There were three ill-dressed looking men standing together, one of whom she recognized as her husband. "Ah! Antoine! is that you?" "Yes, my dear, it is indeed me. thought me dead?"

"I had feared as much, Antoine."

“Aye, so many thought; I got through it, though; but bless my politeness; here, Le Coq and Petit Singe, allow me to introduce you to my wife."

His friends lifted up their red night-caps, and professed themselves much honored in being introduced to the wife of such a "brave enfant as Antoine Laurent."

Much as Marie had wished to see her husband, she could not but feel that their meeting would be the source of much pain to her. His appearance, and that of his companions, was strongly indicative of their profession, and she had little doubt, in her own mind, that one of the gentlemen had taken her bag. It was with feelings of sadness she accompanied Antoine and the Sieurs Le Coq and Petit Singe to a cabaret in the neighborhood.

Antoine's story was short. According to his own account he had been in the army, and left it, because he found a military life too irksome for a man of spirit like himself; and Le Coq had been a brother in arms. Petit Singe, to be sure, had not been in the army, but then he had a wish to go there, and that was the same thing. After he had told Marie all he had to say concerning himself and friends, he was very desirous to hear how she had done since misfortune, as he called it, forced him from a wife he loved more than all the world; and drew such a picture of the anguish he had felt in leaving her, that it moved Petit Singe even to tears, or at least to the occasional pressing the tassel of his night-cap, first to one eye and then to the other, as if he were much moved at his friend's sufferings.

When Marie had stated the truth, her husband became extremely anxious in his inquiries, as to whether Monsieur Germain was rich, kept many servants, and was regular in his hours. The answers, he said, were very satisfactory; because, though he had led a reving kind of life himself, yet he should have been extremely unhappy to think his wife was living in any other than a respectable family; and as Le Coq knew that he had often expressed himself most anxious that his dear wife might not be prejudiced in the good opinion of others, by his own follies. At the beginning of this speech Petit Singe had caught hold of his tassel, but not finding any thing sufficiently sad for a tear, contented himself with a long drawn ah, and declared that he had heard him say so at least a thousand times; and Le Coq, who was a man of taciturn habits, bobbed his head in token of as

sent.

The result of this interview was a promise, on the part of Antoine, to see his wife on the following day, who engaged to supply him with money to enable him to look more respectable; and if he would reform she did not doubt being able, through Monsieur Germain's kindness, to procure him some situation, by which he might obtain an honest livelihood.

One night, as I was going my rounds with some of my men, I perceived, loitering about at the corner of one of the streets, an old acquaintance of mine, the Sieur Petit Singe, and it was very evident that he could not be waiting about so late at night for any good purpose, and as he had not perceived me, I determined to watch him unobserved. In a few minutes he was joined by another acquaintance of mine, the Sieur Le Coq, when they walked together some way up the street, until they came to a large house, and Petit Singe, looking round to see if any persons were near, gave a gentle tap at the door, which, to my surprise, was instantly opened to him. This was strange! The house belonged to Monsieur Germain, and I could not believe that the two gentlemen, who had just gone in, were carrying on an intrigue with any of the servants, since nature had not moulded either of them in one of her most favorable moods. Le Coq was a most desperate character-and Petit Singe a most consummate villain, deficient only in one thing-courage, but which he generally contrived to make up for, by a quickness of invention, which rendered him a valuable ally to those who planned the commission of any desperate deeds.

On entering they had left the door ajar, for the purpose of facilitating their escape, in case they should find it expedient to depart in a hurry. I availed myself, therefore, of the opportunity to follow after them, with my men, and perceived them ascending the stairs, in company with Antoine Laurent; this soon explained how they had so easily obtained their admission. They had no sooner reached the first landing-place than they heard some one coming down stairs; this seemed to perplex them extremely, and Petit Singe, after hiding the light he was carrying, began to descend the stairs, three steps at a time, perhaps judging that a general always fights best in the rear. The person who had alarmed them was no other than Marie, who was coming down stairs with a light in her hand. She had no sooner reached the landing-place, than Le Coq and Laurent darted forwards and seized her, one by each hand, whilst Le Coq pressed' his hand over her mouth to prevent her screaming. When she had in some degree recovered from her alarm, Le Coq allowed her to speak. Her eye fell upon her husband, and she exclaimed

"I am not quite such a fool, after hiding in the log-house 'till I am so stiff I can hardly move, to walk out at a woman's bidding; let me pass, and don't be so absurd."

I attempted to seize him, and he kept his word by firing at me; the ball went through my hat, and fractured a large glass which was behind. He then drew a dagger, with which he would have attacked

They, however, tried to go on; Laurent telling Petit Singe to look to the woman, and if she made the least noise, to cut the matter as short as possible. Marie, faithful to her word, the moment she saw them advancing, uttered a piercing scream and cry for assistance, but was effectually silenced by a blow from the butt-end of Laurent's pistol. She fell instantly on the stairs, deprived of all motion, and, as I dreaded, at the instant, even of life. So thought Petit Singe, for he declared it would be a good night's work for Laurent to make himself a widower and rich man at the same time. They went on to Monsieur Germain's private-room, the situation of which they seemed to be well acquainted with, and forced open his escritoire, in which was lying a large quantity of notes, which I afterwards ascertained had been paid only a day or two before to Monsieur Germain, for an estate of some value he had disposed of. These Petit Singe lost no time in appropriating to himself, and was about to leave the room, when I thought it time to show myself.

"The Blessed Virgin!" exclaimed Petit Singe, the moment he saw me, at the same time running behind Le Coq for protection.

my men. Le Coq was soon disarmed, and Petit Singe pulled out from under the table, where he had crept the moment he saw Laurent was about to make resistance, and with the politest bow in the world, presented me with the money, expressing a hope that I did not feel any inconvenience from Laurent's precipitation.

The firing soon awoke the inmates of the house, who were not a little surprised at the scene which presented itself; and attention being paid to poor Marie, it was found that although she had received a severe blow across the face, which had completely stunned her, yet there was nothing to fear for her life.

Some months after this I heard that Marie, who had continued to live with Madame Germain, had yielded to the solicitations of one of her former admirers, and again become a wife. Experience having taught her that reformation was not so easy a task as she had imagined, she took the precaution of ascer taining that there would be little chance of having to try the success of her schemes in the present instance.

With regard to Le Coq and Petit Singe, they are at present on a visit to the "Bains de Rochefort," which is likely to last until the end of their careers.

other end of his chain is attached a gentleman of most powerful make, and withal so arbitrary in his movements, that he cannot enjoy a moment's peace, night or day. J. M. B.

"NATURE abhors a vacuum," was a favorite maxim with the school-men of the middle ages. The truth of this assertion they did not undertake to prove by arguments derived from experiment-a means of acquiring knowledge to them unknown, or entirely neglected. But, following the path of investigation pointed out to them in the writings of Aristotle, before the shrine of whose philosophy they bowed with unmanly and slavish devotion, they attempted to establish this, as, indeed, all the other dogmas of the age, by means of sophistical reasoning founded upon the faint and uncertain light of observation or experience.

of the student of Natural Science. Not only is no space pertaining to our globe devoid of matter, but no particle of this matter is unnecessary or superfluous. Nor in general are the several kinds of substances destined to serve but one purpose; indeed, in case of some bodies, it is hard to enumerate all the offices they perform-they are so many and various. From all the stores of nature we cannot, perhaps, select a more interesting and complete instance of this economical adaptation to many uses than water-a substance without which the present constitution of the world could not exist. This liquid so peculiar in some of its properties and relations, so beautifully adapted to the many duties it performs, exerting so

of nature, is not prepared for such various ends by being composed of many and potent materials, but is the result of the combination of two elementary gases. How remarkable, that from such simple union, such varied effects should result.

In after years, Lord Francis Bacon overthrew the dominion which Aristotle had so long maintained over the human mind, by the invention of the inductive method of reasoning-a mental instrument by which man has been enabled to make as important discoveries in the universe of mind, as by means of the telescope he has made in the material universe. Pursuing the method of investigation thus pointed out to him, Otto Guericke determined many of the properties of the air, and invented the air-pump. The supposed vacuum created by this machine was for many succeeding ages regarded by men of science as an evidence of the absurdity of the old maxim. But the philosophers of still later times, by studying the nature of the imponderable fluids, have satisfied themselves that a receiver exhausted by an air-pump is only deprived of air, and that the space is still occupied with the fluids, caloric, light, and electricity. Therefore, till we can in some way remove these subtle entities, we must, for want of means to disprove it, revert to the ancient dogma.

But, whether this maxim, considered in a strictly philosophical sense, be true or false, still, in so far as it expresses the fact that our world and the works of nature are framed and adjusted on the strictest principles of economy of space and material, it is no less interesting than true, and might well form the motto

So much have we been struck with the singular formation of water-so convincing are the proofs of design drawn from the peculiarities of its nature and constitution, that we can think of no more powerful argument to suggest to our readers in favor of the being of a God, than one founded upon an enumeration of some of the offices which this material agent performs, and an explanation of the peculiar properties which fit it so admirably for these offices.

The ocean is the great store-house of this liquid. From it the sun, acting, if the expression may be allowed, as the agent of the earth, borrows and transmits to her the supply she needs. She, after using it for her various purposes, honestly returns it by gravitation to the ocean, adding, as interest for the loan, such saline and earthly substances as the waters dissolve and carry with them in their passage thither. The benefit arising from this addition we shall presently consider. Without attempting to speak of all the duties which the liquid performs in the several states and situations in which it exists during these revolutions, let us mention but a few of the more essential, and fortify ourselves against the approaches of infidelity by investigating the singular provisions which prepare the liquid for these duties.

The water, which in the form of invisible vapor rises and mixes with the atmosphere, when it becomes condensed by the withdrawal of caloric, falls in rain, snow, hail, or dew. The first office which it performs on reaching the earth is the irrigation of its surface, supplying the vegetation with the moisture essential to its existence. The portion which remains, flows

off, and is gathered in springs and rivulets, where animals obtain it to drink. Thence, collecting into rivers, it returns to the sea. But, besides affording necessary sustenance to the plants and animals which live upon the land, it is so constituted as to become itself the abode of myriads of living creatures. Not only are the ocean and other collections of water tenanted by animals which are of sufficient size to be perceptible to us, but we have ample foundation for believing that every drop of water, however situated, teems with living atoms, too minute to impress our senses, but still possessing each a perfect organization designed to fit it for acting its humble part in the drama of the universe-cach a living evidence of the fact that Nature abhors a vacuum," that her laws and arrangements are such as to leave no space with in her realms, which is not the source of life and enjoyment to her subjects-no place which does not contain a witness of the wisdom and goodness of her Creator.

But what are the peculiar properties which fit this liquid for such a diversity of purposes? Let us select for consideration a few of the more singular and essential.

To what does water owe its present situation? Why, when it enters in so small a proportion into the composition of the globe, does it cover, spread out in a thin film, so large a portion of its surface? Indeed, why does it reach the surface at all-why is it not rather covered up and lost in the other constituents of the earth, since they are so greatly superior to it in quality? How is it enabled to retain a position so singular and, at the same time, so necessary to its usefulness? The existence of this whole arrangement is due to the fact, that water is so formed as to be of less specific gravity than the other materials of the globe. Were this provision suddenly reversed, it would bring ruin upon the whole order of nature. The ocean and inland streams would sink into the bowels of the earth. The solid materials constituting their beds would rise and float upon their surfaces, and would immediately conceal them from our view. The consequences are too apparent to need a recital. "The heavens over our heads would become as brass, and the earth beneath our feet as iron." The world would soon be but the charnel-house of the myriads of its former tenants. How evident then are the marks of design in this beautiful adjustment!

Another property of water is that of solution, or the power which it has of overcoming the gravity of the saline substances with which it comes in contact, and of causing them to diffuse themselves equally through its whole volume. Were the ocean a body of fresh water, with as little motion as it now possesses, it would soon become stagnant and putrid, and consequently could not be inhabited by animals. Its pestilential exhalations would also destroy the inhabitants of the land. Hence the reason why it has been so formed as to be enabled to preserve itself pure by dissolving the common salt and other saline bodies with which it meets.

This, however, is not the only benefit resulting from the nature of sea-water. Its freezing point is

greatly reduced by the saline solution, and, consequently, ice is not formed in the ocean, except in very high latitudes. Its specific gravity too is increased, so that is rendered more fit for the purposes of navigation. But we will not dwell upon these minor advantages.

We have seen how water is enabled to retain its present situation on the surface of the earth; and, thus situated, to combine with itself a preservative against such changes as would render it a source of pestilence and death. Let us now consider the beautiful provision, by which, while thus stored in the ocean, a constant supply is conveyed to the land, to perform its several offices in the laboratory of nature. This conveyance depends upon its volatility at all temperatures and the power which it has of diffusing itself through the air. From the fact that the liquid state is that in which the great mass of the water on the globe always exists, and in which it generally presents itself to our senses, we might be led to conclude that this is its natural state, or, in other words, that this is the condition in which it would remain, were it left to itself, without being affected by other material agents-that evaporation is the consequence of external influence. But the fact is just the reverse. The existence of water on the earth in a liquid form, supplied, as it always is, with a greater quantity of caloric than is requisite for evaporation, is the result of constraint-is proximately owing to the pressure of the atmosphere, ultimately to gravitation. Were the air suddenly to be removed from around the globe, a portion of water would immediately spring into vapor, and supply its place. This evaporation would soon be checked by the pressure of the atmosphere of vapor which it would create. If, however, this removal of the air were the result of the cessation of the attraction of gravitation, there would be no such check; all the water on the earth would assume the gaseous form. These facts are satisfactorily proved by means of the air-pump. If there be water in the bottom of a receiver, and we attempt to exhaust it, after the air is withdrawn, it will continue to be filled with an atmosphere of vapor, and a vacuum will not be produced till the whole of the water disappears. This experiment will succeed equally well if a piece of ice be used instead of water. A vacuura will not be obtained till the ice, without passing into the intermediate liquid state, is pumped from the receiver in the form of vapor.

The reason why the weight of the air retains the water on the earth's surface, is simply this: that the temperature of the water is never so high as to evolve steam of sufficient elasticity to overcome this weight, since 212° is its boiling point, or the degree to which it must be heated, in order to give off vapor of requisite density to rise in opposition to the atmospheric pressure.

Such is the provision by which water is preserved in its condensed state, and an unlimited evaporation prevented. But then, we might naturally ask, how does vapor rise at all, since its temperature is never sufficiently high to enable it to overcome the weight of the air? Why is not all the water in existence