Fall of Sebastopol! It is curious meetiug
there old friends in this new dress.

So much concerning Dutch matters
theatrical.

A TALE OF AN OLD MAN'S YOUTH.

EVERYONE, who has ever read that terrible
book, The Mysteries of Paris, will probably
remember a scene, towards its close, where
the escaped galley-slave, the Maître D'Ecole,
arrives, blind and helpless, and lame, and old,
at a farm beyond Paris, and asks shelter for
the night. The dogs spring savagely at him
as he enters, and would gladly tear him in
pieces, if they could, and he looks down at
the wicked little Tortillard who guides him,
and whispers, "They smell the blood. These
are the same clothes I wore, the day I killed
the cattle-merchant at Poissy." He goes in
—he sits down in the warm kitchen of the
farm-house, and takes his evening-meal with
the servants. But, lest he should be too
comfortable—lest one stray gleam of sunshine
should fall upon his path, Tortillard, who
seems to have been his evil genius, hits upon
a plan—a diabolical invention worthy of
himself—by which he can recal him from the
reverie into which he seems falling. The
chains he wore as a galley-slave have left a
wound in his leg, which will never heal, and
which is most painful at times. The boy sits
directly opposite to him, at table, and with
all the malice of a little fiend, aims now and
then a kick at him, which hits the open
wound, and almost makes him scream with
agony, while at the same time he exclaims,
"Mon pauvre papa! mon pauvre papa!" with
an affected concern which wins the hearts of
all around him.

It is many a year since I read the story,
but as I go on through life, Tortiliard seems
to meet me on every side. In fact, he may be
called a good type of the world. Have you
a private grief or misery concealed, like the
wound of the escaped convict, yet always
throbbing and tingling, even in your most
quiet moments? Be sure the world will
find it out, and pierce to the very centre of
it with a cureless blow. If we cut, or in any
way maim a limb, it becomes at once the
limb of all others which is most certain
to be hit against the corners of tables and
chairs; it is the limb against which people
stumble and open doors, with accidental
recurrences, which look very much like
settled purposes. And so with sorrows. That
nerve of our hearts which can least bear
exposure, is always most exposed,—and here
a twinge, and there a sudden faintness, as we
turn sharp angles in the path of life, show us
that, it is sensitive as ever.

I have thought of this, I fancy, more than
most men; because I, myself, have such a
sorrow. And I find that everything around
me—things which, in themselves, are very
dear to me—have a power to awaken it. I
never see a violet upon a meadow-bank, that
I do not remember a fairer flower that smiled
into life and beauty, and then faded before my
eyes. I never see a star, at night, without a
thought of eyes more brilliant. I never hear
a bird singing its happy heart out, in the
summer time, without a sigh for a voice, now
hushed for ever.

I lived long, long ago, in another land: in
a quiet New England village, which nestled
in the heart of the Green Mountains, of that
most beautiful of all the states, Vermont.
That village is known to many as the
birthplace and early home of Powers, the great
American sculptor. The brain and heart
that designed the peerless Greek Slave,
were working beside the silver-flowing
Queechy, some forty or fifty years ago,
in many a prank of boyish mischief, and
the hands that carved and chiselled that
white dream of beauty, then wielded a
ponderous jack-knife, and whittled out of bits
of wood some faint foreshadowing, perhaps, of
that which ws yet to come. It was this
that had tempted me to select it from all
others for my summer residence, during a
year of sickness and distress in the City of
New York. It had a pretty English name—
Woodstock—and was, I think, the fairest
valley on which my eyes ever fell.

River and mountain, the bright Queechy,
and the king of the hills, Mount Tom, lake
and wood, and forest, all were there. From
one summit you looked down upon a region of
pastoral beauty, with pretty low cottages,
wide green meadows, and grazing flocks;
from another you saw a fertile valley, with
the river winding, like a serpent, through it,
and mirroring in its bosom the clear blue
sky. A third ascent, and a rock-bound
country, gloomy with fir-trees, and keeping
an unbroken silence like that of Siberia,
met your view; while high up, upon the very
summit of the great mountain, a lonely pond
was lying, of which the school-children told
strange tales. It had once stretched over vast
acres, and bears and wolves had drunk from
it when the country was wild and new, but
with the march of civilisation, it had changed.
Little by little the earth had filled it in, till
the visitor could walk for half a-mile securely
on what had once been treacherous slirne.
But the ground quaked always beneath a
step, and the prudent took good care not to
venture too near the edge. I walked upon it
once myself, and thought it very like these
hearts of ours, in which, though we step
ever so softly, we are ever liable to sink in
beyond our depths, and, perhaps, rise no
more.

But these were not all the attractions of
the place. There were beautiful walks and
drives; there were miniature lakes, upon
which to row or sail a pleasure-boat; and
a park, which was the pride of the whole
state. It had grown up with the town,
changing from an oval strip of ground, just