And plunging, writhing, twisting, making the water fly as if a paddlewheel were in motion, straining the rod till it bends nearly double, and making the practised arms of the little dentist ache again, the pike struggles on to his last gasp: he pauses for one moment to rally his strength for a last effort, but the pause is fatal, the strong wrist of Jean Gribou has jerked him from the water-a sweep of the line brings him within reach-Pierre is ready with the landing-net and-flop-down comes the pike on dry land-all the spectators scurrying away as if he were about to pursue and devour them.

Poor fellow! he will never devour anything more! The barb is too deep in his throat. That last convulsive throe and it is all over with him. A splendid fish ;-he weighs full five-and-twenty pounds!

But what is the reason why Jean Gribou, instead of releasing the hook, dashes his rod on the ground and rushes off to the miller's house as fast as his legs can carry him. Was he the only one who heard that cry, and knew it-by what instinct?-to be the voice of Marie in distress? Not he alone, but Rusto too has caught the sound and followed close at his heels.

Jean Gribou leaps rather than runs towards the salon where he breakfasted that morning. The door flies open before his foot, and what does he behold? Mademoiselle Bluteau struggling in the arms of a man who is endeavouring to embrace her! At a glance he recognises Celadon Dameret-the recognition is mutual. He does not hesitate a moment, but bounds towards him, striking him a violent blow which makes the Amoureux release the girl and stagger against the wainscot. At that instant Rusto appears ;-the sight of the bouledogue lends wings to Dameret's flight;-he darts through the open window closely pursued by Rusto, who catches him at the wall of the farm-yard, and seizing a mouthful of his person rends his garments upwards to the very nape of his neck. How Dameret gets over the wall and scours across the fields, smarting, tattered, breathless, is more than he can ever remember. Martin is not so lucky, as he falls on the other side with Rusto upon him, who in all likelihood would have torn him to shreds, if the miller and his men had not reached the spot, pitchforks and flails in their hands.

Another chase! Rusto sees the five anglers on the brink of the stream. Away he goes, and after him ran Monsieur Bluteau, and Jacques, and Pierre. It is a trespass, and there will be a terrible reckoning. Moucherolle is the first to take the alarm.

"C'est très important pour moi," he says, "to make my escape."

He endeavours to do so, and in his haste runs foul of Galopin, and headlong they both are pitched into the water. The flourishing hook of Gobemouche, long since divested of bait, catches Choufleur by the ear, and the naturalist is brought up, cheek by jowl, with his captor, howling and swearing as never naturalist howled or swore before. The only lucky one of the party is Blancbec. He throws his rod and line into the stream, whips round a corner and dives into a dunghill, concealing himself beneath the savorous straw, and there he remains till he is routed out by Rusto.

Wretched and muddy and miserable, Galopin and Moucherolle are fished out of the water. They make the humblest apologies for the trespass and deprecate the miller's wrath. Monsieur Bluteau dismisses them

with contempt, and with their companions they slowly wend their way back to the cabaret, accompanied by the jeers of all the miller's household. Monsieur Bluteau looks angrily round for Martin, but he is already out of sight.

When the party arrive at the "Tambour vaillant," a fine row takes place. Celadon Dameret has gone off with the patache and taken, says the garcon d'écurie, the road to Paris. He was the purse-bearer of the party, and there is no money left to pay the bill for breakfast, or afford the "bonne recompense" that was promised to the host for acting as guide. Martin is furious, for when he tumbled over the wall, he dropped the five-franc piece out of his pocket, and Pierre, who picked it up, transferred it to his.

99

How these distinguished members of the "Cercle were to return home was a problem, till the arrival of Blancbec, who was able to muster sufficient to pay the cabaretier's charges. And even then in what guise were they to present themselves? The diligence to Beauport did. not pass through till the next morning, and they could not make sure of places; so, with heavy hearts, aching limbs, and torn clothes, they turned their dirty faces towards the sea and set out on foot for Beauport where, jaded and disgusted, they arrived about midnight.

The "Cercle" of Beauport still exists, but the names of Celadon Dameret, Galopin the apothecary, Moucherolle the post-office clerk, and Choufleur the adjoint-naturaliste, are not to be found on the list. Gobemouche and Blancbec are still there, and to their discretion our knowledge of the principal facts which we have recounted, is owing.

We have a word or two more to say.

While the pursuit after the anglers was at the hottest, Jean Gribou found time to explain to Mademoiselle Marie the cause of his abrupt entry into the salon, and, singularly enough, the liking which the miller's daughter had taken to the little dentist was rather increased than diminished by his explanation.

The pike was dressed for dinner at the mill that day, and those who did justice to Petronelle's cooking, were the merry host, his sporting guest, and Madame Gribou ;-how absurd to anticipate events so rapidly! It was not till full six months afterwards that Mademoiselle Marie became the wife of Jean Gribou!

THE SOUTH AMERICAN'S FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE

LAND.*

FROM THE SPANISH OF HERACLIO GUARDIA, A SOUTH AMERICAN POET.

BY MRS. BUSHBY.

Adios-adios-América, te dejo.

ADIEU-adieu-America! I leave
Thy smiling land so loved by me;
Yet to depart from thee, I deeply grieve,
Enchanting Queen of the vast Western Sea.
Upon thy glittering sands, thy pearly shore,
Fall, mingling with the waves, my tears;
My eyes, with gloom funereal, wander o'er
Thy flower-clad forest depths, to me so dear.
Oh, mother! wilt thou not forget thy son,
In distant regions though he strays;
One souvenir of love-oh! only one
He asks, to animate his future lays.

To him, midst climes however far remote,
Thy scenes shall ever present be;
His lute shall never yield another note
Than those that blend with memory of thee.

Oh! wilt thou smile compassionately now
Upon this last, this parting strain?

And if, in future days, Fate may allow,

Wilt thou receive the wanderer back again?

Adieu-Queen of the bright New World! whose brows
With rays of radiant light are crowned;

Whose every lofty mountain-summit bows

But to the clouds of heaven that circle round.

Within thy realms nature is ever grand; ·
There, mighty hurricanes arise

To sweep, destroying, over sea and land,

Where'er their course strange and tempestuous lies.

Upon thy torrents shall I gaze no more;
Thy cataracts, whose foamy spray

Looks, rising from the rocks which they dash o'er,
Like birds of snowy plume, flutt'ring away.

* Printed at Caraccas.

Feb.-VOL. XCVII. NO. CCCLXXXVI.

Thy giant rivers, rolling to the main,
Shall I, alas! no more behold?

Shall I ne'er look on thy vast lakes again,
Nor stray 'midst thy imperial forests old?

Thy pathless mountains, towering to the skies,
Wild home of whirlwinds and of storms,
Within whose depths the fierce volcano lies,
Shall I alone in dreams behold their forms?

Thy rich savannas, and thy grassy vales,
In fancy only must I greet?

Thy murm'ring accents, soft as lovers' tales,
Oh! must I hear no more their music sweet?

Ye dark-eyed syrens of my native land,
Beauty like yours where shall I find?

Where forms so full of grace, where smiles so bland,
And glances that might strike the gazer blind?

No, lovely maidens of our Indian clime,

None other may with you compare!

I bid you, then, adieu but for a time,

No chains but yours your wand'ring bard will wear. My country, yes! I shall return to thee! The plaint that I pour forth to-day

To songs of joyful triumph changed shall be,

When "welcome" to thy shores my heart shall say.

Adieu, thou gorgeous sun! whose floods of light
From skies intensely blue descend;

Adieu, ye glorious stars! gems, that by night
To yonder vault above your splendours lend.

Adieu, sweet moonbeams! brightly sparkling o'er
Yon ocean's clear translucent waves;

Alas! that ocean, to some distant shore

Must bear me from the coral strand it laves.

In quest of fickle Fortune I must roam,

America far, far from thee!

Yet still Hope whispers that my childhood's home

These eyes, ere closed in death, again shall see!

PHILADELPHIA AND ITS ENVIRONS.

BY J. W. HENGISTON, ESQ.

STEAMERS AND RAILWAYS-THE JERSEYS-FACE OF THE COUNTRY.

THERE is a close connexion between New York, Jersey, and Philadelphia-the Jerseys supplying the connecting link, as I have said. From New York there are two railway and steam-boat routes to Philadelphia. I think the most interesting one is by steamer, down the bay, through the channel between Staten Island and the Jersey shore, to South Amboy, at the mouth of the Rariton river-this channel famous for its oyster fishery -thence by rail to Bordentown, and skirt the river to Camden City-a largish town on the Delaware, opposite Philadelphia-crossing by ferryboat. The upper line I stumbled on, ferrying over from the Battery slips to Jersey City, where we got into the cars; all the luggage being in luggage-vans on board, ready to run on the rail the instant the boat touched the shore-you are given a brass label, and the same number is strapped to your trunk. This arrangement holds good on all the boat and rail routes throughout the States; you are hardly allowed to have in hand the smallest parcel or carpet bag, indeed there is no room for it inside, as you are confined to a double-armed chair in the car beside some stranger, who you hope may not be of large dimensions, or you are jammed! These chairs are fixed in two rows, one on each side, leaving a passage about two feet wide in the middle, the whole length of each car, about fifty feet; along this passage circulates the conductor, who examines, gives and takes tickets, the whole length of the train, the doors at each end slamming as he goes out and in as you proceed, he passing from one car to the next along the projecting platform at each end, where the break-wheel is fixed, and where an iron guard protects the entrance as you mount the steps at either end; no doors at the side.

But to this upper road: In a few miles it crosses a broad, rapid river -the Passayunk-and by Elizabeth Town, Brunswick, and Princeton comes out on the Delaware, near the falls at Trenton-the capital of the Jerseys-crosses by the bridge to the Pennsylvania side, skirting the river twenty-three miles down, to Tacomy, where we are once more fixed in a steamer for seven or eight miles, down to the Keystone City's wharves, close to the rival line. They are both at the same fare, three dollars; dinner or breakfast, half a dollar on board the steamers; the distance about the same, 100 miles. I will here explain that all the great American cities have their second home, or domestic name: thus, New York assumes Empire City;" Boston, "Granite City;" Philadelphia, "Keystone;" Baltimore, "Monumental;" Cincinnati, "Buck Eye;" New Orleans, "Crescent City," &c.

At Passayunk river we were in an unhandsome fix! The bridge viaduct was just burned down (not a doubt on purpose by some discontented fellow or gang), but the Americans have no time, and little inclination to ask questions or set on foot expensive detective constables-they were steadily at work clearing away the charred piles, and driving new ones for the immediate planting of a new bridge. The aspect of the Jerseys just here is not inviting, marsh meadows and swamps, framed to the north-west by low hills, getting still more flat in sands to Cape May.