himself to solitary meditation. He would not think of marriage, having, as he said, but his own wretched self to offer to a woman. Mary Anne, whose natural disposition, and habits of thinking, led her to delight in generosity of sentiment, replied, with warmth, that she thought the whole charge of a husband's happiness a sufficient offering to any woman. This speech being repeated to M. de Luxeuil, the officer, together with the comments on Mary Anne's character which it elicited, excited his curiosity to know more about her; and, when he was informed that she had hitherto devoted her life to her mother, he conceived the idea, that by assisting her in this pleasing task, he should give himself a claim to her gratitude and affection. The person who had mentioned Mary Anne to him (not without design), encouraged the idea, and managed so well, that from talking of her, M. de Luxeuil became desirous she should hear of him, and he then thought it might be possible for him to make himself agreeable to her. To make my story short: in course of time, the proposal was made, and joyfully accepted; and after their marriage, M. de Luxeuil took his wife and mother-in-law to a charming country house which he possessed, about thirty leagues from Paris. On arriving, he conducted Madame Leroi to the apartments which he had ordered to be arranged for her use, and Mary Anne beamed on him a smile of fond affection, as if in thanks. The rest of the house excited new admiration at every step. In the drawing-room, Madame Leroi's armchair was placed in the most comfortable corner, and care had been taken in planning their future style of living, that it should be such as best suited her health, tastes, and habits. "My children," said she, looking affectionately at her son-in-law and daughter, “I perceive that you have already talked a great deal about me." Mary Anne's happiness was complete, and M. de Luxeuil began a life of such bliss as he had never before even dreamed of. Formed, by their mutual tastes, to become dearer to each other, and most grateful for their reciprocal happiness, Mary Anne and her husband felt almost alarmed at this untroubled stream of joy. Madame Leroi hardly knew how to respond to this double affection. "Leave me alone," she would say; "what am I to do with two causes of happiness at once." Poetry. [In Original Contributions under this head, the Name, real or assumed, of the Contributor, is printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selections, it is printed in Italics at the end.] THE STORY OF HORSLEY HALL. (J. E. M.) THE lady was sitting alone in her grief, Yet her proud flashing eye scorn'd to weep for relief, "Where's the love he once swore should be strong in all time, Like a dream that is fled, like a tale that is told. "His want of affection and love I could bear, Said the lady, with voice that dissembled her hate, She leaned through the casement her beautiful head, As the lady descended the staircase alone, Neither utter'd a word-for their souls felt within 'Twas deemed that Kate's foot slipt-for none saw the blow- They buried the corpse in the pleasant churchyard, Yet a curse seemed to rest on the house. The proud dame When Sir Thomas died early, the last of his race, The above Ballad is intended to embody an old story of Horsley Hall, on the borders of Denbighshire and Cheshire, once the seat of the Powells, a family which became extinct in the last century. They were people of much consequence in that part of the country, and the possessors of the abbey lands at Birkenhead: so that their history seems to confirm the opinion of a curse attending such kind of property. How far the facts of the case are adhered to in the Ballad, is extremely doubtful. One account represents Sir Thomas as the murderer, and not his lady. Miscellaneous. "I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."--Montaigne. SUBURBAN VILLAGES FOR THE LABOURING POOR. A PROJECT for the improvement of the condition of the industrious poor who have been expelled from the crowded localities of St. Giles's, Lambeth, Westminster, Wapping, Spitalfields, and other equally populous districts of the metropolis, by the new streets which have been lately formed, and other public improvements, has been set on foot, and it seems to be one of fair pretensions and promise. It is argued, that private charity, being too limited to accomplish all that is required for the full attainment of an object of this description, the cooperation of the wealthy and speculative classes is desirable; and that, since the enterprise of the day is running in favour of the establishment of railways, a railway should be made the medium of the proposed benefit to the labouring multitudes who have been disturbed by recent alterations. We extract a passage from the "suggestions" circulated by the promoters of the scheme: The plan proposed is to build villages in the surrounding neighbourhood of the metropolis, sufficiently distant to ensure a pure atmosphere, and healthy soil, on which dwellings may be erected, at a moderate price, yet so connected with the metropolis by distinct lines of railway, and stations to each, as to leave no portion of London more than one mile distant from some one station; thus bringing the daily place of occupation of the working classes within ten minutes distance of their residence, and enabling them to resort to the one and the other with the same order and facility as though still inhabiting the precincts of the great city itself." It is added, that each village should contain about 5,000 cottage residences, covering 500 acres of land; and that, taking the probable average of the inhabitants of each cottage at seven in number, it will give to each village 35,000 inhabitants; making a total population, supposing the ten villages to be in the course of time erected, of 350,000 removed from the dens of the metropolis. It is contemplated to erect only ten cottages to an acre, which, built in pairs, will give to cach residence a good garden-will secure perfect ventilation, and incite the occupant to industry, regularity, and neatness. It is intended that churches, chapels, cemeteries, and other religious and social conveniences, should be attached to each village, as well as public baths and washing establishments, for the promotion of cleanliness and health. The parties to be principally benefited, are to be, if disposed, allowed to participate as shareholders in the undertaking contemplated. Newspaper. NATURAL INSTINCT. FOR Some time past the workmen engaged in renovating the Glasgow cathedral had observed an unusual concourse of sparrows always coming regularly to a hole, in one of the slanting walls of the old Consistory Court, which is now being taken down, and holding a great ado, "cheeping and chirping," and apparently feeding some birds within. For a brief space of time this was thought nothing of, as it was known the young brood were just about flying; and it was imagined that it might be some of these, not so strong as the others, whom the parents were feeding. The meetings being continued, however, a gentleman in the neighbourhood induced the men to get a ladder, and examine the cause of all those noisy doings; when it was found that the female sparrow, after all her brood had left her, had got so warped about the leg with some of the threads composing her nest, that it was impossible for her to escape, the leg being considerably swollen by the attempts she had made to effect it. In the above dilemma, how beautiful it is to perceive that she was constantly condoled with, and her wants sup plied by her fellow sparrows; sparrows of humanity and generous feeling they must have been. Let mankind take the lesson. It is needless to say the poor bird was let away. THE LOCOMOTIVE ENGINE V. THE LIGHT-FINGERED A TRAVELLER by the Edinburgh and Glasgow railway, on lately leaving the station in the former city, missed his pocket-book, containing 7002., and immediately returned to the train to make inquiries. The stoker told him that a fellow-traveller, whom he had supposed to be his servant, followed him from the station, and afterwards returned, took his place in a train that was starting for Glasgow, and was now on his way westward. The gentleman ordered an express train; but there was little | hope of overtaking the other, for some time was lost in getting up the steam. However, off he went, the stoker accompanying him; and when they were approaching the inclined plane which leads into Glasgow, they saw | the train ahead. The whistle of the "express" engine was violently blown, and the conductor of the passenger train, inferring danger, removed to the other line of rail. The ". express" shot past, and got to the station in time to admit of arrangements for apprehending the pickpocket. The train then came in, the suspected person was seen and identified by the stoker, and the pocket-book and money were found upon his person. The owner, overjoyed at recovering his property, offered a handsome reward to the stoker, which was resolutely refused, and the gentleman, therefore, enclosed 100%. to the directors, requesting them to take pay for the express, to reward their servant ad libitum, and to return the change (if any). The directors returned the whole, stating that they would make no charge for the engine, and would themselves reward the stoker. SINGULAR FACT. A SOMEWHAT novel incident occurred very recently at the terminus of the South-Western Railway at Vauxhall. A carrier pigeon was seen in an exhausted state; it was A label caught by hand, but died shortly afterwards. was appended to one of its legs, addressed to his Grace the Duke of Wellington, which stated that three pigeons were thrown up at the island of Ichaboe, and bore date July, 1845. The distance is computed to be between 2,000 and 3,000 miles from the place where the pigeon appears to have been liberated, to its destination in diately forwarded to Apsley House, and the Duke of London. The bird, with its appendage, was immeWellington, by an autograph note, the next day con-teously acknowledged the receipt from the party who sent the bird. It has been stuffed, and in the process it there can be no doubt that it would have reached home, has been discovered that the bird was shot, otherwise and it is supposed not to have had strength to cross the Thames. These thoughts have been suggested by the recent sale | of the manuscripts of the poet Gray. They were bequeathed by him to his biographer, Mason; from him they passed into the hands of a Mr. Bright, whose sons offered them for sale with the poet's books. Two of the most valuable MSS., the original copies of the “Elegy” and "Long Story," were purchased by Mr. Granville Penn, of Stoke Poges. At Stoke the author of the world-famed "Elegy" lived; there that undying work was written; and in the church-yard Gray is buried; to no place, therefore, could these MSS. have more appropriately returned. The "Elegy" and "Long Story" arose, unquestionably, from the suggestive character of the scenery of Stoke Poges, and the gothic glories of the ancient manor house. To the lovers of Gray, a brief description of the localities connected with these admired pieces may prove acceptable. The church-yard is the first object of a stranger's visit. From a distance nothing is seen save the white spire, rising from the midst of a circling belt of trees. So closely is the church veiled from the gaze of busy man, that, were it not for the indicating spire, no passing traveller would suppose the clustering mass of foliage girdled one of the most tranquilly beautiful church-yards in England. The visitor passes through a portion of Stoke Park towards a sombre group of trees, until a gentle turn of the path brings before him the still and solemn resting-place of many generations. All here is calm and peaceful; no stormy blast passes into this home of the departed; aged trees interlace their gnarled branches, to guard the sacred circle from the strife of the elements; neither do the burning rays of summer fall with rude heat on the clustering graves, but with a gentle and subdued light gild the ivied tombs and hillocks, on which violets lovingly dwell. In this place Gray held communion with the spirit of solemn poetry; here descended upon him the deep expressive calm which breathes through the "Elegy." In yonder quaintly carved and antique porch he sat, as imagination composed the histories of the dead. One of those mouldering heaps suggested— "Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid, Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Many years have passed since that time; the graves have increased, and the poet himself sleeps here; but the church-yard is yet marked by that solemn stillness recorded by Gray. The tumult of life has not violated the spot. Windsor's proud keep is seen afar; the fashion and pride of the land moves in the distance; but no jarring sounds enter here. Two sombre yew trees keep guard over the graves, which are thickly grouped beneath their shadow "Where heaves the turf, in many a mouldering heap." The "ivy mantled tower" still affords to the "moping owl" a home, and imparts to the ancient walls a venerableness which time alone confers. But where is the tomb of Gray? You may look around for some sculptured memorial, significant of his burial-place. You examine a lonely tomb in the north-eastern corner of the church-yard; another at the north side of the chancel; all in vain. At length a small stone slab is perceived, fixed in the eastern wall, on which we read the following inscription: "Opposite to this stone, in the same tomb upon which he has so feelingly recorded his grief at the loss of a beloved parent, are deposited the remains of Thomas Gray, who died August 1st, 1771." No epitaph tells of the poet; the only lines on the tombstone relate to his mother and aunt. The epitaph on the former is Gray's own composition,-a short but expressive eulogy on a departed mother by her only surviving son. The words are "In the same pious confidence, beside her friend and sister, sleep the remains of Dorothy Gray, widow, the careful and tender mother of many children, one of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her. She died March 7th, 1755, aged 69." of an epitaph, but also of a sepulchral memorial in the Many have expressed surprise not only at the absence churchyard, to the poet's memory. This does not arise from forgetfulness of Gray; for a cenotaph was erected to his memory in Stoke park, in 1799, by Mr. John Penn. Three sides of this monument are inscribed with selections from the works of Gray. It may here be noted, that everything connected with the burial of What can be more brief than the entry of his burial in the poet wears an appearance of extreme simplicity. the parish records? where all we read is 1771. Thomas Gray, Esq. was buried August 5th. A few yards eastward from the church are the remains of the ancient manor-house, the scene of Gray's humorous piece, entitled "the Long Story." The opening stanzas intimate the history, and describe the former appearance of the house :— "In Britain's isle, no matter where, And passages that lead to nothing." The mansion was taken down, excepting a wing, in by Mr. John Penn, the uncle of the present possessor. 1789; when the present manorial residence was erected, nected with his history regarded with reverence. It is called "West End House;" and is about two miles from the church. The stone summer-house, where the poet often studied, is carefully preserved, but the mansion is undergoing extensive changes, under the direction of its proprietor, Mr. Penn. Upon the poetic character of Gray, his finished eloquence, and varied learning, we need not here dilate. That he preserves the admiration of cultivated minds, tomb. Travellers from the most distant parts of the must be inferred from the numerous visits made to his carth often diverge from the great western road, for the church-yard of Stoke. Frequently, in the bright days of summer, a party is tomb. Some, poring over the cracked tombstone, atseen to enter the quiet enclosure, and gather around the tempt to decipher the epitaph; others, resting on some grave-hillock, sketch the most impressive point of view. Not unfrequently a twig of ivy is plucked from the church wall, and carried off as a treasured memorial to distant lands. Thus, whilst the resting places of the Huntingdons. the Hungerfords, and the Molines, are forgotten or neg lected, homage is paid to the memory of him, whose only nobility was that of the mind. poems, published by Mr. Williams, of Eton, is a further The rapid sale of the late illustrated edition of Gray's proof that his works retain their former hold upon poetic minds. poet, has but to inquire at Slough the road to Stoke The stranger desirous of visiting the grave of the church, and half an hour's walk will bring him to the spot. If he can select a tranquil summer day, the quiet beauty of the scenery will repay his trouble, whilst a host of rich associations will be stirred up within him, and long remain a source of bright thoughts and pleasing reflections. THE LAST WORD OF THE SINGER.1 CHAP. I. "It is a singular event," said Counsellor Bolnau, to an acquaintance whom he met on the High-street of the town of B-; "it is clear we live in evil times." "You mean the history in the north," replied the other. "Have you, then, commercial news? Has the minister of foreign affairs, for the sake of old friendship, told you some of the particulars?" "Ah! politics and state papers are nothing to me; as far as I am concerned things may go as they will. No, I mean the story of Bianetti." "The singer? How, is she again engaged? It was said the conductor of the orchestra had quarrelled with her." At this the counsellor of the board of trade drew himself up in astonishment, and exclaimed, "In what cavern do you live, that you know not what goes on in the town? So, then, you know nothing of what has happened to Bianetti?" "Not a word, upon my honour; what is the matter?" Well, nothing more is the matter but that yesterday evening she was stabbed by some villain, and is now dying.' "Do you The counsellor passed among his acquaintances as a wag, who, when he took his morning walk on the Highstreet, between eleven and twelve, liked to entertain people with any thing which chanced to hit his fancy. His friend, therefore, was not much affected by this frightful piece of news, and only answered, know nothing more than this to-day, Bolnau? You must indeed be at your wit's end when you lay on the colours so strongly. When you again meet me in the street, do think of something more reasonable; other wise I shall be compelled to make a circuit as I go home from the chancery office, in order to keep out of your way." "So you don't believe it!" exclaimed the counsellor; "you don't believe it! Had I told you that the Emperor of Morocco was killed, then you would have pocketed the news with thanks, and asked for more, because you know that there such sort of things happen. But when a singer here in B- has been wounded, and perhaps murdered, no one will believe it until he sees the funeral procession. However, friend, this time it is true,true as I am an honest man.' -as "Sir! consider what you are saying," replied the other, with horror. "Did you say Bianetti was really murdered?" "She certainly was not dead an hour ago, but she lies in the last agonies; so much is certain." "But, tell me, for heaven's sake, how could any one murder a singer? Do we live in Italy? Of what use is our much-extolled police? How did it happen? As sassinated? Impossible!" "Do not cry out so murderously," answered Bolnau, soothingly; "the people are already putting their heads out at the windows to see what all the noise is about. You may lament, however, sotto voce, as much as you please. How did it happen? Ah, that is the matter; but as yet not a soul knows. Yesterday evening the pretty child was at the masquerade, as amiable and charming as ever, and at midnight the physician Lange was called out of bed with these words: Signora Bia netti is dying; she has been stabbed to the heart.' The whole town speaks of it of course, but speaks the greatest nonsense. The unfortunate circumstance is, that no one can get at the real truth; no one is permitted to be in the house but the physician and the persons who wait on Bianetti. It is known even at court, and an order was given that the guards were not to pass the house; the 66 Shocking news, indeed! but does no one know how it happened? has no one the least clue?" "It is difficult, in the midst of the various reports, to get at the truth. Bianetti, it must be granted, is a most respectable person, with whose conduct none can find the smallest fault. Yet now the people, and especially the women, when the good conduct of the poor girl is spoken of, shrug their shoulders, and insist on knowing every thing of her earlier life. scarcely seventeen, and has already been here half-aOf her early life! she is year. Poor child! what do they call her early life?" "Do not dwell so long on the preface, but come at once to the point," interrupted the other. one know who committed the deed?" "Does no "That is precisely what I wish to know. It is said, a rejected or jealous lover has killed her. Indeed the circumstances are absolutely singular. It is likewise reported, that she spoke last night a considerable time to a person in a mask whom no one knew, and some persons say they saw the same mask get into her carriage. Nothing further is known as certain, but I shall soon get at the bottom of the affair." "I know you have your own private channels of news, and no doubt you have some serviceable spirit in the house of Bianetti, who can inform you what goes on. There are people who call you the chronicle of the town.'" "Too much honour! too much honour!" smiled the counsellor, yet appearing somewhat flattered. "This time, however, I have no other spy but the doctor himself. You must have observed, that I do not, according to my usual custom, walk up and down the whole length of the street, but that I keep between Charles-street and Frederic-street. Dr. Lange comes every day about twelve o'clock through this street on his way to the palace, and I stand here on the watch, just to catch him as he turns the corner." "Then I shall remain likewise," said the friend," with your permission, for I must hear exactly all the story about Bianetti." "Worthy sir, do not so inconvenience yourself," replied the other; "I know you dine at twelve, and do not let the soup get cold. Besides, Lange may not be inclined to speak out before you; come rather after dinner to the coffee-house; there you shall hear every thing. Now you had better go, for here comes the doctor round the corner." "I do not consider the wound absolutely mortal," said the physician Lange, after the first greeting. "The thrust appears not to have been surely given. She is again quite restored to consciousness, and, except from the weakness caused by so much loss of blood, there is, at least for the present, no danger to be apprehended." "I am delighted to hear that," answered the counsellor, slipping his arm confidentially into the doctor's; "I shall accompany you a few streets until you reach the palace. But tell me, for heavens's sake, the particulars of this matter: we cannot at all understand how it could have happened." "I confess to you there is a strange mystery in the affair. I had scarcely fallen asleep, when Johann awakened me with the news that a person dangerously ill desired to see me. I threw on my clothes, ran out, and in the passage there stood a girl pale and trembling, who whispered so low that I could scarcely hear her, that I must bring my materials for bandages, &c. with me. This rather astonished me; I leapt into the carriage, made the pale damsel sit beside Johann on the box, in order to show him the place, and away we went to the Lindenhof. I got out before the entrance of a small house, and asked the girl who the sick person was." "I can readily imagine your astonishment"Astonishment, indeed, when I heard in answer, 'It whole battalion was obliged to make a circuit, and go is the Signora Bianetti!' I knew her only, it is true, through the market-place." (1) From the German of Wilhelm Hauff. by having seen her at the concerts; I scarcely ever had seen her more than thrice; but the mysterious manner in which I had been called to her, the dressings for a |