for the Ronan Emperors, not a farthing less! no, s'help

me!"

"No, Isaacs; it is quite out of the question. We shall not do business to-day, I see. There is nothing else here that I care about, so I shall wish you a good morning."

The gentleman left the shop; but he had scarcely reached the next turning, when Isaacs overtook him, and laying his thin, wiry hand on his arm, said: “There, you may have it for tifty pounds." "Ridiculous, Mr. Isaacs," said the stranger. "Quite out of the question. I shan't give fifty pounds for the rubbish. Fifty pounds, pooh, nonsense!"

"Ah, well," exclaimed the Jew with a sigh, "I can't take less than fifty; no, s'help me;" and he returned to his shop, while the gentleman proceeded on his way.

The gentleman said good morning, and left; but Isaacs was too indignant to take any notice of his valedictions.

Time passed, and Isaacs' stock had undergone several changes, the "Roman Emperors," however, still continuing to occupy its old place; when one day a wellknown customer entered the shop, and informed the dealer that he was in want of a large picture; any rubbish would do, so as it was cheap, to cover a space on his dining-room wall, where the paper had been damaged by the damp.

"You see, Isaacs," he said, "I don't want to go to the expense of papering my dining-room just now, and I want something large and cheap to hide an ugly mark on the wall.”

"I can suit you to a hair's breath, I warrant," said Isaacs. "You may have the Roman Emperors, there,

About a week after, another gentleman presented for five pounds. The frame is worth all the money.” himself at Isaac's shop.

"Five pounds!" said the visitor; "Oh, dear, no Mr.

"Good morning, Mr. Isaacs. I see you have the Isaacs, I could paper my room for that. The picture is usual collection of rubbish-ha! ha!"

It sometimes suited Mr. Isaacs to humor his customers, so he echoed the stranger's "ha! ha!" and said, 66 very good, very good!"

After looking round the shop for some time, the visitor at last turned his gaze upon the huge picture, which covered half the wall.

"What's this you have here, Mr. Isaacs ?" he inquired, in a careless tone. "There's quantity, at any rate, if there is not much quality about it."

"Ha! ha! very good," said Isaacs, chuckling; "there is quantity there, if you like. But, would you believe me? a gentleman offered me fifty pounds the other day for that picture. Fifty pounds he offered me, and counted out the money. But, no; I had not the conscience to take it. No, s'help me."

"Ah, you are an honest man, Mr. Isaacs. I esteem you for that. Fifty pounds! Why the picture is not worth half that." “Ah, yes, it is," said Isaacs, "quite worth the half of that. Oh, yes, s'help me."

66

Oh, no, Isaacs, nothing of the kind. I wouldn't give more than ten pounds for it. It is only fit to bang up in the hall."

"Eh, what?" said the Jew. give? Say fifteen pounds." "No; decidedly not."

Well, say ten; you shall have it for ten pounds. I should like you to have that picture-it's a fine picture, mind; and worth double the money-double the money."

large enough, in fact, just the size; but I want something cheap; something cheap, Mr. Isaacs."

"Father Abraham !" exclaimed the Jew; "what would the man have? I've been offered fifty pounds for that picture, and now I will take five."

"Well, I can't help that, Mr. Isaacs; you know what I want, and if you've got anything about three pounds ten that's large enough, I shall be glad. But I want it at once."

"That's the only picture I have that will suit you," said the Jew; "but I can't take less than five pounds, no, s'help me; not a farthing."

"Four pounds? well, I will not be hard with you, Isaacs; I'll give four pounds." The bargain was con"How much will you cluded there and then, and the money paid. In an hour after a van arrived at the door, and the Roman Emperors was transferred to new quarters; namely, to the house of the wily connoisseur, to whom Isaacs at first offered the picture for seven hundred pounds. The "Roman Emperors may now be seen in the Jesuits' College at Stonyhurst. It is there known as Murillo's celebrated picture of the "Jesuit Fathers," and had the gentleman who originally discovered it in Isaacs' shop given the seven hundred pounds which the 66 Eh, what? Not have that picture at a gift. O Jew asked for it, he would have had it a decided barLord, hear him! s'help me."

"Fine picture, nonsense! it's a great lumbering piece of rubbish. I tell you what, Mr. Isaacs, I wouldn't have it at a gift."

gain!

SELF-REVERENCE, self-knowledge, self-control;—
These three alone lead man to sovereign power:
Yet not to power alone-power of itself,

Would come uncalled for-but to live by law;
And because right is right to follow right—
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.-TENNYSON.

point with pride to her who won him from his celibate, Frank Harper had. Nor marvel we that he is now a happier as well as prouder man than in those boisterous times, which latterly have merged in calmer, wiser days. Lizzy Field (we cannot for the life of us forget her maiden name), when first we knew her, was mistress of a village school-her cottage nestling within a little elbow of the valley-a leafy corner, a sort of lonely hollow in the world's huge hedge-row, just meet for such a violet to blossom in.

YES, there are the tower-like stacks of chimneys, and | Yet must we own, if ever bachelor had cause to there the little turret with its bell-less cupola, and there the uneven outline of the rugged roof, and there the jutting profile of a dormer-window, the circular and massive pigeon-house, the clustering stacks, the orchard trees, and every stable, barn, and shed, standing out in bold, black, clear relief against that glowing sunset sky, and forming in their combination as sweet a picture, reader, as you or we could wish to look upon. We have a hearty liking for this odd, old, rambling, overgrown farm-house-a partiality that has grown and thriven with our strengthening intimacy with its inmates. "Bachelors' Hall!" we used to call it. Marry, it must change its appellation now. To think that ever such a fine, frank, free-hearted bachelor, as this our ancient comrade was, should forsake his boon companions, renounce old habits, and become a married man. We scarcely can forgive so serious a secession from the little knot of which he was the head and front. He, too, that railed with such exceeding mirthfulness against "those tame, life-lacking animals, called husbands!" Well-a-day, ere long we shall mistrust the permanency and firmness of our own most settled prejudices and prepossessions.

An orphan, and a poor one-those with whom community of poverty had placed her on a level, pitied, while the wealthier of her neighbors befriended her. They raised a fund to educate the daughters of their needy tenants-and gave to Lizzy the control of these young sun-browned damsels.

And, by the way, it was amazing to observe how great an interest the brothers of the patronesses forthwith took in all that related to the management of this said school, how perseveringly they would persist in escorting their sisters to the cottage, and how repeatedly it happened that these fair relatives felt called upon to chide them for the earnestness with which, when

there, they bent their eyes upon its pretty mistress; so | fidence, the strong love, the unfaltering faith of woman, that color came and went, mantling and melting away had been so misplaced, and could meet with such return beneath her pure transparent skin, as rapidly as a-chilled, grieved, and, for a moment, terrified her. Far young bird's heart would beat beneath the boyish grasp worse was it with him. Before the majesty of injured of its delighted captor. Yet Lizzy never dreamt that innocence, Frank Harper stood rebuked, humbled, there was aught of such marked note and excellency in repulsed. He crossed the threshold of her cottage, those small features, that petite oval face, and those strode hastily towards home, and when he could collect soft hazel eyes, as made the village schoolmistress a his scattered thoughts, call into play the better feelings standing toast with many a farmer's son; nor nourished of his nature, and dispassionately exercise his sobered in her mind a solitary fancy that the most uncharitable senses, would fain have shut the occurrence out, as some could torture into an imputation of vanity. Uncon- unreal, distasteful dream, in which he had been playing sciously the pretty mistress of the Thundridge School a reluctant part. made woeful havoc with more hearts, and turned more And now we overleap an interval of months, each heads than we have patience to enumerate. Dazzled with its little item of events to swell the general sum. with a face which he had seen less frequently than Long, melancholy months-monotonous and wearisome heard of, our bachelor himself felt the icy envelope of were they to Lizzy Field. The bitter experience of so unconcern, wherewith his heart had previously been much perfidy and contemplated wrong saddened and crusted, melt gradually away beneath the sunshine depressed her. Duties became a matter of listless, which came beaming from the face of Lizzy Field. automaton performance; pleasures assumed the form of Then, too, his bachelor acquaintance, from time to irksome tasks, shunned eagerly, and participated in tine, were marrying around him. His bachelor parties with evident repugnance. were proportionably falling off. He saw likenesses in little of those whilom single gentlemen springing up to make their whilom solitary hearthstones glad. Moreover, winter was at hand. Its long evenings would be-it enlightened him. His notions of the female chasometimes lonely ones. His housekeeper was growing old and deaf, and inactive withal. The roomy house appeared 80 void, and even the snuggery which he had fitted up with such especial care and nicety might, nay, surely would, be far more lightsome, ay, and pleasanter withal, if a young and pretty mistress were received within its walls. Was Frank Harper in love with our rustic beauty? Undoubtedly; he was received, accepted, and by consent of village rumor, unanimously acknowledged to be the chosen suitor. Would the owner of broad acres confer his name upon the poor schoolmistress? This latter was a question rumor would not take upon itself to answer, but met it ever with a look of wondrous gravity, shrugging its shoulders with a solmn "hem!" as though it owned a secret which it did not care to publish. Whether this ambiguity was justifiable will presently be learnt.

One evening, flushed with wine, and fresh from the raillery of some who simply ridiculed, and some who really envied him, Frank paid a promised visit to the cottage, and--we marvel at him. It must have been the wine, and not the man that spake. We will not wrong him by the hint of a belief that sober manhood could have so forgotten itself. Had he not sisters? Were they not likewise orphans? Could hot and heady passion whelm totally in oblivion a brother's feelings? In charity we let his words pass by, and find no record. Suffice it, that the quick and apprehensive spirit of the woman caught at the hidden meaning which he lacked the daring, the effrontery explicitly to avow. Her eyes were lightning-her mind a crowd of startled and indignant feelings, finding imperfect vent in a torrent of impetuous reproach-her heart the hot arena of a fierce and bitter strife 'twixt love and hate, contempt and pity, sorrow and surprise. To find that such a leprous spot could taint his fair-seeming purpose-to learn that con

All intercourse between the cottage and the farm was, of course, peremptorily cut off. The retrospect to Frank was full of shame and unmitigated regret. It humbled

racter, sooth to say, had, up to that time, been strangely tinged with error. He had admired its polished surface, but never pierced its depths; jested upon its apparent weakness, but knew nothing of its actual strength; amused himself with its frivolity, but was ignorantprofoundly ignorant of the calm and settled seriousness of purpose, the self-sustained, intrepid resolution of which it could be capable, when exigence required. Homage, however, now supplanted admiration, passion succumbed to principle, and the acknowledgment of injury eventuated naturally in a desire for its atonement. To compass this (a delicate and difficult embassy to venture on), a skillful mediator-the penitent's pet sister-volunteered her services. And even then, with "all appliances and means to boot," we doubt if this apt mediator, urged though she was by affection for her brother and high esteem for Lizzy's worth, would have gained her point, had it not been for certain sentiments of pity which were beginning insensibly to mingle with the angry and contemptuous feelings that had at first possessed the latter's mind-certain faint hopes struggling against confirmed belief-charitable wishes that were disposed to catch at any extenuating plea; wine, delirious passion, ought to lessen the offence, and transform seeming forethought into unconsidered impulse. But whatsoever were the causes, the result was happy, the mediation eminently successful.

"His loving words her seem'd due recompence
Of all her passed paines: one loving houre
For many yeares of sorrow can dispence,
A dram of sweete is worth a pound of soure.
She has forgott how many a woeful stoure
For him she late endur'd: she speakes no more
Of past: true is, that true love hath no powre
To looken back: his eies be fixt before."

Joyously rung out the bells upon the sunny ninth

of May, the day of Lizzy's bridal, that ceremonial which was solemnly to seal the reconciliation between her lover and herself. The church-tower heaved and swayed as though it were instinct with life; yet with an even, steady pulsing, as a strong man's chest might heave at every respiration of his lusty lungs. The sound went floating up the valley far and wide; it wandered into hollow lanes, and found a separate echo from each surrounding eminence-it filled the air with blithe, exhilarating music, and made the very sunshine seem more glad, the overarching heavens more blue, the earth more green, and kindled in the eyes of all who thronged the porch, lined the church-yard path, and clustered round the gates, to greet the egress of the wealthy farmer and his pretty bride-a cheerful sparkle that said, as plainly and distinctly as a glistening eye could say, "God bless them both!"

Then we believe Frank Harper to have been, as at this moment we believe him still to be, as happy and as proud a husband as ever knelt beside a young and blushing bride, poor in the ordinary acceptation of the word, but rich in the wealth of an unsullied mind and virgin heart. The narrow education which outward circumstances had so materially restricted in early life, has been since repaired by the acquisition of accomplishments befitting the sphere in which her marriage has entitled her to move. But still the unassuming gentleness of manner-the innate nobleness-all that previously conferred upon her character its dignity, attractiveness and strength-remain the same, unchanged and undiminished. Indeed, no one who, since the wedding of its master, has shared the shelter of its roof, can regret that this old rambling pile has ceased to be "Bachelors' Hall."

A PLEASANT FRENCH

GENTLEMAN.

In the time of the First Empire, among the forçats, or | However, he could not quite subdue his ancient propenconvicts, of the Bagne at Rochefort. was one named sities; having entangled himself in a pecuniary misCognard; a man of remarkable courage and decided direction, he was arrested; but, twice he managed good breeding. One day Cognard was missing. He to escape. On the second occasion, he put himself had slipped his chains and flung away his bullet, and at the head of a brave band of French prisoners of the guns of Rochefort thundered after him in vain. war; seized a Spanish brig; passed into France; and, Cognard got safely away to Spain; and though the by virtue of his courage and his name, was made chefgardes chiourmes (the guards of the Bagne) twirled d'escadron, on the grand staff of the Duke de Dalmatia their moustaches and sacréd in right royal style, the forçat was beyond their reach.

Cognard, as a gentleman travelling for pleasure, became acquainted with the family of the Count Pontis de Sainte Hélène. The acquaintance ripened into intimacy, and the pleasant French gentleman who had so much to say on every subject, was soon rarely absent from the count's château. But, sorrow fell on the hospitable Spaniard. One by one, mysteriously and as if they were pursued by some relentless fate, every member of the Pontis family disappeared. Sudden deaths, and lingering deaths, nameless diseases, and horrible accidents, cut them off one by one; the pleasant French gentleman always at the side of the sufferers, soothing the dying with rare drugs; and generally at hand in time to see, but not to prevent, each catastrophe. Did any light break in upon the last Pontis, as he lay on his bed of death, slowly following the rest of his brave kindred, and the French gentleman mixed him draughts and prepared him potions, and learnt from him all the particulars necessary for conveyancing and managing his estate? Did one look of triumph from those cruel eyes ever reveal the fatal tragedy to the dying man? Cognard never confessed this; all he told was, that as soon as the Spaniard was dead, he possessed himself of the jewels, plate, and money left; of the title-deeds of the estate, and of the patent of nobility. And, with these, he entered the Spanish army as sub-lieutenant Count Pontis de Sainte Hélène.

the brave and virtuous Marshal Soult. Soon after, he was made chef-de-bataillon of the hundredth regiment of the line, and his fortune seemed to be secure. At Toulouse and at Waterloo he signalized himself greatly, received many wounds, and performed many acts of gallantry; for these he was rewarded with the cross of the legion of honor: no common reward in those days. In eighteen hundred and fifteen, the Duke de Berri made him successively Chevalier de Saint Louis, chef-de-bataillon, and lieutenant-colonel of the troops of the Seine. There was not a man in the army who did not envy and admire the gallant and successful Count Pontis de Sainte Hélène.

One day, the Count was in the Place Vendôme, assisting, at the head of his troops, in the painful ceremony of a military degradation. He was in full uniform, glistening with stars and crosses, and gay with many-colored orders; surrounded by the best and noblest of the land, and standing there as their equal. A voice at his elbow calls "Cognard!" The count turns. He sees a dirty, haggard, low-browed ruffian, whose features he only too well remembers; for, years ago, within the fatal walls of Rochefort, t at lowbrowed ruffian had been his chained companion, manacled to him limb to limb. To put a bold front on it was all that the count could do; to order the man to be thrust back; to affect indifference, ignorance, disdain-he saw no better way of escape. But, his chainmate, one of Cognard's inferiors, was not to be so easily In a short time he was raised to the rank of chef- put off. He denounced the lieutenant-colonel, in the d'escadron; and after having distinguished himself gal-hearing of them all, as an escaped convict, and gave his lantly at Monte Video, he was made lieutenant-colonel. real name and history. General Despinois ordered the