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striking than ever. It forces itself upon us. We know as well as feel its power, and we admire her more and more, but do we love her as much? No, indeed, for that bend of the neck, that greater majesty of step, that haughty carriage of the finely-modelled head; ay, and more than all, that passing glance at the mirror tells us that she is changed, in other respects than those which meet the eye; that she is no longer the same at heart, that "know thyself," has been busy with her, and has been interpreted by flattery and by vanity; that amid a conscious world she too has become conscious of her charms, and her selfknowledge, and our perception of it goes far to blight the budding sympathy in our bosoms, and loosen the chain of attraction which bound us to her.

mounted into the air. The dust rose like a black cloud from the earth, and there was heard amidst it a wonderful noise of mingled whizzing, rushing, and clapping of wings. The small birds were soon, disheartened, and returned; and, of those who continued their upward flight, none could equal the eagle, who flew so high that he might have pecked at the sun. When he looked downwards, and saw himself so much above all the others, that his right to be king could not be disputed, he began to descend.

As he came near his rivals, they hailed him with "Thou art our king, none have flown as high as thou."

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Except me!" screamed the little fellow without a name, who had hidden himself under the eagle's breastfeathers; and as he spoke, he spread his untired wings, and ascended into the blue air, until he nearly reached the gates of heaven. "Then, folding close his plumage, he sank down to earth again, crying with his shrill voice,

"Thou our king!" said the birds, angrily; "through trick and cunning only hast thou become so!" and they determined on another mode of election, he should be king who could penetrate deepest into the earth.

And thus it is that sympathy and consciousness stand apart from each other, not perhaps because they are incompatible or opposing, so much as that the world has not yet found the way to reconcile affection and thought, reason and impulse; and it may be that it is better that" I am king! I am king!" it should be so, for it is well that our sympathies should endure, and that our knowledge should continually change. Were it otherwise than as it is, the cycle of life would seem to be incomplete, and that wise Providence which makes our feelings and affections the sum of our first and last joys, the bright rays of our childhood and the cheering gleams of our latest age, would be overthrown, and man, without a firm anchorage in his own soul by which to moor himself, would be driven from point to point of knowledge like a floating straw upon the great ocean of life, and, after reason had wrecked upon the shoal of age, be left without a haven of love and hope at last.



In olden times, every sound had meaning. The hammer of the smith cried, as it struck the anvil, "Beat it well! beat it well!" The carpenter's plane screamed, as it worked, "Shave it sheer!" And, when the wheel of the mill began to clatter, it called, "Help, my friend! help, my friend!" If the miller was a cheat, it would ask slowly, "Who is there? who is there?" and then answer fast, "The miller, the miller!" Presently it would cry loud and quick, "He steals well! he steals well! three pecks from the bushel!"

In those times, the birds also had a language which all understood, though some chirped it, some screamed or whistled it, and with others it was music without words. Now, they began to think that they had been too long without a chief, and they resolved to choose a king from among themselves. The lapwing only was against it. "He had lived free," he said, "and he would die free." He flew hither and thither, crying anxiously, "don't do it, don't do it!" and, at last, withdrew into a solitary and unfrequented fen, and showed himself no more among his former companions.

The others, however, assembled one fine May morning, from every wood and field, to settle the business. There came the eagle and the chaffinch, the owl and the crow, the lark and the sparrow; and even the cuckoo was there, with the hoopoe, his sacristan, so called because he always is heard a few days before the other. A very little bird, which had no name, was also seen in the throng. The hen, who had heard nothing of the cause of this great meeting, wondered exceedingly; she went about cackling incessantly," What, what, what is to do?" until the cock silenced her.

After some discussion, it was resolved that whichever should fly the highest should be elected king, and that the trial must be made that beautiful morning, so that no one hereafter might be able to say, "I could have flown higher, but night overtook me."

At the appointed signal, therefore, the whole assembly

How the goose then clapped and rubbed her broad breast against the ground! and how quickly the cock scratched a hole! The little one without a name, however, sought a mouse-hole, and slipping into it, screamed from within, "I am king! I am king!"

"Thou our king!" cried the birds, still more angry than before. "Dost thou think thy fraud will be endured?" Then they resolved to starve him in his hole, and the owl was appointed sentinel;-his life was to pay the penalty of the rogue's escape.

By this time it was evening, and the exertions of the day having wearied them all exceedingly, they retired with their wives and children, leaving the owl standing stiff at the entrance of the mouse-hole, with his great eyes staring fixedly in. But soon he also felt tired, and said to himself "I can surely take a nap with one eye, while the other watches the villain; he'll be safe enough." And so he shut one, and continued to stare unblinkingly at the hole with the other. The prisoner peeped out, and the sentinel was wide awake again instantly; he made a step forwards, and in went the little head. But when the owl once more resumed his nap, he forgot to leave one eye open; he closed both, and slept soundly. Then the poor fellow he guarded slipped joyfully away!

From that time the owl never dares to show himself by day; the other birds are so enraged at his breach of duty that they would tear every feather from him if they caught him. He therefore never stirs from home until dark, when he goes out to catch mice, which he hates because of their holes. Nor does the little bird willingly permit himself to be seen; he also fears for his life. He slips along in the hedges, and sometimes, when so securely hidden that none can see him or reach him, he cries, "I am king! I am king!" and the great birds call him, in mockery, the "Hedge-King.”


To be left alone in the wide world, with scarcely a friend-this makes the sadness which, striking its pang into the minds of the young and the affectionate, teaches them too soon to watch and interpret the spirit-signs of their own hearts-the solitude of the aged-when, one by one, their friends fall off, as fall the sere leaves from the trees in autumn. What is it to the overpowering sense of desolation which fills almost to breaking the sensitive heart of youth, when the nearest and dearest ties are severed? Rendered callous by time and suffering the old feel less, although they complain more; the young, "bearing a grief too deep for tears," shrine in their bosoms sad memories and melancholy anticipations which often give dark hues to their feelings in after life.



How seldom we dream of the mariners' graves,
Far down by the coral strand;

How little we think of the winds and waves,
When all we love are on land.

The hurricane comes and the hurricane goes,
And little the heed we take,

Though the tree may snap as the tempest blows,
And the walls of our homestead shake.
But the north-east gale tells a different tale,
With a voice of fearful sound,

When a loved one is under a close-reefed sail,
On the deck of an "outward bound."

How wistfully then we look on the night,
As the threatening clouds go by-

As the wind gets up and the last faint light
Is dying away in the sky.

How we listen and gaze with a silent lip,
And judge by the bending tree,

How the same wild gust must toss the ship,
And arouse the mighty sea.

Ah, sadly then do we meet the day,
When the signs of storm are found,
And pray for the loved one far away,

On the deck of an "outward bound!"

There is one that I cherished when hand in hand
We roved o'er lowland and lea;
And I thought my love for that one on the land
Was as earnest as love could be.

But now that one has gone out on the tide,
I find that I worship the more;

And I think of the waters deep and wide,

As I bask on the flowers on shore.

I have watched the wind, I have watched the stars, And shrunk from the tempest sound;

For my heart-strings are wreath'd with the slender spars

That carry the "outward bound."

I have slept when the zephyr forgot to creep,
And the sky was without a frown,

But I started soon from that fretful sleep,
With the dream of a ship going down.

I have sat in the field when the corn was in shock,
And the reaper's hook was bright,
But my fancy conjured the breaker and rock,
In the dead of a moonless night.
Oh! I never will measure affection again,
While treading earth's flowery mound,
But wait till the loved one is far on the main,
On the deck of an "outward bound."




sundry misgivings. We walked across the bridge of boats to Cassel, and there we hailed the driver of one of the numerous calèches there waiting to be hired for similar excursions. Man, cabriolet, and a pair of horses for the day for eight shillings!-this was moderate enough. So we drove off.

The country for some miles was rather flat and not very picturesque, until we got within a few miles of Wisbaden, when it became very lovely-varied by hill and dale, many snug gentlemen's residences seated here and there on the most favoured spots. As we drove into the town, it seemed full of life and bustle. Numbers of carriages unharnessed were ranged in front of the hotels, and the inn-yards were full of them. These were from Frankfort and Mayence, Wisbaden being one of the favourite Sunday drives from these towns, and about an equal distance from both. The streets were full of loungers; the bazaars were all open, and their fancy wares laid out to the best advantage. Some of the stalls under the colonnades displayed very magnificent specimens of Bohemian glass manufacture; and pipes, meerschaums, jewels, cutlery, pictures, confectionaries, toys, baskets, and other kinds of light wares, with furs, millinery, silks, and all manner of dress stuffs, lay exposed in every direction. Our female friend lifted up her eyes at this Sabbath enormity, and every moment we expected her to exclaim, like Bailie Nicol Jarvie, "Ma conscience! saw ye e'er the like o' that?" But we passed on to the Kur Saal, which seemed to be the centre towards which the loungers were converging. It is the principal building in Wisbaden-the great public room of the place; occupying the side of a large square-and opposite it stand the theatre and the chief hotel of the town.

We found the immense hall full of loungers and gamblers. Gaming-tables stood in various parts of the saloon, round which were many gazers, and others deeply engaged in play. Piles of gold and silver lay on the table; the money being staked, and lost or won alternately. At one table sat a highly-dressed lady, who, I was told, was an Englishwoman of title; and by her side stood an elderly woman, in the peasant garb of the country-coarse blue cloth jacket, homely quilted blue petticoat, and linen cap with a close crown; her face was bronzed by exposure to the sun; she was anxious and haggard-looking, though like the rest she tried to put on an air of assumed indifference to the game. She only staked silver pieces-two or three dollars at a time; but her eye watched as anxiously the course of the ball, and her ear listened as eagerly to its sharp click as it dropt into its cavity, as if she had placed as many Frederics d'or on her number. No talk nor playful chatter went on, and not a sound was heard save the coursing of the little ivory ball, and the abrupt cry of the counter of the number "rouge" or "noir," as it stopt on its rounds. It was a painful study to mark the features of the gamblers as their piles of gold and silver diminished and increased by turns. There was no skill in the game, it was sheer gambling-desperate chance. The Bailie's daughter was horribly shocked, as she might well be, and insisted on leaving the place instantly and returning to Mayence. But there were the poor horses to be rested, at all events, and she submitted to stay until after dinner at least.

We proceeded to make the circuit of the side rooms apart from the grand hall, and we found those, too, all ONE Sunday morning, in August, I joined a party from occupied by gaming tables surrounded by gamblers, appaMayence to Wisbaden for the day. We were four in all, rently of all ranks, though at some tables the game was two consisting of a London tradesman and his lady, who much deeper than at others. The gamblers were of we afterwards ascertained was the daughter of a Glasgow both sexes, of all countries, and of nearly all ages, from Bailie; she was rather shocked at first at the idea of a boyhood upwards. There were some disgusting old Sunday drive, being accustomed regularly to frequent the women there-high-bred ladies though they might be Scotch Church at home; but it was dull work sitting all who seemed the greatest desperadoes of all. And their: day in a German hotel, and, at length, by the persuasion husbands, too!-not mere roues, ruined spendthrifts, and! of her husband, who was determined to make the most of broken-down men-about-town, but Englishmen of title' his short tour, she consented to join us, but not without and property, Russian nobles, German merchants, count

ing-house clerks from Frankfort- many desperadoes, doubtless-but a larger number of arrant fools, eager for money won by the toss of an ivory ball, and hazarding name, fortune, character, and everything in the venture. The devil was surely rampant here, if anywhere on earth. But the Duke of Nassau, to whom the Kur Saal belongs, finds his own profit in the gambling-house; and so it goes forward under ducal patronage.

The grand saloon was, however, cleared of the gambling tables for dinner, and we sauntered out into the gardens behind the place, which were thronged with company. We had no desire to drink the chicken-broth mineral water, which has given to Wisbaden its reputation; and the steam of which rises up out of the ground all about the town. We returned to the saloon where the tables were now laid, and sat down with above 300 to dinner. The sight of so large a number of gaily-dressed people was very fine, and the dinner was of first-rate excellence. But the manner of serving was quite new. I suppose it is called the Russian fashion. No dish was placed on the table, but each, cut into portions, was handed round, from which the diner selected what he chose. The order also was heterogeneous-first soup, then some kind of devilled fowl, then cutlet, then fish, then roast meat, then little raw salt sprats, then pancake (or something resembling it), after that roast veal, and a whole farrago of other dishes with most unpronounceable The kellers, or waiters, bustled about briskly, and there was no want of attendance, so that the dinner passed off well.


After wine, the tables were cleared. Some of the company proceeded to the gardens, others to promenade the bazaars, and the gamblers again set to work at rouge et noir, the tables being wheeled back into the saloon for their accommodation. The atmosphere of the rooms being found too diabolically impure for our fair friend, we strolled for an hour in the garden, until about four o'clock, when the musicians proceeded to lay out their music in the orchestra, which excited her ire more even than the gambling; and so we were hurried out of the place, back to our inn, the horses were brought out, and we were wheeled back to Mayence by six o'clock. The husband of the lady was less scrupulous, and would have had no objection himself to have gone to the Wisbaden theatre in the evening, where the Heinefetter was to sing in "Norma;" but, on his better-half exclaiming, "enormous," like an obedient husband he submitted, and was peaceably driven homewards.

thoroughfare, lined with lofty houses, the most spacious of which are the magnificent hotels, which are not surpassed by those of any continental city. Then, the people have a busy, mercantile look about them; they seem here to have altogether lost the German sleepiness, and to have plenty of work on hand. As they walk along the street they have each one an evident object or pursuit.

Yet there are pleasures too in Frankfort, as in every German town. The delightful promenades which surround the town on all sides are thronged in the evenings with well-dressed people; and the music gardens and casinoes are full of pleasure-seekers, smokers, and dancers. One of these I went to see-an immense room in the centre of a fine garden, of an amphitheatrical shape, crowded with people, and the floor covered with dancers. There must have been eight hundred people in the immense room alone, not to mention those who strolled or sat under the trees without; and the walks were all brilliantly lit up with lamps. The fine promenades round the city are formed upon the remains of the old fortifications, which were levelled for the purpose; and perhaps no city is better provided in this respect. The fortifications of the town were found by the Frankforters to be a great nuisance during the late war. So long as they existed, the city was contended for by the rival armies; but the fortifications levelled and the place rendered indefensible and untenable, its possession became no longer an object beyond that of occupation and cantonment. There were no more sieges of Frankfort after then, and the citizens converted a curse into an every-day blessing and enjoyment.


In most of the German towns there is a considerable proportion of Jews, but at Frankfort they seem more numerous than in other places, probably attracted by the commerce of the city. One-tenth part of the whole population is Jewish, and you are constantly meeting the strongly marked and quite unmistakeable Hebrew physiog nomy. Formerly the Jews in Frankfort, as in other towns, were treated with great rigour. They were restricted to their own quarter of the city, within which they were confined by lock and key every evening at sunset; and they durst not stir beyond their quarter after that time without risk of heavy fine or punishment. gates of the Jewish quarter were blown down by the French revolutionary army in 1796, and have never since been erected. But still the Jews are regarded by the Germans generally with great aversion. They do not Early next morning we started by calèche for Frank-associate with them; and if a Jew enters any public fort, a fine drive along the right bank of the river place he is scowled upon, sits by himself or alongside of Maine. The road commands delightful views of the sur-other Jews, and is regarded as an intruder or obnoxious rounding country, from the Taunus mountains on the object. Englishmen can have no idea of the strength one side to the Bergstrasse, an immense distance to the south, on the other. The Odenwald is seen in the south lying up the hill sides. On our route we passed through the village of Hocheim, surrounded by its famous vineyards, which give the name of Hock to most of the Rhine wines. It is beautifully situated on a rising ground, commanding a charming prospect of the country across the Maine to the south, and also of the Rhine, lying now far away to the right. Passing through several other villages surrounded by vineyards, the most important of which are Hattersheim and Höchst, we approached the city of Frankfort. You find, from the numerous well-built, handsome houses along the wayside, that you are approaching some considerable place, the signs of wealth being sufficiently obvious on all sides. I was very much interested in the old town, with its And, indeed, Frankfort is a very fine city; more like an narrow streets (sometimes very foul and odoury), the English town, perhaps, than any other on the continent. quaint gable ends of the houses, and the closely packed It is a great city for merchants, much of the trade of habitations in the neighbourhood of the curious old Germany centering there. The streets are spacious, the cathedral. Though once the wealthiest part of the town, shops elegant and well filled, the warehouses large and it is now abandoned mainly to handicraftsmen and thronged, the quays and markets full of bustle and busi-labourers. Goethe was a native of Frankfort, and the The central street, called the Zeil, is truly a noble house in which he was born is still to be seen in the


of this feeling abroad. The only thing resembling it is the aversion of the Yankees to the coloured men of African blood, in the Free States of America; and the feeling of aversion is not less strong in the one case than it is in the other.

Yet the Jews of Frankfort are among the richest and most influential men there. The Rothschilds belong to this city, and were all born in the Judengasse (or Jews' Street), where their mother lived till the day of her death, refusing to exchange it for a palace, which she could have had for the asking. Her son, Baron Rothschild, owns an elegant villa outside the Bockenheim gate, which is fitted up in a style of splendour becoming the greatest capitalist of Europe.

Hirsch-graben, or Stag-ditch. Göethe, in his Autobiogra-sengers followed the gens d'armes to the police office, until phy, refers to this house, which was very different then from what it is now, commanding a view from the second floor of blooming gardens stretching away along the beautiful and fertile plain, beyond the city's walls and ramparts, towards Höchst.

"We lived," he says, "in an old house, which in fact consisted of two adjoining houses that had been opened into each other. A spiral staircase led to rooms on different levels, and the unevenness of the stories was remedied by steps. For us children, a younger sister and myself, the favourite resort was a spacious floor below, near the door of which was a large wooden lattice that allowed us direct communication with the street and open air. A bird-cage of this sort, with which many houses were provided, was called a frame. The women sat in it to sew and knit; the cook picked her salad there; female neighbours chatted with each other, and the streets, consequently, in the fine season wore a southern aspect. The street passed by the name of the Stag-ditch; but as neither stags nor ditches were to be seen, we wished to have the expression explained. They told us that our home stood on a spot that was once outside the city, and that where the street now ran had formerly been a ditch in which a number of stags were kept. These stags were preserved and fed here, because the senate every year, according to an ancient custom, feasted publicly on a stag, which was, therefore, always at hand in the ditch for such a festival, in case princes or knights interfered with the city's right of chase outside, or the walls were encompassed or besieged by an enemy."

they had been viséd. After waiting some time, an elderly high-dried official threw up the window-sash and called aloud the names of the owners of the passports, who stept forward to receive them. At last he called out a name, to which there was no response. He repeated it, "Sir Alesandre Feriere!" I remembered! It was the name of the British Consul at Rotterdam, who had issued to me my passport. I stepped forward and glanced at the document, and perceived it was mine. So I passed, for that once, at least, as "Sir Alexander Ferrier!"


ABOUT half a day's journey froni the town of Toulouse, on the slope of a smiling hill, the flowery base of which is washed by the blue waters of the Garonne, may be still seen the mouldering and moss-covered ruins of one of those ancient fortresses, where the great barons formerly shut themselves up, and from thence kept the entire country in awe. In 1534, the period in which the events about to be related occurred, this castle, though somewhat impaired by time, was still standing, its giant towers still commanded the surrounding country; and though ironclad soldiers no longer defended the ramparts, though the portcullis, now free to every new comer, waited no longer for the sound of the traveller's horn to be lowered, the castle was, nevertheless, inhabited by one of the most ancient families of Toulouse, that of the Lords of Pibrac, consisting of the old Marquis de Pibrac; his son, president of Parliament; his daughter-in-law, a young lady no less remarkable for her mental than her personal qualifications-and she was of striking beauty,-two sons, the eldest of whom, Hubert, had reached his fifteenth year; and the second, Guy, not yet five, who was afterwards the famous Pibrac, the favourite and privy councillor of the Duke of Anjou, King of Poland; and chancellor to Marguerite, Queen of Navarre. These, with some old servants, completed the number of the household.

Goethe also refers in his Autobiography to the childish horror with which he regarded the Jews and their quarter. "Among the things which excited the misgivings of the boy, and even of the truth, was especially the state of the Jewish quarter of the city, (Judenstadt), properly called the Jew Street, (Judengasse), as it consisted of little more than a single street, which in early times may have been hemmed in between the walls and trenches of the town, as in a prison (Zwinger.) The closeness, the filth, the crowd, the accent of an unpleasant language, altogether made a most disagreeable impression, even if one only looked in as one passed the gate. It was long before I ventured in alone, and I did not return there readily, when I had once escaped the importunities of so many men unwearied in demanding and offering to traffic. At the same time, the old legends of the cruelty of the Jews towards Christian children, which we have seen hideously illustrated in Godfrey's Chronicles, hovered gloomily before my young mind. And although they were thought better of in modern times, the huge caricature, still to be seen, to their dis- One evening, in the autumn of 1534, after a fine grace, on an orchard wall under the bridge tower, bore but warm day, the thick, heavy atmosphere gave indicaextraordinary witness against them; for it had been tions of an approaching storm, and already Madeline (such mede, not by private ill-will, but by public order." was the name of the fuller's wife) had gone three times Doubtless, it takes many generations to root out a tradi-to the door, as if in anxious expectation of some one; tionary hatred between races of this kind, if indeed it can ever be thoroughly effaced.

There are several interesting objects to be seen in Frankfort-there is almost always a good theatre open, where the music is fine; there are several museums freely open to the public, one of these, the Staedel Museum, containing a very excellent selection of old pictures; there is the famous statue of Ariadne, by Dannecker, the property of Mr. Bethman, which is freely shown to the publicthere is the new burying-ground, the quay along the Maine, the Cathedral, the Kömer, (or ancient town-house of the Free City), and many other objects of interest. After staying at Frankfort very pleasantly for a few days, ono afternoon I went on board a market-boat at the quay, (preferring this original mode of transport to the railway-train,) and dropped down the Maine for Mayence, which I reached about sun-set. As usual, on reaching Mayence, our passports were delivered up; and the pas

As if in contrast with this spacious and splendid edifice, a few paces from it, on the water's edge, and, but for its thatched roof, likely to be mistaken for a small fragment, broken off from the enormous stone mass forming the castle, was the habitation of a poor man-known in the country by the name of Cujas-whose monotonous song, joined to the still more monotonous noise of his fullingmachine, scarcely ever ceased during the day, and not always even at night. His whole family, and only society, consisted of a wife, somewhat older than himself, and one child.

then returning the third time, and seating herself near her husband, she said, sighing

"Jacques not come back."

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"Well," replied her husband, breaking off in the middle of his song, Jacques is fourteen, and is as tall and strong as I am. Are you afraid the wolves will devour him?"

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else but a child is a boy of fifteen, not yet able to fix a piece of cloth on the frame without help?"

"Well," said the merry workman, singing out his


"Why should he slave

While I'm hearty and brave?"

"But will you be so always, or even always alive?" "Tell me, Madeline, tell me," gaily replied her husband, "do I look like a dying man?"

"Younger people than you have been known to die, Cujas."

"Thanks for your forebodings, Madeline; but much older people also die."

"This only proves that we die at all ages, Cujas." "This is a singular subject of conversation, and little in accordance with the habitual gaiety of neighbour Cujas," said a person who entered at the moment. She was a woman of about sixty, but of still fresh complexion and round figure, whose rich costume at once showed that she belonged to a class above that of the artisan.


"You are somewhat ignorant, for a man of your age, neighbour Cujas," said Cadette, laughing. "Do you not know that M. Pierre Burel comes three times a week to the castle, but being ill these four months, has not been able to attend. Well, he used to teach M. Hubert Greek and Latin, which, together with French and Langue d'Oc, makes four languages, without reckoning Gascoigne, which Jeaubot, his reverence's valet, speaks, who is from Bordeaux; and Chinese, a language which no one speaks, but which is, nevertheless, in existence, I believe; for little Guy, Madame's second son, mischievous little imp as he is, but sweet child for all that, says that one of the pilgrims is like a mandarin, that shakes his head over my lord's mantel-piece, and declares that he ought to speak Chinese. So you see there are actually six languages."

"Well, I never thought there were so many," said Cujas, naively; "and what are those mandarins, as master Guy calls them, doing at the castle?" added he.

"Do you not know by this time the hospitable customs of the castle, that once admitted, you never need leave Any news, Mademoiselle Cadette?" said the fuller, it," said Cadette. "His reverence, the almoner, says saluting the new-comer; whilst his wife drew forward that they are pious men. My lord plays backgammon a stool, upon which she seated herself, while she replied, with them in the evening, and they teach the young gen"Another silver cover and two small spoons have disap-tlemen every language they know, for which it is said peared to-day." my lady, who wishes her sons to be very learned, pays them high."

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle Cadette," interrupted Madeline, who, engrossed by one subject, could not bear to listen to anything else, "have you seen Jacques?" "Your son, Madeline? I have not laid eyes upon him for the day."

"Then he is not at the castle, Mademoiselle Cadette?" "No, indeed, Madeline; but why should you think so? Your son never comes to the castle."

"Do you hear, Cujas!" said Madeline, clasping her hands, and looking at her husband.

He replied: "Well, if he is not at the castle, he is somewhere else." Then turning to their visitor, he

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In the middle ages, France was divided into two distinct portions, whose names were derived from the affirmative particles of their different languages. The Langue d'Oyl, designated the North of France, and the Langue d'Oc the South, from about the latitude

of Lyons to the shores of the Mediterranean. The geographical term, Langue d'Oc, has descended to our own times, though the dialect which gave rise to it exists only on the patois of some of the mountain peasantry; its rival, on the contrary, though now no longer affording a geographical distinction, is refined into the universal French language.

"Hush," said Madeline, suddenly.

"Is there a storm coming on?" asked Cadette.
"Will you hush?" repeated Madeline.

And in the distance was now heard the merry voice of a child, singing.

"Another theft! another theft !

And, with the last word upon his lips, a tall boy, of about fourteen or fifteen, of a slight and agile forin, and with fair cheek, on which white and red were healthfully mingled, bounded into the middle of the one room of which the whole dwelling consisted.

"Was it a spoon, little Cujaus?" quickly demanded Cadette.

"I have begged of you before, Mademoiselle Cadette," said the young boy, putting on a grave, serious look, "to call me Cujas, and not Cujaus. I do not like the sound of the 'u' you add to my name. I am sure that my ancestors never spelled it so."

"You do not like 'u,'-what u? what ancestors? demanded Madeline.

"Indeed, Mademoiselle Cadette, you were just now talking of six languages; I am sure there must be a seventh, for Jacques sometimes speaks one that I do not understand."

"But I want to know what Cujaus, or Cujas has stolen?" said Cadette, taking the boy by the arm, and forcing him to turn round and face her.

"Something that belongs to nobody," replied the son of the fuller, in a mirthful tone.

"You, to steal anything!" cried his mother, in dismay.

"What would you have the child to steal?" said the father, without looking up from his work.

"Was it gold or silver?" demanded the old housekeeper of the castle of Pibrac.

"Neither gold nor silver, Mademoiselle, but something much better than either," said Jacques.

"Jewels or wearables?" again demanded Cadette. "Something much better, still," said the little Cujas. "Was it something to eat-was it food? In that case," said the housekeeper, with a gesture of indifference; it is no great matter."

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"Which of the two kinds of food do you mean, Mademoiselle Cadette?" asked Jacques. "What two kinds?" in her turn, inquired Cadette. "Do you not know, Mademoiselle Cadette, that there two kinds?" said Jacques gravely, -" mental



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