squandered them. Too poor was I to wed her--too poor was she to live without my help. Under disguise, I made her accept charity. I wrote: Some hopes of finding your brother. The branch he established is doing fairly well." And I remitted to her a percentage of the supposed business profits. But I have my reward; the lady so benefited is now my wife ! Her brother, allured by the charm of forbidden fruit, had been enticed by the hideous passion of gambling, and into that vortex of vice, his possessions, his sister's future, my fortune, had been all engulfed. Worse, these fishes, who like to bait their hooks with gentles, converted him, an honorable man, into a drunken, disgraceful scamp-the leader of their gang, at least such a leader as the police would seize in preference to the real master, who kept in the background. Though he had no taste for the wretched life of these convicts out-of-jail, he was their idol-and that made the secret captain jealous. By all means he tried to cast down the image that he had himself erected! But the gang worshipped the American. All the scoundrels of Paris remember to this day James Wharton; out of all of them but one was capable of doing him evil. One night an unknown messenger placed this paper in the hands of the officers of justice. (shows paper from pocket-book) It betrayed the means of entering the gambling den where my friend presided. That hour the place was entered. At the moment the door burst in, the bayonets of the gens d'armes at the windows, the summons to surrender, a pistol shot resounded, and as James Wharton fell dead at the murderer's feet, one of the gamblers cried: "Death to the traitor!"

Most horrible! He who slew my friend was he who sold his brethren. It was months before I found this out. It may be years before I find him out. Till then I rest not easy. Once a gambler always a gambler. I explore in all the continental cities' haunts of vice-where the dice rattle and the money clinks. Some day I shall meet this man, this cunning rogue who set my friend up to receive the blows, and who dethroned him cruelly. Thinking of him, I never see a gentleman, led astray by his youth and cynical advisers, but I try to warn them to avoid the gambler's fate.

THE GRANDMOTHER.

VICTOR HUGO.

Mother of our own dear mother, good old grandam, wake and

smile;

Commonly your lips keep moving when you're sleeping all the

while;

For between your prayer and slumber scarce the difference is known,

But to-night you're like the image of Madonna cut in stone, With your lips without a motion, or a breath, a single one,

Why more heavily than usual dost thou bend thy old gray

brow?

What is it we've done to grieve thee that thou'lt not caress us now?

Grandam, see, the lamp is failing, and the fire burns fast

away;

Speak to us, or fire and lamp-light will not any longer stay, And thy two poor little children, we shall die as well as they.

Ah! when thou shalt wake and find us near the lamp that's ceased to burn,

Dead, and when thou speakest to us, deaf and silent in our

turn;

Then how great will be thy sorrow, then thou'lt cry for us in

vain,

Call upon thy saint and patron for a long, long time, and fain; And a long, long time embrace us, ere we come to life again!

Only feel how warm our hands are; wake and place thy hands in ours;

Wake and sing us some old ballad of the wandering troubadours.

Tell us of those knights whom fairies used to help to love and

fame;

Knights who brought, instead of posies, spoils and trophies to their dame,

And whose war-cry in the battle was a lady's gentle name.

Tell us what's the sacred token wicked shapes and spirits to scare!

And of Lucifer, who was it saw him flying through the air? What's the gem that's on the forehead of the King of Gnomes displayed?

Does Archbishop Turpinpsalter or Roland's enormous blade Daunt the great black King of Evil-say, which makes him most afraid?

Or thy large old Bible reach us, with its pictures bright and

blue;

Heaven all gold, and saints a-kneeling, and the infant Jesus

too,

In the manger with the oxen; and the kings, and soft and slow,

O'er the middle of the pages, guide our fingers as we go,

Reading some of that good Latin speaks to us from God, you know.

Grandam, see, the light is failing—failing; and upon the hearth,

And around the blackened ingle, leaps the shadow in its mirth. Ha! perhaps the spirits are coming! Yes, they'll soon be at

the door;

Wake, oh, wake! and if your praying, dearest grandam, pray

no more;

Sure, you do not wish to fright us, you who cheered us aye before?

But thine arms are colder, colder! and thine eyes so closed are: 'Twas but lately you did tell us of another world afar;

And of heaven you were discoursing, and the grave where

people lie

Told us life was short and fleeting, and of death-that all must die.

What is death? dear grandam, tell us what it is.—You don't

reply!

Long time did those slender voices moan and murmur all

alone;

Still the aged dame awaked not, though the golden morning shone.

Soon was heard the solemn tolling of the solemn funeral bell;
Mournfully the air resounded; and, as silent evening fell,
One who passed that door half opened those two little ones

espied,

With the holy book before them, kneeling at the lone bedside.

JEAN D'ARC.

CLARE S. M'KINLEY.

'Twas in the days of chivalry, when steel-clad warriors swore To bear their ladies' favors amidst the battle's roar,

To right the wrongs of injured maids, the lance in rest to lay,
And nobly fall in honor's cause or triumph in the fray.
But not to-day a lance is couch'd, no waving plume is there,
No war-horse sniffs the trumpet's breath, no banner woos the

air;

No crowding chiefs the tilt-yard throng to quench the thirst of

fame,

Though chiefs are met, intent to leave their names eternal

shame!

A still and solemn silence reign'd, deep darkness veiled the skies,

And Nature, shuddering, shook to see the impious sacrifice! Full in the centre of the lists a dreadful pile is reared, Awaiting one whose noble soul death's terrors never feared,

Gaul's young Minerva, who had led her countrymen to fame,
And foremost in the battle rent that conquered country's chain;
Who, when the sun of fame had set that on its armies shone,
Its broken ranks in order set, inspired and led them on;
The low-born maid that, clad in steel, restor❜d a fallen king,
Who taught the vanquished o'er their foes triumphal songs to

sing;

Whose banner in the battle's front the badge of conquest

stream'd,

And built again a tottering throne, a forfeit crown redeemed!
But when her glorious deeds were done, Fate sent a darker day,
The blaze of brightness faded in murkiest clouds away;
And France stood looking idly on, nor dared to strike a blow,
Her guardian angel's life to save, but gave it to the foe!
Ungrateful France her savior's fate beheld with careless smile,
While Superstition, hiding hate and vengeance, fired the pile!

What holy horror of her crime is looked by yonder priest, Like that grim bird that hovers nigh, and scents the funeral feast!

Is this the maiden's triumph, won in battle's dreadful scenes, Whose banner so triumphant flew before thy walls, Orleans!

Hark to the trumpet's solemn sound! Low roll the muffled drums

As slowly through the silent throng the sad procession comes; Wrapp'd in the garments of the grave, the corslet laid aside, Still with Bellona's step she treads, through all her woes descried.

As beautiful her features now as when inspired she spoke

Those oracles that slumbering France to life and action woke :
The majesty yet haunts her looks, that late so dreadful beam'd
In war, when o'er her burnished arms the long rich tresses
stream'd,

She gazes on the ghastly pile, tho' pale as marble stone;
'Tis not with fear, for from her lips escapes no sigh nor groan;
But she, her country's savior, thus to render up her breath-
That was a pang far worse than all the bitterness of death !