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thousand francs, signed by him-money which the Marchioness pretended to have lent him, but which was not admitted by the tribunal. Meanwhile, the father and mother Schumacher and their son, enraged to see an heir to their daughter and sister's property, tried every way to annoy the Marchioness. The son, in particular, extorted money from her by constant menaces to go and expose her past life in the grand dwelling she inhabited; and not receiving an answer to his last application, he, armed with a revolver, succeeded in getting into her drawing-room, where, after giving vent to his rage, he fired on her twice. One bullet very nearly reached her. He has been condemned to twenty years' imprisonment for his pains. Her father and mother, seeing no other way to get money from her, had at the same time called on the court, trusting, no doubt, also to the investigations and publication such a step would cause for their pa ternal revenge; for the lady had offered to allow 1,000 francs a-year, which the court rather advised than condemned her to do, after long deliberations. The scandal, of course, has been great; but what has most raised our indignation is that the only innocent one in the affair is the most punished; for the Director of St. Barbe, against all justice, expelled the poor child from his establishment as soon as the history was known. He says that the mother had requested him to change the child's name again, and that was why he asked her to remove him. It may be so; but he ought to have picked another moment, as several of the young men in his institution have thought, and have protested against their director's proceedings by sending their opinions on the sub

the fallen Emperor, he rode through Paris with the ribbon and cross of the Legion d'Honneur tied to his horse's tail; and, being completely without fortune, he tried to repair the injustice of fate by robbing the Queen of Westphalia of her diamonds, when sent to protect her flight from Fontainebleau by the new Government, which, not being considered legal, called down on the head of the marquis a condemnation to imprisonment: his zeal for his legitimate Sovereign had led him too far. Monsieur Talleyrand-Périgord was minister at the time, and the Marquis, deeming him the cause of his condemnation, as soon as he was at liberty, went and gave Monsieur TalleyrandPérigord a slap of the face before the whole Court, to avenge his honour. This slap, they say, was received, if not with thanks, without discussion in the way the French generally discuss slaps. A wag of the time said, the next day, that in France, a chivalrous country, a slap called for blood. "Since yesterday Monsieur de Talleyrand-Périgord has had himself bled twice." It seems that since the revenge of his honour the Marquis had retired on his laurels, and he was reported dead. Now for the Marchioness's history, which is a worthy pendant for that of her husband. Mademoiselle Schumacher was, by her honourable parents, who now sue her for support, turned out of doors to seek her fortune at the age of fifteen. There she is to be pitied. Being pretty, she was not long before finding a position which her moral education had not taught her to shun. On the contrary, and after many ups and downs, she at length found herself installed in a splendid apartment, with horses and carriages at her command-which improvement in fortune her father and mother did not disdain to profit by;ject to all the newspapers, which, the newspapers her brother, indeed, was a constant petitioner for supplies, in spite of the shameful source of her prosperity. Here, whether she had married a Monsieur Labruyère or not, she appeared under that name, and at the age of thirty was in possession of a fortune estimated at a million and a-half francs, with no encumbrance, except a little boy placed at the well-known school of St. Barbe, under the name of Labruyère. The Marquis de Maubreuil, nearly eighty, and reduced to a small pension allowed him by Government (why, no one can tell), met with Madame Labruyère, and soon the world knew that he was still living by his marriage with this lady of the demi-monde, who wished to give a father to her son, and who, immediately after her wedding, went to the Director of St. Barke, and desired him to call her son, in future, the Marquis d'Orvault. The next time the lady and her husband are heard of is at the court of justice, where the old man is not ashamed to summon a certain young Viscount, former friend of his wife, to discharge a bill of several

have most of them published. The director, exasperated at this, assembled the classes who had signed the protest and ordered them to retract; they have answered by a refusal, and a division is to be expelled.

I hope my long history has not been too long, and with one little historical fact more I have finished: It seems that in the time of the Visigoths twelfth-cake day was already celebrated, as at present in France; that is, a bean was put in the cake, which makes king or queen of the person who finds it in his piece. One twelfth-night Alaric had the bean; but, being a mean fellow, he swallowed it, to avoid having to regale the society. God punished him by sending the bean up instead of down; it got into his nose and there stopped, and Alaric was the first person that spoke through his nose-a positive fact.

Adieu,

S. A.

LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.

THE CROWING HEN.

BY L. A. BEALE.

which made some of the envious hens, who had no crest, call her proud and haughty.

She soon grew to henhood, however; proud creature was Patsy, when she laid her first egg in her own nest. To be sure it

Once upon a time, in one of the greatest cities in the world-which is called Athens--was a very small one, as Speckle told her, who there lived a famous writer who had a magic came to look at it. But Speckle was a large pen, which tradition saith was plucked from the matronly hen, the mother of several large right wing of the eagle that bears the thunder- families, who had quite forgotten that the first bolts of Jupiter. I don't know whether this is egg she laid herself was even smaller than true or not: I only know that this pen writes Patsy's. But that is the way of the world. the most wonderful things that ever were read- Patsy thought she would do better by-and-by, of men, and women, and birds, and beasts, and so she did. At length she began to express and philosophy-so that all who can read are a wish to have chickens of her own. I said, delighted thereby.

Once this magic pen wrote of hens, and you would think that all the hens in the world must have held a convention, and this pen but wrote their history, so wise and witty and profound was this story about hens.

No doubt there was such a convention, and all the hens were there but my little Patsy, who was sitting on six eggs, and who took more pleasure and comfort in staying in her nest, and keeping her eggs warm, than she could in attending this great Hens' Rights Convention. That is the reason, too, why this famous pen did not write the history of good little Patsy. But it deserves to be written, and so I have taken my best gold pen and begun to write this story; for if the great writer who wrote about all the hens in the world had known my Patsy, he never would have said

"I have made diligent inquiry, but I have not been able to find any person who had heard, or who had ever seen or heard of any one who had heard a crowing hen."

This magic pen thought that crowing was a mark of masculine rudeness. Ah, they did not know my Patsy, for she was modest, and gentle, and meek.

Patsy was an orphan. I found her one morning under the barn, crying "Peep-peep -peep," in a shrill, desolate voice; so I peeped under the barn door, and saw a tiny chicken trying to hide herself in an old basket. I called "Chickey, chickey, chickey!" and strewed grain about, which some half-grown chickens, with three feathers in their tails, ate up very quickly, but the little stranger never moved, and only cried the louder.

Then I got a rake, and succeeded in pulling out the basket, chicken and all. I never knew what heartless mother left the little creature there to perish: no doubt she got her reward.

So Patsy was brought up by hand, and though quiet and somewhat given to melancholy at the thought of her loneliness; she was a very pretty little creature, with a gentle dignity of her own, and she had a coquettish way of nodding the little crest of feathers on her head,

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Fie, Patsy! What can you do with chickens? You're nothing but a chicken yourself."

"But she ruffled her feathers, and said, "Cluck, cluck," to an imaginary brood, and seemed so much in earnest, that I determined to gratify her; and I remarked to my brother Tom, that he must get some good eggs for Patsy, as she was determined to sit.

A bright idea seemed to strike Tom, for he jumped up from the table and knocked down his chair, saying

"Don't you set Patsy till I get back; I know where there's some famous eggs."

He rushed out, and in an hour returned with his trousers turned up, and his boots covered with mud, and half-a-dozen eggs tied up in his handkerchief.

"There are the eggs for Patsy!"
"Where did you get them?"

"Down on the meadow. Wild ducks, by jingo !"

Tom was a rude boy, and cared for nothing but a boat and a gun, and always talked loud slang.

Patsy's delight culminated when Tom rolled these eggs into her nest, and she tucked them up with her bill, and spread out her wings enough to cover a dozen. And there she sat day and night, patient and unwearied, scarcely giving herself time to eat.

Speckle came down to see her.

"You wont have many chickens, I suppose?" she asked.

Patsy showed her warm eggs.

"Dear me," sighed Speckle, "so few and so small! It's poor encouragement to sit so long, and hatch out a weak little brood. I wouldn't spend the time."

"I shall be quite satisfied with whatever is right," responded the patient Patsy; "and my time isn't worth much." I will just lay

"I'm so sorry for you. another egg in your nest."

So Speckle laid an egg in Patsy's nest, and in due time six curious little ducklings, and one little round, downy, saucy chicken appeared. Patsy scarcely knew what to think of the strange

little feet of her chickens, and did not know | ning and flying towards her, like the good why one should be so different from the rest. loving things they were, and she brooded them But she did not doubt that it was all right, so with more fondness than ever. she marched to the barn-yard as proud a hen as ever lived, and scratched and clucked with the utmost industry.

She felt worried, however, to see that the chickens with the queer feet and bills did not gather about her and pick up the bugs and worms she unearthed for them, only the one brisk one, who scratched and ate enough for the

seven.

"Just as I thought," said Speckle, "nothing but ducks!" and as she spake the little things actually flew upon the edge of the watering trough, and were soon swimming about merrily. Don't be alarnied," said Speckle; "I hatched ducks once myself, and they always went into the water. It does them good."

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"But they don't eat anything. I scratch and scratch, but they don't eat," said Patsy, anxiously.

"Yes they do. While you are scratching for them, they are catching flies and grasshoppers. They are poor things, and I pity you. My ducks were clumsy creatures, and could not get about any faster than a snail. I nearly moped to death that summer."

"But my ducks fly away from me, and sometimes I have hard work to find them. Yet I am very fond of them, and like them quite as well as if they were all like this one."

But soon these ambitious little ducklings sought a larger pond than the watering trough, and one day, while Patsy was scratching and the little chicken was eating the shares of seven -by which means she grew very fat-the venturesome ducklings put their heads together and determined to go on an exploring expedition after more water, and immediately started straight for the brook that ran across the road some distance from the barn-yard, where they were swimming, and diving, and fluttering, some time before Mother Patsy missed them.

She called them again and again, and ran hither and thither, clucking and cackling in great distress; but they could not hear her, and kept at their sport. Never had they had such a rare frolic before, in such bright, limpid water, with no cows putting in their mouths to drink, no horses threatening to swallow thein.

Poor Patsy was in great distress at the loss of her children, and, if she had been a woman, would no doubt have got out all the police force of the town, crying "Children lost." At last she flew upon the fence and took a survey of the surrounding country, and away down on the shining brook, floating, fluttering, plunging and circling in all their native grace, she saw her dear nestlings.

She called to them again with her motherly cluck, but they could not hear her voice, they were so far away. Then she cackled, and still in vain. And then poor Patsy crowed as loudly and as boldlyf as strutting Chanticleer himself. Her strange children heard, and came run

"It is very fortunate you can crow," said Speckle; "though for my part I never could have the courage, it seems so coarse-as though you wanted to be a rooster."

"I don't want to be a rooster, indeed; but I think it no shame to crow when I am obliged to. And whenever I find it necessary to crow, I shall crow, whatever hens or roosters think of me." And Patsy smoothed down her feathers with her beak, with a pretty wilful air of independence.

And ever after that, when she lost her ducklings she would mount the fence or gate and crow, in spite of the cackle of small-minded hens, and never caring that Chanticleer dragged his tail on the ground, and said

"Well, if Mistress Patsy has gone to crowing, I think it is time for me to begin to lay eggs."

This is the story of Patsy, and it has at least the merit of being as true as though it was written with the magic pen from the right wing of Jove's eagle.

THE CHILD OF THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

BY ANNE CASWELL,

The light-house keeper said to his child, "I must go to the mainland, dear! Can you stay alone till afternoon?

Quite early I hope to be here."

She tossed back her hair with a girlish grace, As she lifted to his a brightening face; "Yes, father; I've nothing to fear.

"With Kit and Fido I'll have a good play
When I've seen your boat glide by:
Then I'll gather shells and sea-weed bright,
And watch the cloud-fleets in the sky.
Oh! the time will merrily glide away,
And when you come, ere the close of day,
To get a good supper I'll try."

"God keep you, daughter!" the father said As he drew her close to his side,

His sun-browned hand on her golden head,

While the light skiff waited her guide. Then in he sprang, and with arrowy flight The little boat sped, like a sea-bird bright, O'er the sparkling, shimmering tide.

The child stood still on the wave-washed sand, Baptized in the sunlight clear!

And the father thought, as he waved his hand,

Of another yet more dear,

The mist is thick-the bell must be rung!"
Though the girlish arm was slight,
The woman's heart to the effort sprung;
And out on the dreary night

Who had watched him, erst, from that gleaming The bell pealed forth, again and again,

strand,

Whose life-bark had sped to the Better Land, But leaving her image here.

Quietly, cheerily flew the hours

Of the long, bright summer day— When lo! in the west a storm-cloud lowers, Its shadow is on the bay! "Oh! father, I hope, will not set sail, In the rash attempt to weather the gale," Thought the child, and knelt to pray.

"But what if a ship should pass to-night ?" Then Ellie anxiously said.

"But can I-yes-I must strike the light!"
She climbed with a cautious tread,
Up, and still up, through the circling tower,
And full and clear, till the dawning hour,
The lantern's radiance spread.

While an anxious crew, on that raging main, Were toiling with all their might.

The morning breaks, and the storm is past! The keeper sets sail for home

His heart throbs deep, as his boat flies fast

Through the dashing spray and foam. It touches land, and the chamber stairs Echo his footfalls, as hearts echo prayers— He turns to his daughter's room.

No shame to his manhood that tears fall fast,
As he bends o'er the little bed;
And wild kisses bedew the tiny hands,

Thrown wearily over her head;
For those hands have wrought a mightier deed
Than were blazoned in story or song;
And the ship, with its wealth of human life,
To-day rides safe o'er the billows' strife,
Because the child's heart was strong!

THE THEATRES DURING THE HOLIDAYS.

(FROM A BIRD'S EYE POINT OF VIEW).

We depart from the conventional mode of theatrical criticism to take what we will call a 'Bird's-eye view'' of the theatres now open and performing holiday pantomimes, burlesques, and dramas. If our readers will bear with us and our erratic fancies, and accompany us accordingly, in our present character of cicerone, we propose to adopt the remarkable manner of taking mundane observations, for which Don Cleophas was indebted to the imp in "The Devil on Two Sticks." The Enchanter, in Le Sage's immortal work, if you remember, takes his pupil (Don Cleophas) with him above the housetops of Madrid, and shows him the life of the capital by unroofing some of the more remarkable dwellings, as a means of showing the vagaries of different classes of a somewhat demoralized fraternity of souls. Imagine, then, ourselves scanning, from an empyreal position, the stages of many theatres, unroofed and exposed to our scrutinizing gaze, with all the action and business of the scene proceeding at the critical

hour (as far as the pantomimes are concerned of the grand transformation scenes. What is the enormous stage immediately beneath us engaged upon? Its vie intérieure is precisely that which the demon of the bottle would have especially delighted in! We see a large stage brilliantly illuminated and filled with gnomes, sprites, ghouls, pigmies, dwarfs, giants, genii, fairies, and all other grotesque creations, with which the realms of enchantment are, it is said, peopled. It is a great London theatre, and they are performing there a grand Christmas pantomime; for, at this season, the "national establishment" knows the drama no more, being dedicated exclusively, with superstitious veneration and traditional regard, to mythologic fable slone. We are looking down upon the grand transformation scene of the Drury Lane pantomime of "Jack the Giant Killer." It is a startlingly-beautiful picture, which seems endless in its corruscations and developments. The crimson vapour floating before our eyes gives it

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an intensified warmth of tone or colour. What a marvellous disposition of floating fairies in resplendent attire, these forming burnished columns, those pyramids of lapis lazuli and other gleaming gems. There sits the fairy queen, on a throne that is built up of sapphire, picked out with jewels, the finest and purest, from the mines of Golconda or Peru. A fierce light beats about her throne, and she is "al there," supreme in the glory of her charms and enchantments. dwelling in a translucent atmosphere of almost blinding brilliancy. Ah! that transformation picture! Surely it must make some young hearts dissatisfied with their present sphere, and longing to be ever in those charm ing scenes, and to have supernaturally pink cheeks, like the columbine; supernatura arms, legs, and a supernatural spine, like the barlequin; and supernatural good fortune, like all the virtuous people in the pantomime! Apropos of the clever burlesque opening of the ingenious Mr. E. L. Blanchard, we notice Jack the Giant Killer is not personified, as we expected, by that killing little actor Master Percy Roselle, but by Mr. Irvine, a very clever performer, new from the provinces; Master Percy Roselle playing the character of the Pigwiggian Chief, with a rare amount of drollery. Why are these triplicated harlequins and columbines, clowns and pantaloons at Drury Lane? Was not a double harlequinade all-sufficient? Turn we now our gaze on another phase of the realms of pantomime. It is Covent Garden, the English home of the Italian opera. But no opera, English or foreign, is now being performed at the splendid new theatre; but a pantomime on the nursery stories of "Robin Hood" and "The Babes in the Wood." It is

true, however, that the genius of the Payne family and the skill of the scene-painters has informed with life and rendered pre-eminently attractive this new grand pantomime for 1868. Who has seen the elder Payne in the opera of the "Grand Duchess," play the wordless seriopantomimic part of the duchess's aide-de-camp, with the clashing sabre, hessians, and spurs? "Behold the sabre of my sire!" says the duchess of the small German state. It is brought in by Payne-a golden, glittering, crescent-shaped sword, balanced in his outstretched hand by its deferential bearer. The profoundly respectful manner of the retainer, while bearing before him the ancestral tulwar his proud sense of the honour, his arrogant way of implying, without saying one word, that the "sabre of my sire" must be looked upon as the supremest thing out-all is done by Payne with such a distingué air as proves him a true hu

mourist and a great artist in the grotesque and the burlesque style of pantomime. The most attractive scene in the Covent Garden novelty for the Christmas holidays represents Autumn's Golden Bowers, and assuredly that field of golden corn spread out before us, under a glowing sun; that golden boat, shaped like a swan, with its fairy crew, together with the glittering nymphs, form a delightful pastoral picture. Yonder elegant theatre, situated towards the Strand, is the Lyceum. It has recently been re-opened by the famous E. T. Smith, and his pantomime is "Harlequin Cock Robin," "intended purely" for the dear little children, advertises the observant impressario. We see here, as the principal scene, a grand ballet of canaries going on. It is a most original and fanciful scene, the leading Terpsichorean performers being evidently superior to the usual run of pantomimists; we recognize two or three of the leading artistes as Parisian importations: such are M. Espinosa, Mdlle. Sophie, and the sprightly Finnette.

Thus we have completed our survey of the principal houses for pantomime. We must take some other occasion to notice the remaining theatres. F. H. MALCOLM

MR. WIELAND'S DRAMATIC READINGS.

The first of a course of Dramatic Readings, by a professional actor (Mr. Wieland), took place at the Sussex Hall, London, on the 9th ult., and gave general satisfaction to a full audience, amongst which were many ladies. Mr. Wieland's reflections and anecdotes on the drama and the stage were alike sound and pungent, especially his quotation from "Joseph Andrews," of Partridge's visit to Drury Lane, and his opinions on Garrick's acting of the part of Hamlet. Mr. Wieland read the scenes from the good old comedy of "The Rivals," where Sir Anthony Absolute and son are together, capitally. He afterwards gave some imitations of actors, which were somthing better than mere caricature, Phelps being imitated in a real and powerful manner; such also being the case with H. Marsden, M. Fechter, B. Web ster, &c. Mr. Wieland will probably be seen again on the stage as a high-comedy actor.

E. H. M.

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