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spirit left the wasted carcass, and I was exiled to this castle, and though I treated all like thee, no one would understand me, and perform, as thou, the service which has freed my soul from bondage. Tarry here till beard and locks again shall cover chin and scalp; and turn thee homeward to thy native town; and on the Weser-bridge of Bremen, at the time when day and night in autumn are alike, wait for a friend who there will meet thee, who will tell thee what to do that it be weil. with thee on earth.”

[At the appointed time, Franz meets a beggar on the bridge, to whom, in the course of conversation, he relates his adventure. The beggar, in turn, tells a strange dream of his youth, in which he describes a garden containing hidden treasure: the garden was Franz's own family garden.] Thus Franz provided comfortably for old Timbertocs, lived happily with his wife, and found the most tolerable mother-in-law that has ever been discovered. From Dumb Love,

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BUSSET, Louis CHARLES ALFRED DE, a French

poet, novelist and dramatist; born at Paris,

November II, 1810; died there, May 1, 1857. After leaving school he devoted himself to literature. His first volume, Les Contes d'Espagne et d'Italie (1830), excited attention from its lax moral tone, as well as from its unmistakable genius. In 1833 appeared La Spectacle dans un Fauteuil and André del Sarto. In his Confession d'un Enfant dit Siècle (1836) he gives, under fictitious names, an account of his liaison with Madame Dudevant (George Sand”). A new edition, published in 1859, led her to publish Elle et Lui, to a rejoinder by Paul de Musset, the brother of Alfred, Lui et Elle, and to a sur-rejoinder by George Sand, none of which are altogether edifying reading. In 1842 he was appointed to a position in the office of the Ministry of the Interior; he was ousted from it at the revolution of 1848, but was restored to it after the establishment of the Empire in 1852. Much of de Musset's poetry is altogether free from any loose taint. He also wrote many clever prose tales and several dramatic compositions. La Nuit de Mai; La Nuit d Août; La Nuit d' Octobre, and La Nuit de Décembre, published in 1835, are among his finest poems. His Works, illustrated, appeared in ten volumes, in 1866.

VENICE,

In Venice not a barque
Is stirring - all is dark,
For through the gloomy night

Breaks ne'er a light.

The lion, gaunt and grand,
Seated upon the strand,
Scans the wide waters o'er

Forevermore.

While many a ship and boat,
In groups around him float,
Like herons, lulled to sleep

Upon the deep.

Over the misty sea,
Fluttering lazily,
Streamers and sails unfurled;

Clinging and curled.

Now the moon's dreamy light
Is flooding all the niglit,
From many a glimmering cloud

Her airy shroud —

Just as some novice would
Draw on hier ample hood,
Yet leaving still, I ween,

Her beauty seen.

And the still water flows
Past mighty porticoes,
And stairs of wealthy knights

In lordly flights.

And the pale statues gleam
In the pure light, and seem
Like visions of the past

Come back at last.

All silent, save the sound
Of guards upon their round,
As on the battled wall

Their footsteps fall.

More than one damsel strays Beneath the pale moon's rays, And waits, with eager ear,

Her cavalier;

More than one girl admiring The charms she is attiring; More than one mirror shows

Black dominoes.

La Vanina is lying,
With languid raptures dying,
Upon her lover's breast

Half lulled to rest.

Narcissa, Folly's daughter,
Holds Festal on the water,
Until the opal morning

Is softly dawning.

Who then in such a clime
But has a madcap time?
Who but to love can give

Life, while he live?

Let the old Doge-clock strike
And hammer as it like,
And count with jealous spite

The hours of night.

But we will count instead
On full lips rosy red,
So many kisses earned;

And then returned;

Count all your charms, my dear;
Count every happy tear,
That loving hearts must borrow
From joy and corrow.

-Translation of HARRY CURWEN.

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When sweet sleep, the sovereign mild,

Peace to all the house has brought, Pépita! my charming child !

What, О what, is then thy thought?

Who knows! Haply dreamest thou

Of some lady doom'd to sigh, At that hope a truth deems now,

All that Truth shall prove a lie.

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