explained the words and peculiarities. At
the end of five months, she could read it
pretty well, and began to try to speak. There
was something so simple in her foreign accent
and her literal translations of the idioms of
her own language, that I could not help
laughing. But she was not discouraged, but
would laugh too, and ask me to explain her
error, and promise to speak better by-and-
by.

The summer came again, and I worked
early and late: for we were very busy. It
happened, at that time, that we had some
work to execute near Orleans; and a little
troop of workmen was to be sent there, to
stay for a couple of months. The master
selected me to superintend them. The choice
was a mark of confidence, and I could not
refuse to go. I told my friend of it in the
evening. I was to leave Paris on the Monday
following, and the day previously, we arranged
to visit the old curé once again.

Yet another day, which will linger in my
memory till I die!—the brightest of those
happy days! We went out earlier this time.
It was the first of June— a fine clear morning.
A gentle rain had fallen in the night, and
everytlu'ug looked fresh and green. We
walked along the borders of the wood, and
heard the blackbird, hidden in the leaves,
sing out, and stop: and then, there was a
dead silence: till another answered, deeper in
the woods. I had never seen her dressed so
prettily before. She wore a dress of gray
merino, and a cape of the same stuff. Her
cap was of lace, and pale blue ribbon. We
did not speak often. I thought of separation
on the morrow; and at every step I seemed
to shrink from it more. Afterwards, we went
to St. Cloud, which was not far. And all this
time I had never spoken to her of anything
but friendship, nor ever whispered to myself
how much I loved her. My love had been
too pure to know itself. We wandered in the
park till it was time to go, and still we lingered.
We sat down upon a seat, beneath great oaks:
and then, when the hour grew nearer, when
we were to part, I felt more deeply still how
all my soul was bound to her. I could not
leave her till I told her all.

Eight weeks passed slowly in the old city
of Orleans: but every day I wrote to her, and
she replied—the solace of our solitary nights.
She told me, in her innocence of heart, how
she had loved me ever since the day we went
to see the curé in the valley; and how she
had feared that I should never love her as she
loved me; for " you alone " she said, " could
unseal my lips, and but for you I never could
have spoken out, and eased my heart." At
length, I returned. Then came our marriage
morning. We invited no strange faces. We
went about—on foot; because it awakened
pleasing recollections. There were some signs
in her attire which might have told it was
her marriage day, but it was, withal, so plain,
that we escaped all observation. The sister of
M.Gallart served as bridesmaid, and the sexton
signed the book.

Afterwards, the old man walked with us,
and talked to her of other days; until we came
again to the gate that opened into the high-
road. Then, he blessed us again, and looked
after us until we were gone. And, hand in
hand, alone, we took our way together; but
all our Eden lay before us in the days to
come.

God bless the other garret! I found my
Eden there, and it abides with me.

EFFORTS OF A GENTLEMAN IN
SEARCH OF DESPAIR.

MR. BLACKBROOK lived in a world of his
own. It was his pleasure to believe that men
were phantoms of a day. For life he had the
utmost contempt. He pronounced it to be a
breath, a sigh, a fleeting shadow. His
perpetual theme was, that we are only here for a
brief space of time. He likened the
uncertainty of existence to all the most frightful
ventures he could conjure up. He informed
timid ladies that they were perpetually on
the edge of a yawning abyss; and warned
little boys that their laughter might be turned
to tears and lamentation, at the shortest
notice. Mr. Blackbrook was a welcome guest
in a large serious circle. From his youth he
had shown a poetic leaning, of the most
serious order. His muse was always in deep
mourning—his poetic gum oozed only from
his favourite graveyard.

He thought "L' Allegro" Milton's worst
performance; and declared that Gray's "Elegy
in a Country Churchyard " was too light and
frivolous. His life was not without its cares;
but, then, he revelled in his misfortunes. He
was always prepossessed with a man who
wore a hatband. The owl was his favourite
bird. A black cat was the only feline specimen
he would admit his sombre apartment;
and his garden was stocked with yew-trees.
He revelled in the charm of melancholy—
he would not, if he could, be gay. His
meditations raised him so great a height above
his family, that little sympathy could exist
between them. Eternity so engaged him,
that his brothers and sisters— mere phantoms
did not cost him much consideration. His
youthful Lines to the Owl, in the course of
which he called the bird in question "a
solemn messenger," " a dread image of
the moral darkness which surrounds us,"
"a welcome voice," and " a mysterious
visitant," indicated the peculiar turn of
his mind. His determination to be miserable
was nothing short of heroic. In his
twenty-second year a relation left him a
modest fortune. His friends flocked about
him to congratulate him; but they found him
in a state of seraphic sorrow, searching out a
proper rhyme to the urn in which he had
poetically deposited the ashes of his
benefactor. On looking over the lines he had