said in a low voice, "I believe you are right.' The carriage stopped; Welt sprang out, the servants assisted the countess; he stood quietly by and brushed the dust from his coat. "They are man and wife," said the grand chamberlain's lady softly.

"Yes, yes, I begin to doubt my knowledge of mankind," said the count.

The countess made excuses for being so late; Welt knit his brow in vexation. Dinner was announced; the master of the house offered his arm to the lady of the grand chamberlain. The grand chamberlain and Welt, the countess and a strange lady remained. Welt offered his arm to the strange lady, and left the countess to the grand chamberlain. His wife looked back and smiled; the grand chamberlain nodded significantly. The society was gay. Welt sat between the countess and the strange lady. He conversed with the stranger on fashion and feeling, and left the countess to be amused by the grand chamberlain. The latter smiled, his wife looked at him good-humouredly. After dinner Welt approached the countess. He talked of the influence of the body over the mind, which occasioned satiety in everything. The countess yawned. "That is the body," said she. Welt continued calmly talking, and the body of the countess yawned again.

The grand chamberlain stole up to his lady. "They are man and wife," she whispered.

"It is certain," said the grand chamberlain. The chamberlain proposed a walk in the garden, and the company went. A narrow plank led to a fine waterfall. The grand chamberlain had brought his vertigo with him from the residence; the chamberlain was too lusty to trust himself on the plank, and the ladies were timid. Welt sought to tranquillize them. He escorted them over the plank; but he offered his services last to the countess.

The grand chamberlain stood smiling on one side, and his wife stood smiling at him from the other. It was evening, and the company hastened back to the house. The countess was behind, Welt near her. He walked on thoughtfully; she followed him fatigued.

The grand chamberlain pressed the hand of his wife. The carriages were ordered; the party separated, and hastened home.

"You are a clever woman, my love," said the grand chamberlain; "it is certain they are man and wife."

"Now, my dear," said the countess, "only take the pains to get certain proofs." "Leave me alone," said the count. thing is clear, and when that is the case, there

"The

must be proofs." Accordingly he went round the neighbourhood to obtain more information; but he wanted proof, and could only procure conjectures. People had heard this, and seen that; one referred to another; and when he wanted proofs, the one had said nothing, and the other had heard nothing. He came back sorrowful. "My dear," said he, "I return just as rich in conjectures, and as poor in proofs."

"Indeed!" said the countess. "Can the people yet doubt that they are married?"

"Alas! no," said the count; "but no one can prove it. However, I will try what I can do; the day after to-morrow Herr von Welt has business in the residence; I will send immediately to my lawyer. We must take advantage of the moment, for conjectures lead to nothing."

The lawyer was called; they were shut up together, and on the second day he drove to the chateau of the countess.

"All alone?" said the grand chamberlain, as he entered the room with an appearance of surprise.

"Herr von Welt is in town," said the countess; "he will be sorry that he was not at home when he finds that you have been here.'

The grand chamberlain took a seat near her; he admired the arrangement of the house, and some pictures which were in the room.

"My husband was a connoisseur," said the countess. "The collection of paintings he has made proves his taste."

"Ah! his taste proves other things still more," said the count, smiling; and he kissed her hand. "But he was an extraordinary man; he had caprices, which he showed even to the last; his will proves that."

The countess cast down her eyes and blushed. "Herr von Welt is an old acquaintance, at least I think so," said the grand chamberlain. "I have known him above four years," said the countess embarrassed.

"He was remarked at court for his talents and affability," continued the grand chamberlain, smiling, and his smile was expressive; "but the last year he has been quite lost to the court and to the world. How is it possible for him not to forget the caprices of an old man who is dead?"

VOL. III.

52

The countess was evidently more embarrassed.

"Why were you not sincere with me?" said he, softly, and took her hand. "Your secret is known in the neighbourhood, why would you conceal it from me?"

The countess started up terrified. "Is it possible?" said she and her voice faltered. "Can the old man have-Oh, count! what do you know-what is known?"

"Do you think," said the count, "that I watch my advantage so servilely?" and his tone was tender and sincere. "I will see and hear nothing. Enjoy in peace what you have dearly enough bought, by a sacrifice of two years. But, dear countess, I have children, who may hereafter complain of my pliability! and indulgence. I must therefore do something to fulfil the duty of a father. Another in my place would here require he would lay before you proofs on which to ground his claims, but I spare your heart, and respect your secret. The friend is silent-it is the father only entreats."

"Alas!" cried the countess, and tears streamed from her eyes, "what do you require of me?"

The grand chamberlain drew a paper out of his pocket. "You know," he continued calmly, "that my property is greatly embarrassed. Your husband left you large estates, and a great fortune; I am silent on his will, of which I make no use; but this wound which I give to my interest must not continue bleeding in my children. Sign, therefore, this writing, my dear friend. You undertake therein to discharge a part of my debts, which have been occasioned by my service in the state, and your secret will ever remain concealed." He fetched a pen. The countess in the meantime recovered her presence of mind. "Allow me," said she, more tranquilly, "to request that you will present me the proofs on which you ground your suspicions?"

"Why so?" said he, smiling, "the government will, perhaps, soon communicate some to you."

The countess seized the pen hastily. "Your children shall lose nothing," said she, and signed. The grand chamberlain kissed the hand which returned him the paper, and went gaily to his carriage.

Herr von Welt returned the next day. "We are betrayed," said the countess, and threw herself weeping into his arms.

"Betrayed?" said he, astonished.

"The old priest must have chattered,” said the countess.

"Indeed!" says Welt, "he has not spoken these nine months, for he is dead."

The countess looked confounded. She related to him the visit of the grand chamberlain, his behaviour, and her signature.

"That is a deception," cried Welt, "he has taken you by surprise; but he shall not long enjoy his triumph." He hastened out of the room, ordered his horse, and rode to the grand chamberlain. The count came to meet him on the steps.

"I have a word to say to you, count," said Welt; "but I should wish it to be in private."

"A word also with you, for it is time to sit down to dinner, and you must be our guest," said the grand chamberlain affably, and led him into the room.

"Count," said Welt, "you expressed a suspicion yesterday to the countess, in which I am concerned.'

"Quite right," replied the count; "people told me of these conjectures, and I repeated them to the countess.'

"Count!" said Welt, "by what can you prove your conjectures?"

"We will talk about it after dinner," said the grand chamberlain; "it is already on the table. Our conversing longer may occasion surprise, and you do not, of course, wish that we should furnish the people with more materials for conjectures?"

"After dinner,

Welt bowed embarrassed. then," said he, and his tone was somewhat milder. The grand chamberlain opened the dining-room door, and introduced him to his wife.

Two sons of the count were at table with them. The youngest, the mother's darling, sat next her, and amused himself by getting under the table to pinch the calf of his father's leg. The count drew up his feet several times, making a wry face; but the strength of the

crab to the calf. The grand chamberlain at last kicked him from him with an exclamation, and the darling fell screaming at his mother'e feet.

journey cannot be otherwise than instructive," said the grand chamberlain. "But, my dear friend," he continued, "when in London or at Madrid you see a man sitting opposite a lady, and the lady lets fall her fan, and he does not stoop to pick it up, or when he speaks learnedly, and the lady yawns-and they yawn at Madrid as well as here- then believe me, they are man-and wife."

Herr von Welt threw himself on his horse. "Ride fast," said the count laughing; "make haste home; a gallop will confound the neighbours, who always walk their horses home to their wives."

Welt laughed, and spurred his animal. The grand chamberlain soon after satisfied his creditors, and returned to court.

THE HOUSEHOLD FESTIVAL.

'Twas when the harvest moon came slowly up, Broad, red, and glorious o'er dark groves of pine; In the hush'd eve, when closed the flow'ret's cup, And the blue grape hung dewy on the vine, Forth from a porch where tendrill'd plants entwine, Weaving a shadowy bower of odorous things, Rich voices came, telling that there were met

Beauty and youth and mirth, whose buoyant wings, Soaring aloft o'er thoughts that gloom and fret, Gave man release from care, or lured him to forget.

And, as the moon rose higher in the sky, Casting a Limic day on all around,

Lighting dim garden paths, through branches high, That cast their chequer'd shadows on the ground; Light maidens, dancing with elastic bound,

Like fairy revellers, in one place were seen; And gentle friends were slowly pacing where

The dark, thick laurels formed a bowery screen; And merry children, like the moonlight fair With their wild pealing laughter fill'd the perfumed air.

Another hour,-and in a lighted room, Where glorious pictures lined the lofty wall They sate in social ease :-no brow of gloom, No sadden'd, downcast eye, that might recall Sorrowful musing, dimm'd the festival.

It was in honour of a gallant youth Those friends were met, the friends he dearest loved, All wishing he were there-and well, in sooth, Might his gray father unto tears be moved, Listening to his grateful praise,-his tears were unreproved.

Her bright eyes sparkling with delight and love, Told his young sister of his travels wide,

Of pleasant sojourn in some palmy grove, And Indian cities in their gorgeous pride;

Of desert isles where savage tribes abide,

And glorious shores and regions of old fame: Then were his trophies from all lands display'd, Belt, baracan, and bow of wondrous frame, High nodding crest, and deadly battle blade, And birds of curious note in glittering plumes array'd.

And, in her joyful phrase, she told how he, Ere their next meeting, o'er the wave would come, Like a glad spirit, to partake their glee, And cast delight and interest round his home: Gaily she told, how sitting in that room When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane, He should himself his marvellous tales relate. -Alas! encircled by the Indian main, That night beneath a tamarind-tree he sat Heart sick with thoughts of home and ponderings on his fate.

The heavy sea broke thundering on the shore, The dark, dark night had gather'd in the sky, And from the desert mountains came the roar Of ravening creatures, and a wild, shrill cry From the scared night-birds slowly wheeling by.— And there he lay, beneath the spreading tree, Feverish and faint, and over heart and brain

Rush'd burning love, and sense of misery, And wild, impatient grief, and longings vain Within his blessed home to be at rest again.

Another year-and the relentless wave Had wash'd away the white bones from the shore;— And, mourning for his son, down to the grave Had gone the old man with his locks all hoar;— The household festival was held no more;And when the harvest-moon came forth again, O'er the dark pines, in red autumnal state,

Her light fell streaming through the window pane Of that old room, where his young sister sate With her down-droop'd head, and heart all desolate. MARY HOWITT.

ON EARLY RISING.

I hope that you are not an early riser. If you are, throw this into the fire-if not, read it. But I beg your pardon; it is impossible that you can be an early riser; and if I thought so, I must be the most impertinent man in the world; whereas, it is universally known that I am politeness and urbanity themselves. Well then, pray what is this virtue of early rising, that one hears so much about? Let us consider it, in the first place. according to the seasons of the year-secondly, according to peoples' profession-and thirdly, according to their character.

Let us begin with spring-say the month of