longing for one's kindred which steals over us after we have passed the boundary of middle life, gathering strength year by year, until with the aged it becomes engrossing, and at times almost unendurable. However this may be, Madame Duchamp-so she was designated — actually arrived and took up her quarters at the little farm-house. Nothing was now heard of but Paris- Paris-Paris. No other place in the universe could compare with it. Every thing out of it was actually barbarous. Marie, to be sure, had a sweet face, was well-shaped, yet what a fright she was when disfigured by that outré dress; and when poor Maurice ventured into the presence of Madame, he was treated to such a frigid reception that he never could be persuaded to come again; and Marie herself was overwhelmed by a shower of ridicule respecting the appearance of her lover. To shorten the tale, Madame Duchamp finally prevailed on her weak-minded sister, despite the entreaties and protestations both of Marie and Maurice, to send her daughter to Paris, that she might become a lady under the care and supervision of her experienced aunt. The troth of the young people was by no means broken; the shrewd Madame thought this to be quite unnecessary. She supposed Marie to be like most young girls, and depended on her forgetting her lover in a week after she should arrive in Paris, calculating the while on profiting largely by increased sales in consequence of having so beautiful a person in attendance. At the same time her intentions were perhaps well meant, for she expected, without doubt, that her niece should succeed to her business, and inherit what she possessed. Meanwhile, poor Marie became utterly wretched; as I have described to you, she seemed slowly to wither away. She had been four months in Paris; she had not heard from Maurice, nor from her mother except through Madame, and when she made these disclosures to me, was ready to sink into absolute despair. Poor, forlorn thing that she was! I went home revolving the matter in my mind. What was to be done? What could I do? I finally broke the subject to an intimate companion, German artista young a painter who I knew would appreciate the interest I took in the business. The result was, that we determined to make an incursion into Burgundy, work our way quite carelessly into the neighborhood of Marie's home, and inspect the situation of things. You laugh, my dear Clark, at this adventure; you call it Quixotic. I can not help it. I never commenced a journey with a more earnest purpose or a more cheerful heart; and if there was a sprinkling of romance in it, should it detract from the value of the object which we sought to compass? Obtaining from Marie such information as would enable us to find the desired locality without hinting the reason for the inquiry, my friend and I set off. It was not yet the season of the vintage, but the vine with its rich clusters already exhibited a luxuriant picture. We passed rapidly south, and at length reached Charolles. Here our reconnaissance commenced. We had no difficulty in finding the cottage of the widow Laforêt, and one afternoon, just at sunset, we entered her dwelling and asked for a draught of wine. I fancied there was an air of grief and of loneliness in her manner quite unnatural. She desired us to be seated, and provided for us the best her cottage afforded. My German friend undertook to explain our movements. We were from Paris, he said, and were making a pleasure tour through this delightful part of France. At the mention of Paris, the

widow started, and her interest in what my friend was saying evidently increased.

'From Paris!' she exclaimed. Then you must know my Marie!' I could not help smiling at the poor woman's simplicity, but the German preserved his gravity, and replied: Perhaps: with whom does she live?"

'Ah,' responded the widow Laforêt, 'you must have seen her; she is with Madame Duchamp; every body knows Madame.'

'What,' demanded my friend, 'Madame Duchamp, who keeps a shop in the Passage des Panoramas?'

'The very same, Sir.'

And what did you say was the name of your daughter, for Madame has several young girls with her?'

'Marie, Sir: indeed, you could not mistake my Marie. You would know her among a thousand.'

'She must mean Marie Laforêt,' said the artist, turning to me with an air of indifference, as he proceeded to light his meerschaum.

'Ah, mon Dieu!' cried the poor widow; it is indeed my own petite Marie. I was certain you knew her. Pray, tell me all you can about her. She must be so happy in beautiful Paris, with every thing to delight her.'

'I doubt if it is the same person,' said the artist, stiffly.

'But I tell you that it is,' said the other, with eagerness; therefore go on pray, go on, Sir.'

'You will please describe your daughter,' said my inexorable friend. 'To be sure. A fine shape, just my height; face round, fresh, with roses on her cheeks; fair skin; eyes-ah! so fine, so full, so gentle, so brown; hair, a chestnut; and her whole

'Not the same person,' said the other, again turning to me, and giving a puff of his meerschaum.

But it is; I know that it is!' cried the widow; there can not be two Marie Laforêts with my sister. Ah, I have forgotten: Marie is so much altered, so much improved, that even her mother can not describe her correctly. Just as my sister promised me the dear, good one! But will tell me how she looks now, just to please a foolish old woman know you will, Sir.'

you -I

'I doubt if it can be your daughter,' answered the artist. 'The Marie Laforêt whom I have seen is to be sure about your height, and has chestnut hair and brown eyes; but her form seems to be wasted; her face is very pale and thin; her cheeks are colorless. Oh, no, it is not your little Marie;' and the artist drew some fresh tobacco from his pouch.

The widow burst into tears. A vision of the true state of things passed over her.

It was now my turn. 'I am sure,' said I, 'that the Marie whom we know is the daughter of our entertainer; the description agrees in every thing except in that wherein young people who are unhappy are most liable to change. It is true that her cheeks are pale and hollow, and that she seems to be declining in health; otherwise it answers very well, depend upon it. My good woman,' I continued, with severity, 'you should see to your child.'

And you, too, know her!' said the widow Laforêt, not heeding my reproach, and looking up through her tears; and you say she is miserable? Yes, miserable she must be my own darling, precious Marie! Why did I trust her away from me? My sister should have told me of this. I suppose she hoped there would be a change for the better. Alas! I have not had a happy moment since she left me. Ah, what will poor Maurice say?' and she continued her lamentations for several minutes. And who is Maurice?' inquired the artist. 'Maurice, Sir, is a worthy lad, who is betrothed to my Marie. They were to be married the coming month; but this visit of my sister -alas! it has ruined us all.'

'And Maurice,' said I; 'how does he bear Marie's absence?'

'Indeed, Sir, worse than any of us. Not a word has he heard from her, although he has sent her a great many letters; but he does not blame Marie, not he: yet he does nothing but curse Madame DuchampGOD forgive him! - from one week's end to another. He now declares that as soon as the vintage is gathered, he will go to Paris. Ah! the vintage this year will be so sad, when we were promising ourselves so much pleasure!'

And why should you not have it?' said the German abruptly, starting to his feet, and looking the widow Laforêt full in the face. What is there to prevent your sending to Paris for Marie, and celebrating her nuptials with Maurice at the very time agreed upon?'

'But my sister,' interposed the poor woman timidly.

'Le Diable!' growled the German; 'would you sacrifice your own flesh and blood, body and soul, for fear of giving offence to

The sentence was cut short in an uncouth German guttural, which I should not care to have translated.

'But what shall I do?' continued the widow: 'how can I manage it? I know nothing of the ways of the strange folks away in Paris, and if I sent for Marie, my sister never would let her go, for she has been at large charges for her journey, and for dresses, and I know not for what else. Ah, I fear it cannot be; yet what will become of thee, ma petite?' And again she wept.

It was now evening, and we were urged to spend the night at the cottage. The German shook his head, spoke of walking on to Charolles, but I overruled him, and he accepted the proffered hospitality. We were served with supper, and the good dame plucked for us from her early fruitage clusters of delicious grapes. I had sustained my part thus far tolerably well, but my heart was ready to burst at the sight of this poor woman, attempting to be cheerful while she prepared our entertainment. As for my friend, I could not too much admire the admirable manner with which he had managed the interview. In the course of the evening I undertook to explain to the widow Laforêt the dangers of a life in Paris to a young girl situated like Marie, and was not long in convincing her that she had reason to rejoice that the atmosphere of the city agreed so ill with her child. The artist verified all I said by an abrupt emphatic assent, so that before we retired her only desire was to get her daughter away from such a place of abominations. Thus far our plan had succeeded admirably, and we went to sleep confident and sanguine.

The next morning the widow asked our advice as to the best means of getting Marie back to her home. Her only embarrassment was how to brave her sister's displeasure, and how to make amends for the expenses she had incurred for her. These, to us, were minor considerations, for I knew the latter to be much exaggerated in the widow's imagination, and as to the former, it seemed, under the circumstances, of no consequence whatever.

We at once proposed that Maurice should be sent for, and the dame accordingly went for him. As it was but a few steps, she soon returned, accompanied by Maurice Foligny, a fine, noble-looking fellow, of manly bearing, to whom, after being satisfied of his ready perception by a few minutes' conversation, I frankly stated our object in coming into the neighborhood. When he fully understood it, he grasped the hand of each, and without uttering a word, thus silently expressed his thanks. I need not recount to you how my friend and I went back to Paris in high spirits, bearing a letter from the widow Laforêt to Marie, and also one to Madame Duchamp, the latter being the joint production of the German and myself, and written in a manner best adapted to effect our object without giving offence. Although mild and conciliatory, it was nevertheless decisive as to Marie's return, on the ground of her ill health and her mother's lonely situation, referring also to the promise of Madame Duchamp, which her sister at the last moment recollected to mention to me, that if, after a few months' trial, Marie or her mother were not content with the arrangement, the young girl should be sent back. I believe there was also a letter from Maurice to his betrothed, but as this is a point of little consequence, I will not speak positively. The end of the whole business you may guess by this painting about which you were so inquisitive. Madame did not prove as obstinate as was expected. The fact is, she was pretty well convinced that Marie would never adapt herself to her new life, and consequently that the speculation was a failure; for as the poor girl's health began to droop, even her mysterious demeanor ceased to attract attention. So she was sent home without more delay. The only astonishing part of the history is, how suddenly she recovered her health, her gayety, her plumpness, her color, and the rich brown of her eyes, which had become so light and dull. The next month came; we had pledged ourselves the artist and I-to be present; and in the very hey-day of the vintage, attended by a joyous company, Maurice and Marie were united in the little chapel which you see here, after which followed a dance upon the green, and a world of merry-making. My friend the German seized the occasion to exhibit a happy proof of his art. You were right, my dear Clark: this is no fancy-sketch.

SERVICE AFLOAT AND ASHORE, during the Mexican War. By Lieutenant RAPHAEL SEMMES, United States' Navy. In one volume. Cincinnati: MOORE AND COMPANY. New-York: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

6

THE author of this well-written and interesting volume was attached to one of the vessels of war of the Home Squadron, then under the command of Commodore CONNER, at the breaking out of the late war between the United States and Mexico. After an active participation in the scenes Afloat,' to which the war gave rise, he was dispatched, upon the fall of Vera Cruz, to the seat of the Mexican government, on a mission connected with the exchange of prisoners. In the prosecution of this mission, he joined the army of General Scorr at Jalapa, soon after the battle of Cerro-Gordo, and marched with it to Puebla. Here he became attached to the staff of General WORTH, as a volunteer aid-de-camp; marched with this officer to the valley of Mexico, and continued a member of his military family, until the triumphant entry of the army into the enemy's capital. He was, consequently, six months in the country; during which period he mixed freely with the inhabitants, and made himself familiar with their history, manners, customs, etc. The pages before us are the result of this joint connection with the army and navy, and of this journey, made in one of the most unique and interesting countries of which we have any account. The writer tells us that he was exceedingly struck with the novelty and grandeur of the scenery in this terra incognita, and with the many phases of society, entirely new to him, which he encountered at every step. Many interesting social and political questions were presented to him, as he contemplated the great disparity between the two people, in their civilization, and in the progress they had severally made in the arts; and his object, by a hasty sketch of the physical and moral condition of Mexico; by a review of her manners, customs, religion and laws; and by tracing accurately, though as briefly as possible, the principal events of our naval operations, and of General Scorr's campaign, to give his countrymen a coup d'œil, not only of the war itself, but of our sister republic, in her internal and more interesting relations, has been well accomplished. With a free pen he has sketched persons and things as he saw them, presenting the reader with truthful rather than with highly wrought pictures. In treating of the campaign, he claims not to have pursued the beaten track, followed with so little discretion by many of his predecessors, of bestowing indiscriminate praise upon all the actors engaged in it, but rather to have sought to separate the wheat from the chaff, and bestow commendation and censure alike, wherever he has deemed them to be deserved. In other words, 'he has supposed that a candid and intelligent people would be more gratified with a reliable history of the recent brilliant campaign of their army, than with an insincere and interested account, which should merely flatter their vanity and that of their gene