discreet person assures us that it is superior, the visitors there answered the Russian's invi to anything Hugo has written for the last ten years. Gardon's new drama, "Seraphine," is the great success of the month. It is an antiCatholic piece, but full of wit and movement, and will certainly have a long run. Only those who take their places some time beforehand can get into the theatre. At the first representation a shrill whistle (our way of hissing) expressed the discontent of some one; but, happily for the piece, none of the actors were speaking at the time, so the signal had no effect but that of the spectators asking for the interrupter to be turned out. The opera-balls are now in full play, as mad and tumultuous as ever. At the first one, some mauvais plaisants contrived, among other tricks, to empty, in every corner of the foyer, paperfuls of pepper at a moment when it was crammed. Such coughing, sneezing, and crying ensued as mortal never heard, without anyone being capable of accounting for it. Some drew their cloaks over them, imagining that they had caught severe colds, others accused their neighbours of taking snuff, and of throwing it on to them, &c. The annual masses at the Tuileries Chapel have commenced. Letters of invitation are issued by the Grand Chamberlain, by order of the Emperor to assist at these masses to which the ladies go in grand array. It is a kind of State affair, in which great ceremony is observed. Their Majesties are announced when they arrive, and they bow to those who are on either side of them as they pass to their seats. Apropos-the Prince de la Mos Mowa, Edgar Ney, the only surviving son of the famous Marshal Ney, was married at this chapel the other day to one of her Majesty's ladies, the Countess de Labadoliere. The bridegroom is only about fifty-seven, and is the Emperor's most intimate friend. I suppose that is the reason the carbeille of the bride was so rich with lace and diamonds; for the Ney family sort des paniers percés, and never had anything, in spite of all they have received from their country through the munificence of the sovereigns. Talking of the Empress, a mot spirituel of the Princess Clotilde is now running through Paris. Her Majesty Eugenie the other day was complaining before the Princess of the great fatigue Court ceremony caused her; "and you, dear cousin," said she to the Princess, who are proud of belonging to one of the oldest royal families in Europe, "does it not fatigue you also?" 66 Oh, no!" answered her imperial Highness; "but then I have been used to it from my infancy." It appears that the provincial towns are as gay as the capital. Nice in particular is vying with Paris in dinners, balls, and musical soireés. A wealthy Russian gave a fete there the other day that will long be remembered by the fair sex in that town. All the most aristocratic of tation, except the Préfet and his wife, which caused great astonishment, so much so, that the papers spoke of this apparent haughtiness of the chief magistrate of the country. The Préfet in answer, says, that a short time since two Englishmen, visiting Nice, gave a splendid breakfast; at the dessert a quarrel arose between them about who should pay it. The Préfet justly adds, "Had I been there my position would have obliged me to do it-that is why I have determined never to accept an invitation from those I do not know." No one can blame him, I think. A lady at this same place gave a ball during the evening two ladies (mother and daughter) entered the room; the hostess remained stationary in her chair, and never offered to welcome them, but, turning to a lady near her, she said, loud enough for the newcomers to hear, "I did not invite these ladies: really they take my drawing-room for a public room!" Fancy the confusion of the two intruders! After a few minutes they withdrew, deeply wounded by the insult. The next day the husband enclosed the letter of invitation his wife and daughter had received to the ungracious woman, assuring her that they would not have thought of intruding had they not received that letter. She tried to get out of it as well as she could by apology, but the insult remains. At another of these balls Madame Rattazzi, although a talented woman, and the wife of an eminent man, was shunned by the ladies as if she had been the pest. The gentlemen, in revenge, were at her feet. On the whole, I think Paris festivities are preferable to those of Nice, though even here we are not always the most amiable or gallant, not more than other countries, in spite of our reputation. Madame Someone-remarkable for her want of beauty-was one day in her carriage in a narrow street where it was difficult to pass, she heard her coachman in altercation with another who wanted to pass with his carriage, containing the witty Duke of S. The Duke, impatient, ordered his coachman to proceed. The lady arose from her reclining position, and showing her face at the door, expostulated on the want of politeness on the Duke's part. "Oh, Madame," he answered, "why did you not show yourself before? My horse, my coachman, and myself would have quickly drawn back if you had!" Adieu, with kind compliments. S. A. PS. The conference on the Greek and Turkish question is ended; but we are not yet let into the secret of the gods-much to our vexation. LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. THE MULETEER. BY NETTIE CARLYLE. It was early morning in the ancient city of Granada. The snowy tops of the Sierra Nevada, which encircle it on every side, were glittering like silver in the first rays of the rising sun, but the city, with its domes and spires, was still wrapped in shadow. side of his patient companion, now puffing at his cigar, now singing a snatch of some old Spanish song, till at length the burning noontide arrived, and the mule declared, as plainly as mule ever spoke, that he would go no farther. "Poor Sancho!" said his master, patting the rough, shaggy head, "I believe thou art right; we will stop just here, under the shade of the trees, and eat our dinner." So saying, he fastened the mule's bridle to a low branch, and seating himself on the short green grass, took out of his provision-bag some pieces of bread and an onion. These, washed down with some fresh water from the brook, formed his frugal dinner. Early as it was, however, the inhabitants were all astir. Water carriers, driving before them funny little donkeys laden with great earthen jars, were hastening along to the deepest, coolest wells, so as to supply their customers in time for breakfast; shopmen in the bazaars were Jaying out their gayest silks to tempt the pretty senoras, who, wrapped in their lace mantillas, tripped demurely along the broad streets and squares, to attend morning prayers at the cathe-should be over. dral. In one of the narrower streets of Granada, on this bright June morning, a patient mule was standing in front of an old tumble-down house, awaiting the appearance of his master. It was a long journey honest Pedro was about to undertake-nothing less than a trip to the seaport town of Malaga, to dispose of the goods with which the mule was laden. At length the half-closed door was thrown open, and the muleteer sallied forth, followed by his wife and three shouting children. Each little one carried something for father's use; black-eyed Pedro came lugging a great water-bottle, almost as large as himself; sturdy little Philippe carried the alforjas, or bag of provisions; while little Lotta, the youngest, not to be outdone, scampered forward with a cigar in her tiny fingers. At length all was ready. The poor mule was so well laden that scarcely anything more than his head and tail could be seen, and Pedro, with an air of satisfaction, remarked-"Those goods will bring a large price in Malaga." "Now Pedro," said his wife, anxiously, "be sure to have thy weapon always loaded, and keep a sharp lookout, for there are many robbers on the road." "My good trabucho will take care of them," answered Pedro, with a smile, as he slung the heavy weapon to his saddle. "I should like to see the rascally bandolero who would dare to come within its range." One more embrace from each of the children, and he set off. Slowly wending his way through the crooked uneven streets, he came at length to the gate of the city. a Before him stretched the beautiful Vega, perfect fairy-land of gardens, orchards, and sunny fields. Merrily he trudged along by the The mule, meanwhile, was cropping the grass with much satisfaction, and Pedro, after glancing round to assure himself that no one was in sight, lay down to rest till the heat of noon Below him was the city, its red-tiled roofs glowing in the sun's scorching rays, while far above, on the other side, rose the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada, towering up into the clear blue sky. At length the muleteer roused himself. "We must gain the mountain-pass ere night. Dost hear, Sancho?" Sancho pricked up his ears, announcing his willingness to go on, and in a few moments they were again on their way. The path now began to grow more barren and rocky as it slowly wound along towards the mountains. Soon it entered a wild, dark valley, where rough walls of rock towered above them on each side, almost shutting out the sunlight. This was the mountain pass. The mule picked his way cautiously along, amid rocks and stones, till at length the gorge was passed, and they entered the open country once more. Dreary and desolate was the scene before them. A vast barren plain, without a single tree or bush, and covered only by a few scanty blades of grass. It was now nightfall, and not a single house was in sight. He spread his cloak on the ground, and placing the bridle of the mule beneath his saddle-bags, which did duty for a pillow, stretched himself on the ground, and was soon fast asleep. Little did honest Pedro care for this, however. The stars kept quiet watch over his slumbers, and he did not wake next morning till the long slanting rays of the sun, as it slowly rose above the level plain, shone full into his face. Springing up, he made a hasty breakfast, and was soon on his way. He had not travelled far before somothing in the distance attracted his notice. He clambered to the back of the mule to obtain a better view, and soon exclaimed, in great excitement-"It is a rascally bandolero plundering some poor traveller." The next moment the mule was trotting across the plain as fast as his short legs would carry him, and rapidly nearing the robber. The latter, startled at this unexpected interruption, raised his head, and seizing the bridle of his horse, which stood near, sprang into the saddle just as a bullet from Pedro's trabucho whistled close past his ears. He was soon scouring across the plain at a rate which rendered pursuit impossible, and Pedro turned his attention towards the traveller, who was lying prostrate on the ground. He was a young and handsome man, but now deathly pale from the loss of blood, which was flowing freely from a terrible wound in his arm. Pedro bound up the wound as well as he was able, and then, with the help of a flask of brandy, proceeded to revive the half-fainting stranger. His efforts were successful; in a few moments the young man was able to sit up and tell his story. He was a merchant, a stranger in Granada, and bound for the sea-coast. His goods had been sent thither a few days before, in charge of a strong, well-armed travelling party; but he himself had foolishly lingered behind, and attempted to cross the plains alone. "I had more money with me than I cared to lose," he proceeded; " and when yon rascally bandolero attacked me just now I resisted; but he proved too strong for me, as you see. He has emptied my pockets, but the greater part of my money is concealed in my clothing, and, thanks to your kind help, it is safe." While the stranger was speaking, Pedro stood with his eyes fixed upon the ground, in deep thought. He knew that the young man's wound needed to be attended to by a physician as soon as possible; but, on the other hand, to turn back to Granada would cost him more time and money than he could well afford to lose. to act. His generous heart soon prompted him how "Hark thee, friend," he said, turning to the stranger, "let me help thee to thy horse, if thou art able to stand. We will go back to Granada, and find a skilful leech to attend to that arm of thine. My poor house, with all that it contains, is at thy service, till thou art able to start on thy journey once more." The merchant thanked him warmly, and, staggering to his feet with some difficulty, was at length placed on his horse. On account of the roughness of the road, it was necessary to travel very slowly, and consequently two days and nights elapsed before, with honest Pedro, he entered the gates of Granada. By that time the exposure and pain had brought on a fever, so that it was with great difficulty that he was able to keep his horse. Great was the wonder of the children at beholding their father returned so soon, and their astonishment was increased when, gently lifting the sick stranger, he bore the almost insensible form through the doorway, and laid it on the best couch the house afforded. The good wife was rather disposed to murmur at this additional charge. "Dost thou think," she said to her husband, "that we can afford to turn the house into a hospital for any sick wayfarer thou may'st pick up on the road?" But when she heard the sad story of the stranger, and perceived that he was seriously ill, her heart was touched, and she at once set about making him as comfortable as her limited means allowed. Pedro, in the meantime, sallied forth, and soon returned with a skilful surgeon. With the utmost care, it was nearly three weeks before the merchant was able to proceed again on his journey. In the meantime his frank, winning manners had made him a general favourite in the household. Little Pedro and Philippe liked nothing better than to sit at his feet, listening to his wonderful stories of foreign lands, for young as he was, he had been a great traveller; while little Lotta, the youngest, was perfectly contented if she could only nestle in his arms, her curly head laid close against his breast, and her dark, lustrous eyes upturned to his face. It was a beautiful morning in July, when, accompanied by honest Pedro, he again set off. Before mounting his horse, however, he laid. two broad pieces of gold in the muleteer's rough hand, and calling little Lotta to his side, threw over her head a dainty golden chain. "Let the little one wear this to remember me by till I come back again," he said; "I shall never forget your care and kindness, and some day I hope to be able to repay them better." Thus speaking, he waved a last adieu, and slowly followed the muleteer through the crooked streets of the city. No further accident befell either of the travellers, and in due time they reached their destination. Two years passed away, and the stranger was almost forgotten. Little Lotta, indeed, fondly cherished her golden chain, and never took it off her neck at night without praying the Virgin and all the blessed saints to take care of her handsome, merry friend, and send him back to her again. At length a great misfortune befell honest Pedro. While returning from one of his journeys to Malaga, he was set upon by three robbers, and after a desperate resistance was obliged to give up, not only his money, but what was even dearer, the poor mule which had borne him over so many a weary mile. Returning to Granada, penniless, footsore, and weary, he was met at the door of his own house by his wife, who, with tears in her eyes, informed him that little Lotta was dangerously sick. "It was only this morning that the blessed little lamb was taken ill, but already she knows no one, and her fever increases every hour." Without a word Pedro entered, and followed his wife into the next room. The little girl lay upon a low couch, her curly hair pushed back from her throbbing temples, and her dark eyes glowing with the wild light of fever. The father stooped down and kissed the burning cheeks, murmuring-" Lotta, darling Lotta, dost thou not know father?" The child's only answer was a low moan. "Father, shall I go for a doctor?" asked little Pedro, who had been watching by his sister's bedside. "Nay," answered his father, with true Spanish pride," why should we send for a doctor when we cannot hope to pay him? My boys, we are penniless beggars !" Then in a few words he told the story of his loss. His wife burst into loud lamentations, while the children, though hardly as yet understanding the full extent of their misfortune, wept for sympathy. 66 "This will not do," said the father, rousing himself at length, we are forgetting Lotta." He then proceeded to try such remedies for fever as bis simple skill suggested. His wife left the room to attend to her household affairs, and her eldest son followed, but little Philippe still stood by his sister's bedside, the tears chasing each other down his dark cheeks. "Oh, father!" he at length burst forth passionately, "what would we do if Lotta should die ?" The father only groaned and buried his face in his hands. Long he sat there motionless, whilst the sunset light faded away, and the dim, shadowy twilight crept on apace. Suddenly the sound of footsteps broke the stillness, and, looking up, he saw standing in the doorway the tall figure of a man. "How goes the world with you, my good Pedro?" said a pleasant voice, whose tones sounded strangely familiar. "I found the door open, and, taking the liberty of an old acquaintance, I entered without knocking. What! do you not know me?" he continued, smiling at Pedro's bewilderment. "Have you forgotten the wounded stranger whom you found on the plains, and nursed back to life again ?" I understand," said the latter, nodding with a satisfied air. When the doctor had departed the stranger told his story. He had retired from business a rich man, and having no relations in the world, had determined to spend the rest of his days with his honest friends in Granada. "I hope the little one has not forgotten me," he said. "With your permission, I mean to act as nurse till she has fully recovered." So saying, he threw off his cloak and seated himself by the bedside of the sick child. More than a week past away before little Lotta was conscious again, One bright, still afternoon she woke from a long refreshing sleep, and fixed her dark eyes upon her old friend sitting by her bedside. "I knew you would come back," she murmured, while a glad smile lighted up her pale face. Then stretching out one little wasted hand, she laid it in her friend's broad palm with a look of perfect contentment. "Yes, Little Lotta," he whispered, leaning over her, "I have come back, never to go away again. Now lie still, darling, and you will soon be well." "Ah! wife," said Pedro, who was watching at a distance, "did I not tell thee that a good action never goes unrewarded?” Pedro's words have been more than fulfilled. From a poor muleteer he has become a rich trader, but never are the wretched and sorrowing turned away from his door. As for little Lotta, she is now a beautiful maiden, the pride and joy of the whole family, but especially of her adopted brother, who always calls her "the Rose of Granada!" THE SILLY SHEPHERDESS. No, Pedro had not forgotten him. Starting up, "Let us have a game of the Silly Shephe warmly welcomed his old acquaintance. herdess," said little Fanny, one bright summer"But what is this?" said the merchant, glanc-morning, as the young family assembled on ing at the couch. "My little Lotta sick! not the lawn. dangerously, I hope?" "I do not know," stammered Pedro: "we have not sent for a doctor." "Not sent for a doctor!" said the stranger reproachfully; "here, Philippe," and he turned to the little boy; "haste thee quickly for the most skilful physician thou canst find. Tarry not!" The boy needed no second bidding. He flew off like the wind, and speedily returned with a grave old doctor. "It was well you did not delay sending for me any longer," said that worthy, shaking his head gravely as he bent over the couch. "The child is very sick, but I think, with the aid of the Blessed Virgin, we can bring her through safely." "Spare no pains, no expense," said the stranger, slipping a gold piece into the doctor's hand. "How do you play it ?" asked her cousin Katie, who was staying with them. "O, we will show you. Philip shall be a wolf, and I will be a shepherdess. All of you are to be my sheep. Now take hands, all six of you, and stand closely, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with your arms down by your sides. Philip will hide behind the laurels. Now I take a stick which I must call my crook, and I measure how long a string you make instead of counting you; that is why I am called the silly Shepherdess. I must see how many sticks or crooks you are long. Now! One, two, three, four, five, six," she added, measuring them across the chest with her stick. "I see, six sticks long. Now I must go away, and Ada will show you what to do next. Fanny then ran off, sat down on the bench under the oak-tree, and pretended to go to sleep. THE PEARL RING. "Sister lambs," said Ada in a whisper, "I think I should like to have a little run outside the fold. If the Shepherdess should come while (Lines suggested by a ring, the pearls in which were I am gone, will you try to prevent her from findcaptured at Seringapatam.) ing out that I am not here?" All the lambs answered-"Yes, we will 'try." Then Ada ran away, and danced and jumped about like a little frolicking lamb. But very soon Philip (who made a capital wolf) sprang from behind his tree, and carried her off with him to his den. And now Fanny woke up; and when the lambs saw her coming, the two end ones stretched out their arms as far as they could. "For," they said, "two arms' length will be wider even than our sister-lamb was." The silly shepherdess measured her lambs again. When she had finished, she said-"This is wonderful! they have grown since I went to sleep; they have grown a little longer." Then she went away again. "Sister Lambs," said Anna, "I think I should like to have a little run outside the fold. If the Shepherdess should come while I am gone, will you try to prevent her from finding out that I am not here ?" All the lambs answered-"Yes, we will try." Fanny woke up again, and came to measure them. And now the lambs stood apart a little way from each other, and stretched out their arms to make the length of the six sticks. This sort of play went on till so many lambs were gone, or had been taken by the wolf, that only two were left. Then they put only the tips of their fingers together, and stretched out their arms, to deceive the shepherdess; but as they could not, even thus, make six sticks in length, the silly shepherdess guessed what had happened, and went in search of the wolf. Wolf, wolf!" she cried, "give me back my lambs." "Shepherdess, you shall have them if you can catch them," said the wolf. And he let all the lambs out of his den. The shepherdess ran after them. While she was gone, the cunning wolf stole the two lambs left. When at last the shepherdess caught a lamb, it became "Shepherdess" instead, and the game began over again. "Do you understand it now, Katie?" gasped breathless Fanny, as she brought Katie, whom she had caught, back to her place. "Yes; only does 'Wolf' go on always the same, or do we choose a new Wolf?" ་ "The old Shepherdess' becomes 'Wolf," said Fanny. "It is my turn now, and Philip will be a lamb. I will let you have a good frolic before I catch you." Katie soon knew the game, and so I think will you, if you try it. If there are any very little ones amongst the party of playfellows, the wolf must be careful not to howl too loud, for fear of frightening them. A good boy or girl will always take care not to frighten or hurt the tender little creatures who are allowed to join their sports. BY H. P. MALET. While gazing on that ring of thine, While looking on these gems we hide These pearls were brought by busy hand But Tippo Sultan fell, the prize PRINTING, The origin of printing is completely enveloped in mystery; and an art which commemorates all other inventions-which hands down to posterity every important event-which immortalises the discoveries of genius and the exploits of greatness -which has been the most effectual instrument in tion of a bigoted age-and which above all continues banishing the darkness and overturning the superstito extend and diffuse the word of God to all mankind this very art has left its origin in obscurity and given employment to the studies and researches of the most learned men in Europe to determine to whom the honour of its invention is justly due. |