C. F. READ & • EDITiORS. • INVITATION TO TER COU TRY. • ITT WILLIAM C. IIAYANT. • All day, from shrubs by our Bummer . 'The Easter-sparrow repeats his song;' • A merry warbler, he chides the blossonts The idle blossoms, that bleep so long. The bluebird chants, from the elm's bag linachas, A hymn to welcome the baddingyeari- The south-wind , wanders 'from geld to !ores; And softly whispers, The Spring is 101! Come, daughter mine, Om the gloomy city, • Before these lays from the elm have ceased; The 'OAR breathes by our doer as sweetly As in the airof her nattve East. Though mans' a flower in the wood IS waking, The daliodil is our door side queen; She pushes upward the sward already, To spot With sunshine "the . early green. . - \o lays so joyous as these are warbled From' wiry prison in maiden's bower; • So pampered bloom of the green-house chamber Ills half the charm of the lawn's first flower. y et , these-sweet lays of the early season, And these fair sights of its sunny days, Are only sweet when we fondly listen, • And only fair when we fondly gaze. *Mere is no glory in star oZ blossom - Till looked upon by a loving dye; There no fragrance in April breezes ,Till breathed with joy as they wander by._ Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting Willows; • The open bowers, and the gleaming brooks, And hollows green -in the sun are waiting i Their dower ofbeauty from thy.glad looks. From Household Words. THE PAINTER I PET. CiArns kAroxr Wass painier—ail . artist in She fullest and cornpletest sense of the word ; for he lived, as it were, in the oantre of a cit.. .cl 6 - of art, and it was through this medium that the perception of all outward things carne to him; it was under the influence of this at mosphere that all thoughts were presented.to birn. He lived, therefore,. in a world Of his.ownt tioalities were to him the. things the most un real ;.he mixed as little as possible in the po , cieiy 'of other men, beeause'he found ,their presence and conversation disturbed' the beau- _ tiftil Phantoms that, when he was° alone, held him such sweet and genial . company.. He cared 'nothing for the subjecla that interested them; they might barter and - traffic,. marry and give in marriage, dupe and 'be .:duped— all these things it only confused and unsettled him to hear of; the relation of them conveyed to him no clear or definite idea, while; at the same.time, it disturbed and troubled his own. thotights and dreams. • Alone, he was never lonely ; 'seated in his ;studio in an old artn 'chair, with his pipe, he saw ehrong,h his half-. closed eyes the gracious company that sur rounded him : women lovelier than angels— .now gorgeous, proud; queendike—now soft and holy-as,the Madonna; now tearful us Ni obe—enow young and radiant as Cleopatra passed before him many _times as he sat there : Helen, Clytemnestra, G'itene veie, sad CEnete, frail Rosamond, murdered Iphigenia, Jephtha's daughter, bendin g; an unmurtnuring sacrifice, to a Mad oath ; Ruth and Griselda, Judith and•Jael,—all great, or good, or beauteous, or fated, or terrible wo men named .in Scriptisre,rde history, or fable, visited him at his call. .So did all heroes, all knights, all men of old renown or later fame, and other visions, beings begot by his own teeming brain, born of his own . bright fancy, grew into form and, maturity, to be later fixed on the canvas. - .in summer-time, With a knapsack, a staff, and a sketchhook, he livOuld - , wander fOrth wherever the fancy led him; now over the mountains, now by thesea:shore, now through woods and valleys, collecting everywhere fresh ideas, fresh experieneevof that nature without which true art cannot exist; that ual tore of which she is born, and nursed, . and nourished, and inspired ; that nature, that it she seeks to let go its hand sad walk alo ne, her creations become monsters or pigmies, which struggle through a weak and ridiculous existence, and then fall away into au ignoble tomb. High up, on the eternal bills,.he listened to the voice of God in the winds that swept around him. It seemed to him that it ,was but the clouds'which capped their summits that veiled from him the glory of His throne. . Lying on a Cliff that overhung the oxen, far and near were sights' and sounds, costly, and strange, and beautiful. The.low immov able horizon, over whose barriei no - mortal , ken might reach ; 1 the water that might not rest day or night, but dashed passionately, Or heaved m slow, unbroken undulations; in-. dented •coies, with fringes of yellow - sand; cliffs with pale, stern, hard faces lookingout to sea, sorneitnes brightening into a bright 'rosy smile, 'in answer , to the sun's ardent good-morning, or good-night; little valleys in their laps, with trees, and white cottages, and silVer threads of streams., hurrying to throw themselves into the bosom of - the;deep. And there, about him, beneath hdn, within reach of his hand, what minute miracles in the tiny 'tangles of the close short grass and mosses, hisves and stems", hildi and ' blossoms; roots and steed-vesSels, of. the. unknown, unnamed plints, hundreds of which went through all the It:bases - Of their; existences, completely and perfectly, in the space of each inch of ground; :while host's of as minute and perleet insects, 1/I:wwinged, rainhow-tiated, burnished, and spled, roved through them as through west forests. - • The woods--Ah, let us not }open the vol. Asstae, for its leaves - Bre as many as those of de trees, and its last page Mai never be read by man. To "Claude Lafont sensualists was a word that conveyed no meaning. - He had passed through the stages of youth and eerly. men hbod untempted by any of thetdesires or Xtn hitions, natural or artificial, , that seem alniost inseparable from man's career In society:— 'le worshipped beauty in whntever form it Me to him, but only throe h the soul, and its purest essence. , z Now that his life vrastrtidwsy spent—that stamp of full maturity was marked on is brow—.that.. the time was approacbing hen the sun of his eXist.ence iwould be deeli ing. from its zenith, there were momenta 'hen n vsgue'vrant was felt hints that carne, ie knew not whence; of a yenrning for same nore Warm and real sympntby than that,. hadowa of great men and worsen would Word him. These longings came sad passed away, . but not for long; and their sissy wea v e& each return, snore extended; --I- But whencv could's° satisfy them I 'His slight commerce with this liuti and women of the outer world had brought!, him in wutact with. none whose society', iremised in the slightest degree to -fit the void that wog , . . . , . '..: . _ ' • ~' 14 _ F,,0,.4 . .. : .. . . .. . . • ; .1 .. .... .:.._ .. :bi . : ...•.. .... .-. ..•:..... ._. .. ........„,„ ~2,..,„4.....,..r.•••:..:.,•.:•,,., ..-- ... . ..... :... ..,..... . • ...•••• .. ...,•.. ~... ... . ... ,•......„....i...,..:.., ..,..,.....:.:_•,_,..,•, ..:._ •. .. .. ~,...... .. . ..... ....t. 1 pe,..u. : .,-.....--i.-...•.. . .... .. . . . . , -__........,_ -- -- .--, _ _ growing in his hurt, wider and deeper_ each day. One utill October day, .Claude was pursu ing his desultory "tables through the autumn forest, when the sight of a thin blue, smoke, wavering upward Itheough the stirless air, at tracted his attention. He advanced with a feeling of vague curiosity, and soon perceived a sparkling fire, and distinguished amid its crackling the voice of a woman, harsh and shrill. Advancing furthei, he found he was approaching a sort of gipsy encampment, or the bivouac of one of those gangs of stroller*, half actors, half conjurors, of the lowest or der, that wander about France, stopping to display their performances 'only at out-of-the way village* and Country lairs; All the par ty were absent Alith the exception of a wo• man, the speaker+—whose hardened features and unsympathetiC aspect kept .the promise given by her voice—and 'a little girl of about thirteen or fourteen, small, dark, sharp•fea tured, but with linibs- firm and faultless in their slight propo4ions, and wondrous wild dark eyes,.alinost' excessive in size, flashing from beneath the masses of black hair that overhung her fa* • To her the woman was addressing herself in harsh and bitter re preaches, to which the child listened in the silence that becomes almost apathy in chil dren who from their infancy are little used to any other tone. - • Finding how slight was the effect of her words, the . woman sprung •at the girl, and, ere she could escape or parry the blow, struck her severely with a • faggot on the naked shoulders., 'rite stroke was a heavy one, yet the child uttered no cry. " Ah! little wretch ! YOu don't care 1— We'll see---take that!' and, seizing her, the' virago poured ori the halfclothe4 body of her victim a shoWer of bloWs; At first the girl writhed in silince, then, pain and passion overcoming her enforced stoicism, she burst into wild ringing shrieks of .rage and agony, that thrilled through every fibre , of Claude.s heart. • Springing forward, he grasped the aston. ished tormentor, and, with a voice tremulous with generous etnOtion, indignantly reproach. ed her cruelty. tier wrath, for a moment checked by surprie., noir only directed itself Into a new channel, and with fierce abuse the turned on the child's defender. • Claude had no *tilts tOineet sueltan attack, and, after a fresh Protest against the woman's brutality, he turned and left the spot, throw ing a'glance of pity and a ward of sympathy to the sobbing, child, Whose slight frame still quivered with pai:; and excitement. . Claude returne to the village inn, which was hia temporary abode.- He dined, lighted his pipe, and eat down to the enjoynient a pf his customary reveries. ilut, the shapes The was wont to invoke came not ; one face—a wild elfin face, with heavy black, hair and great lustrous ey4s ; one Corm—a slight, ag ile, nervous one-=always stood before him. He took a pencil and sketched them in Vari ous pasitions and';'attituders, and formed plans of pictUron in which this little figure was to form the conspictious object. , • "I must get that child•to sit to me," said Claude to himself; and he resolved to go on the morrow to the stroller's can*, and offer the virago a few francs to obtain this purpoSe. - The sound of aeracked drum and wheezy band-organ crime along the village street; anon, a boyish voice proclaimed that on the following evening, at seven o'clock; would be given by Signor; Pandolfo, the celebrated Sorcerer of the South, a series ofexperiments in magic and preStidigitation ; that Madame lifondolfieri and Mademoiselle Edmee would . perform le pas des Djinns, aided "by figu rates of the locality;" that Signor Pandolfu would further consent to execute various gymnastic exercises with the brothers Zings ri ; after which a - ; variety of entertainments, followed by " une piece qui a:pourintitule Guillaume Tell,! Deliberateur de Is 'Suisse " with all the strength of the company, would complete the pleasures of the evening. Claude was sitting by the window. He opened his eyes Od looked out languidly ; a lean lad, of aboet fifteen, with a large shock head and very cOnspieuons handy, feet,knees, and elbows., scantily attired in dirty flesh-col ored cotton leisiery acrd short spangled drawers, was beating the drum to fill up the pauses of his programme; behind him with the organ and a Monkey, came the wild-eyed \ child whose image had, for. thrt last hour or two, been floating through Claude's dreams got up. went; into the street and joined the crowd of urchin and idlers that followed" the strollers- Soon! .they got be?ond the limits of the village , then the boy slung the drum behind him, and: flung over" his histrionic cos tume, a ragged loose coat, - ; he helped the girl to lade her shoulders with the organ, on the top of which the monkey perched° himself, and the village idlers, seeing the artists retire into private life! and consequently ease to be objects Of interest, dropped off in pairs and. groups and returned to talk of the morrow's performance. ;slot so, Clatide. When the last of the idlers had turned away, be addressed, himself to (belittle girl, whom he had hitherto fol 7 lowa at some ilistance, and unperceived, for she had walkedkdong looking neither to the right nor left, but with the spiritless, apa thetic air of one performing a task whose dull routine afforded no shadow of Interest or ex citement. 1_ She looked imp. What.* change came vier the listless facel—every feature became instinct with,eernest life; the eyes gleamed, the lips broke into a radiant smile over du lling little teeth, and a warm glow Spread itself beneath ! the dark; sallow, but thumps ran skin: 1 " Ah! Monsieur r , You are glad to,see nae, little mar" ' It was very . pletiiant, Claude felt, to see ,any face light pso at his presence. " Glad, yea r ' " What is your nattier * • . ' " Edtuee, 4ousieur." * 1 "Sbould yon like rue to make e portrait of you " , • 3 -Of me, sieur l" Another blush and smile. ".Yes.; if you will sit, I'll give you forty sous." , . . . . A. pained ‘;eFf-sesslat crowed the child's face, ° "Only whirl Yon won't 1 Why . not " m Because4-inother— , • , The bey broke in with the half-laugh, that ropgh, .bashful. boys say wont to introduce their speeches with. She's afriid; the old woman's always on tia . t) lookout i kir excuses to best her. Ah, "FPIEEDON ZIRD 12[IONV aanarama itI•LYWEPV amp lAißomao99 that's an ugly customer—old hag!" "But if I ask her leave, and give her some thingl" " Ah, then, perhaps." .It was 'settled that on the morrow Claude should make the requisite advances to the "bag," and giving"the forty sous to the chil dren, by way of earnest-money, each party took their .separate way,—one to the forest, the other to. his inn. • Next day the bargain was struck. A five franc-piece softened the 'obdurate ( figure of thelhag, and she readily consented toEdmen's giving as many 'sittings as Claude desired, provided, they did not interfere with the dots ble drudgery to which the child, was subject ed in he domestic and professional occupa tions. She was to Claude a curioustatudy, in her moral its well as her physioal nature. Vi cious example, uncontrolled passion of every bad sort,—brutal usage, fraud, force, the ab sence of all manlinesu, of all womanliness in those she lived with; the absence of all tens derness, of all inAtruction,—such was the mor al atmosphei c in' which she had grown to girl hood, such was ihe soil in which sere sown a warm heart, an intense sensibiltity, e bright intelligence, and a keen sense of all grace and beauty. Not a tint of vulgarity vats in the child's nature; not a word passed her• lips , that had not a meaning, act a movement; of her limbs but was replete with' a strange pe culiar grace. :Claude was fascinated by the elfin child, who, as she sat or stood before him, seemed not only to guess all his slightest intentions, but constantly suggested new , ideas of form and symmetry beautiful beyond description. lie sketched and painted her in every atti tude ; he sometimes feared to wehry her, but when he expressed the fear, she shook her head, with one dt her bright smiles, and an empha , sic "aamaist" so he went on painting, soinetimes talking to her, sometimes in aui lence which lasted for hours, and which she never attempted to brc.k„ , At length, a ft er shd, fi fth positive last ap pearance of theinaupe, they prepared to col lect their scanty properties and decamp, and with more than one heavy sigh, Claude bun dled his bag gage into his knapsack, armed himself with his stick, and started on the road to Paris; for his summer wanderings were over, and ho-was going back to his qnsrtier Ilectujon to vitalise their fruits. His way' lay through woods; a part of the forest where he had first met Edtnee, but quite in the opposite direction. At first he was thinking of her, sadly and pityingly, and with many conjectures as to the future fate of so strange a nature so strangely placed. ' Then, by degrees, tae artist again came uppermost. He th ought of the pictures he would paint, in all of which some hint, some movement, some expression taken from her, could be introduced. with precious effect. He opened his sketch-book, and as be walked slowly on, he contemplated the innumerable studies of her with whicn it was filled. • He looked up at last ; before him stood the ori ginal.--Ltrembling, her great eyes rivetted on his-face, with a look at once fearful, so ear -nest, so beseeching. , • "You, Edmee!" Her breath came fast and thick,,and her voice was hardly intelligible; but, as she went on, it strengthened. "Yes! it is me; let me go with you—any -where, I will be your -servant,-11/ do any thing on earth for you; don't be angry—l could not stay with Them any lunger—she beat rue worse than ever, because she knew 1 ' was happy with you, and you were kind to Me. Oh, let me go with you—let me go with you!" " But, chilT—your mother. I have 130 right to take you from her." • " She's not my mother, she's only my step mother; and my. father is dead. I belong to nobody—nobody cares fur me. Even wh4t Ude for them, they only curse me for, and beat me when I can't do the work they' put me to. Oh ! let me go with you—let mega with yots!" Claude's hesitation was gene, and taking her little trembling hand in his, he led her on. At the' next . topn they approached, he gave her ituney and sent her to a Athop to purchase some decent clothes; *then he went to a little out-of-the-way inn. stopped to give her rest and food, and made her go add per-1 form'her toilette. in half an hour, down she came; all traces of poverty, fatigue, and ta motaoa vac ished; her neat dressiitting on her so gracefully, her' wild hairsparted in shi-1 1 ning *wavy bandeaux beneath her trim cap s her little Arab feet and firm slender uncles.' - so symmetrical in high shoes and well-drawn: striped stockings, and, above all, her oval; race, so radiant with beautiful joy and grat itude. • Claude felt very proud and happy. ' "So there you are, little one, you think I,ourself smart do you, heinl Well, scide —I think you look ch;rtning." • She stood , before:him, smiling, holding hiir skirts, as children do when their dress ti admired. : - She broke 'into a short gleeful laugh of joy and triumph . . "So you're happy now?" - " Oh! Monsieur!". She seized his hand and covered it with kisses. . • The tears sprang. to Claude's eyes 4 drew her towards him, and, resting his chin on her head,,he began, in a voice of deep and quiet emotion. • . "Edmee, -do not know if have done right in taking thee ; at all events, it is done new; never, ° child, give me cause to think I 'have acted wrongly—even foolishly, and with God's help I will be a father and a protector to thee as long as I, live. ' Kiss me, my She flung her arms round his, neck card clung to him lung and in silence, and he felt it was very sweet to hold 'such communion, =to claim Such love, and trust, and grail: tude from it human creature—sweeter • than to bold imaginary unloving ontivesse with the shadows of dead beroes'and heroines. ! Claude [afoot vas once more installed `in his painting-room. As. of -old he dreamed sad painted--painted and &embed; but when the shadowy company war not sufficient to fall his heart basin, he half woke up from his reverie and west to the little sitting-ipom' at the back that opened into a bit of a girded; and there, in wintef •by the sparkling fire and clean-swept hearth; In sudmer at alma open door,' round which trailed -a vine, *climbing. rose and gay vulgar nasturtiums, he reslight ed his pipe, and haltdrearning, half-listening, heard the prattle, childish yet strangely wise, of Edmes, who, aC she fluttered sboutioriat MONTROSE, I THURSDAY, AUGUST 6, 1857. on a stool at his feet, thought aloud in her `own Wild, suggestive, conjectural way, hitting on Singular glimpses of great - truths that 'could only come to her intuitively. 'I; • By degrees Claude 'began to dreaiu Imi and think more.' - Edinee was now fifteen. Re felt atilt she • become something. more than a child and plaything, and that a certain responsibility Weighed on him In the-care of her, in the pro ision for her future. She bad learned, it is . • rd to say how,_ reading and writin ' situ* -he had been with him. One day, en be i x, •ntered the sitting-room, he found mee ith a book on her knees, which she was studying with a puzzled sir. ,I •• . 1 "W fiat are you reading there, child!" le a' *fed, carelessly. , 7 I: i • : - 0 held up the book. It was a Volume of foltaire. , - : n "The. devil ! where did you fish 'out - that k t But you don't understand it I'? She shook her head. ' .; " Mind this: when you want to'read any. thing, you Must show it to me first—do you hear, little one?" She arranged his chair, lighted hislife' p , and sat down at his feet in silen Claude's eyes were wide open, and-Sull of earnest re flection. Once or twice . she I lied up tim idly, luta, meeting no reply to her glance, she dropped. her eves again. , r. She said at last, " You're notiangry with me?" ' 4 " With you?.Never!" i b" You see, I eta afraid of notbing on earth ut vexing you. I care for nothing on earth Ibut pleasing you. ; Between these two thoits lie all the cam of my life." •1; Strange ! the pain and the pleasure Claude felt. He stroked her shining hair,kissed her ibrehead, and fell to, thinking harder than ever. - - ; . I Next day, instead of putabg on liis dres eing-gown, gap, and slippers, and retiring to .his atelier, h tot' the first time for many a IoN year at i euctran hour, dotmed coat, boots, and bat, Wiled ford 4 and . returned with a Small library—books of history, biography, eligion, and some poetry t° all works the most perfectly suited to the purpose they were intended for. if " There !Ai Ai want . to read—there are books enough foi you. Whet do you say to lahat, hein 1" .. • She bounded round hint and the books nghin , skir • - cl; • her hand , Jg, Aping, clappit4 is, in wild, beautiful delight. . Fur months, between tier:light household uties. so quickly and happily performed, the frequent sittings she-atill continued to ive him, the books were studied with' ear -1 est attention. ,Some of then! Claude already knew; the rest ! he now real, and constantly lof an evening questioned his pupil, drawing ?out and correcting her impressions with a Pride and interest stringely new and pleasant to him. As he hai.t anticipated, Edinee - grew before firs e:,-es into striking and remarkable beauty. He noted the pregress with a mingling, of !pleasure and uneasiness, and watched Over 'her with a jealous.care. .FeYr visitors came !to his painting-room ; but, at the sound of a 'strange footstep, a look warned Edmee to retreat, and she fled through the back-door like a mouse into its hole. .; 1 Another year and anotheik passed•by, and lEdmee was seventeen. It is certain," said Cliude to himself, "thish cannot go on for evei. I am not itn mortal, and if some day a misfortune happens to me, what becomes of the child? 1 must 1 find &husband for her !" • • . This is the French mode of settling all such I affairs, which are conducted .as any other matters purely of business. Might be. The idea was a good one, certainly; yet many difTtculties _presented themselves.— Claude's mode of life, and unworldly, unbusi ness-like habits made him the last man in the world to set about matchmaking. lie knew nobody who in the least degree suited his no. donor the sort of husband to whom he would confide the happiness 4e his adopted child.— He had a vague conscousnees thatlin matri monial affairs, there were troublesome details of money matters to be gone through, and on this part of the qUestion 4 felt dreadfully incompetent to enter. He was quite willing to give Edina° anything , and everythinm ° be possessed; but how much .that, might be, or h6w be was to find it out and get it in train, and what were likely to be the pretensions 'or arrangements on the other side, it put him into a state of hopeless despeintion to Mak of All this he admitted , to himself; but he did not admit—for the thing was too vague and unformed, for admission or actual' con temPlation,—that a little aping jealousy, numb , pain, lair at the botbsim of his heart, whetkhe thought of giving. to _another the treasure that for four years had lightened his life, and given him new and human feelings and a hitherto - unknown love and 'sympathy with' his race. Edmee was eighteen' and still Claude had found no hUsband for her. • • • .Ifitherto be had worked clone; now, the thought and the care &her, the time he de voted to her education and to her amusement rendered it imposigiblo to bim 'to do all he had been wont to do in hie painting room. He resolved, therefore, to look out fur a stu dent—a good student—who might never in word or deed break on' the eioistral strictness and purity with which.Clautle's jealous care had surrounded his pet. After long search the wonderful student was discovered, and installed in the painting room.- Paul was essentially a pattern stu dent. The son of a rich farmer, he found painting the field," infinitely; ore to his taste than ploughing them--draiing his father's oxen to driving them. The fat he r, - another pattern in his species. considered that his la. bomrs might perfornithe plotighieg and driv ing work, and that his Soil Would not be wast ing his time in spending it as his taste dicta , • . ted. It was the fete at St. Mond, end Claude Pent there in'the omnibus, ,with Paul at one able and Edtnee at the other. Arrived at the park, the sight of the Pen' ple madehim shrink " Go on, follow you." • Arm in arm the joyouttchildren went on, laughing and chatting , • "Yes," said Minds to himself, "they are young, they arihappy, happy, is themselves, happy in thew:we, happy in each other's ao gietY—d7--" ;. A thought for the first time imbed nerve him with a thrill of such' strange mingled contradicting sensations, that he passed his lumd across his . brow and stopped, then • quickened his steps—he Istraly knew why. E= But the . thought that had struck into his brain, stayed there, and gilt took itand hand led.and examined it and familiarized himself with it. Strange, it had never presented it.. self to him before ! Here mix the husband he had been looking for. fur Edmoe during the last two—three—years. Hero, under his hand ! Yes •it was the thing of all oth ers to suit. If t h© father would but approve, ho saw no obstacle. Paul—Paul ! he- would be but too happy—who would not?—to mar ry Edmee ; and Edmee—she liked Paul, she certainly liked, him ; how gay they were, what friends, how happy together:! Yes; be would go bravely into the thing, money mat ters and all, and present the question to the father. lie did so, and before, '-week was out teceived a reply in the affirmative.— The pattern farmer bad looked favorably at the, thingTrorn the first. Ail he, heard -of Cktude:and his adopted child perfectly satin. fled bite. He gave the least possible amount of mystification to Claude's brain about the questiqn of finance, and expressed his. readi ness to the match taking place as soon as Claude and the young people thought fit. Clitu4e was sitting at work .with Paul. There was a long silence; the student had made one or two attempts to break it, but the monosyllabic replies of the master had discouraged these, and they were abandoned. At hist Claude opened the matter lying heavy at his heart. • " You have never thought of marrying, Paul 1" Paul , shifted his position a little, colored very vehemently, and replied that he never had seriously. " You ought to think of it however, my good boy—why not now V' Paul replied " That's true." There was a pause; Claude cleared his throat. "If I kitind you a- wife—Lii good, nice, charming little wifewould ;that suit you V' " Well, iierhaps so." "Du you know any one you Could like I" Clande's heart (law:Tell. • " Who 1" "You don't guesii Who coulel like but .V.dnieel" " And do you think she likes you '1" "Ab ! that's what I want to know. Some times l hope's(); at other times not." " We'll find .out, my lad." Claude sat by the open door of the garden, in- the warm summer twilight—Edinee in her old place by his knees. "My child, I have been - thinking a great deal about you:" . She looked -up hastily. " De you know that you are of an age to think about being married 1" Heedless of th start she gave, for Claude's speech was . all made up, and he feared that if he stopped _it might stick hi his throat and he would break down, he went on: He told her how long-he had thought of this ; how, he felt the • loneliness of the life she led : ; bow little a . man.like him wits fitted to be the sole instructor, and guide, and companion of a yoting girl ; how he dreaded that day might come—must come, when, if she were not married, he would have to leaie her alone and unprotected in the wide - world; bow dreadfully this thought weighed on him ; how, until she was thus provided for, he nev er could feel happy or assured concerning her. Then he spoke of Paul: of his affection for her; of all his good qualities; of what peace and Ay he would feel in seeing her uni ted to him; and then, feeling he could not wait fur her answe.r, he took her to his heart, kissed, her, bid her think 'of all he had said, and took refuge in his painting-room, where he smoked five pipes without stopping. So the affair Was settled, and the prepara tions for the marriage, which was to' take plat* In a fortnight; went on. Claude made himself very unnecessarily busy ; nay per fectly fidgetty, when be might have kepi quite still, and let other people manage mat ters infinitely better than he could possibly do. It was the night before .the wedding.— Claude had been out, occupied with the last arrangements, and returned home towards eleven o'clock.. As usual, he opened the, oor with his latch key, and entered the quiet little dwelling, whose silence struck upon him with a chill of disappointment; for he had secretly hoped that Edmee would have been' up to greet him, after the occupations of hi 4 busy day.— lie listened, but there was no 'quick, light step, no sound to indicate her consciousness of his entrance. Claude sighed, took up the dim light that had beenieft burning against his arrival, and instead of going to his room, turned into the studio. How deadly still it was! how deserted! the wan, quivering flame of the little lamp only made the gloom it could not pierce more heavy, and as its wa vering light flashed and faded over the pic tures, they seemed to shudder on him while he passed. And so it was allover, and she was already gone froth him, and the old, 'lonely, loveless life was to be beipm main, now that , he was so much less able and fitted to lead it than formerly. Art iii great, and noble, and ele vated, and be, who pursues it with all his en ergies =mot' fail to profit thereby. But, art is not enough to fill man's life alone.— Art will be worshipped as a sovereign, and if courted in right guise, sometimes conde.- wends to let the votary kiss the hem of her garment, and now and then bestois on hlm a smile. But' she gives no more than this, and though for a time it may satisfy , him,, there comes a, daY when he would resign all the favor she ever accorded him, for a little human bye, and a little human sympathy.— Claude had felt this before ho had attained these. Now he bad known theni, and .was about td losi them—for ever. The perfume flowers--the flower! she bad, placed .there that morning, before he went out;drew him to the table. A note lay on it--a note in her handwriting,- and di rected to himself. ' - A mist passed over his eyes, as be opened and sought to read the contents, written in a trembling band, and here and there blurred and Wetted,. how,---he 'knew. " Ify dear, dear Mend; my only Mend—forgive me If you can for the' pain I am caushig you, and dove all, oh, above all, do not thin our poor child ungrateful But I cannot many Paso ; my heart re volts from It. :Indeed, indeed, I have done all I could to reconcile myself to it. because you wished it ; and I know be deserves a better wife then I could make him ; ii is not any foolish, wicked pride, or salf-conceit os my pint that turns me trom him; but I cannot love him, poor Paul, and when ho knows this be will learn to forget me, and marry some one better worthy of him. 'Bei am going away, because . I know all the anxiety you have concerning to., feel- H. H. FRAZIER, PUBLISELER-VOL. 8. NO. 80.. mg how little I am 8t for any other life than the hatP gy one I have led with you these past years. Du dot be afraid for me : I am young, and strong, and able, and willing to work, and God will not desert " And later, when I am guitil a woman, and have got used to my way, in the World, and learnt to obtain a living, I will come back to you, and we will be hap py again In the old way, and you will see - that your child only left you fora while, because she loved you so dearly that she could make this great and terrible sacrifice now, to insure your future comfort. lam go• log into service," anti-when I have got a place; I will write to you, my own dear Mend, but I will not tell you where.l am, for fear yon should come t° take me back again, and if you did, I know I am not strong enough to refuse to go with you. . "God bless you, and 0 my dear, best, only friend. believe that I love you, now I am leaving you, better than I did in all my life, and that the only happiness I look to on earth Is the ides of com l ngjo, -d ato you. And I will come back to you before ; Wag : God will bless my work, and we shall meet again, and forget this heavy trial; lam sure of it. ,Once more bless ,lngs on you. "Tour poor child," " EDMEt." His heart, then, bad not misgiven hint in vain : she was gone, actually and positively.. —Whither and to what? The thought nearly drove him wild: that little young, helpless, beautiful creature, unsuspicious and inexperi enced as an infant, gone out alone and unpro tected into that great wide world of guile, and sin, and suffering, and 'temptation, under every form and every treacherous disgulse! He knew her courage, her• resolution, her high heart; but, wire these enough to guard her alime against the danger whose name is Legion?. And would nut these Very qualities, aided by the wild spirit of independence and adventure her gipsy blood and early training had infused into her, tend to induce her to bear up- against every difficulty, to brave eve- Cy hardship in the pursuit of the aim she had imposed on hirself? _ And now, where to look forter? For three days, Claude Lafont, aided by Paul, sought her, sorrowing, through every part of the great metropolis; and sought in vain. The fourth, Paul proceeded on his mission alone, for Claude lay on his sick - bed, racked with pain, and grief, and fever, but insisting on remaining alone, that the quest might.not be for a day interrupted. Slowly the evening reddened and piled, and the hush andsdimuess of twilight fell upon the sick-room, and for the first time since Ed mee's departure, Claude slept. • • • -Presently the door opened, add a shadow stood on the threshold, noiseless and breath l.;s as shadows are ; then it glided across the room, 'mused, stood, and finally kneeled by the tied'-side. The sleeper's Jabored Creathing• stopped suddenly, he was not yet awake, and still he was listening—something —a consciousness, a hope, was rising in him, combating the numbness of slumber; he started, stretching out of , his arms, and pro flouncing Edtnee's name; it was . Edinee's voice that answered him-; they were Edmee'S tears that fell on hint, Edinee's kisses thit pressed his hot brow. Long and silently he held her close in his embrace. "Thou wilt not leave me again r " Never, never, never ! Oh forgive me-1f you knew one half of what I have suffered !--== not of hardships or rniseiy—l had got, shun,: dant means to secure plc from that—but from the separation from you! Oh, I could not live longer without seeing you ! I thought just to steal back—have one glance at you, and then 7 --then I knew not, cared not—what might becotrie,of me; and I find you—thus !" " Edmee, tell me what was the reason you would not marry Paul I You did not love, him. Did you—do you—love any other V' She clung to him, hiding her face and weep ing silently. . "You. will not tell me 1'" " I cannot." A wild, trembling, thrilling hope traversed the obscurity of Claude's brain. "Is it-4 r • " Who could it be but you r And so Edmee was married--but not to the pattern student, son of the pattern farm er. Krasmo.POlt THE POOR. Some young officers quartered at Metx, had, fur want of something else' to do, watch ed, day after day, the fair devotee going to mass at the. Cathedral, which happened to be opposite the principal Cafe. 'Among the In die, the one favored with the most admira tion and attention. was a young girl at once beautiful, modest, and elegantly dressed. " I would give a good -deal for a kiss on that 'fresh, blooming cheek," said the captain, somewhat over fifty years of age. • " I give nothing," said the LieutenSnt; just over six and twenty, "but I would take ie." - " I bet you wouldn't." - " flow . much?". " Twenty-fiie Napoleons." ")one," said the Lieutenant. "I take you all 'as witnesses." Mass was just over, and the young gift was seen descending the steps of the Cathe dral. Arranging his stock and sword, with delib erate pace the Lieutenant walked across up. to the foot of the steps, and then % as ..,the young lady passed him, with a gallantly ex ecuted military salute, he accosted her: - " he, "there is a sant of twenty-fiie louis resting on your check; will-you allow me to take it offl" • " I do not understand." • - " For many a `week, Mademoiselle, we have watched with, admiration and respect e your daily visits to the Cathedral ; the whole` regiment is in love with you, and I have - sra-- gered twenty-Ev r e lonia that 1 would obtain a kiss from you just on the right cheek--noth ing more, upon my honor. - The younilady bluidied demand her eyes flashed with in dipation. The,lemme de chasubre took her hands out of her apron pockets, and held them up in holy horror. All at once, the young lady turning to the officer, made him a profound curtsey. "Sir,niald she, "YOU will not lose your het; you shall take - the twenty-five Napoleons on my right cheek, on condition that you also take the twenty-five that are on my left cheek, which I now odhr you, and which I will immediately putinto the poor-box heri at the door.r, The young Lieutenant was rather outten• Crated. He, however, had too much spirit to retreat, and accordingly won his wager at the price required, though it must bn said that the laugh waa'agalnat , - or One of Walker'a - men who had a. Costa Ricca bayonet at his breast, refused to ask for mererbmuumAtneriounk*iitet take Spauudt Item - k. r* now. - • _ . Mr It is said that no fort ever suffered so much from a single- battle, as bailie; pi. ano-forte from the Battle of Prague. II 7#13, ABM OF IBA , i..fl OFF., It was Clutrlotte Bronte, I believe, who, heti she waa urged to write more books; said she thanked God for the ability to keep silent • when she bad ,nothing to say. I wish her beautiful art were - more eppreciable,.for we may have too much, - even of good thing, but as brevity is the only =enemy of , coin. monplaces, it seems a pity that the quality should se often `be wanting. There iiidways a right phint beyond whieh to praised is dan gerous 'and ridiculous—Aimidity SOLlCletilllell -comes short aft., but confidence oftener over-; leaps it, and Gills on the other side. • "Oh, the little more, and how ninth it isl And the little less, and wha t worlds away How a sound shall quicken ouhtent to bliss, Ora *WI wisp* the blood's bast play." Speaking of. this good world in which We • live, I one day-heard a clergyman say, "with the simple directness of real eloquence—And our Father Made hall. "Unfortunately, how ever, that concise statement failed to satisfy him and he bodied forth , the following:' Yes, my friends, the great omniscient and eternal Jehovah, created this mundane planetary - sphere, and that, too; without any nutterkds! I was, yesterday a good. deal amused in witnessing the parting of-one of those happy pairs who are likely to forget that there is anybody except themselves in the world. God you, my dear, God bless you, ex claimed the lover with a fervency of unction almost pathetic; and at the very next moment,. becoming aware of my proximity, he added, • and you, too : but the vapidnessof the addenda rendered it perfectly ludicrous. Many a clever man has To.st his sweetheart by saying too much—and making courtship an importunity—a drop more added 'to the sweet enough makes it nauseating. Familiar handling rubs off the bloom from the -delimtnfruits, sod when we have said so much thatnothing more can _be said, - why,ve have come to the end of our , Many an author hides his Meaning wit` t a - cumbrous load of words,, as 4 -poverty of thought could be concealed by any such arti fice. To say what we mean, and there end, is true wisdom ; but_even when &reed at , last to come to the conclusion-that we have noth ing more to- say, we cannotoesse speaking without find - 'saying we have nothing more to say.' The accomplishment of happily ander . fectively leaving ofishould be placed among the fineiarts, I. think, and studied as such, so that our writing and Speaking 'night be less upon the school girl model of. " I believe I have nothing more to say at present-4 be lieve I have told you all I can think at pres ent-4 belielo I teed . draw - myletter to - a close, as I can think of nothing - more to tell you at present." The book ailed Last Words of Baxter, had a remarkable sale, but when somepoor imitator vitae another and, called it More Last Words of Baxter., there was no demamd, Or it.. Aug. Carom. THE eines or DEIS. Egs:r.--The graziers - and drovers have been blained for combining to keep up the prices of beef and forming • monopolies. " A - Grazier "in the German town Tekgraph, who-feels that both sides should be , olds his luethren from these cha ges, and says the simple truth is, . that th consumption of beef in this country is gradually becoming greater than its mpac= ities of supply, and that it is the same case. in. France and England. He asserts that the graziers make no more profit at present from cattle than they did several years since, if we consider the enbatesecl value 'of every thing they. themselves' have to pyrchase, for they now procure cattle from the drover at en advance of 50 per cent, over what they then did; and - he in turn, from the scarcity and value of cattle everywhere, is compelled to purchase of the breeder at ,the .same in creased price.- The true remedy then sug gests itself, which is, to be. less wasteful M the consumption of beef than we have hither , to been, and to , cease the slaughter of our calves. " Grazier" contends 'Unit, with the wide domain stillilkweessed in each of. our States tor pasturage, the rearing of cattle should be a portion of every farazer's ness,large and small,and that' a system of je dicious pasturage will nurture his soil, and increase its powers of production beyond any other means he can adopt. His advice - is "to keep our calves add raise them; and let the knights of the cleaver do without veal Tor their city friends, while in the meantime we may permit the laws of trade to regulate a matter which they -have always done and always will•do." There appears much force • in these remarks, Midas the subject; is one that largely interests the general community, we should like to hear.' a. more feasible plan for obtaining Cheap beef if it can be devised:. Tar. Two Ileras.—" I remember" says a late Postmaster General of the United States, "the first time .I visited Burlington, Vt., as Judge of the Supreme Court. 1 had left it many years before a poor boy. At the time I left, there were two families of special note - for their standing and Wealth. Eacit'ofthera had' a son abOut my own age. 1 was very poor, and Ahoy very rich. During_ the long years of hard toil N‘ hioh bad passed before my return, I bad almost forgotten them. They. had - already forgotten me. Approaching the- _ court house fur the , first time, in company ' with several gentlemen of the, bar, I noticed, a large pile of Old furniture, about to be sold at auction. The scenes of early boyhood. with which i was surrounded, prompted, me to ask whose-itwas. I was lord _that it.be.. longed to.llr. J. ..I remembered* GirtailY of that - naive, men. wealthy ; there' was a son; too; could itibet bine, I was told thatit was even so. lIc; was'the son of one of the. SlM ibes already Alluded to. - Ile betl inherited -ruoie than had earned, and epetet it all; and now' his family was reduced to want and his; very furniture Was that' day to be sold for debt. I went. into the court house sullenly; yet almost glad that I was : born poor.. l*as soon absorbed in the bueiness berme me. One of the first edges called, originated in a low, drunken quarrel -between Mr„.II. and Mr. A. Mr.ll;, thought I4hat ie a &miller name. Can it be 1 In short, I, giund, that this indeed - was the "son of **other wealthy man referred to, I was everwlttdmed alike with - aatonklment Mud; tlumluteving—attort hditient at the change in our relative stand tag, and thanksgiving that I Iv not horn to; inherit'wealth without " i - • That poor boy has untie We Politmoktet. General oftho'llidted States; and ' ' of the United-1, ' fpl,ikZ- - 1 4 t h eit „ due s renwho"ve, a " done thikertoo--t stay !am •
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