HOME. "The light of other days." There I see the loved ones kneeling That to Home the free heart bind ? Round that heart its spells to wind ?— No: that free heart's deep devotion Deeper swells from day to day, Like the angry waves of ocean Heaving on their foamy way. never opened the door unless she was fully convinced by the sound of the person's voice, that they were friends whom she might safely admit. There could, therefore, be no doubt that it was done by some persons on intimate terms with their victim-but who, was the question; her acquaintances were few, very few, but they were all persons of irreproachable characters, and it would have been cruel in the highest degree to have attached the suspicion of the crime to any of them, unless there were some strong grounds for so doing. THERE was a circumstance which made some sensation at Paris at the time it took place, not only from the peculiar features of the case, but from the means by which the discovery of the real offender was made. You know that long narrow street which runs close by where the Bastille used to stand. I cannot at present remember the name, but that is of little importance. It is now many years since, that the "rez de chaussee" of one of the houses in that street was inhabited by an elderly woman who had formerly been attendant on an infirm gentleman for a long period, and at his death, as a recompense for her assiduous All, therefore, that could be done on the occasion, attentions, had been left by him in comfortable cir- was to draw up a "process" of the circumstance, cumstances. She was one of those old women who attested by the surgeon and some of the neighbors— were ever fearing the instability of the institutions of and it was left to time to point out some clue to the her country, and could not be prevailed upon to put murderer. But, in the course of a few months, the her money either in the funds or on mortgage, but circumstance seemed almost forgotten, or, if rememkept dipping from time to time, as her necessities re-bered, it was merely as a gossip's story, related because quired, into her principal, which she always kept by there hung some strange mystery, which all being her, quaintly remarking to those few of her friends unable to solve, they might safely hazard a conjecture, who were in her secrets, that the sieur's chest, lock and appear marvellous wise. and key, were highly responsible bankers. The old lady, whose name was Audran, had been for some time seriously indisposed, and was attended by a highly respectable surgeon, a Monsieur D'Arsac, and under his care was fast recovering, and wanted, as the surgeon said, only a few days' quiet to effect her perfect restoration-poor woman! she was soon quiet enough, but her quietude was that of eternity! -for M. D'Arsac came to me one morning, and with wild and horror-stricken looks informed me, that on going as usual to visit his patient, he had found her brutally murdered. I accompanied him to her rooms, and found, as he had stated, the poor old woman lying in her bed, with her throat cut so as almost to sever the head from the body. The room had been rifled of every valuable it contained, and the poor old lady's favorite bankers had stopped payment. There was no appearance of force in entering the rooms. It had been Madame Audran's habit during her illness to open her door by a pulley attached to her bedside, which lifted a strong iron bar, and had any attempt been made to force it, the neighborhood must have been alarmed, as it was well known that she kept no servant, and was so excessively nervous on her bankers' account, that she You are going, M. Vidocq, to the wedding tonight, are you not?" said Madame Parguet, the winemerchant's wife, one day, when she came to me to make her pretty usual inquiry as to where her husband had slept out the night before, not giving im plicit credence to the little way out of town, my dear." 44 settle an equal sum with that brought by Emile. Do you know, Madame, how that has been arranged?" "An uncle of his died in the provinces, and left him the money." "I never knew he had one." "Nor I, until the other day; I never heard him mention a word about an uncle until it had been all settled about the marriage, and the money on each side paid into the trustees' hands. But I must wish you a good day, Mons. Vidocq, and am much obliged to you for the information. I am an unhappy woman to have such a husband as Parguet-going out of town,' indeed!-I'll out of town him with a vengeance," said Madame, and hastened out of the room to scold her husband-dress for the wedding-and afterwards appear with him so lovingly as to elicit the usual exclamation, " if we were as happy as Monsieur and Madame Parguet, we should indeed be happy." The evening was delightful, and the illuminations at the "Jardin Beaulieu" every body pronounced to be superior to any thing that had been seen for a long time; so charming-so happy every body looks-how beautifully the bride is dressed-what a very pleasant evening we shall have! were the expressions passing from one to another. The dancing was kept up with out cessation; first quadrilles-then waltzing-every body, in fact, seemed determined to be pleased. "Oh, look," said some, " the bride is going to stand up in a quadrille; how elegantly she dances!" to sell it to me, but was always refused. she would part with it only at her death." She said This is very strange; I hardly know what to think! I do not wish to hurt her feelings, but can you learn from her how she became possessed of it?" This Madame Parguet undertook to do under pretence of admiring it, and saying she wished to know where she might obtain a similar one. In a few minutes she returned, having gleaned from the gentle and ill-fated bride all that she knew concerning it: it had been given to her that morning by her dear D'Arsac, and she would ask him where he got it, and let her know in the morning. This information in some degree confirmed the suspicions I had previously entertained, that none but D'Arsac could be the murderer; but then his character had hitherto been unblemished, and he stood high in every man's report. It was not a thing to hesitate about; the conviction in my own mind was so strong, that I considered it my duty to arrest him without delay. I accordingly procured some of my agents, who were in the neighborhood, and sent to him to say I wished a few moments' private conversation with him. As he entered the room, I heard the soft, sweet voice of his bride chiding him for leaving her, and exacting a promise he would not stay long-long! poor girl, she little thought how long the separation would be that his promise of a quick return would be the last words to fall upon her ear. As the door closed, I approached D'Arsac, and said, Sir, you are my prisoner!" Looking at me, at the same time, as if to read in my face the answer to what he dared not ask, at last, with a gasp for breath, he faltered out, " For what?" 'Happy man, D'Arsac!" sighed many an admiring" swain. "Eh! why what is the matter?—the quadrille has stopped." "Madame Parguet has fainted. Lead her away from the dancers into the open air of the garden," cried some one. "It is nothing," said Madame Parguet; "merely a slight spasm. I shall be much better if you will let me walk a few minutes about the garden by myself. But here is Mons. Vidocq-he does not dance, and will allow me to lean on his arm." So saying, she took my arm, and the rest, at her request, resumed their dancing. "You are accused of the murder of Madame Audran!" His color fled in an instant, and he seemed as if he were about to fall, but covering his face with his hands, he remained a few moments in thought. His deep hard breathing betokened a suppressed sighone that tried for utterance, but was forced back; presently he sobbed out, "Oh, my poor Emile! this will be your death!" and dashing his hand across his fore"Oh, Mons. Vidocq," said she, "I have had such head, and striving to recover the sudden shock he had a shock." sustained, said, "I am ready to follow you." At the door he paused a moment, saying, "Could not something be said to Emile that I am ill? something to console her for my absence? any thing but the truth, though it must soon out. Oh, Heavens; but this is too much"-and he dashed into the coach at the door, and was at once conveyed to prison. The Tribunals being always sitting at Paris, his trial soon took place, and many things came out against him which he could not rebut; the sudden possession of a large sum of money, which he had accounted for by the death of an uncle, was proved to be false, as he had never had one. The brooch, too, which was proved to have belonged to Madame Audran, he could not say where he had obtained: "How do you know it? you may-you must be besides other minor circumstances, which left so little mistaken." "No, no, I have seen it a thousand times; besides, it was so uncommon a pattern that I often asked her doubt in the minds of the majority of his jury, that he was found guilty. Murder, in all countries, is punished alike-by death-and such was his sentence. That he did not die by the hands of the executioner, health. He sat down in her room, musing on the was not the fault of the law. He had procured some strong poison, which he took the morning previous to his intended death on a scaffold, and left in disgrace a world wherein, by his talents, he might have shone one of its brightest ornaments. A short time previous to his death, he confessed the crime, and how it had taken place. He had been or some long time striving to amass a sufficient sum of money to meet the views of Emile's friends; he had got together more than half the requisite amount, when he thought he might by one coup obtain the whole; in an evil hour, he tried for the first time in his life the gaming-table, and found himself in a few minutes, a beggar, and the hopes of possessing Emile arther than ever removed from him. Returning home, he chanced to pass by Madame Audran's, and the orce of habit led him to inquire after his patient's waywardness of his fate for a few minutes, and on rising to go, perceived Madame Audran had fallen into a slumber; his eye, at that moment, fell upon her chest of valuables, and the devil instigated him to that murder as the fulfilment of all his hopes, which a few moments consideration would have shown the fallacy of With all the pains which were taken the truth could not be concealed from Emile; it cast a fixed gloom upon her mind that could not be removed; she sickened at the sight, and thought of all her former pleasures and pursuits, and lived in the world as one who bore no part in the events of life-a stranger to all around. It was not of long duration, for a few months saw her a prey to those morbid feelings of the mind which nought on earth could allay. J. M. B. THE POETRY OF POLAND. BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, BLOCKLEY, PENN. THE history of poetry in Poland, anterior to the sixteenth century is rather imperfect. There are several poems now published, which it is said were written at that time; but so antiquated is the phraseology, that it is impossible to render them in English. One of them, which is perhaps the oldest poem in the Polish language, is supposed to have emanated from the pen of St. Albert, the same who converted the Poles to Christianity. It is a hymn, to be sung before battle. About the beginning of the sixteenth century, Kochanowski attained considerable notoriety. His poems are very beautiful, but lack originality; depending more on the melodious flow of their verse, than the novelty of their ideas. His elegies, many of which are unfortunately lost, are of all his works, the most deserving of attention. He is the translator of Virgil's Æneid, and Tasso's Gieurusalem Liberata into Polish. One of his contemporaries was Sarbiwski, the Jesuit. This latter bard, who received the laurel crown at Rome, wrote altogether in Latin. His forte was lyrical poetry. The wars which agitated Poland during the whole of the seventeenth and the commencement of the eighteenth century, prevented the extensive cultivation of literature; and for this reason we find that time to be barren in poetry. Towards the close of the latter period, there flourished at the court of Stanislaus Augustus, the celebrated Bishop Krasicki. He produced the well-known poem, called, "Monomachia, or the Wars of the Monks," a severe satire on the mode of education then pursued in the religious colleges. So pungent is its language, that to it is ascribed the honor of changing the then existing system of instruction. He also wrote " The Fashionable Wife," "The Drunkard," "The Gamester," "The war of Chocini," an epic poem, with several others of less merit; and translated the Ossian of Macpherson. His great work, "Monomachia," has been rendered into several European languages. of forty thousand florins. It remained in the Potock family until 1830, when its owner, Alexander Po tocki, being engaged in the insurrection, it was confiscated by Nicolas, and by him presented to his Empress. Few specimens of the poetry of Wiegerski and Korsak have come into my possession. The following is a translation of one of Korsak's pieces. Her lips are ever streaming Sweet kisses unto me, Oh! when to me she's speaking My soul her accents hears, When e'er her true love greeting And clasped in close embrace ;- When change's wing soars over Joys green and springing heath, And blasts him with its breath :- Before a week be flying, Another love she'll take, She bids her lover smother His feelings and depart, But no one owns her heart:- Cotemporary with Krasicki, and residing at the same court, were Naruczwicz, a celebrated historian and lyric poet, Wiegerski, Korsak, and Trembetski. The latter of these was the author of "Sophiowka," a poem, descriptive of the celebrated garden, then in the possession of the Potocki family. This garden was built by Count Potocki, and by him presented to his wife, a Grecian lady, upon the day he married her. Her name was Sophia, hence the name "Sophiowka." This garden was the wonder of all Europe; and we may form some idea of its magnificence, when we know, that it cost several millions of dollars, and was maintained at an annual expense Radziwil. At the commencement of the nineteenth century, Dmochowski, author of several tragedies of merit, and translator into Polish of the "Cid" of Corneille, and Pope's "Rape of the Lock," stepped forward as a candidate for public favor. Cotemporary with him was Malczewski, the author of "Maria," Zablewski, a writer of lyrics, and Felinski, author of Barbara |