inscription, “carriages do not pass here,"—this Romieu, who in days of yore caused so much chagrin to municipal authorities, and so many sleepless nights to prefects of police-Romieu, formerly the most joyous man, and the greatest mystificator in all France and Navarre, and at present, by a just recompense, the most mystified man in Christendom-this Romieu was a leader in the infernal

band.

Montalivet, now minister, a man of racy spirit then, was the right hand of Romieu. Editors of the opposition, and they who espoused legitimacy, after having crossed pens in the morning, came in the evening to the Infernal Box, to a strife of wit and puns. (Puns were in fashion then.) Some aristocratic rakes, and finally, M. Hypolite Royer Collard, completed the sacred phalanx. All these men occupy, at this present day, with much talent, important and difficult posts: which proves that the hide of a graceless varlet, turned inside out, will make excellent stuff for a statesman.

M. Hypolite Royer Collard was the Don Juan of the society, and his manners conformed to this character.

One evening, a piece that drew all Paris was played at the opera. The house was full, and the Infernal Box in full complement. The infernals were in humor for wit and insolence. More than once their shameless bursts of laughter had disturbed the general emotion. The pit growled, the stalls murmured, the boxes were in agitation and whispered. Some young men in the galleries began to cast towards the Infernal Box menacing glances. The insurrection threatened to become general. But the infernals were accustomed to these storms, and prepared to make head against the impending one. Suddenly, there was a movement in the house. Two persons had just entered the only box which had remained empty. Every one has had occasion to remark the sensation which is experienced on sceing one box empty, whilst the rest of the house is full to overflow. Whoever then comes in to occupy the vacant place is sure to attract attention, at least for some moments. All eyes were immediately turned towards the new comers. One was a man, the other a very young woman, of great beauty. This incident, although of no unusual occurrence, sufficed to change the current of popular feeling. The opera-glasses of the Infernal Box were immediately levelled at the lady whose arrival had been so apropos, and nothing else was thought of but to obtain some information respecting her.

"I have never seen her before," says Romieu.

"Nor I,” replied every one else in the box.

"It must be some pretty provincial, just arrived!"

"Pshaw! behold her elegance and grace! I will hold you Hypolite's horse against Talivet's tilbury, that this fair flower has opened in the Fauxbourg St. Germain! Is there a shape like that in the provinces ?"

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Respect the departments! They improve daily, and I am acquainted with some women who have beautiful eyes and a very passable figure."

"Every man for himself. The viscount is about to begin the history of his love adventures!" "Messieurs," observes the viscount, "I swear by the head of Romieu, that this woman does not belong to the noble Fauxbourg-probably I know her-she is decidedly, gentlemen, a rose of the province. Happy the man who may first breathe the delicious perfume."

"There's a beautiful poetical flower for you," cries Mignet; then turning to a young man elegantly dressed, he added, "put that into your book."

The young man addressed is a poet who makes adorable elegies, impressed with ineffable sadness, during the brief respites which he obtains from speculations on exchange, gambling, and opera girls. To read his productions, one would suppose him to be consumptive, and a lover of the pale rays of the moon. He is a Hercules, who leads the life of hell itself.

"For heaven's sake," replies he, "no poetry to-night! I feel gloomy yet with my last ode to melancholy."

"Is it possible," cries Romicu, "that people make odes to melancholy? 'Tis horrible, upon my soul! An ode to champagne might pass!"

"Champagne !” cries Mignet, "shame upon you! Champagne is naught but a chimera, a merc deception, fit only for pensioners!"

"Who blasphemes champagne?" demands Romieu, with a majestic air, " Apropos to champagne, I invite you to sup to-night with the viscount. Come, it is time-come, Mignet!"

"Well," says Mignet, rising with an air of resignation, "we must occasionally sacrifice to politeness."

As the company was departing, Romieu observed that Hypolite Royer Collard remained in the box.

"Come, Hypolite!" cries he.

"I am not with you this evening; I need all my senses!"

"And what the devil are you about to do?"

Hypolite leaned towards Romieu and whispered something in his ear.

« Gentlemen,” cries Romieu, turning to the joyous band, "Hypolite has just poured his heart into mine! He is smitten with the fair unknown, and he must go to night to sing a romance beneath her chamber window. He wishes to know if some of you will lend him a guitar!"

"Don't be a child," cries the viscount; "come to supper! You will lose your time and your trouble!"

"Perhaps !"

"Will you bet?"

"I will!"

"A hundred louis!"

"Done !"

The two epicureans touched hands, and Romieu arranged the terms of the bet as if it were an ordinary one. For them, in fact, the stake was not very heavy-a hundred louis and a woman's honor!

"Remain, then," said Romieu, as he departed, “ and recollect that you have fifteen days only!" When the fair unknown, leaning on the arm of her escort, quitted the opera, she observed a man who made himself a path towards her through the crowd, and regarded her with passionate earnestness. Then she cast down her eyes, and dared no longer to look around. In going from the theatre to her hotel, it appeared to her also that a carriage followed her own. These two incidents troubled her a little, but she soon forgot them; and when she fell asleep, she dreamed neither of the opera, nor the stranger. The angels of dreams, during her repose, carried her, on their white wings, far from Paris, under the pure sky of her native town. But when she arose, all fresh and rosy, and ran to the window to breathe the fresh morning air, she perceived a man passing under the balcony, and recognized the stranger.

Ah, my God!" cried she, "this gentleman has strange manners! I am afraid there would be a quarrel, or I would speak to my brother about it!"

Louise de ***** had as yet read no romances.

A LOVE-LETTER.

If there exist in Paris (this unjustly slandered city) much corruption, it is not that less virtue is found there than elsewhere; but it is that vice there knows how to be amiable, and how to encircle its enemy with snares often inevitable.

In Paris, exists a class of men who have made the art of seduction a perfect science. They attack a woman as a fortified place. They know precisely how many curves and parabolas their sighs must describe before firing the heart of their future conquest. Love is for them an algebraic equation, and their plan of attack is always graduated in proportion to the means of resistance.

And these men are more dangerous, inasmuch as their infamous calculations are not always the result of a frigid egotism. Commonly, they owe their experience to long suffering and numberless deceptions. By the wounds inflicted on their own hearts, they have learned to know the vulnerable points of the hearts which they attack. If pitiless, it is because they have not been pitied. They retaliate upon others the mortal blows which they have received. They not only seduce, they avenge themselves.

There exist, however, obstacles, against which all their science fails. And as famous fencers are generally killed by youngsters who know not how to hold a sword, thus all the experience of these famous seducers is set to nought and frustrated by the ignorance and simplicity of a school-girl.

About noon, Louise de ***** left the hotel, accompanied by her brother, and visiting the richest shops in Paris, there made numerous purchases. She observed that a man followed her at a distance, and stopped when she stopped. As often as she came out of a shop she hoped to be relieved from the impertinent pursuit of this stranger, but to her surprise, he still followed. Finally, she came to the celebrated shop of Susse; the crowd was great, and it behoved to wait a little. But what was her amazement when she perceived M. Hypolite Royer Collard (for it was he) approaching her in silence, pretending to examine the objects placed on the counter.

Louise de ***** held in her hand one of those bags which are called reticules. As she held it out to the clerk to have her purchase therein placed, Hypolite, who was near her, took the purchase from the hands of the clerk, and handed it to Louse de *****. All this was done in a very natural way. At this moment, the brother of the young girl returned, and cast upon Royer Collard a glance almost threatening.

This scene, so ordinary in appearance, was not however deficient in a certain degree of interest. Royer Collard turned about coolly, as if he had performed a simple act of politeness, yet, notwithstanding, in the packet which he handed to Louise de *****, he had slipped a letter. At this insolence, the young girl grew pale with indignation, but she had noticed her brother's glance, and dreading an explosion, the result of which might be terrible, she restrained herself. To return, or to destroy the letter was impossible; a scene would inevitably ensue. On that Hypolite had trusted. The young girl put up the package, at the same time casting upon Royer Collard a glance of contempt, which seemed to say, "I take your letter because I cannot do otherwise; but you are beneath notice."

"That is possible,” replied Hypolite Royer Collard, in the same language; “nevertheless, you have received my letter!"

That evening, when Hypolite met the infernals, he replied to Romieu, who demanded news of his adventure—“The affair is in excellent train! I believe I shall win the bet-I have a superb plan there," added he, striking his forehead.

Unfortunately, Hypolite was unable to put his plan into effect, for he learned the next day that Louise de ***** and her brother had quitted Paris, and no one had been informed of their destination.

THE PLOT.

Some days after this event, a scene sufficiently singular occurred at Brest, in the saloon of Madame de *****, among some ladies who had met together. They were seven in number, and with the exception of one lady, no one was over twenty-five years of age. Tears are becoming to a wo man, but I believe that laughter is still more so. These ladies, then, were laughing so heartily that tears actually came into their eyes. Sometimes a calm was gradually re-established; their features resumed for a few moments a gravity which endured but a short space. A demure smile, or a word spoken in a low voice, was the signal for renewed merriment. To look at them thus, these sprightly creatures were charming. One of them, a brunette, erect as the palm, a black-eyed beauty, seemed to take the lead in the general merriment. Twenty times had she attempted to enforce silence, and finish a sentence as many times commenced; in vain did thus young girl essay to put on a serious visage; all that she could accomplish was to pout a little, which became her charmingly. At this moment a young man entered. On his appearance, the effort made to check the mirth only served to give it double force. At first he gazed in amazement, but the example was contagious, and he soon laughed more heartily than any. This lasted for more than a quarter of an hour.

"Ah, my God! how good it is to laugh!" cried one of the foolish creatures, as she wiped away the tears which came to her eyes.

"Cousin," said the young man, approaching the lady of whom we have already made mention, "there must be some mischief afoot, that you laugh so heartily! May I be made acquainted with the cause of so much gaiety?

"I give you a hundred guesses, Henry; I give you a thousand! Guess!"

"But you know very well, cousin, that I never guess a riddle!"

"Well! it is too ridiculous! Louise has a lover!"

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Certainly, a very extraordinary incident!" replied the young man, carelessly. "Whose head would she not turn? I make no allusion to myself-that would be awkward for a pretender-moreover, it is my profession," added he, putting his hand to his heart, and looking slily at Louise, who was blushing like the rose.

"Oh yes, certainly," said the cousin, who would not see the signs which Louise was making to her: "but this one is not a dying lover, to say the least. He goes straight ahead, and has already come to love letters!"

"Ah, indeed?" exclaimed the young man, with an emotion which he was unable to repress, and which caused new bursts of laughter.

Henry leaned majestically against the mantel, observing, "God forgive me, cousin, but I really must believe that you have lost your senses!"

"Don't stir!" exclaimed the young girl, "don't stir! you are superb in that position! You resemble precisely the portrait of Tony Johannot!"

"But what letter is this? and who is this man?" demanded Henry, impatiently.

"None of your business, my little cousin ; we have our own secrets! Nevertheless, if you promise me something, I will give you the letter, with the signature."

"Whatever you please."

You hear him, ladies! Well, I demand that you play Boston for the space of eight days with our good aunt Beaupré !"

"Oh, my God!" cried Henry, in alarm. "Nevertheless," resumed he, working up his courage by degrees, "I will play Boston-I will play Loto, if necessary-I will make riddles—I resign myself in all things: but, for God's sake, give me the letter !" The cousin took the letter from her bosom. The young man stepped forward to seize it. "One moment, cousin! I have yet to impose another condition."

"There it is!" said she.

"No more conditions; Boston is enough!" cried Henry, pursuing his cousin, who ran across the room, but was soon caught.

Henry opened the letter with some agitation. Affecting gåiety, he did not the less feel that his heart was beating with unusual force. "H. Royer Collard," exclaimed he, perceiving the signature, then he turned to Louise, and inquired how the letter had come into her possession. The cousin,

pitying Louise's embarrassment, told what the reader knows already. However, the countenance of the young man, for an instant gloomy, gradually cleared up.

"You have done well, my dear Louise, to avoid scandal. This Royer Collard is the nephew of the orator. He is a man of talent, but boasts a sovereign contempt for woman. Above all, he is passionately fond of notoriety, and it is fortunate that your brother perceived nothing." Here is the tenor of the note, which Henry read in a loud voice:

MADEMOISELLE-I love you, and I must tell you so. I beg neither pardon nor excuse for my boldness; my passion excuses itself. At all events, I will love you forever, near, or at a distance. I offer you my life, accept it or not-and I will be yours as you shall be mine. This I swear to you before God. H. ROYER COLLARD.

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Admirably absurd!" exclaimed the cousin. "Not so absurd!" replied the old lady. In these affairs there can be nothing too extravagant. If this M. Royer Collard, who is a man of genius, has written such an absurdity, he has a reason for it! Be assured of that!"

"I' faith," remarked Henry, " phrases are like liquors-bad ones attack the head; moreover, I have known Royer Collard, and he is not awkward in these affairs. But, look ye! who in the devil is he addressing himself to? To that fair angel there, who has, I am sure, never read a romance! You have never read one, have you, Louise? The most comical thing in all this, is, that Royer Collard, who has his affairs arranged in perfect order, has always in readiness letters of this kind. He has two drawers-one for married, the other for unmarried ladies. His correspondence is always prepared in advance, and serves for every passion. This is economy in time and imagination. His letters are ticketed and numbered. For a letter like this, he opens case No. 1-the threat of suicide is, I believe, No. 27; the letter of adieu is No. 30, the last of the series. I know two ladies who have received from him letters like this, which has no longer the advantage of being unpublished, for it certainly has reached its hundredth edition."

"The impertinent fellow!" exclaimed the brunette. "Oh! if we could only play him a good trick!"

"Ah, yes! we must make sport of him," cried all the ladies, with most touching unanimity.— "But how ?-there is no way of doing it!-'tis impossible!"

"Silence!" exclaimed the brunette, with a musing air; "I have an idea!"

Then all the chairs came closer together-all these pretty heads approached each other. The cousin spoke for more than an hour-without interruption !-and when she had concluded, all arose with exclamations of delight.

The elder ladies smiled-the younger ones jumped about like children, clapping their hands together, and exclaiming, "What sport we shall have!" The soft light of a lamp cast its mellow radiance on the joyous group.

"I," cried Henry, "will be your secretary."

All this time Royer Collard was in a strange perplexity. It was not the probable loss of his hundred louis which he feared, but the pleasantries with which the infernals were sure to assail him.— For ten days, he had not dared to appear at the Box. He was, above all, afraid of Romieu, and he perceived and avoided him at a great distance. One day, however, he met him when it was impossible to shun him.

"Well," exclaims Romieu, "when do you come to claim your hundred louis?-this is the day on which they are due you. What are you doing? What has become of you? Happy mortal! you are in the honeymoon, I presume! Truly, I recognize you no longer-you are of an antediluvian constancy! Love must not thus wrong friendship! Or, can it be possible that your vanity has received a check? Was she cruel? That would be unfashionable! Ah! I perceive you have lost your wager! It is certainly a misfortune! If you are not in funds, console yourself, my dear fellow! Here am I—and will I not pay for you? A friend is a friend, or he is not!"

"Let me be!" said Hypolite, impatiently.

Hypolite had decided upon the plan which he thought best to adopt.

“I will go there to-night-they will laugh at me—but what matter? An hour is soon passed.” When he returned home, they handed him a letter, dated at Rennes. From whom can this be?" thought he; " I know no one at Rennes." But when he had read it, he exclaimed aloud with delight.

«"Tis she!” cried he. "Oh! I see we need despair of nothing!" and he kissed the letter. His servant beheld this in amazement. For years he had never seen him kiss a love-letter. "Fool!" said Royer Collard, who divined his thoughts," it is not for the woman, but because she has made me gain my wager! Now I shall laugh at them!" and he cut two capers across the

room.

Vanity can render a man foolish, as well as love. With an air of triumph, Royer Collard showed himself in the Infernal Box.

(To be Continued.)

1

A MORNING'S MEDITATION IN A BURIAL PLACE.

How often, when the holy calm of the evening hour has wooed me from the world, have I stolen away from the monotonous hum of the village, and strolled amongst these habitations of the departed. Many a moonlight hour have I here consecrated to chaste and holy thought. But never before methinks did this silent city of the dead so alluringly invite to meditation as now. The eastern sky is just beginning to blush—the minstrel of the wood, perched upon yonder bending bough, carols melodiously its matin hymn; and the timid lark, affrighted by the unwonted footstep of an intruder, flutters from its retreat beneath the sculptured slab, and

Soars till the unrisen sun
Beams on its speckled breast.

All animated nature is returning to life, but the tenants of these earthly tenements wake not. Theirs is the sleep that the archangel's trump alone can dispel. There is an intrinsic pleasure in melancholy that the thoughtless know not of, and no place so appropriate for its indulgence as this. Whilst I tread the grassy turf, methinks I hear a voice from the depth of the grave exclaim, "The place whereon thou standest is holy ground." As I gaze round upon this charnel enclosure, and note the graven monuments of the affluent in life-the plain, unornamented stone, that marks the resting place of him who possessed barely enough, and the neglected hillock that presses the breast of the poor man-I am taught a lesson of humility, and of contempt for the "lying vanities of life," which can be learned only from a contemplation of " man's latter end."

Omniscient God! why permittest thou the rich man to oppress, despise, and frown upon the poor, who is as good by nature, perhaps better by practice, than he? Why is he allowed to "flourish like a green bay-tree," while he refuses the helping hand of charity, nay, even the smile of recognition, to the virtuous poor? But man, vain man, cannot

with his short-lived plummet

Fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice.

Despite the fulsome panegyric inscribed upon yonder sepulchral stone, the Dives, whose virtues— though virtues he had none-it blazons forth, may in another world, implore that the Lazarus, over whom he lorded it here, may be sent with his finger dipped in water to cool his parched tongue.

*

"It must be so." The soul of man is immortal. When weeping relatives follow to the mortuary their departed friend, what else than a confidence that the soul is "secure in her existence," can sustain their sorrowing spirits? Who is there remembering that "God made man after his own image," can look upon the church-yard, crowded with the sepulchres of those that are gone, and not exclaim,

Non omnis moriar?

It cannot be that, within that narrow tabernacle, is contained all that was of the great and good man whose name is chiseled upon the marble structure reared to his memory.

Quem terra amisit, lucrifecit Coelum,

Novo splendore

Corporis resuscitati, vitæque eternæ,
Cum Domino Jesu, omnibusque sanctis

Ovantem rediturum.

These are the concluding words of the encomiastic epitaph carved upon his mausoleum, and no one who knew Charles N

his mighty mind, and the holy purity of his life, dares to doubt