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Alberigi. They laughed when they heard this, and asked her how she could think of a man who had nothing; but she answered, that she would rather have a man without money, than money without a man. When her brothers, who had long known Federigo, saw therefore how her wishes pointed, they consented to bestow her upon him with all her wealth; and Federigo, with a wife so excellent and so long beloved, and riches equal to his desires, showed that he had learned to be a better steward, and long enjoyed true happiness.

THE KING OF THULE.1

There was a king in Thule Was faithful till the grave, To whom his mistress, dying, A golden goblet gave.

Naught was to him more precious;
He drained it at every bout:
His eyes with tears ran over,
As oft as he drank thereout.

When came his time of dying,

The towns in his land he told, Naught else to his heir denying Except the goblet of gold.

He sat at the royal banquet

With his knights of high degree, In the lofty hall of his fathers, In the castle by the sea.

There stood the old carouser,

And drank the last life-glow; And hurled the hallowed goblet Into the tide below.

He saw it plunging and filling, And sinking deep in the sea; Then fell his eyelids for ever,

And never more drank he!

From the new translation of Goethe's Faust, by Bayard Taylor, published in Boston and London, 1871. Mr. Taylor, born in Chester county, Pennsylvania, 11th January, 1825, has earned renown as poet, traveller, novelist, and now as one of the ablest translators of Goethe. His aim was to reproduce in English the metrical peculiarities of the original German, whilst keeping faithful to the text; and the general verdict is that the attempt has been in every respect successful.

THREE SONNETS.

[William Drummond, of Hawthornden, born 13th December, 1585; died 4th December, 1649. He was educated in Edinburgh and studied civil law in France. On the death of his father, 1610, he retired to Hawthornden, and devoted himself to literary pursuits The lady he loved died on the eve of the day appointed for their marriage, and to that circumstance is attributed the melancholy strain of his sonnets, three of which we give here. Philips, the nephew of Milton, edited Drummond's works, and pronounced him equal to Tasso.]

I.

That learned Grecian, who did so excel

In knowledge passing sense, that he is named

Of all the after-worlds Divine, doth tell,
That all the time when first our souls are framed,
Ere in these mansions blind they come to dwell,
They live bright rays of that eternal light,

And others see, know, love, in heaven's great height;
Not toil'd with ought to Reason doth rebel.
It is most true! for straight at the first sight
My mind me told, that, in some other place,
It elsewhere saw the idea of that face,
And loved a love of heavenly pure delight.
What wonder now I feel so fair a flame,
Since I her loved ere on this earth she came?

II.

My lute! be as thou wert when thou did'st grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.

Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,

Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,

What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,

But orphan's wailings to their fainting ear,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear,
For which be silent as in woods before;

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

III.

What doth it serve to see the sun's bright face,
And skies enamell'd with the Indian gold?
Or jetty moon at night in chariot roll'd,
And all the glory of that starry place?
What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold?
The mountain's pride-the meadow's flowery grace-
The stately comeliness of forests old-

The sport of floods, which would themselves embrace?
What doth it serve to hear the sylvan's songs-
The cheerful thrush-the nightingale's sad strains,
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?
For what doth serve all that this world contains,
Since she, for whom those once to me were dear,
Can have no part of them now with me here?

THE STORY OF CRAZY MARTHA.

FROM THE PROVENÇAL OF JACQUES JASMIN.

[Jacques Jasmin, born at Agen, department of Lotet-Garonne, died there 6th October, 1864. As the "last of the troubadours" he has won for himself a permanent place in literature. He was the son of a poor tailor. and was himself a barber, like Allan Ramsay. He continued to work at his trade to the end, despite many inducements to abandon it and to quit his rural home for the city. His answer to all who wished him to change his mode of life, was:-"I shave for a living and I sing for pleasure." His poems became popular in spite of the fact that they were written in a language which has been long disused except by the peasantry of the south of France. The Provençal was the language of the troubadours, and its popularity was revived for a brief space by Jasmin in his songs of the pastoral delights and traditions of his compatriots. The following is an admirable translation of one of his most pathetic stories (Maitro L'Inoucento) by Professor Henry Coppee, of the Pennsylvania University. The incidents in this little drama commenced in 1798, at Lafitte, a pretty hamlet situated on the banks of the Lot, near Clairac, and ter

minated in 1802. At this last period, Martha, bereft of her reason, escaped from the village, and was often after

wards seen in the streets of Agen, an object of public

pity, begging her bread, and flying in terror from the children, who cried out after her:-"Maltro, un souldat?" (Martha, a soldier!) The author confesses that more than all others, in his childhood he pursued poor Martha with his sarcasms: he little dreamed that one day his muse, inspired by the wretched lot of the poor idiot, would owe to her one of his most exquisite creations. Martha died in 1834.]

I.

the sky itself. Her whole appearance was so refined that, on the plains, peasant as she was, she was regarded as a born lady by her peasant companions. And well did she know all this, for beside her little bed there hung a bright little mirror. But to-day she has not once looked into it. Most serious matters absorb her thoughts; her soul is strangely stirred; at the slightest sound she changes suddenly from marble hue to violet.

Some one enters; she looks up; it is her friend and neighbour, Annette. At the first glance you could not fail to see that she too was in trouble, but at a second you would say

"It is very manifest that the evil, whatever it is, only circles around her heart, and does not take root there."

"You are happy, Annette," said Martha: escaped? is he free?" "speak; have the lots been drawn? have they

"I know nothing yet," replied Annette: "but take courage, my dear; it is already like a jonquil, your face frightens me. noon; we shall very soon know. You tremble Suppose the lot should fall upon Jacques, and he should be obliged to go away; you would die, perhaps?"

"Ah! I cannot tell."

"You are wrong, my friend. Die! What a baby you are. I love Joseph. If he has to go, I should be sorry; I should shed a few tears; I would wait for his return, without dying. No young man ever dies for a girl; not a bit of it; and they are right. There is truth in

Drawing the lot.-Two different hearts.-The cards the coupletnever lie.-The conscript.-The oath.

waited too.

Not far from the banks which the pretty little river Lot bathes with the cool kisses of its transparent waters, there lies, half-concealed by the feathering elms, a small cabin. There, on a beautiful morning in April, sat a young girl in deep thought; it was the hour when in the neighbouring town of Touneins a band of robust young men were awaiting in suspense the result of the army draft which was to decree their fate. For this the young girl With uplifted eyes, she breathed a prayer to the good God; then, not knowing what to do with herself, how to contain her impatience, she sat down; she got up, only to sit down again. One might see that she was in an agony of suspense; the ground seemed to burn the soles of her feet. What did it all mean? She was beautiful; she had everything that heart could wish; she possessed a combination of charms not often seen in this lower world-delicate erect figure, very white skin,

hair, and, with these, an eye as blue as

"My lover, when he goes away,

Loses far more than I who stay.'

A truce to your grief, then. Come, if you feel equal to it, let us try our luck by the cards. I did this morning, and it all came out right for me; so it will for you. See how calm I am; come, to console you, let us see what the lucky cards will say.'

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So the buoyant young girl makes her friend sit down, checks for a moment her own wild spirits, gracefully spreads a small piece of shining taffeta, and takes the cards in her hands. The suffering heart of Martha stops for a season its fierce throbs. She gazes with eager eyes; she ceases to tremble; she is inspired with hope. Then, both girls-the lighthearted Annette and the loving Martha-repeat together the well-known refrain

"Cards so beautiful and fair,
Lighten now a maiden's care;
Knave of Clubs and Queen of Love,
To our cause propitious prove."

One after another the cards are turned up, placed in piles, then put together and shuffled. Cut them three times; it is done. Ah! a good sign, first comes a king. The girls are a perfect picture two mouths breathless and speechless, four eyes, smiling and yet awe-struck, follow closely the motion of the fingers. Upon the lips of Martha a sweet smile slowly rests, like a fairy flower. The queen of hearts is turned up; then the knave of clubs. If now no black malignant spade appears, Jacques will be saved. Seven spades are already out; only one remains in the pack; there is nothing to fear. The beautiful dealer is smiling, is joking-stop! like a grinning skull cast into the midst of a festive crowd, the queen of spades comes up to announce some dire misfor

tune!

Hark on the highway the noisy drum strikes in like a mocking laugh, mingled with the strains of the shrill fife and wild bursts of song. It is easy to guess that these are the happy fellows who have escaped the draft, whom the great Moloch of war, with a lingering touch of pity, is going to leave to the country. Here they come in two long lines, dancing, leaping, each one wearing in his hat his lucky number. Soon a crowd of mothers gathers around them, many weeping for joy, and some for grief.

What a moment for the two young girls whom the cards have just smitten with sorrow! The noisy group comes nearer still. Martha, wishing to put an end to the torturing suspense, flies to the little window, but immediately recoils, utters a faint cry, and falls cold and fainting beside Annette, who is herself shivering with fear. The cards had not deceived them. In the midst of the lucky crowd whose lives are saved to their country stands Joseph. Jacques was not there; he had drawn "number 3."

Two weeks pass, and the light-hearted Annette steps out at the threshold of the flowerbedecked church, fast married to Joseph; while in the house of mourning, Jacques, the unhappy conscript, with tears in his eyes, and a knapsack on his shoulders, bids farewell to his betrothed in touching words as she stands overwhelmed with grief. "Martha," he says, "they compel me to depart; happiness deserts us, but take courage; men come back from the You know I have nothing, no father, no mother; I have only you to love. If death spares my life, it belongs to you. Let us hope, still hope for the happy day when I shall lead you to the marriage altar like a gift of loveflowers."

wars.

II.

A great sorrow.—Martha snatched from the tomb. — The handsome girl-merchant.-Jacques will find a rival.

The beautiful month of May, whose new birth brings universal pleasure, king of all the months, let it wear the crown, and surround itself with joys!-The month of May has come again. Upon the hill-side and in the valleys happy hearts unite to chant its praises; it comes softly and sweetly, and like lightning it is gone. But, while it lasts, everywhere is heard the sound of melodious song; everywhere you behold happy festive groups entwining in the joyous dance.

At length the spring is past, and while its pleasures still linger in the groves and fields, in yonder little cabin, one sweet and lonely voice thus moans in a song of sorrow: "The swallows have come back; up there are my two in their nest; they have not been parted as we have. Now they fly down; see, I can put my hand upon them. How sleek and pretty they are; they still have upon their necks the ribbons which Jacques tied there on my last birthday, when they came to peck from our united hands the little golden flies we had caught for them. They loved Jacques. Their little eyes are looking for him just where I am sitting. Ah! you may circle round my chair, poor birds, but Jacques is no longer here. I am alone, without a friend, weeping for him, weary too, for the friendship of tears fatigues itself. But stay with me; I will do everything to make you love me. Stay, dear birds that Jacques loved; I want to talk to you of him. They seem to know how their presence consoles me. They kiss each other, happy little things. Kiss, a long kiss; your joy is balm to my heart. I love them, for they are faithful to me, as Jacques also is. But no one kills swallows; men only kill each other. Why does he write no more? Mon Dieu! who knows where he is; I always feel as if some one is going to tell me that he is dead. I shudder; that terrible fear chokes my heart. Holy Virgin, take it away; the fever of the grave is burning me up; and oh! good Mother of God, I want to live if Jacques still lives! Where are you, beautiful swallows? Ah! my grief has been too noisy; I have frightened you away. Come back, and bring me happiness; I will mourn more softly. Stay with me, birds whom Jacques loved, for I must talk to you of him."

Thus, day after day, mourned the orphan girl her lover's absence. Her old uncle, her

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THE STORY OF CRAZY MARTHA.

sw, and was ng, and dissembled his tears. She the world, that which is ready to ick laughed at her pay with them. At Tay came round, they ing for the dying, when the priest said: couch of a young souls, pray for poor, at his head in shame, came the Paters bathed

diss it was the dark hour Gran Death may fill up his Her uncle, at her bedside, it sinks into her heart. brought her back to life; ire comes back to her eye, course again under her returns in great tidal waves hing is ready, my child," uncle, and her answer is: Cuck let us work." Then, to of every one, Martha refor another love, the love of Caves money, she is a miser, only concern. She would coin blood. Well, hard work will every brave hand, and Martha's han brave.

rustic archway, who is that girlsing the hamlet with her chatter who is buying and selling incesThat is Martha; how every one praises so complaisant, so charming. increase in numbers like a rolling

Yesterday she had twenty, toGold pours down upon her little Thus a year passes. Martha is happy eworks, for Jacques is not dead. No, en seen more than once in the army.

when the report of a battle arrives, drops, and her eye loses its light; but arage soon returns if rumour makes no of a regiment which is always in her

day her uncle says to her: "In order to your long-desired happiness, you need and pistoles, and you will soon have A little pile soon becomes large. We o sell the cottage. Look at your moneyWith the proceeds of my vineyard, and "e already earned, you have already the sum. Have patience for Why! my child, happiness

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costs time and labour and money. You have nearly three-quarters. Finish the good work yourself. I am content; before I die I hope to see you perfectly happy.

Alas! the poor old man was mistaken. Two weeks later, death closed his eyes, and Martha sat in the churchyard, weeping upon his grave. There, one evening, she was heard to murmur: "My strength is exhausted; sainted spirit of my loving uncle, I can wait no longer; forgive me; the good priest sanctions the act;" and, without delay, to the astonishment of the villagers, furniture, shop, house, all that she possesses, change hands. She sells everything, except a gilded cross, and the rose-coloured dress with little blue flowers in which Jacques loved to see her. She had wanted silver, she was now laden with gold; her thousand pistoles are in her hands; but so young and inexperi enced as she is, what is she going to do with them? "What is the poor child going to do with them?" do you ask? The very thought lacerates my heart. She goes out; she seems, as she leaves her little home, an impersonation of the angel of sorrow slowly rising towards happiness, which is beginning to smile upon her flight. That is not a flash of lightning: it is her little foot which with lightning speed spurns the path. She enters the quiet little house, where sits a man with hair as white as snow; it is the priest, who welcomes her with an affectionate air. "Good father," she cries, falling on her knees, "I bring you my all. Now you can write and purchase his freedom. Don't tell him who it is that buys his ransom; he will guess soon enough. Don't even mention my name, and don't tremble for me. I have strength in my arm. I can work for a living. Good father, have pity; bring him back to me!"

III.

The country priest.-The young girl's happiness. — Jacques is free.-Return of Jacques.-Who would have thought it?

I love the country priest. He does not need, like the city pastor, in order to make men believe in the good God, or the wicked devil, to exhaust his strength in proving, with the book open before him, that there is a paradise as well as a hell. Around him all men believe, every one prays. In spite of this they sin, as we all do everywhere. Let him however but elevate his cross, and evil bows before him; the new-born sin is nipped in the bud. From his every-day seat, the wooden bench, nothing escapes his sight. His bell drives far off the

hail and the thunder.

His eyes are always open upon his flock. The sinner evades him: he knows it, and he goes in search of the sinner. For offences he has pardon, for griefs a soothing balm. His name is on every lip, a blessed name; the valleys resound with it. He is called, in each heart, the great physician for trouble. And this is the reason that Martha went to him with hers, and found a balm. But from the obscure centre of his little parish, the man of God was far better able to detect sin and drive away malignant thoughts, than to find the nameless soldier, in the heart of an army, who had not written a word of inquiry or information for three years, especially when, to the sound of cymbal, trumpets, and cannon, six hundred thousand excited Frenchmen were proudly marching to conquer all the capitals of Europe. They shattered all obstructions, they put to flight all who stood against them, and only stopped to take breath upon the foreign soil, that they might go on to further and greater conquests.

It is true that during the past spring Martha's uncle had written often, but the army had just then made a triple campaign; Jacques, they learned, had been transferred to another regiment. Some one had seen him in Prussia; another, elsewhere in Germany. Nothing definite was known about him. He had no relatives, for, let the truth be told, the fine fellow had no parents. He had come out of that asylum where a throng of infants live upon the public pity, which takes the place of a mother. As a boy he had been long searching for his mother, but never could find her. He had an ardent desire to be loved, and as he knew he was loved at Lafitte, had it not been for the war, he would have lived and died there. And now, leaving the good priest to his benevolent task, let us turn aside into a very humble cottage, where poor Martha is hard at work. What a change! Yesterday she had her trousseau; there was gold in her wardrobe. To-day she has nothing but her stool, a thimble, a needle-case, and a spinning-wheel. She spins and sews incessantly. We need not lament that she is tiring her fingers; when she was rich, she wept; now that she is poor, she smiles constantly. Jacques will be saved for a long and happy life; and life, liberty, everything he will owe to her, and her alone. How he will love her! and where one loves and is loved, poverty is powerless. How happy she is; the cup of her future is crowned with honey; already has her heart tasted its first, rich, overflowing drop. Everything is flowering around her. Thus she works on from week to week, sipping

VOL. I.

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drops of honey amid waves of perfume. Her wheel whirls without ceasing, and hope is entwining as many cloudless days in the future, as her bobbin spins out armfuls of wool, and her needle makes points in the cloth.

You may be sure that all this is well known in the meadow-lands. All the people are now enlisted in her cause. In the clear nights she has serenades, and garlands of flowers are hung upon her door. In the morning the girls come with loving eyes to give her little presents of sympathy and esteem.

One Sunday morning, the dear old priest comes to her after mass, his face beaming with joy, and in his right hand an open letter. He is trembling, but more with joy than with age.

"My daughter," he cries, "Heaven has blessed thee and answered my prayers; I have found him; he was in Paris. It is accomplished; Jacques is free. He will be here next Sunday, and he has not a suspicion of your part in this matter. He thinks that his mother has at last come to light; that she is rich, and has purchased his freedom. Let him come, and when he knows that he owes everything to you, how much you have done for him, he will love you more than ever, more than any one except God. My dear daughter, the day of your reward is about to dawn; prepare your heart for it. Jacques will surely come, and when that happy hour arrives, I want to be near you. I want to make him understand, in the presence of all the people, how happy he ought to be in being loved by such an angel as you."

We are told that blessed spirits in paradise are bathed in bliss when they hear the harmonies of heaven. Such is the joy of Martha as these words sink into her heart.

But the Sunday has arrived. All nature shines in green and gold under the beautiful sun of June. Crowds are singing everywhere. It is a double festival for all. The clock strikes noon; leaving the holy altar, the good old priest advances with the loving, pure-faced girl. Her eyelids drop over her azure eyes, she is timid and speechless; but an inner voice cries "happiness." The crowd gathers around her. All is grand; you would say that the whole countryside is awaiting the arrival of a great lord. Thus marshalled, they go forth from the village, and with laughing joy take their post at the entrance of the highway.

There is nothing to be seen in it; nothing at the far end of that road-furrow; nothing but the shadows checkered by the sunlight. Suddenly a small black point appears; it increases in size, it moves, it is a man; two men, two soldiers; the latter, it is he! How well he looks;

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