from mouth to mouth, and even the boys in the streets shouted them to each other; but a trouble of a different nature tormented me. I had daily passed the house of M. Albertas in vain; in vain retraced every part of the amphitheatre; Clementine was nowhere to be seen. Passing through the street one morning I met the same old servant whom I had seen at the country-house of Madame de Sonnes. He recognised me, and shaking me cordially by the hand informed me, after a thousand other things, that Madame de Sonnes, with her daughter, had been for some time at Marseilles, to seek in change of scene a diminution of regret for the loss of a beloved daughter and sister. With my long-cherished hopes again seeing Clementine destroyed, I returned sorrowfully .ome: the delightful expectations I had indulged for full half a year were now in one moment annihilated. I formed plans to go to Marseilles, which was only three days' journey, to wander from street to street, to watch every window, to frequent all the churches and masses; but upon cool reflection I gave up this adventurous scheme, and feeling still more depressed after this resolution, I returned to the house of M. Etienne, but what was my astonishment to observe uneasiness and embarrassment expressed in every countenance. My aunt approached me, and putting her hand upon my shoulder, embraced ine with a look of compassion. Marie and Antonie held my hands affectionately in theirs, as if they would console me. "Why is this?' said my uncle, with a powerful voice; for he had, notwithstanding his placid appearance, something heroic in his character: you know that a real Christian should be the happiest when misfortunes most heavily oppress him. The evil spirit has not power over us, and even the hairs of our head are numbered; the marshal is not beyond the reach of Omnipotence." "I could not imagine to what all this tended, and expressed my astonishment. "I do not wonder at your surprise,' replied my uncle, and am both vexed and distressed at the dismay my wife and daughters evince; but I will inform you the cause. The Marshal von Montreval sent here an hour since to desire you to repair to the castle to-morrow morning at ten o'clock; and what reason is there for apprehension? If your conscience acquits you of wrong, then go to the marshal without fear." (To be continued in our next.) IRISH BALLAD. THE FINGALIAN FLOWER-GIRL. BY MRS. CRAWFORD, OH, lady, buy my sweet moss-roses, To an Irish maiden's plaint; Ah! see, my eyes with sorrow glisten, Oh! buy my sweet moss-roses. Oli, lady! to each lovely feature Not from choice but want's deeree, Oh! buy my sweet moss-rolės. Bless thee, lady! may thy beauty Saints and angels with thee go! Lifts the cross and bends the knee, Erin's child shall pray for thee! 41123 Oh! buy my sweet moss-roses. * The * fair Fingalian girls" are frequently mentioned by old Irish writers. NOTE. The Irish peasants have been styled by some "a rude and à semi-barbarous people;" but when not roused by flinty hearts to strike fire, they are kindly and courteous in manner, forming a strong and most pleasing antithesis to those of the English in general. Were I to write a ballad characteristic of an English flower-girl, I do not imagine that any composer would waste sweet sounds upon it; but the native genius of the Irish often furnishes them with modes of speech that the poet might be proud to originate, and to which the warmth of their feelings gives an energy and a pathos which phlegmatic persons call blarney. In adopting the epithet of "Lady" for an English girl, I should be anything but characteristic; but the Irish maiden's appeal to our sympathy is always prefaced or followed by some such proof of her national inbred civility. Her pretty "buy, lady," enforced by innocent eyes that seem to love all they look upon, naturally wins upon the heart, and elicits, with the granted boon she asks, a sigh for the warm-hearted, the brave, the generous, but, alas! the UNFORTUNATE IRISH! THE REVENGE OF LEONARD ROSIER. It was late on a summer afternoon that Leonard Rosier, a student of the most famous school of surgery in Paris, was returning to his home in the Rue St. Honoré. The merry populace thronged the street, and many acquaintances accosted him; but he stopped not to converse with any one, nor turned aside with the crowd to follow any splendid equipage. His face was handsome, but pale, apparently with study; and it was singular that in one so young, and especially a Frenchman, the expression should have been so uniformly melancholy. He went up the steps of a small house and knocked gently. The door was opened by an elderly woman, whose face beamed with joyful surprise on seeing him. “I am so happy-so glad you are come-M. Rosier. I would have gone myself for you had I known where to find you. Mademoiselle Eulalie "What of her-is she worse?" demanded the youth, impatiently; but, without waiting the old woman's reply, he pushed past her and went hastily up stairs. The woman looked after him and shook her head sadly. Leonard entered a small front chamber just then lighted with the last crimson rays of the setting sun. On a couch near the window reclined the pale and emaciated form of a young girl, apparently in the last stage of a decline. Illness, though it had wasted her figure to almost ethereal thinness, had not destroyed the exquisite symmetry of her features. They were still perfect in their delicate outline; and the beautifully chiselled lips wore a tinge of rose which, like the faint spot of colour on each cheek in contrast with her otherwise dazzling paleness, was evidently the effect of disease. Her eyes were large, dark, and supernaturally bright. She held in her almost transparent fingers a rose partly faded. Leonard came softly to her bedside, and, bending over her, said in a low tone of deep and anxious love," Eulalie!" The lovely invalid turned quickly, and her eyes beamed with joy as they rested on him. "Oh, brother," she murmured, "you are come at last!" The young man turned away his face and wept for a minute in silence. At length, looking up, and ad Iressing the nurse, who had followed him into the room, he asked, ". When did this fearful change take place?" "About two hours since," replied the woman. "Mademoiselle, while sitting on the fauteuil at the window, was seized with a vio lent fit of coughing and ruptured a blood-vessel. The bleeding was inconsiderable, yet it reduced her to this weakness." "Brother!" said the invalid, faintly, and clasping his hand, she looked up imploringly in his face. "Do not suffer her to speak," said the nurse. "I must!" replied the young girl; and, by the slight pressure of her fingers, Leonard knew that she had something on her mind. He motioned the old woman to withdraw; she objected that it would be dangerous to allow her patient to talk. But a glance at Leonard's face of despair convinced her that he thought his sister beyond hope, and that even the chance of prolonging her feeble life was scarcely sufficient to justify them in withstanding her wishes. The nurse left the apartment. "Beloved Eulalie !" repeated Leonard, again bending over his sister. "Brother!" exclaimed she, with an energy that startled him; "brother, I have seen him!" "Him! whom ?-Oh, Heaven!" sobbed the youth. Eulalie motioned for some drops that stood on the table. Leonard poured some from the vial, and administered them; they seemed to revive her. She spoke in a stronger voice and less interruptedly. "I saw him-the Marquis de Verneuil." 66 The villain!" groaned her brother. "Yes, he is so, Leonard, or he could not have acted as he has done," said Eulalie, with strange calmness. "To deceive a young girl like me by a false marriage, and then desert her . . . ." "His life shall pay for it," said Leonard, in a voice of agony. "Not so!" cried Eulalie. "Would such a revenge profit me? Hear me, Leonard. The hand of death is upon me, and, ere I die, I have a boon to ask. But, before I name it, you must promise-promise me solemnly, on your knees, Leonard, and before God, that you will never attempt his life. Leave to the Almighty Judge the punishment of my wrong. Leonard, promise me. is Eulalie's last prayer but one." It Leonard hesitated, but, adjured again and again, he knelt down and took the required oath. "Now hear me," said his sister, "for my strength is failing, and the moments are numbered in which I can speak at all. I saw the Marquis de Verneuil from yon window. He drove past in his chariot, and beside him was seated a beauteous lady, whom I judged, from the fond look with which he regarded her, he means to make his bride. Leonard, I do not envy her; but is it wrong to wish that I could leave the world as the wife, not as the outcast mistress of him who once loved me? Of the rights of a wife I have been cruelly defrauded-would he not give them to me for a few moments? I should not live to delay his second nuptials. Oh, brother, would he not ?" The emotion that accompanied these words showed how near her heart lay the request. Leonard answered not till she had again urged it, and besought him to make her death happy by bearing her petition to the marquis. The shades of evening were falling-there was no time to be lost. 66 Speed, brother," said the low pleading voice of Eulalie, "for sure I am, that to-morrow's sun will not behold me living. Bring him to my bedside that I may forgive him, and be, for but the closing moment of my life, his bride. Go, Leonard, but, whatever may happen, remember your oath." And summoning the nurse to watch by the couch of the dying girl, the young man left his sister on his strange errand to the Chateau de Verneuil, some miles distant from Paris. To the burning impatience of his spirit, the fleet horse he rode went slowly; and though yet early in the evening, it seemed to him that hours passed before he reached the chateau. His horse was wet with foam as he dismounted at the gates. Those gates were not solitary; a group of gallant steeds were led to and fro by gaily-dressed menials, and one or two lately arrived guests, with rustling plumes and broidered mantles, were admitted as he approached. Light streamed from the diamond-shaped panes of the castle, and rich music floated on the air. The young marquis held a sumptuous feast, and entertained the aristocracy of Paris. For an instant there was a pause in the music; some toast was proposed; then there was a burst of applause, presently drowned in the rejoicing clamour of cymbal, and bugle, and kettle-drum. It was a splendid banquet in truth, not only in the viands and choice wines, but in the wit and courtly gaiety of that festive company. The soul of their mirth, the inspirer and presiding genius of the revelry, was the marquis himself. The humour of his jests was the most exquisite part of the entertainment. There was not a shade on his face to show that aught of sadness had ever marred the flash of his laughing eye; it was not in natures like his to feel any portion of the woe his recklessness inflicted upon others. The revelry was at its height, and the gay host about to challenge fresh admiration by some new brilliant speech, when a servant whispered in his ear, and informed him a young man had arrived express from Paris, and demanded to see him instantly. The marquis sent his valet to question the stranger, and finding that his business was not of a political but a private nature, and probably such as did not particularly concern De Verneuil's interests-this was an inference of the valet on observing the humble exterior of the young student-the marquis returned answer that he could not now be disturbed, and directed the stranger to communicate his errand to the confidential servant. Leonard bit his lip till the blood came as the man delivered his reply;—then taking a pencil and paper from his pocket, he |