Louis had been from infancy a student. You might as well have sought grapes on the Schreckhorn, as looked for manual labour, or daring exploits from Louis Courtin. Books, books alone, were his delight; and, yielding to his son's bias with a pride common to the richer Swiss peasants, Maitre Jean allowed his son to study at Lausanne. He had passed honorably through the course required to qualify him for a pastoral charge in his native country; but even for this trifling benefice, mighty interest was requisite. Louis Courtin had none; and he could not remain longer an idle student, without being a burden to his father and brother; so he listened to the golden rumours of wealth to be acquired by tuition in the frozen North, and engaged himself as tutor to a family at St. Petersburgh.

Louis was as successful in communicating, as in acquiring knowledge-but the pride of his haughty employers crushed his mountain spirit, and the frosts of their ungenial climate nipped his tender frame. He fled hastily from the gold of St. Petersburgh, to seek equal wealth, and a milder winter, in England. Here Louis regained his usual slender stock of bodily health; here also his mind expanded beneath the influence of friendly and congenial treatment-but alas! there had only been too much kindness somewhere; and Louis lost his heart, where his hand could neither be tendered nor accepted. England became a wilderness to him, and the Mal du Pays, replaced the Mal de l'Ame. He struggled on, however, till

he had achieved the modest independence which he aimed at, and could meet the brother band with his hard earned pittance, to supersede the curacy if it never came, and to furnish the presbytère if it did!

Half of Louis's tale (and the half most to the purpose), was communicated to me in a whispered commentary by his youngest sister, whose superior expression and polished address, proved that she had in early life profited in no small degree by his instructions. She closed it with a sigh—but it was echoed by one far deeper, and more heartfelt, from behind us; I looked round, and saw a big drop on the soft cheek of just such a maiden as ought to be Louis Courtin's wife. I remarked it to my neighbours in a whisper.

Give him time," answered she softly, " and all will go just as it should do! Nanine, the schoolmaster's daughter, of our village, learned to read out of the same book as poor Louis, and learned to love him at the same time. He thought little about her then, and less since; but he loves her now, though he does not yet know it. He does not know either, that he is appointed pastor of Aubonne (thanks to the best of men, Monsieur R.), but we are going to tell him, and see if he does not look straight over at Nanine, the moment he hears the

news!"

"Bon!" cried old Maitre Jean (as his last son finished his simple and slightly-sketched tale)—“ Reste encore une santé à boire! Remplissez bien les verres-tout

le monde debout!" and in a moment, young, old and middle aged, scrambled on their feet, and brandished their glasses in the air. Here, said the old man (his hand shaking, and his lips quivering with strong emotion), here's to the health in this world, and that which is to come, of Louis Courtin, the new minister of Aubonne !"-

Louis's eye was first turned towards heaven-it then sought to meet that of the faithful Nanine-and I remember no more!

STONEHENGE.

MYSTERIOUS pile! what necromantic lore
Invoked thee into light? Moons wax and wane,
The Roman, and the Saxon, and the Dane,
Have wandered where the Druid long of yore
Purpled thy circles with unhallowed gore :
The castle sinks, the palace, and the fane,
While thou can'st hear in mockery and disdain
The storms of twice ten hundred winters roar.
Yet vaunt not, giant Wonder! Let the ground
Tremble, and thou art dust. The stars shall fall
From heaven: and heaven itself be as a dream,
That flies, and is forgotten. Angels all,

Eternal ages, regions without bound,

Proclaim ye one sole strength-the Ineffable Supreme !

H.

THE SLEEPING FIGURE OF MODENA.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

I.

UPON a couch of silk and gold
A pale inchanted lady lies,
And o'er her many a frowning fold
Of crimson shades her closed eyes;
And shadowy creatures round her rise;
And ghosts of women masqued in woe;
And many a phantom pleasure flies;
And lovers slain-ah, long ago!

II.

The lady, pale as now she sleeps,
An age upon that couch hath lain,
Yet in one spot a Spirit keeps
His mansion, like a red-rose stain;
And, when lovers' ghosts complain,
Blushes like a new-born flower,
Or as some bright dream of pain
Dawneth through the darkest hour.

III.

Once-but many a thought hath fled,

Since the time whereof I speak—
Once, the sleeping lady bred
Beauty in her burning cheek,
And the lovely morn did break
Through the azure of her eyes,
And her heart was warm and meek,

And her hope was in the skies.

IV.

But the lady loved at last,

And the passion pained her soul,
And her hope away was cast,
Far beyond her own controul;
And the clouded thoughts that roll
Through the midnight of the mind,
O'er her eyes of azure stole,
Till they grew deject and blind.

V.

He to whom her heart was given,
When May music was in tune,
Dared forsake that amorous Heaven,
Changed and careless soon!-
O, what is all beneath the moon

When his heart will answer not!

What are all the dreams of noon
With our love forgot!