"All this is very well. But we cannot comply with your request. Our funds are exhausted now, and you must wait-" "Wait! for what? Till I die, I suppose, gentlemen! And if I die of hunger, when my wife comes you will turn her away and say, 'Your husband did not die of his wounds!""

The clerk called the next in order; and when Bernard attempted to remonstrate, ordered him to leave the office.

He returned home, wild with rage and despair, when, as he reached the Place de la Bastille, he felt a violent pain which attacked his intestines ! He stopped-he trembled-he studied this unexpected sensation-he watched its return-he feared that he was mistaken, the poor wretch! A second time something sharp and piercing seemed to move within him. "Oh, heaven!" cried he, "thanks, thanks! it is the ball, and I am saved!"

He went home, and, without saying a word to his wife, took his crutches, and went to visit a neighbouring surgeon, for he was too weak to walk to M. Dupuytren's dwelling; and he feared, besides, that he might have deceived him in order to tranquillize his mind.

"Sir," said Bernard, "I have come to consult you."

"Are you ill, friend?"

Thereupon he mentioned his visit to the famous professor, and drew a horrible picture of the wretchedness of the two objects of his love and his fears, who had eaten nothing for almost three days.

The good surgeon tried to console him, forced him to accept some money, and requested him to call again in a week.

This week and the succeeding ones passed in cruel alternatives of sickness and health. Time ran on-the year was near its end, when the pain which the carpenter felt finally assumed a fixed character, which enabled the surgeon to ascertain the existence of an abdominal abscess, caused by the presence of the bullet, which had slowly ulcerated his intestines.

On the first of July, Bernard dragged himself for the last time to the surgeon's, who told him, in a troubled voice,

"My friend, you have not a week to live."

The carpenter thanked him from the bottom of his heart; then clasped his hands, and gave thanks to God, who had at length taken pity on him.

On the twelfth of July, 1831, the gates of the hospital St. Antoine opened to give passage to an humble coffin, that of Bernard, the carpenter, a combatant of July, decorated, who died at five o'clock on the morning previous. A brilliant train surrounded this humble coffin, which was canopied by tri-coloured flags, festooned together with chaplets of oak leaves. A battalion of the national guards, with arms reversed, headed

"What?"

"The bullet, sir, the bullet! It is mortal, is it not? Oh! pray tell me is it mortal!"

His eyes kindled as he uttered these wild words, and his knees tottered.

Bernard, panting between fear and hope, now told the surgeon all that had happened to him-his wound, his residence in the hospital, and the pain which had suddenly attacked him.

The surgeon, after two or three questions, reflected awhile and said, "It is nothing."

At these words, Bernard changed colour; a cold sweat bathed his body; he turned pale, and fell on the floor.

The astonished surgeon administered some ether, and asked him, "Why are you so much affected? I assure you it is nothing at all."

"Alas! I am undone!" cried the workman; "and yet M. Dupuytren assured me it was all over with me!"

deceased's brethren in arms bore the coffin, on which his cross was laid. The long, low roll of eight drums, shrouded with crape, added to the mournful pageantry. Next to the corpse walked the good surgeon in tears; after him came a few neighbours, followed by a deputation of the wounded of the three days.

The procession moved toward the spot set apart for these national interments. The commander of the guard delivered an eloquent oration, and a volley from two hundred muskets awoke the echoes of the great city of the dead. Then all went home, most of them asking, "Who was this Bernard, though?"

For a whole year, a young female, with an infant child, was seen to kneel weekly in this spot.

She is not to be seen there now. She has married again, two months since, bringing the pension which her first husband earned for her, as her dowry to her second.

Such is the story of Bernard, the de

coré. It is a sad but a true one. In every point of view, he died in good time.

GREAT READERS.

Most great men have been great readers. Miracles are recounted of their powers of perusal. How Dr. Johnson "would tear out the heart" of a book at a glance. How Burke devoured two volumes octavo in a stage-coach; and how package after package of these sweet medicines for the mind was thrown in to Napoleon on the island, like food to a lion, and, with hoc presto, despatched. After all the pity and puling have been exhausted by commentators on the lamentable ignorance of Shakspeare, we ascertain to a surety that he was one of the most profound and extensive readers of his time: The man who in the present age had written most had read most. Reading and writing go together as naturally in literature as they do in the prospectus of a schoolmistress, who professes to inoculate these branches of learning on the juvenile. The dullest eye, when aided by the telescope, can see farther than the brightest without such assistance. Burns, with the help of a dozen or more volumes, makes himself the first poet of his native land; with the stupendous aidance of a Bodleian (or even the feebler one of a circulating) library, might he not have ranked himself with Byron or Shakspeare?

THE Indians, it is said, are very expert in catching the cayman:-a man dives down upon the crocodile's back, while asleep, and fastens a rope round its body; he then strides across it, and, making a signal to his companions on the river's bank, they are pulled towards the surface of the water together. By tickling it under the axilla with a stick, the monster, it is stated, becomes perfectly manageable, and is hauled to the beach, where the rider's comrades dispatch him with iron-shod clubs,'

SENSIBILITY.

EXTREME sensibility is not likely to increase individual happiness, but will most assuredly augment our sources of pain. Sensibility to a certain point is to be desired, as without it, we should be deprived of our most exquisite gratifications, and enjoy few of the pleasures peculiar to rational beings; but I am decidedly of opinion, that where this quality exists, it ought, in a great degree, to be the business of education to repress its powers; to allay, if possible, the poignancy of its effects; and to endeavour to lessen the anguish, to which its victim is irrevocably doomed. A state of apathy cannot be desirable, because it necessarily implies total incapacity of properly appreciating every sublime and exalted source of enjoyment; but that excessive sensibility, which augments the natural afflictions of life, to a degree of agony which they might not otherwise produce, is certainly no less to be deprecated.

CUSTOM FAMILIARIZES.

"Ir is surprising," says Mrs. Lee, "to watch how rapidly familiarity diminishes all antipathies. I never shall forget the cold chill which crept over me, on first seeing a huge lizard crawling on the wall of my bed-room; yet in time I not only was amused by the rapid movements of the large lizards, as they chased each other up and down the verandah where I sat, but even fed them daily. A snake close to me, I thought would be death; but at last I became so careless about them, that, although there was a nest of deadly snakes in a hole in the wall, which it was necessary to pass, in going the shortest way to the kitchen, I used to watch for a minute or two, and then dart past, when they drew their heads in; a dangerous experiment, for they are very fierce when they have young ones. A battle between a snake and a rat was a curious sight, to which we were summoned by hearing, in the hall above the store-room, a hissing and squeaking, for which we could not account. On opening the store-room to ascertain the cause, a snake was to be seen rearing its beautiful, many-coloured neck and head, while a rat's black eyes were glistening with rage. They were in too great a fury to be disturbed by our approach, and flew at each other several times: at length the rat died in great agony, swelled up to a frightful size, and covered with foam; the snake was immediately destroyed by the servants."

No. 60.

THE CROISSY YEW. (From the French.)

THE Croissy Yew is a little tale, full of freshness and interest. We will let our readers judge of it by an analysis, and

some extracts.

"I will tell you, sir, why I come every evening to smoke my pipe under the Croissy yew."

So begins the tale. In 1812, the narrator, who had escaped the conscription, by entering college, which he had since left, did not know what to do with himself. Meantime, he amused himself by climbing up into a huge yew tree, and casting his eyes over the surrounding country. One moonlight evening, when at his post, he overheard a conscript, who was bidding adieu to his sister and his betrothed. The latter wept. The more resolute sister said,

"Have you not got a colonel? him who enlisted you? Well, go and find your colonel, throw yourself on your knees, and say, 'My lord, I don't want to go away-I don't want to be killed.

There are my sister and a wife, who cannot live without me, and who are going to throw themselves into the river. Beat me, colonel, put me in prison, but don't make me go away! Long live the emperor! He's a noble fellow! Let him leave me in peace, and go about his business! Colonel, I am a man and a free one, and I have no right to leave my sister Christine, who won't have me to quit her; and who will hate you, colonel, if you make me go off!"

The brother smiled at his sister's eagerness, and told her he must have a substitute, and money to pay him.

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"Well," said Christine, I will give you everything I've got. My gold cross, my ear-rings, my silk neck-kerchiefs, my collerettes; in a word, all my trinkets, to him who will consent to go."

"All that does not amount to the price of a man," replied Eugene.

Christine reflected awhile, and said, catching her brother's arm

"Well! I am well worth a manworth more than a man-oh, certainly I am! I will give myself, then. I will tell somebody or other, Go in my

brother's place, and I will be your wife. You see I am pretty a little spoiled, but what matters that? I will love you so, if you will save my brother! Oh, yes! I swear by the golden cross, in which is some of my mother's gray hair, I would willingly marry him who would devote himself to you.'

At evening, as they were seated at their humble meal, without being able to touch it, and looking tearfully at each other, some one knocked at the door. "Come in, said the young man, hastily drying his eyes.

An old sergeant made his appearance, saying, "Health! Leven here?"

Is the conscript Eugene

"Yes, sergeant." "There," said the soldier, throwing a letter on the table.

Eugene read slowly at first, but afterwards devoured the paper. It was his discharge in due form. He looked at the old soldier with astonishment.

"That means that your place is taken, conscript. It's a pity, though; for your moustaches would have sprouted with a little gunpowder. But enough, you are happy now-farewell."

And he was going away.

"Oh, the devil!" said he, as he returned, "Christine Leven-is that your sister? Where is your sister?"

"Here,' said Eugene, pointing to Christine, who was pale with joy and emotion.

"This one is for you, miss;" and he threw a second letter on the table, but stopped short as he saw Christine trembling with agitation, crumpling the letter in her hands, and gazing fixedly on the table.

"What is the matter, what is the matter?" said Eugene. "Dear Christine, let us see that letter? Selfish being that I am, I never thought of it. Let me see who dares to write to you? What does all this mean?"

And he ran over the letter hastily. "Oh, read it aloud," said Christine, "it's the same to me! Good heavens! this is but just!"

Eugene read aloud.

'Miss-I ask nothing-I go away without making any terms-I take your brother's place; you need him, and no one needs me. But I am honest and love you, ever since I saw you weep. I send you a ring of my mother's. If you have pity upon me, you will take the golden cross, in which is some of your mother's gray hair, and which glitters

on your neck in the moonlight, this evening you will place it in the crevice of the large yew tree, near the branches. I will get it to-morrow morning; then you will wait two years, and, if I am not dead, I will bring it back. Will you remember what you swore on that cross? Farewell." said Eu

"What does this mean?"

gene, slowly. "How could any one know? Sergeant, do you understand this?"

"Some fellow on the look-out near you."

"Why then did he not come to us frankly?" answered the young man. "What a way of obliging is this!"

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Ah," said the soldier, "there's the thing! one's afraid of being treated as a spy; and, then, when one's young, and timid, and all full of romantic sentiments! one knows how to write and is afraid to talk, for want of practice; that's it !"

Eugene shook his head.

"Soldier!" cried he, "your hand! I will not have this substitute-my sister shall not be sacrificed-I will go with you. See!" And he took up his discharge, and prepared to tear it in pieces. Christine stopped him.

"But what if I want to have him?" said she. "After all, it's a fine action on his part. And then he goes without making any terms-and then he is unhappy-and then I have no other means of keeping you-and then I want to be in love with him! He did well, however, in not shewing himself-one might have regretted him too much. I will take the cross-but I should like to know-sergeant, have you seen him?" "Yes, now and then."

"Well! he is not hump-backed or bandy-legged, is he?"

"A good joke! Is the French army recruited with such sort of stuff under the little corporal? Is it not composed of individuals irreproachable as to their persons, and no fools as to morality?"

"Is he a man of worth?" asked Eugene.

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Very much so, I answer for it." "Well, sir soldier," said Christine, removing from her graceful neck the cross with the black riband which supported it; "tell him that he has done well; and place this cross in the hollow of the great yew; and then, say nothing more to him, but do not quit him, do you hear! and try to come back with him, to tell me There he is, it is he himself, he is worthy of you.""

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Eugene and Louise looked on, without being able to speak. The grenadier rose, took off his cap, received the cross, wiped away a tear, and said, Enough;" Christine turned to her brother and future sister. She was no longer the same person. Her character had assumed a more serious hue. She told Louise, "I, too, am betrothed; the pledge of my faith is in the hands of a soldier of the guards."

A year afterwards Eugene had to leave his home. The enemy was in France, and he would not have accepted a substitute now if he could have found At Montereau his life was saved by a lieutenant of carabineers. As this officer informed him that he had no family, Eugene invited him home to his own.

one.

Charles, such was his name, soon won Christine's favour: but she had plighted her troth to her brother's substitute, and she was faithful to him. Then Charles banded her the golden cross, and told her that it was he, who, a poor collegian, ashamed of the noble action he was about to perform, went away without seeing her, and finally rose to the rank of lieutenant.

"At present, sir," continued the narrator, "we are married. The sergeant died at Waterloo. Eugene and myself have prospered in the world; we live in that little red and white house you see yonder, and I go every evening to smoke my pipe under the Croissy yew."

[In the subject chosen by Dr. Bird, we perceive a new and rich mine opened to the lovers of historical romance. For notwithstanding the thrilling interest with which the mere history of this conquest is invested, the field has remained almost untrodden it will, however, apart from local predilection, yield to none in adventure and stirring interest, while it combines all the splendour of, we had almost said, oriental luxury. We subjoin an extract, the subject of which, is one of the many conspiracies with which Cortes was continually threatened, after all outward opposition from the natives had been subdued. It exhibits the turbulent spirit of the adventurers of whom those expeditions were composed, and strongly reminds one of the present state of that unhappy country.

"Admit Villafana," said Cortes, in tones that penetrated loudly to the farthest limits of the room, for the cavaliers were stricken into a boding silence at the accents of the alguazil; "admit my trusty Villafana." And Villafana entered.

He was evidently flushed with wine, and it was for that reason, doubtless, that he did not seem to observe the presence of his forsworn associate, nor the suspicious act of two cavaliers, who stole from the group, and took possession of the door by which he had entered. He approached with a reckless and confident, though somewhat stupid, air, exclaiming, after divers humble scrapes and salaams,

"I come at your excellency's bidding, according to appointment. This was the hour, please your excellency-but 't is a scurvy night, with much thunder and lightning."

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Ay, truly," said Cortes, with a mild voice, while all the rest stood in the silence of death; "but, being so observant, Villafana, how comes it you have not remarked that you are here without the Indian Techeechee, whom I commanded you to bring hither at this hour?"

"Senor," said the alguazil, a little confused, "that old Ottomi is a sly dog, and, I doubt me, not over-honest."

"I doubt me so, too," said Cortes, in the same encouraging tones; "yet, honest or false, sly or simple, methinks thou shouldst not have suffered him to escape."

Escape what, Techeechee escape!" cried Villafana, with unaffected surprise; "Ho, no! I did but give the gray infidel a sop of wine, and straightway he hid himself in a corner, to sleep off his drunkenness. And-and-and" continued he, with instinctive though clumsy cunning-" and I thought it would be unseemly to bring him to your excellency, in that condition. I beg your excellency's pardon for making him acquainted with such Christian liquor; but it was out of pity, together with some little hope of converting him to the faith;