Fessel, having returned to his carriage, soon came in again with two large packages, which he delivered to the lovers. Faith hastened to her mother with hers, that they might examine and comment upon its contents together.,

Meanwhile, Oswald opened his package and found therein a splendid Danish officer's uniform with all its usual appendages. "The time for these gilded ornaments has long since passed with me," he observed with a feeling of dissatisfaction; "and I do not deem it proper to wear the costume of a station which I intend never again to occupy."

"He anticipated the objection," said Fessel; "and requests me to beg of you to wear it only this day, for his sake, notwithstanding your own disinclination."

"Ah, Oswald, look!" exclaimed the happy Faith, holding out her present for his examination. "See this beautiful white silken dress and this splendid diamond ornament!"

"It is very beautiful," said Oswald, giving it a careless glance; "but is there no myrtle-wreath with the dress?"

"I have already sought it in vain," answered Faith with a slight blush.

"Alas!" sighed Oswald, then the most acceptable present is wanting. My dearest hope for to-day is at once annihilated."

"Murmur not against your father, my dear brother-inlaw," begged Fessel. "I will be answerable that he means well with you and our little Faith."

"It is well!" said Oswald, taking his package under his arm and retiring to dress; but he ought not to have forgotten the myrtle-wreath!"

Panting and foaming, the four black steeds drew up before the little inn at Aldersbach, which was now gaily decorated with evergreens. The happy old colonel stood in the door, ready to receive them. Oswald assisted Faith, and Fessel his mother-in-law, to alight. Goes advanced to the latter and clasped her hand. You have lost much through us," he sorrowfully said, "can you forgive ?"

"Should I else deserve to be called a christian?" answered the matron.

"May God reward your kindness!" said the colonel, leading her into the house, in the largest room of which several protestant officers of the imperial army were assembled. Oswald then entered with Faith, in all her youthful beauty, which was much heightened by her rich dress.

"Ha, what a charming maiden!" exclaimed Goes. "Yes

my son, her appearance would excuse thy choice, if indeed it needed an excuse.'

"I cannot share any part of the satisfaction which seems to be so general," said Oswald with forced gaiety, "as it is impossible for me to feel comfortable in a dress which is unsuited to my station and calling."

"It is exactly suited to your station," said the colonel with solemnity, handing a folded paper to him. It was a major's commission in the Danish service.

"This is wholly contrary to my wish," exclaimed Oswald with surprise, as he perceived the nature of the document. “I have laid down the sword for ever!"

"That cannot be done with safety at present in any part of Europe, my dear Oswald," said Goes. "In these rough times a man must bear the sword, if he would not be compelled to bow his neck under it; nor is there any prospect that it will soon be otherwise. You have repeatedly shown, that you will never be able to reconcile yourself to the humble and submissive condition of a burgher. Whenever occasion has offered, you have unhesitatingly drawn that sword with which you have professedly wished to have nothing more to do. I most heartily rejoice at it, because of the evidence it affords that my blood flows in your veins; but at the same time it proves your unfitness for the counter and yard-stick. You must again serve,it is required both for your honour and mine. To serve the emperor would be against your conscience. I have therefore sought out a service which, as matters now stand, cannot be objectionable to either of us. A permanent peace has been concluded between the emperor and the king of Denmark. All these considerations were well weighed by me before I applied in your name for the honourable appointment which you surely will not now reject."

"You are right," cried Oswald. "You see farther than I do, and I gratefully receive the commission from your paternal hands."

66

"My application alone would not have met with such ready success, continued Goes. "For that, you have to thank one whose friendship and patronage you literally conquered at Dessau, the duke of Friedland. He wrote himself to Copenhagen in your behalf; and the mediator who brought about the treaty of Lubeck could hardly be refused so small a request by the king of Denmark."

"Honour to the lion!" jocosely exclaimed Frau Rosen.

"Those large wild beasts generally have some generosity about them."

All is in readiness!" said the host, entering the room and throwing open the doors.

"Give your arm to Faith, my son, and follow this man,' said Goes. The lovers looked at each other with some surprise, and obeyed the command. After them came the matron, supported by Goes and Fessel. The officers followed.

The procession entered directly among the rocks, and at length, magnificently gilded by the evening sun, the eventful mass of stone which had been detached and overthrown by the lightning, shone upon them with a far different and more friendly aspect than when it had last met their view. It was hung around with evergreens and adorned with flowery garlands; and upon the most conspicuous part of it a medallion had been cut out, with these words engraved upon it: "The lightning of heaven here punished and warned." Underneath was cut out the day of the month and the year. In front of the huge mass stood an altar, built of the fragments which were shivered from it when it fell. An old pastor waited at the altar, in his clerical robes and with opened book. On each side of him stood Fessel's children, holding wreaths of flowers.

"What can all this mean?" whispered Faith to Oswald, in sweet confusion, while the colonel placed the missing myrtle wreath upon her blond locks.

"Unite this pair in marriage, reverend father," cried the colonel, with gushing tears, leading the lovers to the altar.

*

*

Mild toleration has spread its dove-like wings over the states of Austria for many long years since the period above referred to,-the colony alluded to is no longer to be found among the rocks of Aldersbach,-and the silver rivulet again meanders in silent solitude through the concealed valley. The huge rock hurled down by the lightning's stroke yet lies, a lasting monument, in the middle of the road, and the medallion may yet be recognised. Time has effaced the inscription, and the guide who now conducts the curious visitor knows only a legend of an English gentleman, who atoned for his desire to view a thunder-storm among the rocks by being very nearly crushed by the fall of this rifted fragment. In memory of his imminent danger, and in gratitude for his almost miraculous preservation, he is said to have caused the medallion to be carved in the

rock. Of the punishment of the reprobate captain and the deep repentance of the colonel of the converters, they have long since forgotten the tradition; and FANCY may therefore be allowed to erect her light and airy castle upon the granite foundation of history; to picture forth to those now living the savage contests for opinion, of former times,-and to warn them against the evils of an exclusive and intolerant spirit, into which we are in constant danger of relapsing.

RETROSPECTION.

Oft Memory turns to vanished days,
Despite of present pain,

And in their 'sunshine fancy plays
Till they seem ours again;

With all their unalloyed content,
With friends sincerely prized.

With joyous heart and innocent,
And hopes unrealized.

Before we jostled with the crowd
That ne'er for others feel,

When every thought we spoke aloud,
Uncareful to conceal,

For then, unlearned in worldly art,
Too credulous, we deemed

That every one was in the heart

As honest as he seemed,

But Time hath in his ceaseless tread

Unhappy changes wrought,

And we have lived to doubt and dread,
By disappointinents taught.

We once had friends, but now must weep
They are no longer ours;

They sleep were we at last shall sleep,
Among the perished flowers.

The gentle and the beautiful,

The manly and the brave,

Are mouldering now within the dull,
Inexorable grave!

A chill hath o'er our feelings come,
And o'er our hearts a blight;

Unblessed and cheerless is the home
That once was our delight:

For they are gone, the cherished pride
And pleasure of our days;

How happy were we by their side,
To listen and to praise !

And sorrow oft, with poignant sting,
A tribute tear will claim,

As we behold each treasured thing
Familiar with their name.

When twilight, herald of repose,
Attends the sun to rest,
A sable robe she gently throws
O'er the empurpled west.

We dedicate that solemn hour

To those love could not save,

And yeilding to affliction's power,
We visit oft their grave.

The sod hath felt our deep distress,
The zephyr borne our sigh,

That all their worth and loveliness
Is but a memory!

THE BEGGAR OF PARIS.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.

Nor long since, an old beggar, named James, was in the daily habit of placing himself at the principal gate of a church in Paris. His manners, tone and language, showed that he had received an education far superior to that which is the ordinary lot of poverty. Under his rags, which were worn with a certain dignity, shone a still living recollection of a more elevated condition. This beggar also enjoyed great authority among the paupers belonging to the parish. His kindness, his impartiality in distributing alms among his fellow-paupers, his zeal in appeasing their quarrels, had earned for him wellmerited respect. Yet his life and misfortunes were a complete mystery to his most intimate comrades, as well as to the persons attacked to the parish. Every morning, for twenty-five years, he regularly came and sat down at the same place. People were so accustomed to see him there, that he made, as it were, part of the furniture of the porch; yet, none of his fellowbeggars could relate the least particular of his life. Only one thing was known: James never set his foot in the church, and yet he was a catholic. At the time of the religious services, when the sacred dome resounded with hymns of devotion, when the incense, ascending above the altar, rose with the vows of the faithful towards heaven, when the grave and melodious sound of the organ swelled the solemn chorus of the assembled christians, the beggar felt himself compelled to mingle his prayers with those of the church: with no eager and contented eye, he contemplated from without the solemnity which the house of God presented. The sparkling reflection of the light through the gothic windows, the shade of the pillars, which had stood there for ages, like a symbol of the eternity of religion, the profound charm attached to the gloomy aspect of the church: everything inspired the beggar with involuntary admiration. Tears were sometimes perceived to trickle down his wrinkled face; some great misfortune, or some profound remorse seemed to agitate his soul. In the primitive times of the church, he might have been taken for a great criminal, condemned to banish himself from the assembly of the faithful, and to pass, like a silent shade, through the midst of the living.

A clergyman repaired every day to that church to celebrate Descended from one of the most ancient families in

mass.