"I shall never feel hunger again, I fear."

"I hope my uncle will be ready." The elderly lady sighed and said nothing. The lad laughed and chuckled, and I looked out along the strange streets of this celebrated old town, renowned for its ancient abbey of Benedictine monks, and as the burial place of the kings of France.

As we moved on again the conversation grew more general. The Scotchman talked of his dinner, his dog, and his uncle. The mother's grief, though less violent than that of her lovely companion, was more lasting; and the young girl herself, with many apologies and pressing solicitations for us all to share, produced some light edibles from her little basket, a bottle of wine and a silver cup, and we were all much amused to find that during the motion of the carriage, no one could drink. The fair hostess of the feast laughed as heartily as if care had never moistened her eyes. I was thrown quite off from my romantic speculations. There is a sober reality, too, about the name of "husband," at which most novelists close the third volume; but, a "husband" in London, and a heart in Paris-that's awkward.

At length we stopped late in the evening for dinner at Beauvais, another celebrated town, with a theatre, and a high, unfinished cathedral. Neither of the ladies dined, but having become quite familiarly acquainted, enjoyed their own reflection in the carriage, and afterward walked in the moonlight.

My friend, the Scotchman, sat next to me at table. I observed after the "potage," that notwithstanding his hunger, he had eaten nothing.

"Why, your appetite has left you, sir !

"Oh, no, no-I'm as hungry as a shark; but I'm an old traveller about these parts, and I never touch a mouthful of French soups. I know too well how they mak' them. I saw you swallowed yours vera unsuspectingly, so I wad na say onything about it," and he laughed and chuckled again, as if his gratification were growing habitual.

"How do they make them?" in quired I.

"Ou, ye see, they gather all the little bits o' bread and meat aff the plates of the last dinner, and perhaps aff the table or the floor, just as it happens-all the slops and leavin's, de ye see, and they ding them all in thegither. I wad not touch a drop for a kingdom. But here

comes the goose. I ken there's na patch work about him;" and very leisurely drawing the dish toward him, he helped himself to an abundance, and fell to with vigour.

"Your mother does not dine, sir?" "Oh no, puir soul, she's nae appetite the day."

"She seems unwell."

66

Why, yes, she is vary much distrassed at present about the death of my father, puir man, who was drowned the ither day aff Portsmouth, and we have only just got the news. I'll thank ye to pass that dish of tomato. This goose is as tough as an auld deevil. Thank ye. I'm going on to London now, to see the opening o' the will, and tak' charge o' the estate. I have n't been in London for sax years, and I thank this goose was born afore I cam' away."

This affectionate speech was made with a full mouth, and concluded by a loud laugh.

"Won't you take fruit out for your mother," asked I, as I was rising. "Perhaps some grapes will refresh her."

"Oh no! naver mind her. The gude woman is no chicken, and she's used to travellin'. Besides, she'll not eat onything at present, for my father's death. She taks on about it dreadfully. Is n't yon a strappin' pretty lassie-yon waiting maid? When I was here last, I cam' wi' a young, mad deevil of a French officer. He chucked all the chambermaids under the chin, between Marseilles and this Beauvais, and kissed them, and a bonny buss he gave yon wench, I remember. By the way, I'll tak' some o' those nuts for mysel', and an apple or twa-for we have a long night's ride before us.'

We got through the night very comfortably. A soft moon lighted nearly all the hours. We chatted a little, and dozed a little, and the poor widow sobbed once or twice—and I could hear the heartless young heir indulging, ever and anon, in his congratulatory chuckle

and the horses neighed, kicked and snorted, and the postilion swore-and the pretty, young wife talked very eloquently upon metaphysics, and character, and nations; and said, she hated the English with all her heart, and thought the French made the best husbands. Oh, sir," said she, "they are so animated-so ardent—so fond—so intellectual. Your Englishman is dull and gloomy, if not cross-he is wrapped up in his own business. It is always,

how can I make money?' While a Frenchman thinks, 'how can I be happy,

and how can I render those around me so?'"

"I am sorry," said I, "to be so rude; but I cannot agree with you. The Frenchman, probably makes the best lover, but a husband is altogether a different affair."

"Oh, yes," she sighed; "I know that too well; that is, I have often seen it exemplified. But the Frenchman certainly is a most graceful lover."

"A Frenchman," said I, "makes love with too much ardour-he is too theatrical too forward. He oversteps the limits of civility."

"Oh dear! dear! no. Pardon me, sir; I must put you right in that. I must say, whatever may be the faults of a Frenchman, he makes love with the most perfect, the most unexceptionable civility. There is not a word or an action but is inspired by the soul of tenderness and refinement."

Daylight brought us to Abbeville, and we were allowed time for coffee and hot milk-a refreshment which almost com. pensates for a sleepless night. Our subsequent ride lay by the memorable forest of Cressy to Montreuil, an old town mentioned by Sterne. This is seven or eight hours from Boulogne, where we were to embark in the steamer for London.

As we advanced toward the limits of France, I perceived the heart of our young companion growing sadder and sadder, and the handkerchief was once or twice resorted to, and was always kept ready in case of sudden necessity. Without wishing in the least to intrude within the circle of her private thoughts, I could not avoid, in the course of our day's ride, learning much more of her history, disposition, and present feelings.

I am

fond of unfolding any character, especially that of an ardent and intelligent woman. It disclosed itself as easily and artlessly as a bud opening in the summer morning, yet I detected the worm at work amid its bright leaves. She was one of the thousand females whose sentiments have been more cultivated than their reason, who act more from impulse than reflection, and who, in the dangerous experiment of marriage, rashly stake their all in an adventure, where the chances are fearfully against them. She had, it appeared, a year before, been joined to a plain young man, in a good business-one who had loved her long and well-of an irreproachable character, of kind heart and sound understanding -whose prudence, fortune and fair prospects in life rendered the match altoge

ther too advantageous not to be earnestly enforced by her friends. She had never been from home, had seen nothing of the world, was ignorant of any nearer approach to love than a thorough respect and friendship; and, yielding to the influence of all around her-an influence to which she could oppose no definite objection, in the full bloom and freshness of her charms and of her soul, she had married. This sketch of her past life I gathered from her, partly through her frank words, and partly by implication, Her pride and her sense of propriety, and her still unimpaired respect for her husband, combined to render her his eloquent eulogist through all her careless, rambling explanations; but I could easily see, while she spoke of her own happiness as a wife, that she returned toward its re-enjoyment with a reluctant heart; and that, though her guileless words plainly proved his deep and unsuspecting affection for her, they equally betrayed that it was too feebly requited.

"My husband," continued she, with her girlish, confiding frankness, after a long debate, in which she had fairly talked me out, "thinks there is no other woman in the world like me. He gives me my own way in everything-I have whatever I choose to ask for. He places the utmost confidence in me, as you may see; for I have been three months now in Paris all alone. I am sure, with such a husband I ought to be happy. As for my visit, I ought to be very much obliged to him. For I never never enjoyed anything so much in all my life. Such friends! such company! such delightful amusements! What is there in England to compensate me for all these? Oh, dear Paris! Are you fond of music, sir?"

"Passionately."

"So am I. Now there's Herbert. It is so strange. He cannot tell one tune from another. I have studied music very carefully, and play the piano, they do say, pretty well. I'll not be backward, (for where's the use ;) I play very well indeed. All our family are musical

ma, and pa, and aunt Sally, and uncle John-and, even all uncle John's children. They all come round to see me, on purpose to hear me sing and play." She flung herself back again, with a sigh, and a changed tone. "Now, Herbert does not care a pin for music. I believe he tried to like it, for my sake; (he would do anything for my sake;) but once, when he was listening attentively to one of my songs, I looked round, and what

do you think? he was asleep-fast asleep -his head bobbing up and down, just so ;" and she shewed her white teeth, in one of her humorous smiles.

I let the little unhappy chatterbox run on; for they are well off, who have the hours of a French diligence so well beguiled; and my companion was so pretty and lively, and emphasized her words so enthusiastically, that her chat was doubly amusing.

"In Paris, we danced, and sung, and rode, and drank champagne, and went to the opera, and to parties. Now, not one of these does Herbert care a single sous about. Then he is the gravest creature-never smiles - never jokes, and, what is more, never can take a joke. I don't know anything in the world so delightful as to meet with persons who laugh at once, and heartily, at droll things. Now, Herbert is all for business. Morning, noon and night-businessbusiness-business-and, when it is not business, why it is politics-reform-the catholics-Mr. O'Connell -this ministry and that ministry. What do I care about their ministries? Now, in Paris, I have heard nothing of these things. There all is gaiety-joy-refinement-amuseThere, people think only about being happy. There, men, when they meet women, are their companionstheir friends-their-heigho!"

ment.

Poor Herbert!

In a few minutes, the conversation was quite changed; for it rarely kept long in one course; and I suffered it to meander as it would. We were speaking of character, of the different grades of crime, and of the different degrees of guilt, even in the same crime.

"Now," said I, "there is murder-a deliberate murder-for malice or avarice -what can be more awful? But a noble fellow, although the immorality there too, would be great, might be entangled in a duel, and a duel, you know

I looked up to continue, but she was once more in tears. Out came the reticule, and then the handkerchief. I had touched some new chord. There was several moments silence.

"So, so," I thought; "a duel! the deuse! what can all this be? Herbert! Herbert! I fear this bodes thee a sad fire-side! "

"Excuse me, sir," at length said my companion; "you must think me very silly. I am most wretched-such a calamity! I have a friend, who, a few days before I left Paris-the most dreadful circumstance-I cannot relate it!"

"Oh, sir! I cannot explain it. I do not understand it myself. It is that which has irritated my feelings so, (as you have observed;) but I cannot bear to think of it. Let us change the subject. See those apples--those beautiful apples," continued she, brightening up like a lively child. "How rich their great red cheeks look. They had not thought of being ripe, when I passed this way to Paris."

We had an elegant dinner at Boulogne, at the neat Hotel d'Orleans, where a friend of her husband was already in waiting to see the pretty wife off in the steamer, which started at one in the night for London. I strolled around the old town, in the steps of Caligula and Napoleon, and killed the lonely evening at the circus, where the usual feats were performed by man and beast; handkerchiefs were picked up, hoops jumped through, and the wretched jokes of the clown flung a forlorn-looking audience into a roar.

At one I was on board the steamer, whither I had previously been, and taken the only unengaged berth. On descending into the little cabin, which was crowded, I found my young Scotch. friend, with his usual hard-mouthed impudence, just drawing the coverlet of my bed up to his chin; his hat, coat, vest, and boots lay by his side, although my name had been pinned ostentatiously against the curtain.

"Oh, how d'ye do, to-night?" said he, in his broadest accent, as we recog. nized each other. "How d'ye get on, noo? You come late down for these steamers. I ken them weel enough. I've been here an hour at least. I shall be vera comfortable here, but I think you'll be no gettin' a bed if you dinna mind."

I debated a moment the advantages of a dispute; the captain was on deck, half the other passengers were asleep, so I ordered a spare mattress on the floor, and wrapping my "gude cloak" about me, passed a comfortable night, with no other

interruption than one or two lurches and crashes as the boat yielded to a rather heavy swell, and an occasional call for the steward, or the basin.

The next day at three, we were getting along bravely up the Thames, with a world of vessels of every description flying by us with their wide wings spread broadly and heavily to the wind. The English wife had been sick in the cabin, but came at length upon deck. There was the poor old lady in black, yet lost in illconcealed anguish, and her hopeful son agitated with delight as ill-concealed. I had got on well with the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, but we were now drawing too near the land to admit of further reading. Finding my agreeable stage companion yet alone, I begged her to call upon me without hesitation, should she have need, on landing.

"You will want a carriage,” said I; "you will have to wait at the customhouse."

"No, oh no, sir;" she replied with a sigh: "no, Herbert will be there. I am sure Herbert will be there."

"Well, in case he should not, you know I should be most happy."

"Thank you, thank you. I am certain Herbert will be there. Herbert never fails. He is punctuality itself. He said he would be there, and he will be."

Poor Herbert! I had really a curiosity to see him. Punctuality and business, but no music, no dancing, no champagne; a grave, English heart, bent on industry, and interested in his country's welfare; but without the art to chain the affections of a beautiful, giddy young wife, whose very loveliness, guile lessness and purity rendered her more dangerous to others and to herself.

Oh man, dream not that matrimony makes woman yours. On the contrary, it is only then that real love begins, or real dislike. Good husband! neglect not the assiduities of the lover. Be more careful to please the wife than ever you were the mistress.

At length we floated into the midst of the great Babel-mist, smoke, shipsdark, heavy masses of black houses, domes, spires, bridges, towers and monuments. A multitude of small boats crowded around the steamer. My companion was about to descend into the barge, which was to land the rest of us. "Had you not better," said I, "look around among these small boats; your husband may come out into the stream for you."

"Dear, dear," said she, "so he may!" She looked around, and suddenly turning a little pale, placed her hand on her bosom, as if short of breath.

"He is there," said she. "I see him," she added, in a lower voice, and then waved him welcome with a 'kerchief, perhaps wet with tears of regret at his coming.

We were now to part. She left me her card and address, desired the pleasure of seeing me at her house in London, and bade me a hasty, but kind adieu.

I saw Herbert in the small boat; his face lighted with hope, pleasure and love, eagerly pressing his way toward the idol of his heart. I saw the warm flash of his eye as he seized her hand, and led her, with his impatient arm around her waist, to a seat in the stern. I noted her own countenance, pale, languid and spiritless, betraying all the sickness of her heart, as the oarsmen pushed off with them. He still held his hand tenderly around her waist, with the affection of a noble and fond husband-ignorant that he pressed only a soulless formthat his voice and his presence only awakened repressed regrets and vain recollections. That she whose absence he had evidently counted as a burden, to whose arrival he had looked forward with ardent love, had learnt in the gaiety and fashion of Paris to despise his quiet fireside, and to indulge feelings and wishes of happiness and love, in which his image could only mingle as a dark intruder. I followed in imagination this bright and thoughtless girl to the home of her husband. I heard his warm welcome, beheld his delighted embrace returned with cold effort, and perhaps with peevish carelessness. I felt his unsuspecting heart sink with alarm, his manly nature darken with disappointment. I heard his fond inquiries and her evasive replies, that fatigue and want of sleep had overcome her. I followed her dreams while her early friend and faithful husband, with cautious tread, stole to her pillow, and watched the face he loved. She treads in fancy through the gay saloonlights are sparkling; mirrors blazing; music breathing; graceful figures float round her in the dance. One is there whom her eyes follow with soft delight. She leans on his arm. He whispers in her ear. He is by her side. He is at her feet. Poor Herbert! His is not the only heart that must rue Paris.

V. E. P. E. J.

WINTER.

AN AMERICAN STORY.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

I am not philosopher enough to comprehend fully the curious and sudden changes of temperature incidental to almost every climate; and there is something particularly unaccountable in the extraordinary severity by which the seasons are occasionally characterized. The winter of 18- was one of these, and will remain indelibly impressed upon my memory. One week especially was intensely cold; the sky was clear and blue, the air had a delusive calmness that beguiled some victims forth to death. A walk across the street affected us with acute pain in the temples; a moist hand would freeze instantly to the iron baluster of the steps-stage-drivers and hackney-coachmen were found stiff and dead upon their boxes. The student's ink congealed by the fire; the affluent, with all the appliances of wealth, could not keep themselves comfortable; and the

the poor, shivering and trembling around the cheerless fire-places of their dilapi dated dwellings, half naked, hungry and destitute it was, indeed, a dreadful winter for them. Many perished; some directly from the cold, while, although others lingered till the weather moderated, yet sickness and exposure had broken down their constitutions. and the soft breath of spring blew over their graves.

The snow in the street had a granite consistency, sparkling like diamonds in the brilliant sunshine, which shone all day with the ineffectual fervour of the moon upon its unmelted wreaths and rocky banks. Those who could, kept in doors. Those whom business called abroad, could scarcely be recognized through the multiplicity of garments. Over-shoes and mocassons, buffalo-skins and blankets, shawls, fur gloves and caps, and voluminous cloaks over great cloaks, every where met such eyes as could penetrate through the rich and curious frost-work which accumulated with every breath upon the window-panes.

Of course the city was locked up in