"So I made him promise, first, that he would see the prison chaplain and listen to him, and try to do what he told him; secondly, that he would wear and sometimes kiss, and especially kiss the last thing-a little blessed crucifix I would send him by the chaplain. I might not give it to him myself. And then the time was gone, the warder touched me gently on the shoulder and told me I must come away.

"Adieu,' I said, but there was no answer. And so I left him, meaning to return. Before I left the prison, however, I saw the chaplain and told him about my poor Paul, and when I came away it was with a thankful feeling that in him the poor boy would have a stronger friend than I.

"I never saw Paul again. The shock had upset me a good deal, and I sickened afterwards of scarlet-fever, which had spread through the house when Paul and I together had nursed the children. They told me that when I wandered in my head I thought he was nursing me too, and that I was always talking to him about le bon Dieu, and his soul. My illness was long and complicated, but when I was better he was one of my first thoughts, and I sent to beg the good old priest to whose care I had committed him, to come and

see me.

"He came at once. I was still in bed, but I could not wait. He stood by my bedside, his tall figure and snow-white head bent over me; his face was very kind but very grave. He thought I knew, so he made no attempt to break it to me.

"All is over, madame,' he said simply, 'as regards this world. Pray for him confidently. He died very bravely, very calmly. An hour before, he bade me tell you that his last words should be those you wished, and that he hoped you would remember him in your prayers. May God have mercy on his soul. He was brave and true in some things, in spite of his crimes.'

"And then there came a silence, and I could find no word to break it but 'Merci, Monsieur l'Abbé, merci.'

"Then he spoke again, to tell me that Paul had asked to see him one day as a friend, and had told him the story of his life, and asked him to tell it to me if he should ever see me again.

"Paul's father had been rich and noble-his name Paul would not tell. His mother he had never known, but she was not his father's wife. His father had been an old man ever since Paul could remember, and Paul had been brought up in his bachelor household with every expectation of inheriting a competence at his death, and without much instruction or training of any kind to fit him to make his way in the world. The old man became paralysed when Paul was about ten years old, and a woman-servant of high temper who attended him, and whom he greatly feared, gained such influence over

her charge that at his death it was found that he had bequeathed everything, of which he could dispose, to her, and left Paul penniless. Cast thus adrift upon the world, with anger and hate in his heart, the boy was drafted into the army, where for a time he did well, as his talent for music was noticed, and he was put into the band. But his companions were bad, and he was led astray, and took to drinking more than was good for him and enough to inflame his hot nature. One day whilst under the influence of spirits, exciting himself with wild talk about his wrongs, he had made the attempt to burn down the old woman's house, bought with the money which should have been his. This failed and he was arrested and imprisoned. He came out of prison, fiercer, wilder, than he went in; but for a time the gentler side of his nature was developed by contact with my trusting little ones, and the rest of us, all believing in and accepting him without suspicion.

"But the old enemy overcame him—and again he fell. When drunk he must have been a madman. He killed her, mesdames, the poor, helpless, cruel old woman who had robbed him, and in his turn he robbed her of his father's money, his father's watch, his father's plate!"

The dear little old lady's face was pale, and she sank back; and, feeling that we had allowed her to exhaust and overtire herself, we left her, with many excuses, as the dinner-bell sounded the hour of the distasteful meal.

MARGARET MARY MAITLAND.

The Cloud.

(From GAUTIER.)

On the horizon, bathed in light,
A cloud begins its place to take,
So shines a maid with bosom white
Fresh from a clear and windless lake.

Erect upon her pearly shell,

She sails along the azure there,
A Venus, shaped by magic spell
Out of the mist-wreaths of the air.

Her wavering shape eludes the eye

In languid postures, fancy-drawn, While on her sheeny shoulders lie

The roses scattered by the dawn.

No gleam of marble or of snow
More amorously blent could be,

Nor, imaged by Correggio,

More softly sleep Antiope.

She floats in splendour large and warm
Higher than Alp or Apennine,
Reflection of primæval form,
Type of "the eternal Feminine."

Vainly to this poor body tied

My passionate soul from prison passed
Wings upward to its winged bride,
And, like Ixion, holds her fast.

Quoth Reason:-"Vapour! where one sees The vague designs our dreams display. Shadow! that changes with the breeze.

Bubble! that bursts and melts away."

The Muse makes answer: "What of that?
What, after all, does Beauty mean?
Fair spectre, which a breath lays flat,
And which is nothing, having been!

Rather, before the ideal bowed,

Wide in thy heart let sunshine fall; Love!-be it woman or be it cloud-Love only! Love is all in all.”

H. G. KEENE.

Postscript to Mozart. *

THE name of Mozart will scarcely be pronounced before any dilettante of this or any music-loving centre in Europe, but 'Don Giovanni' will at once rise to everybody's mouth. The most popular opera written in the last century, and which remains a stockpiece with Italian, French, German, and English opera Companies, and has continued to be so during the whole of this century, it has enchanted the fathers and grandfathers of this generation in all countries, and stands fresh and eagerly listened to, while operas have vanished which ten or twenty years ago were all the rage.

It is not a sufficient reason that it is by the immortal Mozart; because other operas by the same master, full of melody, full of the enticing simplicity and charm which was the basis of his personal character, have never reached the same degree of popularity; take, for instance, his magnificent Idomeneo.' Truth to say, it is it is very difficult in many cases to find out why one work of an author becomes so much more popular than others by the same author, although they seem to possess the same charm. Balfe has written twenty-three operas, of which one had for more than a quarter of a century the greatest run known in nearly every country of Europe. Two, even three others have been very successful too; but who knows even the name of eighteen or twenty others? Why are Dickens' 'Pickwick Papers' and Thackeray's 'Vanity Fair' known to the merest tyro, in preference to so many other good works of the same authors? It is a matter of taste, and, as our ancestors said two thousand years ago, "De gustibus non est disputandum." "Taste and colours cannot be discussed," say our neighbours on the other side of the Channel. Far be it from me to underrate the attractive power of the 'Zauberflöte,' or the immortal charm of the Nozze di Figaro.' Yet! yet the popularity of Don Giovanni' may, I believe, be explained, if not by A+B, yet by a series of excellent reasons. First of all, there are two powerful elements for popularity in the libretto; namely, a ghost story, which attracts a great part of the

In consequence of letters received from many readers of TEMPLE BAR, asking me for a few remarks on the popularity of 'Don Giovanni,' I beg to add this little postscript to "Mozart."

THE AUTHOR.