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David SOLOMON !—a name how full of hallowed associations ; how the old man's heart yearned toward the little being! If old Uncle Solomon' had his weak point it was his idolatrous love for the little David. For him he toiled and strove; for his sake he bore neglect, injustice and buffeting. He was the quickener, the rewarder, the crown of all the labor which he labored to do under the sun.'
Little David Solomon was a bright boy; his eyes sparkled, and his dark locks curled in rich redundance about his healthful cheek. He had numbered four summers, when one autumn evening his father missed the sound of his little pattering feet in the hall, as he was wont nightly to come in to greet him, on his return from the city. On entering the house he saw nothing of his little favorite ; but hastening to his sleeping room, he found him lying on his low pallet, and Adah seated by his side, with anxiety and fear imprinted on her face, for she loved the little one with somewhat of the love of a mother for her child. He tossed restlessly from side to side, parched with fever, and his mind wandering and unquiet.
The old man took him in bis arms: the little boy knew him not. Wild and incoherent, he screamed with terror as he gazed. The strong man was bowed. He lifted up his voice and wept. Never had Adah seen him so moved before. He said at length, in a voice hoarse with emotion : ‘Adah, it is a sickness unto death! Something in my heart tells me there is no hope !'
• Be not so soon disheartened, my dear uncle. Little David has doubtless caught the malignant fever we have so much dreaded ; but it may, by the blessing of Heaven, be allayed.'
The physician who had long attended the family, and his father before him, was summoned. He came; endeavored to look wise, and shook his empty head. He prescribed remedies, but without avail. Though more peaceful and quiet, the little boy's mind still wandered and his pulse was quick and wiry. Yet it was touching to hear from his lips, in his deliriousness, words which sweetly showed forth his innocence and affection. Once he clapped his little hands together with a sad glee, and spake of bright birds,' and 'gay flowers,' and of his “sweet cousin Adah.'
The medical man came again. He gave them little hope. Adah sat by the side of the sufferer during the long night-watches. The foot-steps of the sorrow-stricken parent, as he paced the floor of the ante-room, (for he could not stay beside his child, to whom he was as a stranger,) fell upon her ear. A thought flashed upon her mind :
If we could but have young Linton's counsel !' She stole silently to the side of her uncle and named her wish. He gave instant consent; nay, caught at her proposal as a drowning man clutches the last plank.
Before the day dawned a messenger was on his way to the young physician, with a note from Adah, beseeching him to come instantly and save, if it might be, their little David.
Never was greater celerity exhibited than in obeying this summons. In a little while Dr. Linton stood before the sick child, by the side of Adah and the disheartened father. Though he spoke no word of encouragement as he gazed upon the face of the little sufferer, yet a light beamed from his countenance, and a ray of hope irradiated the hearts of both father and daughter. And thus vibrating between hope and fear, passed two more weary days. Linton rested not day nor night. All that human skill and foresight could devise, was resorted to. The result neither he nor they, nor any man could foretell. They could only fall down on their knees in humble, adoring submission before Him who giveth the increase;' who is the hearer of prayer. The fervent petition of faith was heard, and it was answered. The little David awoke from a deep sleep on the morning of the third day; quiet and refreshed, although weak. The fever-wildness was quite passed away, and the crimsoned cheek was now pale and cool !
Oh! the rush of joy and gratitude, the ineffable tenderness, which glowed in the father's heart, as he beheld the little child of his love restored to himself, and once more smiling peacefully and sweetly in his face!
He turned to his preserver. The blessing,' said he, . of the God of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob, be upon thy head! He has made thee His instrument in restoring to me my boy. How can I ever thank thee ? — how ever repay thee?
•You can more than repay me, a thousand times ten thousand fold !
• Ask any boon thou wilt; it is thine.'
Electrified with delight, Linton thought only of one boon: Give me your daughter; the daughter of your adoption, the child of your love!'
• It is a high price,' said Solomon smiling, but as thou hast won her, I give her to thee, with my blessing on you both!'
• Were they really married, then ??
“Of course ; and what is better still, by the blessed influence of young Linton's example, and the meek and gentle Bertha's, no long time elapsed before Adah cast in her lot with her new family in spiritual as well as temporal things; and his people became her people and his Saviour her Saviour.'
THE LIFE OF LOVE.
Ambition's tale if we believe
And led astray,
We lose our way:
UNSOUGHT in this existence placed,
What can give light
To cheer the sight,
So peace of mind
We cannot find
Rejecting wealth and empty name,
Still pure and bright
It lends its light
THE REIGN OF THE PEOPLE.
IN TEREB PARTS: PART THIRD.
The joy of the friends on thus meeting was great. Their former friendship was renewed. The circumstances of their position endeared them still more closely; and Auguste insisting upon Henri's taking up his abode with him, they lived together as brothers. Their companionship mitigated, though it could not banish, the anxieties each felt; for both feared for their country, and neither could avoid cherishing the liveliest apprehensions for the baron and his daughter.
Nor were their fears on either hand ill-founded. In the contest between the Assembly and the Municipality, during the week succeeding the tenth day of August, Auguste perceived with pain the declining influence of his party, the popular desertion of their principles, which he considered of vital importance, and the erection of an extraordinary tribunal, whose functions were so ill-defined, and whose creation was so unwillingly extorted from the Assembly, that it seemed to him destined to be but a powerful instrument of judicial murder. As for Henri, the forcible ascendancy of the Commune seemed only to fortify his mind in the view he had now adopted ; oscillating between extremes, the peace and order of an energetic monarchy appeared preferable to the chequered and bloody fortunes of popular sway. It was in vain that his friend discoursed with all the eloquence of a passionate conviction upon lhe excellencies of a truly republican regime. In vain did he summon up all the resources of his party-philosophy to give comfort for the present and hope for the future. Henri would receive no comfort for what he considered the ruin of his country, nor entertain any hope of her recovery from the blow.
While the young men were thus divided in opinion as to the extent of the national danger, they entirely agreed in their anxiety for the fate of the baron and Emilie. Indeed Henri's surmises seemed dictated by such an absorbing interest, that old suspicions awoke in Auguste's mind, and it was not long before he discovered the secret. So far from expressing displeasure, however, he was gratified, and gave assurances of his countenance with Emilie, if circumstances should favor their search. That search had now been continued at intervals for several days. Roland, the Minister of the Interior, a personal friend of his youthful admirer and partisan, had used his efforts in vain. The omnipotent Minister of Justice, Danton, affirmed that he knew nothing of their place of refuge, and the prisons even had been examined. Henri, from prudential motives, had continued ostensibly one of the people ; he visited the Jacobins, and raised a faint hurrah now and then in the streets. His inquiries too had proved fruitless.
A week had now passed, and returning toward evening from an examination, where he hoped a clue had been gained, he resigned himself to the deepest dejection and despair. The quarter was unfrequented, and he walked quickly. The streets were not as crowded, nor did the same scenes of riot and excess meet his eye as on the other side of the river. His attention was therefore at once arrested, and his sympathies aroused, at seeing a young woman dart from the entresol of a large house before him : she was closely pursued by a rough fellow, who contrived to gain upon her notwithstanding his drunken unsteadiness. As both dashed by him, upon the impulse of the moment a heavy blow tumbled the pursuer senseless on the pavement. Henri was about to pursue his way, when the woman, whose features he had not noticed in the dim twilight, approached to express' her gratitude. She spoke; one word was enough; the tone, the accent- it could be no other! He turned toward her; they did not need day-light to complete the recognition. Her humiliating position and her fear banished pride and every notion of fastidious propriety, and with an exclamation of intense joy, Emilie fell into his arms. A moment after footsteps approached; and leading the way to the house she had quitted, she guided him through a labyrinth of stair-ways and portals to a back apartment in the fifth story of the building. In this small and scantily-furnished chamber, on a camp-stool, by the decaying embers of the fire, sat the old but chivalrous noble, Count de Chabotte. Wholly engrossed in his sad contemplations, he did not perceive the entrance of a stranger, but gazing fixedly on the dying coals, he mused over the past. Touching him lightly upon the shoulder, ' Here is a friend, father,' said Emilie.
The baron rose abruptly, and casting a stern glance upon the intruder, 'A friend, Emilie ?' he said ; 'we have no friends!
*I am your friend, Sir,' said the manly voice of Henri ; *I am of your city, and I think you knew me there; Henri Graubner, of Lyons.'
His heart palpitated as he spoke, for he knew not whether the baron had recognized him, begrimed as he was, in the attack on the Tuilleries. The reply reässured him, and the trio immediately entered into conversation upon their respective circumstances. Without waiting however for the details, Henri at once informed them of the vigilant search instituted for every adherent of the fallen dynasty, and he declared that their retreat was not secure for an hour; he therefore proposed their instant departure with him to the hotel of Auguste, where a place of concealment was ready, their wants could be ministered to without suspicion, and the earliest information also being obtained of every movement, the best means could be adopted for protection. But at the mention of his son's name the baron's pride was aroused, and neither the expostulations of the friend nor the entreaties of the daughter could gain his assent to the proposition. Baffled in his attempts, Henri begged that Emilie