It was a cold November day. A rude north wind raved among the leafless oaks that defied its power with their rugged, unclad arms. The heavy masses of clouds were mirrored darkly in the spring, and the pine, grown to lofty stature, rocked swiftly to and fro as the fierce wind struck it. Down the hill, over the stones, and through the tempest, there came a slight and bending form. It was the happy child who had planted the pine seed.

houses blessed her coming. She had been a faithful steward of the Lord's gifts.

Eighty-and-eight years had dropped upon her head as lightly as withered leaves; but now the Father was ready to release his servant and child. Her numerous household was gathered around her bed to behold her last hour. On the borders of eternity, a gentle sleep fell upon her. She seemed to stand in a lofty wood, beside a towering pine. A spring bubbled near, and She threw herself on the dry leaves by the soft breezes swept the verdant boughs. She water's edge, and leaned wearily against the looked upon the tree, glorious in its strength, strong young evergreen. How sadly her eyes and smiled to think she could ever have desired roved among the trees, and then tears com- to change her crown of immortality for its menced to fall quickly from them. She was senseless existence. Then the old questionvery pale and mournful, and drew her rich"What is life?"-resounded again in her ears, mantle closely around her to shield her from the and she opened her eyes from sleep and spoke, wind. It had heen as her lover had said. She in a clear voice, these last wordshad gone out into the world, had tasted what men call pleasure, had put aside the simple lessons she had learned in her childhood, to follow his bidding, to live in the light of his love. Ten years had dissolved the dream. The young husband was in his grave; the child she had called after him was no more. Weary and heart-broken, she had hurried back to the home she had left, and the haunts she had cherished.

She embraced the young pine, tenderly, and exclaimed

"Oh, that thy lot was mine! Thou wilt stand here, in a green youth, a century after I am laid low. No fears perplex thee; no sorrows eat away thy strength. Willingly would I become like thee!"

At last she grew calm; and the old question which she had never found answered to her satisfaction-" What is life?"-sprang up into her mind. All the deeds of past days moved before her, and she felt that hers had not been a life worthy of an immortal soul. She heard again the voices of the trees, the wind, and the stream, and a measure of peace seemed granted to her. "Endurance-Hope-Faith," she murmured. She rose to go.

"Farewell, beloved pine," she said. "God knows whether I shall see thee again; but such is my desire. With his help, I will begin a new existence. Farewell, monitors who have comforted me. I go to learn What is life.'"

In a distant city, there dwelt, to extreme old age, a pious woman-a Lydia in her holiness-a Dorcas in her benevolence. Years seemed to have no power over her cheerful spirit, though her bodily strength grew less. Great riches had fallen to her lot; but in her dwelling luxury found no home. A hospital-a charity-schoolan orphan-asylum-all attested her true appreciation of the value of riches. In her house, many a young girl found a home, whose head had else rested on a pillow of infamy. The reclaimed drunkard dispensed her daily bounty to the needy. The penitent thief was her treasurer. Prisons knew the sound of her footsteps. Alms

"He that believeth in the Son hath everlasting life. This is the true life for which we endure the trials of the present. For this we labour and do good works. A man's life con sisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesseth; for to he spiritually-minded is life. I have finished my course; my toil will be recompensed an hundredfold; and I go to Him whose loving-kindness is better than life."

EARLY HOPES.

Ye who on the mountain height

Of youth's enjoyinent, thence behold,
Far away in misty light,

Scenes of loveliness unfold
Beauty, passing every sense
Of hope, in its first innocence,-

Be not deceived, nor deem the road,
Across the vallies at your feet,

Leads on to that far-off abode

Through pleasant paths. and verdure sweet;
A tract, all desolate and bare,
Meets those who seek to enter there.

From this vast height on which we stand
The wilderness is seldom seen;
But none can gain that beauteous land

Except they brave the waste between;
And those who from the danger shrink
Will perish on its very brink.

FEMININE GOSSIP FROM PARIS.

BY OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT.

a poaching dog, who stole upon the game, killed it by a scientific bite, and brought it in triumph to his master!

Madame George Sand is about to bring out a new piece, I believe, at the Porte St. Martin, and is expected in town for the rehearsal. When she comes to Paris, she has an apartment where she receives her visitors, remains during the day, and has her meals; but where she sleeps no one knows: she always keeps it a profound mystery. This is one of the many caprices of this strange but highly-gifted woman. When she was last in town, she went to the Theâtre Français with her daughter Madame C

PARIS, October 22nd. Bon jour! my dear C; let us exchange a shake-hands à l'Anglaise by the electric telegraph; for surely that is a more friendly salute than firing cannons between friends! Then we will have a little chat about "things in general," though as the season here will not commence for some weeks yet, I cannot promise you much that is very interesting. I went the other night to the Italian Opera, which opened brilliantly. The house was so crowded, that people were sent away, and some who took places on speculation sold them to late arrivals at treble and fourfold the original price: it must be remem-wife of the celebrated sculptor, and Alexandre bered, though, that the house is not a third of the size of either of the London ones. Madame Barbieri Nini sung and played the part (Lucrezia Borgia) beautifully, and I think will become a decided favourite, though, strange to say, the Parisian audience, even when pleased, are so very much colder than the London, that it is not very easy to tell when they are really satisfied. I cannot help thinking, too, that there is a little jealousy for their own opera, as you constantly hear comparisons instituted between French and Italian music, and French and Italian singers. However, as the manager caters for the amusement of the public with indefatigable zeal and intelligence, the house is well-built for seeing and hearing, well lit, and the boxes remarkably comfortable, it will, no doubt, have at least its usual meed of success.

The panic that prevailed throughout the spring and summer regarding the political crisis that 1852 was to bring, seems to have quite died away, and people appear to be looking forward to the winter as gaily and hopefully as if no such thing had ever been dreamt of. They don't talk politics any the less though, unfortunately-seriously, that one engrossing subject has so completely invaded the salons, that the galantrie Française is completely swept away by it, and a lady's drawing-room is converted into a field, where all her male visitors think themselves at liberty to discuss their various opinions, and l'état politique de la France, without the slightest regard to her tastes, ideas, or amusement, and sometimes to her nerves, so loud and warm do the controversies frequently become. The shooting season forms some little diversion in certain cases; and really the chasseurs' anecdotes and experiences are infinitely more amusing even to female auditors. M. C made me laugh the other day, by telling me that he had been at a shooting party, where it was remarked that though one of the guests hardly ever fired his gun, his game-bag was fuller than that of almost any of his neighbours. No small astonishment of course arose from this circumstance, until the sportsman (!) confided to my friend that he had

Dumas. A conversation between the two literary luminaries commenced, and was carried carried on in so loud a key (Dumas always talks with a verve, an energy, and a luxe of words and action, perfectly inconceivable), that the audience repeatedly called them to order. Whereupon Dumas, far from being silenced, became so indignant at these interruptions, that, placing himself in the front of the box, he informed the amazed assembly that, if they were not utterly destitute of sense and taste, they would be only too enraptured to seize this solitary opportunity of listening to the conversation of George Sand and Alexandre Dumas; and that it was M. Scribe, and not they, "qui devrait se taire!" Then having concluded his harangue, he offered his arm to his fair interlocutor, and marched out of the theatre, followed by Madame C, not a little abashed at the scene at which she had so unwillingly and unexpected y assisted.

Have you seen any of the numbers that are coming out of the "Chants et Chansons de Pierre Dupont?" Some of them are very beautiful. I think "La Blonde" is one of the most vaguely, mysteriously, etherially touching creations I ever read: there is a vapoury, dewy night-atmosphere about it, if I may so express it, an unearthly purity that hangs over the halfreal, half-ideal creature, that thrills you with a sort of awe. Widely different is "La Chataine," a beautiful, brilliant, capricious mutine coquette, that lives in an atmosphere of bougies, ballrooms, and flattery, and that yet has a touch of childish insouciance, and of nature (such as it is) about her, that prevents her being the wholly artificial thing such an atmosphere is likely to create.

"La Brune" is advertised to come out shortly; I am curious to see it. Pierre Dupont has a strangely refined and subtle intellect for a peasant poet, which he is, though his education has been far above his original position: he has been greatly fété, principally by the higher class of English in Paris, but is not the least spoiled by it; and returns to his native woods and

peasant wife, with as heartfelt pleasure and enjoyment as if he had never known a more refined state of existence: in fact, all his inspiration is drawn from the country, and when long removed from it, he loses the power of writing. I must confess that his political effusions please me less than the others; there is a strange jumble in his ideas on one point-his refrain is ever aimons nous" but when you get through the chant, you always find the nous is used in an extremely limited sense, including only those of his own class and opinions, and not at all the world in general; in fact, "the powers that be," "les rois" more especially, are viewed with anything but a loving or Christain spirit.

The cold weather is putting an end to most of the public fêtes in the neighbourhood of Paris; they have in general been less brilliant this year than usual, owing to the want of fine warm weather-a want which causes graver evils, as it has seriously affected the grape crop, much of it being diseased, and the rest sadly wanting in flavour and sweetness. The only good grapes I have

tasted this season, have been from the Midi, the
Chasselas de Fontainebleau, as well as all the
grapes in the neighbourhood of Paris, being
hardly eatable from their acidity, instead of
sweet and delicious as they usually are. Cer-
tainly, Paris does in general boast a delightful
luxe of fruit and flowers, and at prices that put
them within the reach of everybody. The
poorest people never fail to present their relatives
and friends with a beautiful bouquet or blooming
plant from the Marché aux Fleurs, on their fete,
the day of their patron-saint, whose name they
bear; for as every day in the year has at least
one saint, and many three or four, it is difficult
not to name a child after one of them-more
especially as many are the patrons of both
sexes-for instance: St. Louis, St. Charles, &c.,
protecting the Louise's and Charlottes, as well
as their masculine namesakes.
And now, my dear C,
my gossip to save the post.
les respects du cœur," as
signs,
Yours ever,

66

I must conclude Adieu, donc, avec Alexandre Dumas

P*.

AN AMERICAN ACTRESS.

Many of our readers may probably recollect Mrs. Mowatt, the charming American authoress and actress, who some two or three years ago delighted a London audience; and subsequently performed in our chief provincial towns-starring it there, as the histrionic term is. Personal beauty, natural grace, and a versatility which included genuine pathos and arch humour, combined to render this gifted lady an ornament to the stage; and those who may recollect her sparkling Beatrice, or her impassioned Pauline, may be interested in the following details of her private life, which we extract from a Boston paper :

66

that his good angel stepped forward to rescue him
from despair. His wife, who had from childhood
seemed to be a favourite of genius, in spite of all the
diffidence that naturally rose up in her sensitive
breast, resolved by a public exhibition of those rare
qualities which Heaven has granted her, to resusci
Mrs. Mowatt's professional career.
tate his fallen fortunes. This is the story of
triumphant in the extreme, and her professional
Her debut was
efforts from the first have been one succession of
brilliant engagements, both in Europe and America.
During Mrs. Mowatt's engagement in this city,
her audiences have been of the most select and
discriminating character; and yet the Howard has
been nightly thronged to its utmost capacity. Never
has she performed with more spirit or success, and
never has she appeared to more advantage since the
commencement of her professional career. There
are some accessory circumstances to which this is
perhaps in some degree traceable: here in Boston,
Mrs. Mowatt is among friends and relatives, near
and dear to her; sisters and brothers, with whom
and for whom, she has ever cherished the kindliest
sentiments. With these about her, cheering her
arduous efforts by their smiles and kind affections,
with their fostering care at those moments when the
actress is merged into the sister and the woman, no
wonder that Mrs. Mowatt has felt at home in
Boston, and has done herself, if possible, more than
usual justice as it regards her personation of her
role of characters."

"At the age of fifteen, Mrs. Mowatt became the wife of Mr. James Mowatt, a barrister of New York. The home of the happy couple was at a beautiful villa on Long Island, and it at once became the resort of the literati of New York. As carly as the first year of her marriage, Mrs. Mowatt published two volumes of original poems. About the year 1841, on account of declining health, she visited Europe in company with her husband, passing nearly two years in France and Germany, much improving her health, and finding time to write one or two dramatic works for private circulation. In the meantime, Mr. Mowatt, by some constitutional weakness, nearly lost the use of his eyes; and on their return to America was obliged to give up his profession entirely, and embarked his fortune in business. But few men who have lived professional lives and who have pursued that course of life in early years which is designed to fit them for such a career, have sufficient tact to adapt themselves to mercantile occupation and business pursuits. The consequence of Mr. Mowatt's commercial speculations was, that he lost all and failed. It was then sorrow.

Mr. Mowatt died in London, last winter, after a lingering illness, and the friends and admirers of his wife will read with satisfaction that among dear friends and near kindred, she is devoting herself to her art-for occupation is surely one of the best resources against domestic care and