Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

\Q ml Jr\ ir] //7) m” f if*'.’ 1 s's - i, ,p.[ <ii[ *. ■ i wmms fault mmHi,„„.„Mmm f© uwmm, the mn mb somss. mb to semml iimusMis. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THE SOUL-MYSTERY. IJY O. L. WHELEK. The human soul! oh, idly still The sj arching thought we squander: Beyond life’s dim and twilight bound No living foot may wander! The dead are gone into that realm No living eye may enter; JBut thence they cannot come to me, To act my spirit’s Mentor ! Oh ! Vain it were to break the gloom That hovers o’er the Ages, And vain it were to tire the eye Upon the Past’s dark pages: The worm hath revel’d o’er their hearts— The solid tombs have crumbled ; The demi-gods of fame are dust, And all their might is humbled. They cannot speak ! From out the gloom There comes no voiceless token— Unto our doubting, wav’ring thought, Nd spirit-word is spoken ! The world of beauty smiles around The world of God within us ; Vet all that eye or thought can know, Will not to faith e'er win us. We doubt—we doubt—we ponder still, And When ? and Where 1 we question: We cannot take the human heart’s Or e'en a flower’s suggestion ! We ask if earth's fair things are types Os yonder shining heaven; But oh ! th> stars but mock our pray’r, The while our hearts are riveu. Be still, sad heart—be still, sad thought, For all my brain is burning ! Nor ask the Mow, the When, the Where — Endure ! be this thy learning ! Ji JJ iil i\ j'J i; m For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THE VOW OF THE HERON. translated from the french of ALEXANDRE DUMAS. It was the 25th of September, 1338 —a quarter before five in the evening. The grand saloon of the palace of Westminster was, as yet, lighted only by four torches, fastened by iron rings to the walls. Their wavering and uncertain light hardly dissi pated lfie gloom caused by the shortening of the days, already so perceptible, towards the cjose of Summer and the beginning of Autumn. This light, however, was suffi cient to guide, in their preparations for supper, the attendants of the castle, who seen, in the dimness, zealously cover ing, with the rarest viands and wines, a long fable, elevated to three <1 ifferent heights, so shat each of the guests might seat himself in the place assigned to him by his birth or rank, When these preparations were fin ished, the steward gravely entered, by a side-door—slowly made the circuit of the table, to assure himself that everything was in place ;• this inspection poinpleted, lie paused before a footman, who awaited his orders, near the grand entrance, and said to him, with the dignity of a man who knows the importance of his charge : “All is right—sound.” The footman raised to his lips a small ivory trumpet, which he wore suspended to a band across his shoulder, and sounded three prolonged notes. Immediately the door opened, and fifty footmen entered, hearing torches in their hands. They sep arated into tvyp bodies, and, extending the whole length of the hall, aranged tljemr selves along the walls. Fifty pages fol lowed, bringing basins and ewers of silver, tnd placed themselves before the footmen. Finally,two heralds appeared: each, draw ing towards him the emblazoned tapestry, w hich concealed ihe door, stood on either side qf the grand entrance, and cried with a Ipud voice—“ Room for their Majesties the King and Queen of England!” At the same moment King Edward 111 appeared, giving his hand to Queen Phil lippa of Hainault, his wife: they were fol lowed by the most renowned knights and ladies of the English court, at that time one of the richest in nobleness, valor and beauty. Upon the threshold the King and Queen parted, and each passing to one side of the table, gained the most elevated seats. —! They were followed in this manner by all the guests, who, having arrived at their destined places, turned each towaids the page attached to his service. These poured water from the ewers into the basins, anil presented them to the knights and ladies, to wash their hands. This preparatory cere mony achieved, the guests seated them selves upon the benches, which surrounded Ihe table. The pages having deposited the silver vessels upon the magnificent dressers, from which they had taken them, returned \ to await, standing and immovable, the or ders of their masters. | Edward was so absolved in thought, that the first course had been removed, before he perceived that the seat nearest him, on his left, remained vacant —that a guest was absent from his royal banquet. However, after a moment of silence, which none dared to interrupt, his eyes, either wandering by chance, or seeking where to fix themselves, ran over that long array of knights and ladies, sparkling with gold and jewels, un der the gushing light of fifty torches, and rested, for an instant, with an indefinable expression, upon the beautiful Alice de Graufton. She was seated between her father, the Earl of Derby and her clieva- j lier, Poster de Montague, to whom, in re-1 ward for his good and loyal services, the j King had just given the Earldom of Salis bury. Finally, the King’s eyes turned, with surprise, towards the place so near him, and which, though it was a disputed honor to fill it, was now vacant. This> sight, undoubtedly, changed the current of the King's thoughts; for he cast an inter rogatory glance upon the whole assemblage, to which none replied. Seeing, then, that I a direct question was necessary in order to obtain a precise explanation, he turned to wards a young and noble chevalier of Hai nault, who was opposite the Queen : “Sir Gauthier de Manny,” said he to him, “chance you to know what impor tant business deprives ns, to-day, of the i presence of our guest and cousin, Count Robert d’Artois ? Would he again enter into the favor of our uncle, King Philip of France ? and was he in such haste to leave our island, that he forgot to make us his farewell visit?” “I presume, Sire.” re plied Gauthier de Manny, “that my lord the Count Robert would not so soon have forgotten, that King Elward had the gen erosity to give him an asyium, which, through fear of King Philip, the Counts of Auvergne and Flanders had refused him.” “1 only did my duty, however: Count Robert is of the royal line, since he de scends from Louis VIII, and it was right that I should, at least, shelter him. Besides the merit of hospitality is not so great for me, as it had been for those princes whom you have mentioned. England is, through the favor of Heaven, an island more diffi cult to conquer, than the mountains of Auvergne or the marshes of Flanders: ami it is able to brave with impunity the anger of our Lord paramount, King Philip. But this matters not; I am none the less anx ious to know what has become of our guest. Have you learned any news ol him, Salisbury?” “ Pardon! Sire,” exclaimed the Earl; “ but you ask of me that to which I cannot return a suitable answer. For some time my eyes have been so dazzled by the bright ness of one countenance, alone, and my ears so attentive to the melody of one voice, that had Count Robert, grand-son of the King though he be, passed before me, him self telling me whither he went, probably, l should have neither seen nor hearJ. But stay, Sire, behold a young man, who leans over my shoulder, he has, donbtless, some thing to say to me upon the subject.” Jn fact, William de Montague, nephew of Salisbury, behind whom he stood, at this moment bowed and whispered a few words in his uncle’s ear. “ Well ?” said the King. “I was not mistaken, Sire,” continued ; ■ Salisbury, “ William met him this morn ing.” “ Where ?” asked the King, addressing his words directly to William. “ Upon the banks of the Thames, Sire ; he descended towards Greenwich, and I doubt not he has gone to the chase, for he j carried upon his wrist the handsomest fal- 1 con ever trained to fly at a lark.” “What was the hour?” demanded the King. fljotyards the Sire.” ” For what were you upon the banks of the Thames, at so early an hour?” inquired Alice, with a sweet voice. ‘• To muse,” replied the youth with a sigh. “ Yes, yes,” exclaimed Salisbury, smil ingly, “it appears that William is not hap py in his love, for some lime I have re marked in him all the symptoms ol a hope less passion.” “My uncle!” said William blushing. “Truly!” erred the beautiful Alice, with curious sympathy, “if it be so, I wish to become your confidant.” “Pity me, lady, rather than ridicule,” murmured William, in a low voice, at the same time stepping back, and raising his hand, in order to conceal the tears which trembled upon his eyelids. “ Poor child!” said Alice, “ but this ap pears to he a serious thing.” “One of ihe most serious,” replied the Earl of Salisbury, with affected gravity, j “hut William is a discreet person, and I forewarn you, that you will only know his secret when you are his aunt.” Alice, now blushed in her turn. “Then all is explained,” said the King, i “ the chase will take him to Gravesend, and we shall not see him again until to morrow, at breakfast.” “I think your highness is mis'.aken,” observed Count John of Hainault, “lor 1 hear sounds in the ante-chamber, as of voices, which mayhap, announce his re turn.” “ He shall be welcome,” replied the King. At this moment, the door of the dining hall was thrown open, and Count Robert, magnificently arrayed, entered, followed by | two minstrels playing upon the viol; be-! hind them were two beautiful young dam sels, bearing upon a silver dish a roasted j heron, whose long beak and legs had been allowed to remain, that the bird might be ; more easily recognised ; finally, after the i damsels, came a juggler, leaping and grim acing, and accompa.tying the minstrels up on the labour. Robert d’Artois proceeded ; slowly round the table, followed hy this j singular train; and. pausing near the King, who regarded with astonishment this novel ! viand, he made a sign to the damsels to ; place the heron before him. Edward leaped from his seat, and, turn- ‘ ing towards Robert d’Artois, he looked up- j on him with eyes flashing with rage; bin seeing that his gaze could not cause the i Count to avert his eyes: “What means ! this, Sir Count?” he cried, his voice trein- | bling; “is it thus that hospitality is re- j warded in France ? and a miserable heron, whose flesh my falcons and hounds despise, is this the royal game to be placed before us?” “ Listen, sir,” replied Count Robert, calmly, “ it entered my head, to-day, when my falcon took this bcasf, that the Heron is the most cowardly of birds; because it fears its own shadow, and when, walking in the sun, it sees it near, it screams and weeps, as if it were in danger of death ; then I thought that the most cowardly of birds ought to be served before the most cowardly of Kings!” Edward’s hand was upon his poignard. “Now,” continued Robert, without appearing tc notice this, “is not Elward of England the most cow ardly of Kings? Heir, by his mothsr Isa- j bella, of the kingdom of France; he has not the courage to retake it from Philip ol Valois, who has robbed him of it!” A terrible silence succeeded these words. All present rose to their feet, knowing the impetuosity of the Kmg; every eye was fixed upon these two men, one of whom had spoken such violent words to the other. However, all their expectations were de ceived. The countenance of Edward gradually returned to an appearance of calmness, he shook his head as if to drive hack the blood which had mounted to his cheeks; then, gently placing his hand up on Robert’s shoulder:—“You are right, Count,” he said, in a low voice, “ 1 had forgotten that I was the grandson of Charles IV. ol France; you have made me to re member it, thanks; and, though your mo tive may have been rather hatred for Philip, who has banished you, than gratitude to Edward, wtio has received you ; 1 am not the less obliged, lor now, that the thought that the true King of France has returned to me, be content, I will not forget it; and ! as a proof, hear the vow I shall now make. . JJe seated, my noble lords, and lose not a word I pray you.” All obeyed ; Edward and Robert alone, remained standing. Then the King extend ing his hand over the table : —“ l swear, 1 i said he, “by this Heron, which has been placed before us, because it is the basest 1 and most cowardly of birds, that before six months I shall have crossed the sea with an army, shall have set my foot upon 1 French soil, whether entey hy Hainault, I i Guienne or Normandy ; I swear that I will oppose Philip wherever I shall meet him. at all times, even though my retinue or my army should he only one against ten. — Lastly, I swear that before six years from this day 1 shall have encamped in sight of the noble towers of Saint Denis, where the body of my ancestor is interred : and this I swear notwithstanding the oath of allegi ance, which I took to Philip at Amiens, but into which I was surprised, when a child. Ah! Count Robert, you wish for fighting and battles ; well, I promise you that neither Achilles, nor Hector, nor Paris, nor Alexander of Macedon, who conquer ed so many countries, shall have made in their routes, such ravage as I shall make in France: at least, if it jilcasps God, my Lord Jesus, and the blessed virgin Mary, that I may not die in the attempt, and be fore the accomplishment of my vow. I have spoken ! Now take away the heron, Sir Count, and come and sit near me.” “ Not yet, Sire,” repliel Robert, “ it is necessary for the heron to go around the table : mayhap, there is present some noble Knight who will esteem it an honor to join his vow to that of his King.” At these words he ordered the young damsels to take again the silver dish, and he continu ed his march, followed hy them and the minstrels, who played upon the viol, while the young maidens sung a song of Guilbert de Barneville ; and thus playing and sing ing they arrived behind the Earl of Salis bury, who was sitting, as we have said, near the beautiful Alice de Graufton.— Here Robert d’Artois halted, and made a ! -ign that the heron should be placed before j the Earl. It was done. “ Worthy knight,” ! said Robert, “ you have heard the words of King Edward. In the name of Christ, the King of the world I adjure you to swear hy our heron.” “You have done well,” replied Salis j bury, “to adjure me by the holy name of Jesus, for, had you so done by the name of ihe virgin, I should have refused, as I no ! longer know whether she he in heaven or ! upon the earth, so noble, wise an I beauti ! ful is the lady who holds me in her service, i She has never, yet, told me that she loves me, she has never granted me aught, for, I ’ have never, yet, dared to ask her for her love. Ah, well! to-day 1 supplicate her j to grant me a favor, it is to place her finger upon one of my eyes.” “Upon my soul!” saij Alice, tenderly, “a lady, so tespectfully entreated hy her i knight, could not refuse him. You have asked one of my fingers; 1 would be gen erous towards you : behold my whole hand.” Salisbury seized and kissed it several times with transport, he then placed it upon his face in such a manner as to cover his right eye entirely. Alice smile I, not understanding the meaning of this ac tion. Salisbury perceived it: “ Do you believe that this eye is quite closed ?” asked he. “Certainly,” repliel Alice. “Well!” continued Salisbury, “I swear •o see the light, with this eye, only upon French ground, I swear that till that hour neither winds, nor grief, nor wound shall force me to open it, I will combat with my eye closed, in the lists, tourney, or battle. I My vow is made come what will! Have you none tq make, in your turn, lady ?” “Oh! yes, my Lord,” replied Alice, blushing, “I swear that day on which you return to London, having been to France, 1 will give you my heart and purse as free ly as I have to-day given you my hand; and in token of this promise, behold my ■ scarf, to aid you in fulfilling your vow.” Salisbury knelt, and Alice bound her i girdle about his forehead, amid the accla mations of all the table. Then Robert caused the Heron to be removed from be fore the Earl, and resumed his inarch, fol lowed, alway by the minstrels, (he maidens and the juggler. This time the train stop ped behind John of Hainault. “Noble Sire of Beaumont,” said Robert Artois, “as uncle of the Kmg of England, and as one of the bravest knights ot Chris tendom, will you not vow, upon my heron, to achieve some great enterprise against the Kingdom of France !” “Certainly, brother,” returned John of i Hainault, fojr, jike you I am banished, and that for having lent qul to queen Isabella, when she reconquered her Kingdom of England. I swear, then, that if the King i will accept me for his marshal, and wishes to pass through any Earldom of Hainault, j I will lead his armies over the French borders; this i would do foi no other man | living. But if ever the Kmg of France, my only and true sovereign, recalls me and removes my ban, 1 pray my nephew Edward to restore me my word, which I shall quickly demand of him.” r “It is just,” said Edward, bowing his 1 head, “for I know that in heart you are more French than English. Swear, then, in all peace, for upon my crown, if the case happen, 1 will relieve you of yonr i vow.” Count Robert passed the heron to Gau thier de Mauny, “No, Sire, no, if you please,” said the young knight, “ for you know that a person cannot fulfil two oaths, at the same time, and I have already taken one ; it is to avenge my father, who was as you know, assassinated in Guienne, to find his tomb and his murderer, and to slay the one upon the other. But he content, Sire, for the King of the French shall lose | nothing there.” “ We believe you, sir knight, and we ; like a promise from you as wellasan oath from another.” Meanwhile, Robert d'Artois had ap i proached the Queen, the heron was put before her, and kneeling, he awaited her pleasure, in silence. The Queen turned towards him, smiling: “ What would you I of me, Sir Count 1” she asked, “and what came you to demand of me 1 You know, that a wife may not vow since she ts in the power of her husband. Shame to her, who in such circumstances should so far forget her duty, as not to await the per- I mission of her lord !” “Boldly make your vow, madam,” said Edward, “and 1 swear to you, that from .ne you shall always have aid and not hin drance.” “Well!” returned the Queen, “1 have not yet told you that I have the hope of becoming a mother. Now, listen to me, for since you have authorized me to swear, i 1 swear, by our Lord, born of the Virgin, and who died upon the cross, that my child 1 shall come into the world only in Fiance ; and if you have not the courage to take me thither, when the time for my delivery shall come, 1 also swear to stab myself with this knife, thus holding to my vow at the expense of the life of my child ami ■ the safety of my soul. Look to it. Sire, if ! you are rich enough in heirs to lose at one time voiir wife arid your child.” * “ Let there be no more vows,” cried El | ward, in a changed voice. “ Enough of ! such oaths as these, and may God pardon I us!” “It matters not,” said Robert d'Artois, rising; “ I hope there are, thanks to my heron, more words engaged, this day, than are necessary to make King Philip eternal ly repent having driven me from France!” tiie SONG AND THE SINGER. BV PEIICY B. ST. JOHN. It was in the year 1792, during the early days of the great French Revolution, when a young officer in delicate health took up his quarters in the city of Marseilles for the six months leave of absence. It seem ed a strange retirement for a young man, for in town he knew no one, and in the depth of winter Marseilles was no tempting residence. The officer lived in a garret looking out upon the street, which had for its sole furniture a harpsichord, a bed, a table, and a chair. Little but paper ever entered that apartment, where food and fuel both were scarce ; and yet the young man generally remained in-doors all day assiduously writing, or rather dotting some thing upon paper, an occupation he altern ated with music. Thus passed many months. The young man grew thinner and paler, and his leave of absence appeared likely to bring no convalescence. But he was handsome i and interesting, despite his sallow hue.— Long hair, full beaming eye* that spoke of j intelligence, and even genius, frankness of manner, all prepossessed in his favor, and j many a smile and look of kindliness came to him from beautiful eyes that he noticed not nor cared to notice. In fact he rarely went out but at night, and then to walk out by the booming sea, which made a , kind of music he seemed to love. Some times, it is true, he would hang about the theatre doors when operas were about to ; be played, and look with longing eye j within; but he never entered: either his i purse or his inclination failed him- But he always examined with care the name of the piece and its author, and then walk ed away to the sea-shore to muse and me ditate. Shortly after his arrival in Marseilles, he visited, one alter another, all the music, sellers and publishers ijj the town with a bundle of manuscripts in his hand ; but his reception was not. apparently very favor able, for be left them all with a frowning air,and still with his bundle of manuscripts. Some had detained him a long time, as if! estimating the value of the goods he offered J for sale ;. but these were no more temple I than the others to try the saleable character ■of the commodity. The house he lodged in had attached to it a large garden. By permission of the landlord, the young man 1 often selected it for his evening walks, and, despite the cold, would sometimes sit and muse in a rude and faded bower under a wall at one of the gables. He would oc casionally even sing, in a low tone, some of his own compositions, ft happened 1 once or twice that when he did so, a fe male head obtruded from a window above him, seeming to listen. The young man at length noticed this. “Pardon, lady,” said he one evening: “ perhaps I disturb you ?” “Not at all,” she repliel: “ I am fond of music, very fond, and the airs you hum are new to me. Pray, if not a rude ques tion, whose are they ?” “Citoyenne,” he answered diffiJently, ; “ they are my own.” “Indeed!” cried the lady with anima tion; “and you have never published them ?” “I shall never try — again,” he murmur ed, uttering the last word in a low and j despairing tone, which, however, reached the ears of the young woman. I “Good night citoyen,” said she, and she closed her window. The composer sighed, rose and went out to take his usual walk by the sea-beach ; there, before the gran | dear and sublimity of the ocean, and amid the murmur of its bellowing waves, to tor get the cares of the world, his poverty and his crushed visions of glory and renown— the day-dream of all superior minds —a j dream far oftener a punishment than a re ward : for of those who sigh for fame, few indeed are successful. Scarcely had he left the house, when a lady, habited in a cloak and hood, entered : it, and after a somewhat lengthened con ference with his cortege, ascended to his room, ami remained there about an hour. At the end of that time she vanished. It was midnight when the composer returned He entered with difficulty, the cerberns of the lodge being asleep, and ascended to his wretched room. He had left it littered and dirty, without light, lire or food. To his surprise a cheerful blaze sent its rays be neath his door. He opened it, not without alarm, and found his apartment neatly or dered, a fire burning, a lamp, and on the | table a supper. The young man frowned, and looked sternly at the scene. “Who dares thus insult my poverty? Is it not enough that 1 am starving with ; 1 cold and hunger, that I am rejected by the i world as a useless and wretched thing, in ! capable of wielding either sword or pen, hut I must be insulted by charity ? Fire, ! light, and wood, all sent hy one who knows my necessity ! And yet who knows ? Per haps my mother may have discovered my retreat. Who else could have acted thus? : My mother, I bless thee both for thy ac- ; I tion and for respecting my concealment!” I And the invalid officer sat down to the first! hearty meal he had eaten for weeks. He had left home because his friends wholly j disapproved of his making music a proses- ! sion, an<J wished him to employ his leave of absence in learning another occupation. ! His mother so pressed him, that he saw no j resources but a soldier’s last chance—a re treat. For two months no trace of the fugitive had been seen—two months spent ! in vain efforts to make his chosen career support him; and now, doubtless, his 1 mother had fouud him out, and had taken this delicate way of respecting his secrecy j and punishing his pride. Next morning the young man awoke with an appetite unknown to him of late. The generous food of the previous night had restored his system, and brought him to a natural state. Luckily, sufficient wine and bread remained to salisty his craving, and then he sat down to think. All his efforts to get his music sung, or played, or published, had been in vain. Singers knew him not, publishers declared him unknown, and the public seemed doomed never to hear him; a logical consequence very injurious to young beginners in literatue, poesy, music, and all the liberal arts. But he was determined to have one more trial.— Having eaten, he dressed and went out in the direction of the shop of the Citoyen Dupont, a worthy and excellent nqan, who in his day had published more music, bad and good, than a musician could have play ed in a life-time. “You have something new, then, citoy ne ?” said Dupont after the usual prelimi naries, and after apologising to a lady within bis office for leaving her for a while. “ As my time is precious, pray play at once, and sing it if you will.” The young man sat himself at the harp sichord which adorned the shop, and be- i irynjiTi'M—.Min ••ra.vv .-irs: .t. M W gan at once the * Song of the Army of the Rhine.’ The music-pnbliaher listen :.! with the knowing air of one who is not to he deceived, and shook his heal as the com poser ended. “Rough—crude—hut rlever. Young, man, you will, 1 doubt not, do something one of these days, but at present I am sor ry o say, your efforts want finish, polish” The singei rose, and bowing. left the shop, dispair at his heart. lie had not a sou in the world : h s rent was in airear : he knew not how to dine that evening, un less, indeed, his mother came again to his ai I—an aid he was very unwilling to re ceive. His soul recoiled from it. for he had parted from her i” anger. His mother was a Royalist, he was a R ‘publican, and she had said hi.ter things to him at parting. But most of all the composer felt onething j the world would never be able to judge him, never be able to decide if he had or had no merit: and this was the bitterest grief of all. That day was spent in rr.oody thought. The evening came, and no sign again of his secret friend, whether mother, or un known sympathiser. Towards night the pangs of hunger became intolerable, and after numerous parleys with himself the young man ascended to his room with a heavy parcel. His eye was wild, his cheek pale, his whole mien unearthly. As he passed the door of his lodge the concierge gave him a t cket for the Opera, signed Dupont, who was co-manager of the thea tre. “Go yourself,” said the composer in a low husky voice, and he went up stairs. Having gained the room, the unhappy and misguided young man sat silent and motionless for some hours, until at length hunger, despair, and his dreamy visions ha 1 driven every calm and good thought from his head, and then he dared quietly proceed to carry out his dreadful and des perate intent. He closed carefully the window, stuffed his mattress up the chim ney, and with paper stopped every aperture where air could enter. Then he drew forth from bis parcel charcoal and a burner, and lit it. Thus had this wretched man determ ined to end his sufferings. He had made one last effort, and now in that solitary, dismal garret, he laid him down to die ; and poverty and misery, genius and death, were huddled close together. Meanwhile, amid a blaze of light, the evening's amusement had begun at the theatre. Anew opera from Paris was to be played, and the prima donna was the young, lovely, and worshipped Claudine, the Jenny Lind of that lime and place.— The house was crowded, and the first act succeeding beyond all expectation, the au dience were in ecstasy. “She is a jewel!” said M. Dupont, who, from a private box, admired the great sup porter of his theatre. A roar of applause from the pit didighte 1 at this instant the good man’s ears. Claudine. called before the curtain, was bowing to the audience. But what is this ! Instead of going off, she has just signed to the orchestra to play. She is about to show her gratitude to thq audience in verse. M. Dupont rubs his hands, and repeats twice between his teeth ‘ She is a jwel!’ But with ease and ra pidity the band has commenced playing an unknown air, and the next instant M. Du pont is standing up with a strange and wild look. Hushed and still was every breath; the audience look at each other : not a word of communication takes place ; men shudder or rather tremble with emotion. — : But the first stanza is ended; and then a frantic shout, a starting of all to their feet, a wild shriek of delight, a cry of a thousand voices thundering the chorus, shows how the song had electrified them. M. Dupont frowned, for the air and the song were not new to him: it was the •Song of the Army of the Rhine’ he had refused that morning! Rut Claudine pro ceeds : again the audience is hushed in death-like silence; while the musicians, roused to an unusual degree of enthusiasm, played admirably : and Claudine, still sing; ing with all the purity, feeling, and energy of her admirable voice, plunged her eyes into every corner of the house—in vain. At each couplet the enthusiasm of the peo ple became greater, the anxiety of the singer intense. At length she concluded, and never did applause more hearty, more tremendous, more uproarious, greet the voice of a public songstress. The excitable population of Marseille! seemed mad. When silence was restored, Claudine spoke— 1 Citoyensand citoyennes !’ she ex claimed, ‘this song is both written and composed by a young and unknown man, who has in vain sought to put bis compo sitions before the public. Everybody has refused them. For myself. I thought this