do with yourself. Whenever a man tells you he has nowheres to go to, or says he 's goin' nowheres, that man's a crawlin' home, because he can't help it. Well, well-there's nothin' else to be did, and so somebody must turn out and let me in home." It appeared, however, that Montezuma Moggs erred in part in this calculation. It is true enough that he knocked and knocked for admission at the door of his domicile; but the muscular effort thus employed seemed to serve no other purpose than that of exercise. Tired with the employment of his hands in this regard, Moggs resorted to his feet-then tried his knee, and anon his back, after the usual desperate variety of such appeal resorted to by the "great locked out," when they become a little savage or so at the delay to which they are subjected. Sometimes, also, he would rap fiercely, and then apply his eye to the key-hole, as if to watch for the effect of his rapping. "I don't see 'em," groaned he. And then again, his ear would be placed against the lock-"I don't hear 'em either." There were moments when he would frantically kick the door, and then rush as frantically to the middle of the street, to look at the windows; but no sign of animation from within peered forth to cheer him. After full an hour of toil and of hope deferred, Montezuma Moggs tossed his arms aloft in despair-let them fall listlessly at his side, and then sat down upon the curbstone to weep, while the neighbors looked upon him from their respective windows; a benevolent few, not afraid of catching cold, coming down to him with their condolements. None, however, offered a resting place to the homeless, unsheltered and despairing Meggs. In the course of his musings and mournings, as he sat chattering with cold, a loosened paving-stone arrested his attention; and, with the instinct of genius, which catches comfort and assistance from means apparently the most trivial, and unpromising in their aspect, the paving-stone seemed to impart an idea to Montezuma Moggs, in this "his last and fearfulest extremity." Grappling this new weapon in both his hands, he raised it and poised it aloft. own house! Do you call this a free country, on the gineral average, if such rebellions are to be tole rated?" "Your house, Mr. Moggs-yours?-who pays the rent, Moggs-who feeds you and the children, Moggs who finds the fire and every thing else? Tell us that?" This was somewhat of the nature of a home-thrust, and Moggs, rather conscience-stricken, was dumbfounded and appalled. Moggs was very cold, and therefore, for the time being, deficient in his usual pride and self-esteem, leaving himself more pervious to the assault of reproach from without and within, than he would have been in a more genial state of the atmosphere. No man is courageous when he is thoroughly chilled; and it had become painfully evident that this was not a momentary riot, but an enduring revolution, through the intermedium of a civil war. "Ho, ho!" faintly responded Moggs, though once more preparing to carry the citadel by storm, "I'll settle this business in a twinkling." Splash! Any thing but cold water in quantity at a crisis like this. Who could endure a shower-bath under such ungenial circumstances? Not Priessnitz himself. It is not, then, to be wondered at that Montezuma Moggs now quailed, having nothing in him of the amphibious nature. "Water is cheap, Mr. Moggs; and you'd better take keer. There's several buckets yet up here of unkommon cold water, all of which is at your service without charge-wont ask you nothin', Moggs, for your washin'; and if you're feverish, may be it will do you good." Everybody laughed, as you know everybody will, at any other body's misfortune or disaster. Everybody laughed but Moggs, and he shivered. "I'll sattinly ketch my death," moaned he; "I'll be friz, standing straight up, like a big icicle; or if I fall over when I'm friz, the boys will slide on me as they go to school, and call it fun as they go whizzing over my countenance with nails in their shoes, scratching my physimohogany all to pieces. They tell me that being friz is an easy death-that you go to sleep and don't know nothing about it. I wish they'd get their wives to slouse 'em all over with a bucket of water, on sich a night as this, and then try whether it is easy. Call being friz hard an easy thing! I'd rather be biled any time. What shill I do "I shall make a ten-strike now," exclaimed he, as he lanched the missile at the door with herculean force, and himself remained in classic attitude watching the effect of the shot, as the door groaned, and creaked, and splintered under the unwonted infliction. Still, however, it did not give way before this application of force, though the prospect was encouraging. The observers laughed-Moggs chuc--what shill I do?" kled-the dogs barked louder than before; and indeed it seemed all round as if a new light had been cast upon the subject "Hongcore!" cried somebody. "I will," said Moggs, preparing to demonstrate accordingly. "Stop there," said the voice of Mrs. Montezuma Moggs, as she raised the window, "if you hongcore the door of this 'ere house again, I'll call the watch, to see what he thinks of such doings, I will. And now, once for all, you can't come in here to-night." "Can't, indeed!—why can't I?-not come into my "Perhaps they'll put you in an ice-house, and kiver you up with tan till summer comes-you'd be good for something then, which is more nor you are now," observed Mrs. Moggs from the window. "Quit twitting a man with his misfortunes," whined Montezuma, of the now broken-heart. Why, my duck!" "Y-e-e-s-y-e-e-s! that 's it-I am a duck, indeed! but by morning I'll be only a snow-ball-the boys will take my head for a snow-ball. What shill I do -I guvs up, and I guvs in." "Well, I'll tell you, Montezuma Moggs, what you must do to be thawed. Promise me faithfully only to | doing admired execution on the dilapidated boots work half as hard as I do, and you may come to the and shoes. The Moggses prosper, and all through the fire-the ten-plate stove is almost red-hot. Promise efficacy of a bucket of cold water. We should not to mend boots, mind shop, and tend baby; them 's the wonder if,, in the end, the Moggs family were to beterms-that's the price of admission." come rich, through the force of industry, and without recourse to "genus." Hard terms, certainly-the severest of terms-but then hard terms, and severe terms, are good terms, if no other terms are to be had. One must do the best he can in this world, if it be imperative upon him to do something, as it evidently was in Moggs' case. "I promise," shivered Moggs. "Promise what?" "T-t-to tend baby, m-m-mind shop, and m-m-mend boots;" and the vanquished Moggs sank down exhausted, proving, beyond the possibility of doubt, that cold water, when skillfully applied of a cold night, is the sovereignest thing on earth for the cure of "genus" in its lazier branches. "Politics and me has shuck hands forever," said the repentant Moggs. "I've been looking out and expecting loaves and fishes long enough. Loaves, indeed! Why I never got even a cracker, unless it was aside of the ear, when there was a row on the election ground; and as for fishes, why, if I 'd stopped any longer for them to come swimming up to my mouth, all ready fried, with pepper on 'em, I wouldn't even have been decent food for fishes myself. I never got a nibble, let alone a bite; but somebody else always cotch'd the fish, and asked me to carry 'em home for them. Fact is, if people wont wote for me. It is but justice, however, to state, that Moggs kept I wont wote for people. And as for the milentary his word faithfully, in which he contradicted the line, I give up in a gineral way, all idea of being a general expectation, which, with reason enough ingineral ossifer. Bonyparte is dead, and if my milenthe main, places but little reliance on promises; and he became, for him, quite an industrious person. His wife's buckets served as a continual remembrancer. But Mrs. Moggs never exulted over his defeat; and, though once compelled to harshness, continued to be to Montezuma a most excellent wife. The shop looks lively now-and the bell to the door is removed; for Moggs, with his rat-tat-tat, is ever at his post, tary genus was so great that I could n't sleep for it, who'd hunt me up and put me at the head of affairs? No, if I'm wanted for any thing, they'll have to call me. I've dodged about winkin' and noddin' as long as the country had any right to expect, and now-rat tat-tat-I'm going to work for myself." It was a wise conclusion on the part of Moggs, who may, perchance, in this way, be a "gineral" yet. PAULINE DUMESNIL. OR A MARRIAGE DE CONVENANCE. BY ANGELE DE V. HULL. The reason firm, the temperate will, A perfect woman, nobly planned. WORDSWORTH. In a large but somewhat scantily furnished aparting their arms round one another, they wept in ment sat two young girls, in such earnest and appa- | silence. She was tall and majestic, but there was an expression of pride and extreme hauteur on her countenance. She wore a handsome but faded dress, and the somewhat high-crowned cap bespoke a love of former fashions. She had a foreign air, and when she addressed her daughter, it was in French. rently serious conversation that, but for their youthful At this moment the door opened, and a lady entered. and blooming countenances, one might have fancied, them bending beneath the cares and sorrows of age. On the dark old table between them rested a magnificent work-box, whose rich implements they had been busily and skillfully using; but now the scissors and thread lay at their feet, their needles were dropped, and the younger of the two sat with clasped hands, while her companion's low tones appeared to awaken every emotion of her heart. On the old-fashioned French bedstead were thrown dresses of various hues and expensive stuffs, while one only, a robe of the most delicate material, its graceful folds looped with orange flowers, seemed to attract the attention of the fair, fragile being, whose attitude was one of intense suffering. Her bright hopes had faded at sight of that colorless garb, and the bridal wreath was to wither on her brow! What to her sad soul were the costly things before her? The jewels that sparkled on their snow-white satin case, the long fairy veil of beautiful lace that lay side by side with the bridal dress? Her companion continued speaking, and she bowed her face upon those clasped hands, while her slight frame shook with its contending emotions. A few moments more and she raised her head. She was pale, and her large, dark eyes dilated into fearful size. At length the big drops came slowly down her cheek, and she was able to speak. "No more, Angela, no more! You love me, I know; but what you have done to day was no act of friendship. You have troubled the dark waters of my soul until they have become a torrent over which I have no control." "And it is because I love you, Pauline, that I have made your future life manifest to you. Do not seek to make a merit of obedience to your proud mother's will. It is because you have been taught to fear her, that you have consented to perjure yourself, and marry a man you cannot love." "For the love of heaven, spare me!" cried the girl, shrinking from her friend's words. "Is it to triumph over me that you thus seek to move me?" Her friend gazed mournfully upon her, and rising from her seat, gently put her arm around her. My poor Pauline! my dear Pauline!" murmured he, "I have been cruel-forgive me." "How is this!" cried she, angrily. "What scenes are these, Pauline? As often as I enter your room I find you in tears. Is it to your advice, Mademoiselle Percy, that my daughter owes her red eyes?" Angela was about to reply, but Pauline waved her back. "Is it, then, a crime to weep, mamma? If there were no tears, the heart would break." "It is a crime, Pauline, to resist the will of your mother, when she has provided for your happiness in a manner suitable to your rank and birth. It is a crime to break the fifth commandment, which tells you to honor and obey your mother." "And have I not done both," cried Pauline, indignantly. "Have you not sold my happiness? Have you not bartered perhaps my eternal welfare, that I might lay my aching head upon the downy pillows of the rich, that you might see me a wretched slave, writhing under chains not the less heavy because they are of gold?" "Have you been reading Racine this morning? Or have you been studying for the stage?" said Madame Dumesnil, in a cold, scornful tone. "You are a good actress, certainly." Pauline sank upon a chair, and her friend stood beside her, pressing her trembling hand. Her mother advanced and stood before her. "We will have no more of this, Pauline. If I feel satisfied that my duty is done, you should rejoice in obeying me. I alone am the judge in this matter children should ever be contented with allowing their parents to act for them; and allow me to say, that any interference of strangers upon an occasion like this, is exceedingly misplaced." This was aimed at Angela Percy; but she only replied by a wondering and mournful gaze to the stern, cold woman before her. The old lady proceeded. "Bathe your eyes, Pauline, and arrange your hair. Monsieur de Vaissiere is below. Perhaps," added she, with a sneer, perhaps that Miss Percy will 'Her answer was a fervent embrace—and throw-assist you in entertaining your lover.” Pauline started and shuddered, but by this time she had again yielded to her mother's influence. Going to the glass, she smoothed her dark hair, and endeavored to abate the swelling of her eyes. Bidding farewell to her friend, she descended to the parlor, where her affianced husband awaited her. He was tall, and his appearance distingué; but he, too, looked stern and cold as he rose to meet that young creature, whose nineteen summers were more than doubled by his years. He was handsome also; but where was the youthful ardor that should have been roused at the idea of winning that fair girl's love? Where were the sunny hopes to meet hers, the dreams of the future that he wanted? His willing ness to accept the sacrifice was no proof of his gentleness; and the cheek of his betrothed grew pale, and her hand was cold, as he led her to a seat. Pauline had been bred to the hard forcing-school of the ancien régime. Her mother had left France on the terrible death of her beloved queen, Marie | Antoinette, and had passed from the high post of dame d'honneur, to poverty and exile in America. The sale of her magnificent jewels and massive silver, had enabled her to lease an old roomy mansion, deserted by its owners, and to live in peace and retirement. Here, with the recollection of the horrors of the revolution fresh within her memory, while her heart was still bleeding with the wounds it had received; while she still had before her the mangled remains of her sovereigns-the bleeding head of her husband, torn from her in the days of their early love; in the midst of these agonizing thoughts, she gave birth to a posthumous child-the heroine of our story. Clasping her babe to her breast, Madame Dumesnil bitterly recalled the many plans of happiness her murdered husband had made in anticipation of its coming—his affection for her—his anxiety for her safety-their parting, and the subsequent news of his execution Those lips were mute whose words of tenderness were to soothe her in her hour of suffering; that hand was cold that would have rested on her brow; that heart was still that would have bounded with a father's love at sight of the tiny, helpless creature that lay upon her arm. Madame Dumesnil, the young, the lovely, and the gentle, became silent, reserved, and harsh. Nothing could swerve her from a determination made, and with feelings of the deepest parental affection for her daughter, she had crushed and broken her spirit in the sweet spring-time of her childhood. From the time Pauline was old enough to form a desire, she learned to hear it opposed. Une petite fille attend qu'on lui donne se qui lui faut," was the invariable reply to all her childish longings. According to the old French system, every slight offence was followed by her mother's "Allez vous coucher, mademoiselle ;” so that half her life was spent in bed, while she lay awake with the bright, broad daylight around her, the hour when other children are strengthening their little limbs in the active enjoyment of God's free, fresh air. As she grew older, she was taught that "une demoiselle bien elevée n'a pas d'opinions," that her parents judged and decided for her; and while she sat erect upon a high stool, accomplishing her daily tasks in silence, her heart nearly burst with the pentup feelings of her young imagination. Wherever she went her mother's old waiting-woman was behind he. "Miss Pauline, hold yourself straight; Miss Pauline, turn out your feet-your head, mademoiselle-your arms!" Poor girl! she was well-nigh distracted with these incessant admonitions. In her walks she met Angela Percy and her father. They had lately settled in the neighborhood, and having no acquaintances, gladly made advances to the timid Pauline. Nothing daunted by her shyness and reserve, Angela, some years her senior, per severed, and overcame it. She was an enthusiastic, high-minded girl, and soon pointed out to her companion new views and new ideas of the world from which she had been excluded. The intimacy was formed ere Madame Dumesnil could prevent it, and at the instances of old Jeannette, who begged that Mademoiselle Pauline might have a friend of her own age-some one to talk to, besides two old women, she consented to allow the friendship to continue, provided Jeannette were present at every interview. This was easily promised, but the nurse's stiff limbs were no match for the agile supple ones of her young charges. Day by day she loitered behind, while Pauline and Angela, with their arms entwined, continued in eager and undisturbed enjoyment of one another's society. Jeannette remarked a glow upon her young lady's cheek, and a light in her eyenew charms in her hitherto pale, resigned countetenance; and, wiser than her mistress, concluded that the acquisition of a youthful friend was fast pouring happiness into her lonely heart. Three years passed in this pleasant intercourse, when the monotony of their lives was broken by the arrival of an old friend of Madame Dumesnil-a Monsieur de Vaissiere. When they had last met, she was in the morning of her beauty and bliss, he a handsome youth, for whom many a fair one had sighed, and in vain-as he was still unmarried. What a change! He could not recognize the lovely young countess, whose marriage had been attended with so much éclat-so many rejoicings; nor could she see one vestige of the blooming countenance, the delicate profile, and the jet-black wavy locks that once shaded his fair, open brow. But these works of time were soon forgotten, and the desire of the proud, harsh mother was accomplished when, after a few weeks, M. de Vaissiere proposed for the hapless Pauline. Unconsciously, but with the thoughtlessness of selfishness, Madame Dumesnil sacrificed her child to her prejudices. M. de Vaissiere's opinions and hers were the same; their admiration of le vieux systeme their fond recollection of the unfortunate monarch, whose weakness they had never reproached him with, even in their secret souls-their abhorrence of Bonaparte-their contempt for la noblesse Napoleonne-their upturned noses at their adopted countrymen, les Americains-their want of faith in hearts and love-the sinecure-ism of young people-their presumption-their misfortune being that they were young and not born old-and finally, the coincidence | fully opposing your mother's will, mine would be of opinions wherein both looked upon the white- the last voice to uphold you; but now your very headed suitor as a most eligible husband for the young, soul is at stake." the blooming, the beautiful Pauline. M. de Vaissiere settled a dot upon his fiancée, and ordered a trousseau and a corbeille, not forgetting the cachemire. The preliminaries were arranged, the day hinted at, and Pauline was informed with a flourish of trumpets that her destiny was fixed. She listened to her mother's rhapsodies over the admirable parti Providence had enabled her to provide for her child in the wilderness of America; she heard her enlarge upon her own excellence as a parent, of the favor she had conferred upon her in bringing her into the world; of her consequent obligations, and the gratitude she owed her mother when she recollected that not content with giving her life, she had clothed, fed, and supported her until now. All this Pauline received in a silence that resembled stupor; but when M. de Vaissiere was again mentioned, she fell, with a scream of terror, at her mother's feet. In vain she wept and entreated; in vain she protested against the disparity of age, the utter want of congeniality, the absence of all affection, Madame Dumesnil was too much incensed to reply. With a gesture that Pauline well understool, (for it was used to express maledictions of every description,) she left the room, and locking the door, kept her daughter prisoner for the rest of the day. Pauline cast up her eyes in mute appeal to heaven. Her companion became excited as she proceeded. depicting the horrors of an unequal marriage. Pale and exhausted, her listener at length entreated her to forbear. She had been too long the slave of her mother's wishes to oppose them now; she had been drilled into fear until it was a weakness. This her bold-hearted, energetic friend could not understand; and it was on her reproaching Pauline with moral cowardice that she, for the first time, resented what had in fact been patiently borne. We have seen how kindly Angela forgave the accusation, and how she wept over the effect of her words. The sudden entrance of Madame Dumesnil put an end to the conversation, and the friends separated. The next morning Angela was at Pauline's side again. Silently she assisted in decorating the victim for the sacrifice. The bright jewels clasped her arm and neck; the long veil hung around her slender form; the orange wreath rested on the dark, dark tresses— and the dress was beautiful. But the bride! she was pale and ghastly, and her lips blue and quivering Her eyes were void of all expression—those liquid, lustrous eyes; and ever and anon the large drops rolled over her face, oozing from the depths of her heart. Poor Jeannette turned away, sobbing convulsively as the finishing touches were given to this sad bridal toilette. Angela remained firm and collected, but she, too, was pale; her cherished companion was gone from her forever-gone in such misery, too. that she almost prayed to see her the corpse she at that moment resembled. She treated this resistance to her will as one of the unhappy consequences of living in a republican country. She suspected Angela of communicating American ideas of independence to her daughter, and would have added to her wretchedness by forbidding further intercourse between the two friends. Madame Dumesnil had remained below with the But Jeannette again interfered; she knew that bridegroom and Mr. Percy, the sole witness to this Pauline's doom was sealed, and that it would be ill-omened marriage. At length the hour came, more than cruel to deprive her of the companion Pauline was nearly carried down by Angela and she loved. She herself carried the note that conveyed Jeannette, and in a few moments bound forever to the intelligence of Pauline's coming fate to the indig- a man she loathed. The ceremony was ended, and nant Angela, and extended her walks that her poor the bride, with a convulsive sigh, fell back into the young lady might derive what consolation she could arms of her mother. Restoratives were procured. from her friend's willing sympathy. Many were and at last she opened her eyes. They rested on the the tears she shed, many the sighs that burst from face of her friend, who hung over her in mute agony. her oppressed heart, as the poor old creature followed Forcing a smile, which was taken by M. de Vaissiere behind them. Once she had summoned courage for himself, Pauline arose, and hurried through her sufficient to expostulate with her mistress upon the farewell. Her husband handed her into his carriage cruelty of her conduct to her daughter; but she was-and thus Pauline Dumesnil left her friends and haughtily dismissed. Every effort had been made, and at length Angela appealed to Pauline. She entreated her to be more firm, and to declare her resolution never to marry where she could not love. "Rouse yourself, Pauline-the misery of a lifetime is before you, and it is not yet too late." her home. Years had passed, and Pauline sat alone in her magnificent boudoir, the presiding deity of one of the finest hotels in Paris. Fortune had favored M. de Vaissiere. He had lived to rejoice over the downfall of the mighty Napoleon, and his mournful exile. He had returned to his beloved France, recovered his vast estates, and presented his young wife at court. His vanity was flattered at her gracious reception, and the admiration that followed her; his "The curse of the unrighteous availeth naught," pride was roused, and, much against her will, replied her friend, solemnly. "Were you wrong- | Pauline found herself the centre of a gay circle that "I have done every thing, Angela," said Pauline, despairingly. "My doom is sealed, and I must bend to my bitter fate. I would fly, but that I could not survive my mother's curse." |