minute; and the pendulum has got the St. Vitus' dance." "Have you used all the soda powders in the box?" asked the old gentleman, in a very severe tone. The fatal hour came. The priest was there; a few friends also-the bride in_white, pale as her spotless dress. Every object seemed to swim before the eyes of poor Dashaway. He had dressed himself mechanically -had been hung, as it were, in a new coat much too tight for him; and slippers, two sizes too small, were tormenting his feet. Hollow murmurs rung in his ears-he saw flashing lights-a pale figure, with a japonica in her hair-he heard confused voices -but he knew too well it was no dream. Somebody put the bride's hand into his; and he was about to stumble forward, when he heard a woman's scream. This restored him to his senses. He looked at his bride, but the voice was not hers. "Perjured villain !" shrieked a female voice. A gaunt female with sharp features, and eyes flashing fire, rushed up to the bridegroom and parted him from the bride. Dashaway gazed in her face. He had never seen it before; but the cat-eyes, the thin, pinched nostrils, and the bluish lips were those of a virago. A sudden faintness seized him. "I am his wife!" said the stranger. "His lawful wife. He married me privately, and swore to acknowledge it but now he means to break my too-confiding heart." Miss Belltravers screamed, and rushed from the apartment, followed by Quaver. A noise of carriagewheels was instantly heard, but that was unnoticed. "Sinner!" said the clergyman, shaking his prayer-book in the face of Dashaway. "Villain!" said the father, brandishing his fist within an inch of the victim's head. "Monster!" screamed old Mrs. Belltravers, beside herself with rage, and making a demonstration which caused the unhappy man to start back. "Unfeeling man!" cried the virago. "Take her off!" shrieked Dashaway, hysterically. "I don't know her. To live with her would be death. I am innocent. She's not my wife. I'm a single man, though I'm beside myself." "Let me get at him!"' cried the woman, extending a pair of skinny hands, which opened and shut convulsively. "She's insane," cried a man, entering the room. "Escaped from the mad-house. Come, mistress, you must tramp." The new-comer fixed his eye upon the woman, and she quailed beneath it. She mechanically followed him from the room - not, however, without one more fierce glance at Dashaway, and an extension of her claws. "Son-in-law!" said Mr. Belltravers, "I'm sincerely overjoyed at your exculpation. Recall Jane. Let the ceremony proceed." "Sir," said the servant, rushing in aghast, "Miss Jane has run off with the other gentleman." "Thank heaven!" muttered Dashaway. And so it was. Taking advantage of the confusion, the true lovers had made their escape from the house. They were happily united, and, in due time, forgiven. No one was more cordially pleased with the match than John Dashaway junior, who, upon the death of his father, petitioned the legislature, and obtained permission to change his inappropriate name. TRUE LOVE INDEPENDENT OF PERSONAL BEAUTY. SHOULD not a deformed woman, who appears graceful in her husband's eyes; a lame one, whose defect a man would not wish remedied; or an elderly one, who still seems young to the fond gaze of love, be reckoned the happiest of the female sex? Can human passion go beyond this? It is a woman's great glory to possess such an influence over a lover, that he should adore her for that which the world generally looks upon as a blemish. To forget that the lame cannot walk straight, may proceed from the fascination of the moment; but to love her because she limps, is like deifying her for her defect. Perhaps the following beatitude might be justly inscribed in the gospel of women-"Blessed are the imperfect, for the kingdom of love is their heritage." And, rightly considered, the perfec. tion of beauty is rather a misfortune, than otherwise, for a woman. Its transient bloom enters too much into the substance of the passion she inspires, and she is loved for it much in the same way as a rich heiress is loved for her money. But that love which is excited by a female disinherited of those fleeting graces which the children of Adam run after, is the real and true love, mysterious and unknown to the world; an ardent interchange of soul and sentiment, whose day of disenchantment never comes. Such a crea ture possesses graces independent of, and uncontrolled by, the caprices of society. The flower of her beauty is always in season; and the exquisite pleasure of making her imperfections forgotten, is too intense not to inspire her with an unconquerable desire of pleasing. The most memorable love stories in history recount the devoted attachments inspired by women whom the vulgar herd thought plain. Cleopatra, Jeanne of Naples, Diana of Poitiers, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, Madame de Pompadour, and, in short, the greater part of those females who have been made famous by the passion they inspired in kings and heroes, were all disfigured by some personal blemish or infirmity; while the majority of those whose beauty has been extolled as faultless and consummate, found only disappointments in their love, or witnessed its melancholy catastrophe. This apparent inconsistency must have a cause; and, perhaps, man lives more on sentiment than actual enjoyment; perhaps the many physical charms of the all-perfect have their limit, while the essentially moral attractions of an ordinary woman are infinite. Had Henry the Eighth's wives been ugly they might have defied the axe, and have overcome the inconstancy of their royal master. EARLY RISING. EVERY circumstance contributes to render early rising advisable to those who are in the enjoyment of health. There is no time equal in beauty and freshness to the morning, when nature has just parted with the gloomy mantle which night had flung over her, and stands before us like a young bride, from whose aspect the veil which covered her loveliness has been withdrawn. The whole material world has a vivifying appearance. The husbandman is up at his labour; the forest leaves sparkle with drops of crystal dew; the flowers raise their rejoicing heads toward the sun; the birds pour forth their anthems of gladness; and the wide face of creation itself seems as if awakened and refreshed by a mighty slumber. All these things, however, are hid from the eyes of the sluggard; nature in her most glorious aspect, is to him a sealed book; and while every scene around him is full of beauty, interest, and animation, he alone is passionless and uninspired. Behold him stretched upon his couch of rest! In vain does the cock proclaim that the reign of day has commenced! In vain does the morning light stream fiercely in by the chinks of his window, as if to startle him from his repose! He hears not, he sees not, for blindness and deafness rule over him with desperate sway, and lay a deadening spell upon his faculties. And when he does at length awake, far on in the day-from the torpor of this benumbing sleep, he is not refreshed. He does not start at once into new life-an altered man, with joy in his mind, and vigour in his frame. On the contrary, he is dull, languid, and stupid, as if half-recovered from a paroxysm of drunkenness. He yawns, stretches himself, and stalks into the breakfast-parlour, to partake, in solitude and without appetite, of his unrefreshing meal-while his eyes are red, his beard unshorn, and his clothes disorderly and ill put on. Uncleanliness and sluggishness generally go hand in hand; for the obtuseness of mind which disposes a man to waste the most precious hours of existence in debasing sleep, will naturally make him neglect his person. PORTRAITS. THERE is much good sense in some observations we recently met with, on the frame of mind in which ladies should have their pictures taken; somewhat quaint, perhaps, in language, but beautiful in sentiment; and though melancholy in the reflection, yet wholesome in the application. 66 Young ladies! I will tell you how your portraits may be rendered more useful monitors to you in your progress through life than the mirror was to Helen, and how you may derive more satisfaction from them when you are grown old. Without supposing that you actually called up a look,' for the painter's use, I may be certain that none of you during the times of sitting permitted any feeling of ill-humour to cast a shade over your countenance; and that if you were not conscious of endeavouring to put on your best looks for the occasion, the painter was desirous of catching them, and would catch the best he could. The most thoughtless of you need not be told that you cannot retain the charms of youthful beauty; but you may retain the charm of an amiable expression through life. Never allow yourself to be seen with a worse look than you wore for the painter! Whenever you feel ill-tempered, remember that you look ugly and be assured that every emotion of fretfulness, of ill-humour, of anger, of irritability, of impatience, of pride, haughtiness, envy, or malice, any unkind, any uncharitable, any ungenerous feeling, lessens the likeness to your picture, and not only deforms you while it lasts, but leaves its trace behind; for the effect of the passions upon the face is more rapid and more certain than that of time. 'His coun they see it; and that they carry on their shoulders nothing but a skull wrapt in skin, which one day will be loathsome to be looked on.'" WIFE. - THERE is no combination of letters in the English language which excites more pleasing and interesting associations in the mind of man than the word wife. There is magic in this little word. It presents to the mind's eye a cheerful companion, a disinterested adviser, a nurse in sickness, a comforter in misfortune, and a faithful and ever affectionate friend. It conjures up the image of a lovely and confiding woman, who cheerfully undertakes to contribute to your happiness, to partake with you the cup whether of weal or wo, which. destiny may offer. This word wife is synonymous with the greatest earthly blessing; and we pity the unfortunate wight who is condemned, by fate's severe decree, to trudge along through life's dull pilgrimage without one. ADELGITHA. HER soul is in her eyes, Undimm'd by grief or care; Is of so fair a hue, With rapture how profound, 'Tis the poetry of sound. How eloquent her tear! What music in her sigh! The very atmosphere Breathes balm when she is nigh. Pure as the mountain spring That knows no earthly leaven, She seems too charm'd a thing For any place but heaven. Such-such is not for me. Alas! that e'er we met ! For who shall ever see, And, seeing, e'er forget. In consequence of an accident, the Tale to which this Illustration refers is postponed till next week. THE WAY TO OBTAIN A be called a whacking fellow. He was MONSIEUR ANTONY BOUGAINVILLE was born in the small village of Champfort, in the south of France, on the fourth day of February, in the year of our Lord 1786. Monsieur Antony's parents were poor, exceedingly poor: but it is well for the world, as it was well for Monsieur Antony in particular, that poverty in the parents does not by any means preclude genius in the children. At least, it most certainly had no such effect in the case of Monsieur Antony; for he, as the sequel will show, was a man of extraordinary acquirements, and possessed of a singular versatility of talent. The personal appearance of Monsieur Antony, too, was exceedingly prepossessing; that is, of course, after he grew up a bit. He was tall, well made, and (unlike the majority of his countrymen) was, in short, what might VOL. I. (16) gifted, moreover, with a capital front; that is, with a face capable of facing anything-one of the most valuable qualities of which a man can be possessed, and which its traducers would in vain attempt to disparage by calling it impudence. At an early age Monsieur Bougainville felt the first impulses of that genius which subsequently made his fortune. These impulses, however, he felt not, like ordinary, geniuses, in his head, but in his heels. There he felt an itching, and an excess of vital energy, that kept constantly impelling him into the air, and as plainly indicated as any such hint could possibly do, that he was born to be a dancingmaster. Satisfied of this himself, Monsieur Bougainville, after undergoing in his own person a thorough course of instruction in the saltatory art, began teaching it to others. He opened a small school in his native village; but, truth compels us to admit the fact, R without the success which his genius merited. The thing, in truth, from whatever cause, would not do. He could get only a very few pupils ; and of these very few, very few ever paid him anything; and, in reference to this subject, often did poor Monsieur Antony wish that there had been a law to enable dancing-masters to tie the feet of those scholars who had not paid their instructors, and thus prevent them ever making use of the art they had so dishonestly obtained. As it was, however, Monsieur Bou. gainville was often both mortified and perplexed to see groups of young men and women assemble on the green at the back of the village of an evening, dancing away, it might be said, at his cost; for he had taught them, and yet not a single pirouette, not a shuffle, not a shake had ever been paid for. They all, in fact, belonged to him. They were his property, of which these persons had fraudulently possessed themselves and Monsieur Bougainville felt it to be so. We have said that Monsieur Bougainville's success as a teacher of dancing in his native village was but very indifferent. It was so; and Monsieur Bougainville himself diluted the fact in many little circumstances, but most especially in the meagreness of his diet, to which he still felt himself confined. To be sure, it was fine, light living for a dancing-master, and therefore so far appropriate; but then it was a leetle too light, being chiefly onionsoup made after the family recipe, which said, "Take a gallon of pure, clear water; add three onions, and half an ounce of garlick; boil well, and dish up with salt and pepper. Not a very strong soup," adds the recipe in question, "but sits light on the stomach, and is of easy digestion." How the soup sat on Monsieur Bougainville's stomach, we do not know, but we do know that his situation generally would not sit on it at all, and he therefore determined to cut both the one and the other as soon as he possibly could. It has been asserted at the beginning of this memoir, that Monsieur Bougainville was a man of many accomplishments, and of singular ver satility of talent; but it has yet, after all, only been shown that he excelled in dancing. We have still, therefore, to enumerate the others, and to this pleasing task we now set ourselves. Monsieur Bougainville, then, besides being a first-rate dancer, was an excellent musician. He played uncommonly well on the violin. Another gift he had, heaven knows how acquired: he wrote very pretty poetry. He sang uncommonly well, too; and was a very fair composer of music. To all these acquirements, he added that of writing an uncommonly beautiful hand. How Monsieur Bougainville became possessed of all these accomplishments, we cannot pretend to say; but certain it is, that he did possess them, and that in no small degree. For a long time, however, this unison of acquirements, which rendered their possessor a perfect constellation of talent, availed him nothing. No opening presented itself wherein he could make these acquirements available. At length, however, something likely did offer. This was the vacancy of an ushership in a large seminary in the arrondissement in which he lived. It is true, the appointment was not exactly in his way; but Monsieur Bougainville thought himself, nevertheless, quite equal to it-as, in truth, he was; and he therefore determined to apply for it. The ushership in question, be it observed, was in the gift of the minister of public instruction, with the concurrence and approbation of a local committee, consisting of some six or eight members, especially appointed to watch over the education of youth within their district. Well, Monsieur Bougainville having made up his mind, as we have said, to apply for the situation alluded to, he proceeded to the first step of the preliminary process, which was to draw up a petition to the committee, setting forth his qualifications, and praying for the appointment—and this he did in his very best handwriting, and really a pretty piece of caligraphy it was. Instead, however, of sending this document at once to the committee as a body, Monsieur Bougainville thought it would not be a bad |