but the motion affrighted and hurt him. He begged to be released, and supported on his way, was led to the street in which was his former habitation; but the house was no longer there! on its site stood proudly a public edifice. None of the objects which were there in his youth had remained; the buildings, of which he had retained a partial recollection, had all changed their appearance. Even the passers by were to him a new race, and though he looked anxiously in their faces, he knew them not, nor did they know him. His remembrance of all things seemed passed, and he stood motionless and bewildered. Surrounded by living beings, he recognized no one, nor they him; tears involuntarily relieved the acuteness of his feelings, and in the earnestness of his sorrow, he entreated to be conducted back to his lost home-the cold and dreary cell.

His antiquated appearance, his prison garb, mention of the Bastile, and his imploring to experience it again as an asylum, soon caused a great crowd to congregate. The oldest present thought of others still older, who might be able to afford him some solution of his inquiries respecting his family. At last an old man appeared, whose infirmities had rendered him unable to work for fifteen years, but who had been a servant in his family. He failed to recognize his former master, and in reply to the inquiries as to his wife, said she had died of grief and want thirty years gone by: his agonized questions as to his children elicited simply some were dead, others had gone abroad, but no one knew where. No one of the friends he had borne in recollection were then living, and the old man's answers were uttered with all the stolidity and indifference of one who was speaking of events ordinarily long since passed and almost forgotten.

Wretched and unhappy, he felt the excess of his misery more amidst the crowd of strangers, no one of whom was in a condition to sympathize with him, though in a state of freedom, than before, when in his

frightful solitude. He sought the minister by whose compassion he had been set at liberty, and throwing himself at his feet, begged of him to be sent back to the prison from whence he had freed him. "Who,"

said he, "can survive all his friends, all his relations, an entire generation? Who can hear of the loss of every one who was dear or known to him, without wishing for himself the solace of the grave? All these deaths which come one by one and by degrees upon other men, have fallen upon me in one instant. Separated from society, I lived by myself; here, I can neither live by myself nor with strangers, to whom my despair can only appear as a dream. It is not to die that is terrible, it is to die the last."

The minister, moved with commiseration, directed everything that humanity could suggest to alleviate his sorrows. His old servant was placed in attendance on him, and with him he retired into a seclusion in the heart of Paris, hardly less solitary than the cell that had been his abiding-place for nearly half a century. His only consolation was to converse with him about his wife and children, with one constant result. A short period terminated his existence, and the thought that to the last appeared uppermost in his mind was the impossibility of his ever encountering any one who could say to him, "We have seen each other before"-in fact, that he was alone in the world.

AN OLD MAN'S IDYL.

RICHARD REalf.

By the waters of Life we sat together,
Hand in hand, in the golden days
Of the beautiful early summer weather,

When skies were purple and breath was praise-
When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds,

And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran

Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards, And trees with voices Eolian.

By the rivers of Life we walked together,
I and my darling, unafraid;

And lighter than any linnet's feather
The burdens of Being on us weighed.
And love's sweet miracles o'er us threw
Mantles of joy outlasting Time,
And up from the rosy morrows grew

A sound that seemed like a marriage chime.

In the gardens of Life we strayed together; And the luscious apples were ripe and red, And the languid lilac and honeyed heather Swooned with the fragrance which they shed. And under the trees the angels walked,

And up in the air a sense of wings Awed us tenderly while we talked Softly in sacred communings.

In the meadows of Life we strayed together,
Watching the waving harvests grow;
And under the benison of the Father

Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro. And the cowslips, hearing our low replies, Broidered fairer the emerald banks;

And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes,
And the timid violet glistened thanks.

Who was with us, and what was round us,
Neither myself nor my darling guessed;
Only we knew that something crowned us
Out from the heavens with crowns of rest;
Only we knew that something bright
Lingered lovingly where we stood,
Clothed with the incandescent light
Of something higher than humanhood.

O the riches love doth inherit!

Ah, the alchemy which doth change
Dross of body and dregs of spirit

Into sanctities rare and strange!
My flesh is feeble and dry and old,
My darling's beautiful hair is grey;
But our elixir and precious gold

Laugh at the footsteps of decay.

Harms of the world have come unto us,
Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain;
But we have a secret which doth show us
Wonderful rainbows in the rain.

And we hear the tread of the

years move by,
And the sun is setting behind the hills;
But my darling does not fear to die,
And I am happy in what God wills.

So we sit by our household fires together,
Dreaming the dreams of long ago;
Then it was balmy summer weather,
And now the valleys are laid in snow.
Icicles hang from the slippery eaves,
The wind blows cold, 'tis growing late;
Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves,
I and my darling, and we wait.

ARTEMUS WARD'S VISIT TO THE PRINCE OF WALES.

I'VE bin follerin Mrs. Victory's hopeful sun Albert Edward threw Kanady with my onparaleled Show, and tho I haint made much in a pecoonery pint of view, I've lernt sumthin new, over hear on British Sile, whare they bleeve in Saint Gorge and the Dragoon. Preevis to cumin over hear I tawt my organist how to grind Rule Brittanny and other airs which is poplar on

British Sile. Ilikewise fixt a wax figger up to represent Sir Edmun Hed the Govnor Ginral. The statoot I fixt up is the most versytile wax statoot I ever saw. I've showed it as Wm. Penn, Napoleon Bonypart, Juke of Wellington, the Beneker Boy, Mrs. Cunningham & varis other notid persons, & also for a sertin pirut named Hix. I've bin so long amung wax statoots that I can fix 'm up to soot the tastes of folks, & with sum paints I hav I kin give their facis a beneverlent or fiendish look as the kase requires. I giv Sir Edmun Hed a beneverlent look, & when sum folks who thawt they was smart sed it didn't look like Sir Edmund Hed anymore than it did anybody else, I sed, "That's the pint. That's the beauty of the Statoot. It looks like Sir Edmun Hed or any other man. You may kall it what you pleese. Ef it don't look like anybody that ever lived, then it's sertinly a remarkable Statoot & well worth seein. I kall it Sir Edmun Hed. You may call it what you darn pleese!" [I had 'em thare.] At larst I've had a interview with the Prince, tho it putty nigh cost me my vallerble life. I cawt a glimps of him as he sot on the Pizarro of the hotel in Sarnia, & elbowd myself threw a crowd of wimin, children, sojers & Injins that wos hangin round the tavern. I was drawin near to the Prince when a red faced man in Millingterry close grabd holt of me and axed me whare I was goin all so bold?

"To see Albert Edard the Prince of Wales," sez I ; "who are you?"

He sed he was Kurnal of the Seventy Fust Regiment, Her Majesty's troops. I told him I hoped the Seventy Onesters was in good helth, and was passing by when he ceased hold of me agin, and sed in a tone of indigent cirprise :

"What? Impossible! It cannot be! Sir, did I understan you to say that you was actooally goin into the presents of his Royal Iniss ?”

"That's what's the matter with me," I replide.

"But, sir, its onprecedented. It's orful, sir. Nothin'