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and went on; he then heard these words: They are all alike, without any compassion.' Turning round, he perceived an old woman with downcast looks holding out her hand towards him for alms. Any one but Piquillo would have noticed her grey dishrevelled hair, her palsied hand, and her pinched and fevered countenance; but he saw nothing of all this-another idea was in his mind-he recollected the day when he held out his hand in a similar manner in the streets of Pampeluna-the day when he was likely to die of hunger, when Juanita came to his assistance. "She is hungry likewise," said he; and not noticing the half-threatening, half-supplicating manner of the woman, gave her all he had about him. It was half a ducat! "A half ducat!" exclaimed the beggar, in raptures. "Thank you, my young sig. nor, thank you!" she added, with much emotion. Then suddenly she dropped down her arms, her manner became greatly depressed, and she muttered, in a half whisper, "No matter-it is not sufficient; it will not save her."

"Of whom are you speaking?"

"Of whom?" said the beggar-woman, wildly. "Of her, of my daughter, who is attacked with fever, and we shall be turned out of our little cabin, and she will die in the streets; and notwithstanding she would not ask charity, it is I who have sallied out to ask alms. It was but right for me to do so, since I am alone to blame. I have caused all the misfortune that has happened; and yet heaven can bear witness to the love I bore my child."

Piquillo was about to question her further, but she continued, with a wild laugh, "A half ducat given to me who have scattered them by handfuls! Half a ducat to us who owe so much. I ask if that be just."

"Hold your tongue, woman," said Pi. quillo, interrupting her. "I have nothing with me, now, but however I promise to do my best for you. Where is your dwelling?"

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True, our dwelling-that must be told quickly, for to-morrow we shall have none to talk about. It is situate in Fig-tree Street, at the house of the Jew Solomon, the dyer."

"And your own name?" "Ah! our name-do you wish to know our real name?"

See," said she to her adopted sister, "what follies my father commits in his fondness for me.'

""

"And here is what Piquillo and I intended to surprise you with," said Aixa, embracing her. "He was my counsellor, and I put his design into execution." She then displayed a Moorish dress, similar to her own, which she had ordered to be made unknown to Carmen, and which fitted her admirably. "But the hour approaches," exclaimed Aixa, gaily; 66 we have no time to lose." And then addressing Piquillo, "Recollect what I told you. I leave you to procure the band, to superintend the decorations of the sideboard, and to take the charge of providing the refreshments."

Her faithful servant promised to do her bidding so as to give satisfaction.

The

Already the sound of numerous carriage wheels was heard in the court-yard of the palace. All the élite of the nobility of Pampeluna and Navarre had flocked to the assembly, trying to outvie each other rather in the splendour and richness than in the elegance of their costumes. Silk dresses, covered with diamonds and loaded with gold embroidery, were everywhere displayed; and the spacious rooms, glittering with crystal lamps, offered the most singular and varied spectacle to the eye of the beholder. In the quadrilles were represented the costumes of the inhabitants of every part of the globe. viceroy, who was now quite in his glory, had hardly time to answer all the congratulations that he received on all sides. There was but one opinion as to the good taste, the originality, and the admirable regulations which prevailed at the fete. The same murmur of applause was heard simultaneously from each of the apartments, and the echoes reached even to the hall where Piquillo modestly remained unheeded by any one; and he, who had ordered all these marvellous arrangements, attentively contemplated the manner of their being carried into execution. Suddenly there was such a great movement, accompanied by boisterous applause, in the grand saloon, that Piquillo, giving way to a feeling of curiosity, approached the glass doors that opened into the larger room. This sensation had been created by the appearance of Carmen and Aixa, who, chaperoned by their partners, were led across the ball-room. In the midst of such a numerous display of heavy and tawdry dresses, the chaste and elegant costumes of these young ladies, which were in perfect keeping with their assumed characters, occasioned a cry of astonishment

accounts of successful adventurers who had risen to posts of the highest eminence. Might not that occur again? Aixa often told him that with courage and perseverance anything might be accomplished. He then arose, strutted along, filled with dreams of ambition, which a moment of calm reflection was quite sufficient to chase away and destroy. Thus he passed the night. (To be continued.)

Essay Writers and Style.

BY F. J. CAPE.

There is a species of cunning among the present periodical writers, very like the artifice of managers in giving effect to their stage scenery. The gaudy colours and tinselled finery of the one, by a skilful observance of light and distance, practise a similar deception on the superficial to that which is produced by the affected ease and mastery of effect, the suddenness of remark, and bold unlogical disposition of sentences, abounding in contrasts and commonplaces, so artfully made use of by the other.

The very masterpiece of style is the apparent want of any; and the beauty of sentiment consists altogether in a laborious unconsciousness of it. There is now much greater effort made to avoid the utterance of a moral, than was used by the essayists in Johnson's time to deduce one, when scarcely a wheelbarrow could be upset without some grave lecture on the instability of things immediately following upon

it.

This studied omission, however, by no means proves the present race of writers to be less regardful of their moral duties than were the "Spectators" and "Guardians" of former days; it is only a feature of style; for not until a few years past was the Shakespearian perception of sentiment properly appreciated and received, and which alone has taught us more truly to estimate the human heart, and develop its moralities, than all that the dull phlegmatics have done since the world was made. Yet this coyness of speaking out is to be deprecated, for although moral declamation is oftentimes mere cant, and betrays an alloy of insincerity at the bottom, the perniciousness of which is the greater from its very situation, still that mode of writing is a very dangerous one, which requires the moral to be conveyed covertly and in an indirect manner, since it gives the vicious an advantage they could never otherwise obtain, by being able to insinuate their

"Oh, nonsense," Mrs. Fum replies; you smell the apple-sauce;

If 'tisn't served with roasted goose, you know you're always cross.'

"Think not," he roared, "with apple-sauce your wedded lord to hum,"

As, trembling, from his hiding-place, he dragg'd poor little Thumb,

Who, being not enough a "stout gentleman" to dine,

Fum put him by as a bonne bouche, to nibble with his wine.

"He is," said he, "uncommon small; and nothing much to boast;

But still he may not eat amiss if served on butter'd toast."

Now as the "temperance" system folks didn't then adopt, The dinner-table under, old Fe-Fo-Fum soon dropt:

So little Thumb took courage, then, about the room to creep,

And at the snoring giant, too, he took a little peep; Then silently and slily did all softly make his way, To where he saw Fum's monstrous boots stand ready for next day;

into our libraries, from the difficulty of immediately detecting them in this newfangled and specious garb.

pair,

While Fee and Fo were their two names, that Fum so oft did swear.

Then he cut the giant's head off, which short doth cut the tale,

And apologised to Mrs. Fum, who was looking rather pale:

ruined his health, where the ex-usurer endeavoured, as far as possible, to be happy, and enjoy the ripe autumn of a long life. Used as he was to the bustle of Paris and of business, and still feeling all the anxious doubts with regard to his cash, kept on his premises, which used in his comptoir to assail him, Antoine would have been unable to bear the tediousness of a country

lish'd boots,

A circumstahce that to this day with many a boaster suits.

The Poor Artist.

A TALE OF MARSEILLES. BY THE EDITOR.

CHAPTER I.

A FAMILY DIFFERENCE.

"Two is company-three is none:" so says the adage; but, as is often the case, the adage is in error. There are occasions when certainly nothing can be more de lightful than for two people, of course of different sexes, to find themselves alone, and interchange all those sweet vows and soft nothings which make up the sumtotal of a declaration and an acceptance. But still, there is often a better number for enjoyment far than two. Even a pair of lovers are more at their ease-especially if the one who is generally considered de trop is a talkative and companionable person. The progress of flirtation is nowise stopped. As stolen kisses are said by the poet to possess additional charms, so we may reasonably suppose that furtive glances, and smiles given with some little shyness in them, have an additional zest arising from this very circumstance.

Less than two years before the memorable Three Days of July, there sat in one of the ancient houses of a French town, a trio of sufficiently remarkable character, or, at all events, of such importance in this narrative, as to require some description. The most prominent personage of the group was an old man, thin, spare, and rigid, but with sufficient of nature in his face to denote that age had not dried up every channel of sympathy, and made him utterly callous to the feelings of the younger and more buoyant beings; but that, though hardened and dried by time, a remnant of "long ago" still lingered round his heart the one green spot that smiled upon a dreary desert. Antoine Grummet was a rich old money-lender, who, having amassed great wealth by his transactions, and fattened upon the extravagance and wants of his fellows, had the good sense to retire to his native town ere the capital had quite

retreat a little merry laughing creature, that made his old empty house a little paradise. Marie La Tour was an orphan adopted by the usurer; and when he transferred his residence from Paris to a flourishing and healthy sea-port, the change was generally ascribed to her. Not that Marie disliked Paris-for what French girl fond of pleasure and amusement can do so?but Marie was deeply grateful to the old usurer for the kindness he had ever shown her; and, as the best evidence of her devotion to his interests, had persuaded him to leave Paris, and take possession of his father's mansion in the outskirts of the town of Marseilles. Here, with two domestics, the usurer dwelt: it was an old house-a very old house, with a large hall and rude stone staircases, with vast rooms and suites of rooms, few of which were occupied. A dreary old place it would have been but for Marie; but where she was there could no dullness dwell. A dear little Marie she was indeed; so merry, so jocund, so free from care-a perfect little angel of light in that darksome abode. At morn, her clear voice was heard carolling like a bird; all day, she busied herself about the garden, the dairy, or practising music in her own boudoir; then she would put her hat jauntily on her head-and a wicked little gipsy she looked in that hat!—and, summoning the old usurer from his study, where he read the daily journals, and watched therein the progress of commerce and trade, would hurry him out for a rural walk that would bring him home again with an appetite for dinner, which in Paris he had never known. During these walks, Antoine and Marie had for the last few weeks constantly met a pale, slender youth, whose dark moustache and peculiar features gave him the air of a countryman. He was always found in unfrequented and sequestered spots, where a scene of picturesque beauty afforded materials for the artist's pencil. If an old farm-house in a romantic situation lay anywhere within reach, there the pale youth was to be seen; if an aged and knarled tree rose frowning over a bosquet of younger growth, there the student of nature would often sit for hours wrapped in the practice of his art. If a ruined wall, covered with ivy, and affording shelter to the owl that hooted grimly at nightfall, lay on the outskirts,

it afforded sure work for days for the artist.

For some weeks the old man and Marie were interested spectators of his labours; but at length his pale face and silent occupation, pursued so patiently every day, so won upon the young girl, that Antoine was induced by her to accost him. The artist appearing gratified by their notice, conversation ensued, and it soon turned out that he was a young Englishman on his way to Italy, there to study his art. For reasons which he kept to himself he had been detained at Marseilles.

It was these three who, one winter evening, sat round the usurer's fire, enjoying the pleasure of sociality and converse, whose zest was heightened by the rough weather which prevailed without. It was a windy night: the blast blew in sharp fitful gusts round the house-the heavy rain pattered rudely against the windows of the large parlour; up the vast chimney could be heard the noise of the storm, as it rumbled over the roof and growled, and seemed to be rushing down to invade the blazing hearth where huge logs lay mouldering and blazing. On one side of this warm and pleasant fire-place sat the old man, opposite to him Edward Raymond, while between was the lively and lovely Marie, a trifle nearer to the artist than to the usurer, it seemed-but this may have been an error. Antoine spoke not much, the conversation being chiefly carried on between the young folks, who, in six weeks after their first meeting, had grown wonderfully intimate. The usurer had been pleased with the unassuming mildness of the Englishman; and he now every evening formed a welcome addition to their little circle.

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Come, sir," said Marie, gaily, after a slight pause in the dialogue, "my father is going to have his nap, so now for the chess. You beat me shamefully last night: I must have my revenge."

Edward Raymond cheerfully and readily assented; the board was moved by him between them, and the men placed. Marie played her pawn. For a few moments the game proceeded in silence.

"You must be very fond of your art," said the girl, thoughtfully, almost immediately forgetting her merry challenge, "for you are unwearied in your study of it."

"It is my profession," replied the young man, a faint tinge of red passing over his pale cheek; "on success in my art I depend for a livelihood. If I succeed, I shall be in comfort; if I fail, mademoiselle, I shall be a beggar."

This was said with a startling emphasis, and a wildness of manner, which half alarmed Marie, who gazed curiously and

with evident pain at the speaker. He continued-"We English are not all milords," he said bitterly; "I for one, though born and bred a gentleman, have nothing but my pencil to depend on."

"Then bow-"inquired Marie timidly, but her question was left unfinished. What she would have said seemed to her impertinent.

"I understand your question," said the artist, with a bitter smile; "you would ask how I live now that my efforts are vain as means of obtaining a livelihood. I live by robbing my widowed mother. Yes! start not, mademoiselle: I have a fond and devoted mother; she, out of an annuity, but a poor pittance for herself, gives me wherewith to travel and study. And I do study; day and night I am at my easel— a few years in Italy, and then perhaps I may be able to reward her who deprives herself of health and comfort to give me an honourable profession. Italy! yes, there I must go; I should be there now, but reasons have detained me in Marseilles

mad, foolish reasons, but still reasons.” Marie's eye fell before the young man's wild and impassioned glance, and anxious to change the subject, she spoke: "You will succeed, I doubt not, and live to reward your noble mother. Your industry and talents are sure to make way."

If hope brought not this illusion to my soul, I would enlist as a common soldier, and rid my mother of her burden. Having been bred a gentleman with expectations, I am, of course, fit for nothing."

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"But apart from your desire for success," continued the young French girl, you must love your art, for it is the study of the beautiful?"

"I love the beautiful and the good but too well," exclaimed the young man, his face paler than ever, while his lip quivered and his whole frame shook with emotion. "Yes, Marie, why did I ever see you? To me, a month since, my art was an adoration: success at the end of years was my calm hope. I was patient and content. Now I loathe my profession: I would be a vast speculator-a gambler-anything that might make me suddenly rich, and give me some claim to lay myself at your feet. Speak not, Marie: I love you-but I know the distance between a poor artist and the ward of a rich banker. Forgive me if I have dared to tell my love-I can bear this intimacy no longer. In telling my unspeakable affection, I bid you an eternal adieu. To-morrow I go to Italy; and all I ask is forgiveness and to be remembered in your prayers."

With a frenzied air that but ill bore out his assumed calmness, Edward Raymond rose as if to seek his hat. Marie had never lifted her head during his hurried declara