betrothed-change rings-and long live joy, for it costs nothing.' The words exchange rings restored Henri to his senses, for he thought he beheld his beloved Louise, amid her tears, softly exclaim, Dear Henri, what will become of me without you?' And this ring, too, which was asked from him, was the self-same one that he had received from her!-He immediately addressed Gerval in a firm, yet touching, tone of voice, and, having thanked him, told him he should never forget his friendship and his kind intentions; that he should always love Annette as a sister, but that he could not marry her, because he was already engaged in his own native place. He requested him to ask his daughter if he had ever said a single word about marriage to her; he might, indeed, have added, that he had often spoken to her of Louise, and showed the ring, about which she has teased him; but he did not wish to draw the old man's reproaches on her. These reproaches all fell on him; he bore them, however, with so much gentleness, that Gerval, who was a good sort of fellow,' was, in the end, affected by it. Go, then, and marry your bethrothed,' said he, in a half-friendly, half-vexed, tone; since it is not Annette, the sooner you set off the better. I must say, I shall regret you; and you may, perhaps, sometime or other, regret old Gerval and his daughter!' Henri took his departure on the next day, quite overpowered at the idea of having bidden Annette adieu for ever. She also wept, but she was young, vivacious, and frolicsome-one of those volatile spirits that pass along the current of life without being much annoyed at its shelves and quicksands. Henri was not her first lover-probably would not be her last. During the four or five first days, the young traveller was pensive enough: Annette's smiling countenance occupied his thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble from himself that he had acted unkindly towards Louise-‹ Annette will console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive ne? Oh. yes she is so good; I will tell her every thing, and she will admire my fidelity, when she knows how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I was placed.' Full of this fond hope, he pursued his journey more gaily, and the nearer he approached his own dear province, the more was Annette effaced from his thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him with the sweetest reminiscences. It was just the beginning of May: each lover, on the first Sunday of that month, planted a young fir, or birch-tree, adorned with flowers, before his fair one's door. Henri thought how many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise, and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next day, that the loveliest girl in the village had had the finest May-offering. Oh; could he but arrive soon enough to announce his return in that way! He tried to do so, but his efforts were fruitless; the first Sunday arrived, and he was still two days' journey from Verny. In the evening he found himself in a large town, called Nuneville, fatigued with his now useless endeavours, and resolved to proceed no further that day. Every thing seemed prepared for the festival-the street was neat and clean the fountains adorned with branches, and decorated with large nosegays, tied together with beautiful ribands-fir trees marked the dwellings of the young females-all had flowers around them, but he remarked, that one had only white ones on it, fastened with a crape riband-the street was deserted. Before he could reach the inn, which was at the other end of the town, he had to pass by the church and burial-ground; the former seemed full of women, and in the latter there was an open grave. This melancholy sight rendered it evident that some one was dead; that her loss had suspended the public joy; and the bouquet, encireled with crape, had been planted before the house of mourning,' Henri felt depressed; but his pensiveness gave way to a sensation of delight that he was not at Verny. Good heavens!' thought he, if, on my arrival, I had seen a sepulchre, what would have been my alarm? and, oh! if that melancholy tree had been before my beloved's door!' This idea brought on his former depression; he in vain tried to rally his spirits, by thinking that he knew nobody at Nuneville; his heart remained saddened, which feeling he naturally attributed to the striking contrast between the preparations for the festival and those occasioned by this young person's decease, He entered the church-yard -groups of females were walking there-the moon was at his full: its mild lustre was reflected on their halfveiled countenances, through the foliage of the surrounding trees, and gave them a tinge of paleness congenial with the mournful circumstances under which they were assembled. They were conversing in a low tone, and Henri discovered that the deceased was young and beautiful; and that she had been the victim of a misplaced affection: he could not restrain his tears, for he thought how near, perhaps, he had been occasioning the death of his Louise. But!' said one of the females, why did she not imitate her fickle lover? Why did she not receive the addresses of your brother Guillaume?" She always told me,' replied Isabelle, the person addressed, and who was in deeper mourning than the others, that she could only love once, and that she had no longer a heart to give.'-Well, then,' said another, 'was she sure that her lover was faithless ?'— 'Quite sure! She had long feared that he was,; she saw it in his letters, for when a woman like Marie loves, the heart divines every thing; still, however, she flattered herself with the fond hope, that he would return, and that her forgiveness of his neglect would revive in him all his former affection. Three months ago this hope was destroyed, she heard that he wasmarried. Since that she has only languished: she wished to live for the sake of her parents, but her grief has proved the most powerful." He quitted me in the month of May," said she to me; "in the month of May I shall quit life." That time is come, and Marie is no more. Tell us her whole history,' exclaimed two or three of the listeners, at once:-Isabelle consented; they were crowding round her, and Henri was approaching nearer, and redoubling his attention, when the funeral bell tolled drearily and solemnly. He started, and Isabelle said, with a sigh, I must tell you my dear friend's story another time; we must now accompany her remains to her last sad home, and place these flowers upon her coffin.' They walked on mournfully, two and two, and Henri followed them with an interest that he could not account for or define. The coffin advanced, preceded by the priests, bearing torches that were obscured by the silvery light of the moon. it was carried by six men, and among them it was easy to recognize Guillaume, by his profound sorrow; for, to Henri's great surprise, he alone wept. The more aged men who followed the corpse, the one even next, and who, of course, was the father or nearest relative of the deceased, had, like the rest, merely a composed and serious countenance, undisfigured by any great affliction. The body was lowered into the grave-the officiating minister made a brief, and somewhat cold; discourse on the frailty of life-the young females afterwards came forward, and each threw her wreath of flowers on the coffin--and then chaunted some rhymes. which, though only emanating from the feelings of a simple yet sensible village girl, affected the spectators far more than the commonplace address they had just heard. Just like the passing April shower, Youth wanes and vanishes away; And, like the transitory flower, Its charms bloom forth, and then decay. ⚫ Soon all our pleasure grief destroys. And nought be felt but bliss and love.' The grave was then about to be filled up-the noise of the earth, in falling, resounded on the coffin, and Henri shuddered. The crowd gradually dispersed ; Guillaume and Isabelle alone remained beside the tomb : Henri approached it, and Isabelle observing him, with a forced smile, said, ' Did you know her? I have seen you follow the funeral train with apparent interest, and now I behold you in tears; are you a relation, friend, or only even a native of the same place?' Henri listened to these questions with great surprise: I scarcely understand you,' he at length replied; I am merely a traveller; but the deceased was, doubtless, your friend?' ་ Yes, my best, my dearest friend; yet our friendship was doomed to be of very short continuance. I was not at all acquainted with her, until, about three months ago, she came to reside with my father, who is a physician, and to whose care her relations, when aware of her forlorn state, confided her. Oh! she was so meek, so patient, so grateful for our attention, that she soon won all our affections. Alas! her malady was in her heart, and that is incurable! Poor Marie, how great were thy sufferings, and how deeply do I regret thee! Yet I wonder, sir, at your sorrow, unknown as she was to you;'-' Her relations,' remarked Henri, did not seem to be much affected; they appeared, indeed, quite resigned to their loss.'' Her relations!' replied Isabelle, she had none here-she was a stranger, and my father attended as chief mourner; he lamented her loss, but Marie was not his daughter, although I myself loved her as a sister.'- Marie! she was called Marie, but what was her family-name? Often shall I think of her unhappy destiny!'-Marie was only a name that she adopted, and we called her, because she could never bear to hear her own. Go Isabelle," said she to me, almost at our first meeting, me as he who has destroyed me named me-never, I entreat you, call me dear Louise."— Louise!' ex 66 never name claimed Henri, growing pale as death, 'Louise '- 'Yes Louise Courtin, of Verny!' No sooner had Isabelle uttered these words, than she beheld the young traveller fall senseless beside the grave, feebly repeating the name of Louise. Isabelle, in alarm, called her brother to her assistance; they raised up the stranger, who opened his eyes for a moment, and again muttered the same words. 'Gracious Providence!' exclaimed the affrighted girl,' it is-it must be-Henri!' The youth made an effort, and cried out, in a frantic manner: Yes! Henri, the murderer of his beloved-the assassin of Louise' He then again fell down exhausted, and to all appearance dead. Guillaume had him conveyed to his father's, where every assistance that skill could devise was tendered him; but he only recovered his recollection sufficiently to learn from Isabelle, that a person named Louis had brought positive intelligence to Verny, that Henri had espoused his master's daughter at Lyons; that her father himself had made him acquainted with the circumstance, and that he had seen the newly-married couple in all the raptures of connubial happiness. It was impossible to discredit this news, which was a death-blow to the sensitive Louise. 'Day by day The gentle creature died away. After having listened to this melancholy narrative, Henri, when he had regained sufficient composure, entrusted Isabelle with his vindication, for Louise's parents and his own, and expired without a groan the next day. The same moon which had illumed his betrothed's funeral shone upon his, and they repose beside each other in the picturesque burial-ground of Nuneville, not quite forgotten or unlamented by its inhabitants.' ON SOLITUDE. It is not that my lot is low, In woods and glens I love to roam, Yet when the silent evening sighs, The autumn leaf is sear and dead, The woods and winds with sullen wail, Yet in my dreams a form I view, KIRKE WHITE. DOMESTIC USURPATIONS. IN the most of well-regulated families, the husband, of course, is a person of most consequence. A wife, to be sure, is a wife, especially if she be a lady. But still there is in general so much dependent upon the industry of the husband, and so much influence does he possess, like the House of Commons, by his command of the purse, that, if he gets any thing like fair play, he cannot fail to be regarded with much deference by all the other members of the household. To his convenience, or, as he would represent it, to the convenience of his profession, every domestic matter must be accommodated. He has the unquestioned power of dictating the meal hours. Servants must rise early or late, as he may choose to ring them up. The children must walk softly past his business-room if he has one; and Mrs. Balderstone must wait his time, before she can get his company for a walk. If there by any thing better than another at table, it must be devoted to him. Women can live on anything-in fact, are not dining creatures at all; and whenever Monsieur is from home a day, it may be observed that Madame contents herself with the simplest trifle in the way of dinner, trusting solely to her evening cup of tea. But a man-body, as the Scotch housewives say, is an entirely different thing. He must have something substantial, something nourishing and comforting, not only because he deserves it after his toils for the general interest, but in order that he may be able to continue those toils. In short, the first and best of everything must be surrendered to him-the arm chair by the fire in winter, the whole sofa for a loll in summer. If he comes home with any thing like damp feet, the whole house must fly to his rescue, and every thing be kept in a stir till he has "changed" them. If he take any little illness, the alarm and commotion are extreme-for he is comparatively seldom ill, and much depends on his health. While he lives at home, all goes on well, notwithstanding the great trouble which wives and servants and every body acknowledge he occasions. But if he be absent, the dullnes and emptiness, the perfect standstill of every thing, gives the house so hapless an aspect, that all of them would far rather that he were at home. In short, under ordinary domestic circumstances, Mr. Balderstone is a troublesome, imperious, monopolising, consequential, dear, delightful, indispensable person. Masterful, however, as Monsieur may be in general, there is one contingency in married life which seldom fails to deprive him of his domestic sceptre. It is not that his wife rebels against his authority, or that his children rise, a fierce democracy, and attempt to chase him from his throne. The revolution is accomplished in an entirely different manner. Madame, in virtue of a critical species of illness, suddenly becomes invested with all that interest which had previously rested upon himself, together with ten times more, derived from the circumstances in which she is supposed to be placed; and all at once-in one hour, one little hour-he feels himself deposed from his high estate, as effectually as ever was Darius, king of the Persians. Yesterday, Monsieur was a man, a sovereign, a dictator: no one disputed his will or disobeyed his command; his every word was law; and there was nothing he wanted that was not sure to be at his elbow even before he had formed the wish. But to day, what a sad change! The queen-consort has suddenly become the queensovereign; and Mr. Balderstone, like another Peter III., is thrown aside, in order that she may reign in his stead. No one attends to him now. The servants, like ungrateful courtiers, have forsaken him to pay homage to the usurper. He gets nothing that he wants; no one will take his order-and he dare not ring. By day he sneaks about the house like a condemned person, and at night he has to steal away with a paltry dip, stuck without supporting paper into an unclean candlestick, to hide his sorrows in some garret room, where a wretched third-rate bed has been prepared for him, as a favour of which he is hardly worthy. All the respect with which he was formerly regarded is now gone; he is not even allowed to be the Prince of Denmark. All interest, all reverence, all care and feeling, are concentrated upon Madame in the best bed-room, and nothing remains for him but a grudged toleration of existence. Under such deplorable circumstances, he might perhaps find some small consolation in the company of his elder children; but they, from the very commencement of the revolution, have been banished the house-cantoned out among aunts and cousins, at the rate of one to each, except in the case of Aunt Mary, a kind worthy soul, who has been favoured with the two youngest and most trouble. some, When he enters (what he has been accustomed to consider) his own house, the very errand-girl, hired for a week only, will chide him for the noise he makes, and order him to take off his shoes. If he asks for his dinner, he is hustled into a side-room half filled with lumber, all the better apartments being occupied with the pomp and circumstance of the usurpation; and there he has to wait in grim patience, till some one chooses to remember his wants, and, after remembering, is pleased to think of relieving them. Almost every thing he does, every step he takes, every word he utters, provokes some reproach from the powers that be: till he is at last fairly scolded and gloomed out of all spirit, and could almost wish that the day were blotted out of the calendar when it was said that either a man-child or a woman-child, as the case may be, was born. The usurpation, it may be well supposed, is more passive on the part of Madame. In all probability, however, she has constituted a regent in the shape of a mother, or a skilly neighbour, or some other female hypogriff, who is sure to sway the new authority with even a more uncompromising severity than could, under any circumstances, be expected from the original usurper. Awfully impressed with the importance of the occasion, this vice-queen moves solemnly but noiselessly through the house, taking care that every thing is disposed with a regard to the service and comfort of her constituent, and repressing by the mere weight of her most tremendous countenance the least rebellion of words, deeds, or things, against the one great cause. Monsieur, but yesterday perhaps, saw nothing in this lady but a kind relation or a good neighbour, and he might now be disposed to treat her accordingly. But in the brief space that has since elapsed, she has entirely changed her character. He now feels awed down by The corporation of some English city was showing all pos sible attention to Queen Anne, to the utter neglect of her husband, who, though a good-natured man, was at last stung by their disrespect, and exclaimed, "Why, gentlemen, recol lect that I am at least Prince George of Denmark.” It her presence, like some little boy before a right awful and deeply pinnered grandmother. Submittingly does he see every key surrendered into her hands, sees her assume unquestioned empire over drawers and cupboards, and become sole directress of the bread and butter. may be that there is occasional reason for blame; but that is of course out of the question, If he only can contrive now and then to get a meal or so, even although it should come to him with the wrong end foremost, he must consider himself well off. To get any thing like a share of one's own goods under such cir cumstances, is as fair subject of self-gratulation as when the people of a besieged city, by some desperate sally, can manage to take in a few of their own beeves or flour-bags. If, besides the bare necessaries that are confusedly and unrespectfully thrust in upon him, he should obtain the least modicum of any favourite indulgence, he may consider himself most peculiarly fortunate--for it is a rigid rule of such provisional governments, that every thing of pleasant or good that the house can afford, is to be reserved for the lady, or, if not enjoyable by her, must at least be enjoyed by no other body, as if the enjoyment of others, while she was in her present condition, were privations to her, or, as it were marks of disregard for her distresses. As for getting hot water in the mornings, or getting his shoes brushed, or any other of those little services which in ordinary times are conceded to him as matters of course, he must take care never to dream of such things; for if he does, it will only be to awake to a painful sense of their utter unattainableness. Quite possibly, the powers below could serve him as usual without difficulty, but secure from his anger, they deliberately refrain from doing so, and enjoy for a couple of days the delicious luxury of neglecting a habitual duty. In the One of the most oppressive features in the system is its terrible silentness. Talk of quiet revolutions: there can be no revolution conducted with such quietness as this. From the first moment, when the knocker was tied up and the bell gagged with a slip of white paper, there has reigned a silence only comparable to that of chaos. Every living being about the house seems to have suddenly become shod in velvet. sick-room itself, all things are conducted by gesture, like an academy of the deaf and dumb. A mysterious quiet woman, whom you never saw before, but who has been brought in as nurse, points to one of a distant range of phials, and as the servant who is sent for it makes a near approach to it or the reverse to the minute object wanted, the directress of the proceeding contorts her body and countenance in a greater or less degree, till at length, the girl having hit the right thing, she sinks down into the tranquillity of approval, and mildly waves it forward. The doors have instinctively ceased to creak, the cat to mew, the flies to buzz. The utmost noise ever heard is the silken swooff of the viceregent, as she glides along the passages. Strange communings are sometimes observed to take place at the door, between your own servants and those of your friends, who are now sent with complimentary inquiries; but not a syllable is ever heard. A long recital will be given without even an aspirate. Warm fannel will be telegraphed from bedroom to kitchen by a noiseless toss of the arm. Molly will be chid for letting the fire get low, by a dart of the eye. If you should yourself' make a leetle, a very leetle noise, the whole womankind of the establishment will pour upon you like a cataract of wild-cats-but not a particle of noise all the time, You will be pommelled almost to death by a gesticulated scolding-match, and stabbed all over with daggers spoken thirty degrees below the zero of articulation. Usurpations such as I have faintly attempted to describe, usually last about a week: great mercy they seldom occur oftener than once a year, or they would form a truly grievous deduction from the happiness of life. It is curious to see how, gradually, as Mrs Balderstone gets better, and resigns the interest arising from her critical situation, Mr. B. shakes off the unwonted trammels in which he has been bound-shews a little less chicken-hearted under the authority of the Awful Woman, ventures to call one morning for hot water, and next day says something rather smart about the delay in producing his shoes-how, by slow and imperceptible degrees, he becomes re-invested with the respect to which he is entitled as head of the house, and is once more looked to by all and sundry as the important, money-producing, indispensable person which he really is. At length he one day finds himself set down in his customary dining-room to something like a dinner, with even perhaps a consolatory something over and above his usual fare; and as he sips his first glass after the withdrawal of the cloth, he feels, with an exquisite gust of serene and self-flattering sensation, that Richard's himself again! "Chambers Edin. Journ.” WHAT WAS OUR PARTING? WHAT was our parting ?-one wild, kiss, How wild I may not say, One long and breathless clasp, and then We parted, I to weep o'er all What has our absence been? a long And must I feel-I dare not ask- How shall we meet on either side, L. E. L. geons, who, having succeeded in finding the organ of destructiveness very beautifully developed, were just beginning to amuse themselves with making a poor dead man kick and grin and roll his eyes and work his arms like another Molineaux or Tom Crib. Neither, by falling into a syncope, have I been prematurely hurried first into a coffin, and next into a grave, by greedy heirs, who even thought that I had lived too long, to be raised again into life by those very humane gentlemen, the resurrectionists, like good Mr. Hodgson, who has lately treated the world to a chapter of underground auto-biography in the newspapers. Nor yet again have I been frozen to death and preserved in an avalanche, like a cricket in amber, only to be warmed once more into existence by a great January thaw, like the celebrated Dr. Dodsley, who was lately awakened by a shower of sunbeams from a comfortable nap of one hundred and sixty-three years and a half, which he had taken beneath an iceberg at the foot of Mont Blanc. It is nevertheless certain that I have been dead, not only fair and legitimately, but honorably deadand not less certain that I am now alive; and if the rule will bear reversing and hold good after being made to read-" A mon that is born to be drowned will never be hangen," I hope still to live to a good old age. I have often heard people say that the easiest way in the world to die is by drowning. Indeed I have listened to grave discussions upon this question, and have actually seen a whole circle of sensible men concur in the opinion, and vote that it was next to nothing, a mere pastime, to be drowned. Such discussions are very common in the country, particularly on occasion of coroner's inquests, or when some poor devil is about to expiate his crimes at the gallows. But how came these physiologists by their information? Who has ever been both hanged and drowned, and afterwards been lucky enough to come back a second time, and make affidavit as to the easiest method of leaving the world? Those who hold this doctrine had better try the experiment, before they inculcate opinions, which may perchance induce some pretty jilted maiden to leap into the cold embrace of a river, as a subsitute for the arms of an unfaithful lover, whose heart she has reason to believe to be colder still; and after they have made the trial, my word for it, if they survive they will at least so far question the correctness of their theory, as to adopt the more rational conclusion, if drowning be the easiest method of dying, they had better live soberly and honestly, and cling to life as long as they can with honour. The scenes of my boyhood were in the Valley of Wyoming rendered classic ground by one of the sweetest minstrels of the age, and really-poetry aside-one of the loveliest spots in the creation. I was a swimmer from my very infancy, and at the period of which I am about to speak I could sport among the billows like a dolphin. Not that I would compare myself with Leander or Lord Byron: still, had I been on one side of the Hellespont on a moonlight night, and seen the beautiful priestess of Sestos beckoning to me with a torch from the other, I think I should have hazarded as much as he of Abydos did for love, or Byron for fame. Be that as it may, with me and my youthful companions at Wyoming to leap into the deep clear flood, and buffet its waves as they dashed up impetuously, was one of our cleverest sports. Fifty of us in a row, with a run and a frog's-leap from the verge of a precipitous rock, often plunged successively into the deep Susquehanna. The favourite spot for these aquatic sports was one where the torrent dashed furiously over a narrow rocky bed, and, eddying round a steep promontory, hurried away until it disappeared in the distance On one of these occasions my foot slipped on the ledge. I lost the curve, and the water hurt me as I fell upon it. My legs felt as if they were no longer fit for swimming. Their sinews were contracted, and I was fast hurried from the bank by the current.-Moderate exertion of my arms served to keep me afloat for a time. A numbness began to creep over me. My tongue, however, was not disabled; my cries were loud for help, and my appeals were more vehement as the paralysis increased and my strength became exhausted. At length two of my friends were at my side. My friends! Yes; but they came not within reach of me. I stretched out my hand and implored them to save me, They took it not, but looked pale, and shrinkingly besought me not to grapple with them. "I will not," I replied, neither did I, for the next instant I was beneath the surface and breathing another element. The thrilling thought now came over me that my last hour had arrived, and that my soul was about to be demanded by its Maker. My lungs played heavily: but I had no pain like that occasioned by the thought of friends who were yet over me. A thousand recollections hurried in a moment through my brain-my mother, my sister, and Annette, the loveliest maiden of the valley. My throat was enlarged, and at each breath I seemed to inhale an ocean. My lungs became shallow. O God! I could not breathe and a weight, cold and ponderous, came upon my heart, and it seemed to run down like the weight of a clock. I was light, and the tempest that was about me was sweeping me along. I seemed at one moment to be hurried through the air, and at another to be dragged over frightfully rugged stones. Every thing was magnified and convulsed. The sun was blood-shot and every instant it became darker and more terrible. At length it was calm. I again breathed. The sun stood still and the stones were beneath me. I lay on the ground, but could not rise, for I was heavier than lead. The sun appeared yellow and the heavens as if gold. No fancy could paint the magnificence of the scene around me. The pebbles beneath were all pearls, and gilded fishes seemed to be gently flying through the air, all glorious and beautiful as the tints reflected by the prism. They came and floated above me, their fins playing like filmy pinions of silver, and their scaly sides glistening, as they moved, with various hues, mingled emerald and gold. The earth seemed to be every where covered with rubies, and the boundless distance glowed with turrets of gold. Harmony of the most ravishing sweetness filled the atmosphere and completed the enchantment that was about me. Every thing was charming to the senses, soothing to the spirits, delicious to the soul. I was happy. Again I saw the heavens convulsed. The sun seemed to be agitated, and a large boat was gliding through the air above me. Men appeared to be flying all around, and one, extending his long, brawny arm, raised me from the ground. He took me where all was dark and |