prayer, while they bent on the Grand-Duke tearful and yet joybeaming eyes.

The noble prince was greatly moved, and spoke many kind and condescending words, telling them, if any misfortune should ever befal them, to apply fearlessly to him, and he would help them if he could. Meanwhile, his best wish for them, he said, was, that they might continue truthful, honest, sincere, and God-fearing. and for himself, that they and all his loving subjects would pray for him.

And that they did most conscientiously and fervently, day by day, and such prayers are a blessing, even to a crowned head; a truth which both sovereigns and people would do well to remember.

HOW MARRIAGE IS LIKE A DEVONSHIRE LANE.

The following ballad, descriptive of the Devonshire lanes of olden time, was written by the Rev. John Marriott, vicar of Broadclist, Devon :

J

Na Devonshire lane, as I trotted along

T'other day, much in want of a subject for song,
Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain :

Sure, marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.

In the first place, 'tis long, and when you are in it,
It holds you as fast as a cage does a linnet;
For tho' rough, ay, and dirty the road may be found,
Drive forward you must; there is no turning round.

But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide,
For two are the most that together can ride;
And e'en then 'tis a chance but they get in a bother,
And jostle, and cross, and run foul of each other.

Oft Poverty meets them with mendicant looks,
And Care pushes by them, o'erladen with crooks!
And Strife's grazing wheels try between them to pass,
And Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass.

Then the banks are so high, to the left hand and right.
That they shut out the beauties around them from sight;
And hence, you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain,

That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

But thinks I, too, these banks, within which we are pent,
With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent;
And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam,
Looks lovely, when decked with the comforts of Home.

In the rocks' gloomy crevice the bright holly grows,
The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose;

And the ever-green love of a virtuous wife

Soothes the roughness of care, cheers the winter of life.

Then-long be the journey, and narrow the way,
I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay;
And, whate'er others say, be the last to complain,
Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

T

THE THREE NIGHTCAPS.

HE Château des Fées was a large old-fashioned mansion, standing in the midst of beautiful grounds in the fertile province

of Normandy. The house was built comparatively low, with a noble porch supported on massive granite pillars before the front, and elegant figures round the parapet on the roof.

My uncle was the owner of the castle at the time of which 1 am writing the earlier part of the present century. He had inherited it from his mother's brother, but had, until his uncle's death, lived in England with his parents, his father being an Englishman. With the estate he also inherited a considerable sum of money, which was more than sufficient to keep up such an establishment as the size of the house required. My uncle determined, therefore, to reside at the Château des Fées, declaring that the bright sunshine of France suited him better than the cold atmosphere of England.

It was secretly whispered that this sentiment implied more than it expressed; and it was even asserted that a young English lady had jilted him in earlier days, and that he had never recovered the shock. How far this assertion was true I have never been able to ascertain; but it was quite evident that any affaire du coeur had not had any ill effect on his kindly nature and disposition; for he was gentle and considerate to every one, and beloved by all who knew him. He was a bachelor, and for this reason had generally one of his nieces from England staying at the château to keep house for him, and prevent his growing "a crabbed old man," as he laughingly expressed it.

It is proverbial that all old bachelors have peculiarities; and I must own that, in one instance, my uncle was not exempt from this sweeping rule. His peculiarity was certainly rather a curious one; it was this—that he never went to bed without wearing three nightcaps.

My uncle suffered from occasional attacks of neuralgia in the head, and, for this reason, was obliged to be rather careful; but rheumatism was essentially a family complaint, and my uncle held it as a theory that this was caused by persons sleeping with their heads exposed to the night air. "Why," he argued, "should one heap blankets all over the body and leave the head uncovered? One

breathes through the nose, and not through the back of one's head; therefore," said he, "it is only necessary to leave the former member exposed."

My uncle's nightcaps were not all alike; the first was made of scarlet flannel (being a warm colour), and had lappets attached to the end, which completely covered the ears, and were tied with a string under the chin. The next was a thin elastic cotton cap, more, it would appear, for the purpose of keeping the other in its place than for warmth. The third and uppermost was, in every sense, the most important: to give an exact description of it would be a matter of difficulty, as it appeared in different aspects on different nights. At one time it would be of black velvet, at another of scarlet cloth braided tastily with gold braid, or embroidered with flowers of many hues.

My uncle's partiality for handsome nightcaps was so well known that many of his lady-friends and nieces would make them for him; and I have heard my uncle seriously declare that, on his fiftieth birthday, he received no less than nineteen different nightcaps.

During the month of November, 1830, I was visiting my uncle at the Château des Fées; it was very disagreeable weather, but we managed to be very happy. Many of my uncle's friends were in the habit of spending a few hours with him in the evening, which made the time pass pleasantly. One evening, the curé of the parish and the village notaire had been spending a few hours at the house. It was a dull rainy evening, and the wind blew in gusts. My uncle did not like the idea of his two friends leaving him in such weather; and, as they were on the point of starting, he drew them back and begged them to stay during the night. The village priest only laughed, and said that mine host evidently did not know the life of a pasteur, or he would not think much of such an one as he going out in a little shower; and the lawyer said my uncle was

far too considerate and kind. "Nonsense," said

my uncle; "don't call it kindness to save a friend a mile's walk in weather in which it is not fit for a dog to put his nose out of his kennel.”

"Bah! the weather will not penetrate our thick greatcoats; so, if that is all you fear, good night!"

"Ah! but,” argued my uncle, “that is not all I fear. You know how many persons have lately been pulled up by highwaymen, and have had their pockets rifled, and been seriously discomforted in many ways. Come, now, give up the idea of going home, and stay here instead."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the attorney; "so we are to be pickpocketed during a short mile's walk, which we have both taken hundreds of times on many darker nights, and at later hours too. No, no; I really believe you are nervous yourself, and want us to stay and help to frighten away the bogies. Is it not so ?"

"No, indeed," retorted my uncle; "I am far too matter of fact to trouble my head about bogies, material or immaterial, until they really make their appearance at the château."

My uncle's manner seemed, however, to belie his words; for he gave a nervous little cough, which he tried to convert into a laugh as he finally shook hands with his friends: and thus they departed.

It was indeed a fearful night. Every moment the wind rose higher, and blew round the old mansion with such violence that it seemed to threaten destruction to the very walls. It was about eleven o'clock when my uncle retired to his room. This was a

large old-fashioned chamber, quite in keeping with the rest of the castle; its walls were gloomy with tapestry of an ancient date; the door was hung in such a manner that it was difficult to detect whether it opened from within or without, or indeed whether any door existed at all. Opposite was a fireplace, which, instead of a stove, contained iron dogs, on which blazed a bright wood fire.