you owe it, that justice is equally administered in France. To them your

gratitude is due. To-day the venerable Bishop of Autun will consecrate the alliance so publicly and solemnly celebrated.

"Vive la France! Vive la patrie!"

The air was rent with the shouts of the multitude. The cries -"Vive l'Empereur," and "Vive l'évêque d'Autun," were mingled together.

Adéle and her uncle had, with marvellous difficulty, succeeded in pressing near enough to distinguish the features of the different actors in the celebration. Boast as you will of sharp elbows, broad shoulders, fierce countenance and consummate impudence, for making their way through a crowd, but a beautiful womanas she can any where else there too will prevail. At any rate, Adéle did, but she had to encounter bold glances and sly winks, and listen to many a coarse though not ill meant jest.

"Voila! la belle soubrette!" "Ciel! cèst une ange!" and such like ejaculations were frequently repeated around her, and she gladly sought refuge among a bevy of fair dames whose lovely and tender forms, opposed an impervious barrier to the encroachments of the polite citizens.

She pointed out to her uncle those persons upon the Balcon, whose faces she knew, and the prince recognized among them many an associate in the days of his prosperity. He read in the face of Napoleon, the stern decision which condemned himself to obscurity, and his eye dwelt with glad relief upon the placid beauty of Josephine and Hortense, who stood just behind.

The Bishop of Autun advances; his countenance beams with sacred fire. He raises his eyes to Heaven and consecrates the union of the emperor and the people.

"Adèle !" murmurs the trembling prince; "whose is that voice that form ?"

She replies not.

He turns to look upon her. Tears stand in her eyes, but a smile is on her lip.

"Speak, girl!" he passionately exclaimed. "Is it a dream, or do the dead leave their graves, to reproach their living oppressors? Is it Is it

"Maurice!"

Mute and pale stands the prince. "Gaze on, old man, 'tis thy son-'tis Talleyrand-and as in the warmth of his zeal, he raises his robes, thou may'st discern the hated foot-the origin of thy unnatural persecution!"

His resolution is taken-hurriedly he starts forward. With difficulty Adèle succeeds in keeping by his side, for the frame of her uncle seems endowed with the energy of youth. The crowd give way before him. The soldiers gaze upon him, as though he were a mad man. He is at the foot of the stage; his straining eye is fixed upon the majestic form of his offspring.

Suddenly he extends his arms, and in a faint voice cries—“ My son!"

The Bishop starts and gazes intently upon the figure before him. A moment,—and the father and his child are clasped in a fond and mutual embrace.

"Pretty Adéle! art thou happy now?"

"Pardon, my dear son, for my cruel, cruel injustice !"

"My forgiveness is easily obtained; but there is another, more powerful than I, whose favor you must seek. Come with me, mon cher pére, and see how gracious a master I serve."

"Sire!" he continued, "you have often expressed a wish to reward me in some way, for what you consider my invaluable services. Here is the Prince de Périgord, who sues for pardon and protection. I myself will vouch for his loyalty.” "Granted as soon as asked," said the Emperor. "The Prince will recollect what a certain lieutenant prophesied twenty years ago. But stay-the people are wondering what all this may mean. Tell them, Eugene, that the good Bishop of Autun has found his father, and I shrewdly surmise," he added in a lower tone, "something dearer still."

The renewed vivats of the populace, announced their acquaintance with the source of this curious scene.

"And the Prince will remember, also, the prediction of the masked Bishop, when the real Bishop assures him, he has found his Revenge."

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF HENRY SHELDON COLLINS, A MEMBER OF THE SENIOR

CLASS, WHO WAS

AGED 20 YEARS.

DROWNED IN NEW HAVEN HARBOR, MARCH 9TH, 1839,

HEARD ye that moan? It was the dirge
Of ocean's deep and foaming surge,

O'er one whose bosom glowed

At yester-noon with youth's gay pride,
But o'er whose corse the evening tide,
With sullen murmur flowed.

Ye hear the billows' heavy swell-
Ye list as to a funeral knell,

With trembling lips and pale;
It moaneth long-still moaneth there;
It saddens music to despair,

With its deep muttered wail.