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FRANCIS HÜBER, AND HIS WIFE;

OR

THE STORY OF A BLIND NATURALIST.

HO has not known, on a hot July morning, the luxury of lying, full length, on the grass, under the cool shade of a tree, and doing nothing? As long as one can gaze undisturbed up into the azure heaven-listen, without effort, to the warbling overhead, and be occasionally fanned by the gentle summer breeze, bearing the sweet breath of flowers on its wing, the very existence itself (its past and future strifes forgotten) seems all we can desire in this world.

Alas! what trifles,' light as air, will upset this happy peace. A great big blue-bottle fly settles on one's nose; a leaf or blossom drops into one's eye; both are brushed impatiently away, in vain. The inclination to doze is gone; the train of reflection broken. One must find something to do, at last; even if it be only to disturb the neighbouring ant-hill, or pluck the very grass up by the root, each blade of which it has required a whole spring time to perfect. 'Satan finds mischief still, for idle hands to do,' suggests the bee as he buzzes past to dive into the next

cabbage rose. Very true; the words of an old writer recur to one's mind, Wise in their government, diligent and active in their employment, devoted to their young and to their queen, the bees read a lecture to mankind, that exemplifies their oriental name-Deburah, she that speaketh.' Perhaps some such thoughts as these flitted across the mind of young Francis Hüber, as he turned his head to follow the flight of the honey bee, which had roused his attention, as he lay extended one hot summer day on the green sward which skirted his father's house on the Lake of Geneva. The son of a scientific naturalist, he had early imbibed a taste for studying the history and habits of all animals, and especially insects. Unfortunately, his physical strength was not proportionate to the activity of his mind; and often did his enthusiasm in the pursuit of natural science, while still a boy, receive a check, in consequence of ill-health. His idleness at this moment itself was compulsory; and, therefore, the sigh with which he turned away from gazing after the bee, arose from no self-reproach. He was never voluntarily idle; he knew that. But, from the active little insect, his thoughts had flown to the absent friend and instructor, Bonnet, who, he knew, was climbing hill and dale to pursue his investigations into the nature which had such interesting tales to tell.

How willingly would he have been by his side, listening to his poetical illustrations of the Great Designer's wisdom, in the formation of the little worm, or busy emmet; how dull it seemed to be lying on the grass all alone, even with that noble hill

and glorious lake before him. Books he had, but he was forbidden to read them; he might sit out and enjoy the summer air; but the summer sun was his greatest enemy. Alas! stern necessity will oblige him to learn a lesson of patience as well as one of industry, from the bee; for there is more than one long dark hour in store for him!

So rapt was Francis Hüber in his self-reverie, that he heard not the gentle step of a young girl, who had climbed a neighbouring hedge, and was coming behind him. He had not at this time so entirely lost one sense, as to render the other particularly acute; but when a little hand touched his shoulder, and a sweet voice said 'Frank!' his face brightened immediately, with a sweet happy smile of recognition : 'I am come,' said Marie Aimée Lullin, 'to invite you to our excursion this evening on the lake: we are' all going-by water, as far as Dorf-to see the view, and shall return on foot. How I hope we shall be rather late; because the fire-flies will be out, and the wild briars smell so sweet in the evening air!'

The youth looked up and touched a green shade over his eyes; while the melancholy smile on his lips reminded her that neither view nor fire-fly would be seen by him. He added in words too, that he could neither add pleasure to the party, nor be of any use to them. He could scarcely grope his way about alone in the day-light, and at night he would only stumble over rock and stone as they returned. But Marie was not to be refused, 'I will lead you, Frank; the air will do you good; and then,' she added with womanly tact, if you cannot see, at least you can sing for us, and that will be so delightful on the water.'

And so Francis Hüber rose, and trusted to that gentle hand, which, from that moment was ever ready to guide and support him, not only in all their early rambles through wood and glade, but over the more rugged path of a life of darkness.

Without the help of his girlish playmate, and his future wife, Hüber, the distinguished naturalist, had never, perhaps, so thoroughly succeeded, as he has done, in throwing the light of science on the history of the most interesting of all the countless varieties of insects created by God's hand. But Marie's patience and perseverance were, from very early days, as inexhaustible as Hüber's own. Could she have foreseen how dearly they were both to pay for their enthusiasm in their favourite study, perhaps she might have arrested him in his eager investigations among the tiny objects of his admiration. She might have endeavoured to point out to him the serious consequences of a reckless straining of his mental powers, beyond his physical strength. But as long as her companionship was allowed him; as long as he was able to receive instruction and encouragement from Bonnet (the author of the Contemplation de la Nature'), Hüber scarcely felt the disadvantages arising from a weakened vision. The acquirement of any fresh scientific knowledge-the vista before him of the possibility of adding new discoveries to the little then really known respecting the busy favourite of our sunny gardens, seemed amply to repay him for all his labour. His ambition, too, of becoming a great naturalist, and being of some use in his generation, was early fired and kept alive by the contact of the learned and scientific men, who formed the

society of his native place. He was born at Geneva, on July 2, 1750, and was educated in the very centre of learning and science. It was not, therefore, until he entered his eighteenth year, when he first learnt that Marie Lullin's heart, as well as hand, were his, and that she joyfully accepted the post of his companion and guide to the very portals of the Valley of the Shadow' itself, that a sense of his increasing affliction came upon him in its full bitterness.

True as Marie's heart might be; warm as were her assurances of untiring love, she was yet bound by duty to consult the inclinations of others as well as her own. In her generous enthusiasm she saw no difference of position and fortune between Hüber and herself; and although her father was a Swiss magistrate and a wealthy man, she never doubted but that he would willingly consent that she should devote youth, money, life itself, if necessary, to secure the happiness of one she had loved from a child.

But she was mistaken. Older, if not wiser heads than her own, and hearts perhaps not less warm, could scarcely blame her parents for hesitating to ratify her choice, and make the young people happy by consenting to what seemed so imprudent a step for Marie's welfare. And so Francis and Marie must part for a time-and hoping against hope--the former would go to Paris, consult a well-known oculist, and, if necessary, submit to an operation.

Take your last fond look on that loved face-poor Frank; gaze your fill into those true eyes-for you will never again answer their trusting glance-never more rejoice in their bright look of welcome! The