FIRE-SIDE REMINISCENCES.

BY BACHELOR BEAUCLERC.

No one can have a greater regard for woman than myself; yet partly through inclination, partly through accident, my fireside has never been brightened by the presence of man's dearest earthly solace; hence I have been styled Bachelor Beauclerc by my old college chums, all of whom have presented the state with blooming families. I like the cognomen, and have adopted it when haranguing the world, for I find it easier to talk with the world en masse, than individually.

When I call on my acquaintance, my visits are like angels', 'few and far between,' but like them only in that respect. The children are generally too noisy to allow me to slip in a word, and their parents so foolishly fond, that I dare not enter their presence, for fear of hearing the never-ending tale of their wonderful precocity, or of being introduced to De Staels and Ciceros in miniature, of all miniatures the most unlike and caricatured. Then, too, one-half of the wives, from being the adored of one man, believe themselves qualified to be the adored of mankind in general, and thrust themselves forward upon those who do not gaze at their imperfections through the beautifying veil of connubial love. These causes attach me to my ingleside. Here I sit and meditate, while the portrait of my sainted mother looks sweetly down on her only child. The small musical clock on the centre of the mantel-piece chimes away the hours melodiously, and the caryatides at each end of the marble slab support their graceful burden of fruits and flowers with a placid smile of content. The light of the bituminous coal plays on the chaste paper-hangings, whose bouquets of exquisitely-painted flowers are here and there concealed by a few mellow paintings bought in Italy during a winter's sojourn there. The recesses each side of the mantel are filled with book-cases. On one is perched a large bronze eagle in honor of Percival; on the other, a stuffedpigeon that may have been in a 'belfry.'

The light is reflected from a mahogany couch, standing beyond the open door of a smaller room, in which I nap it. The windows of the sanctum are muffled by thick curtains that shade (not mirrors, I detest them) but a huge vase brought from Pompeii, and supported by an antique table laden with tokens of virtu collected in my travels. The fine chair in which I nestle was presented by my mother a short time before her decease, and was covered by her own hands. It is the dearest of my earthly treasures. A screen worked in a convent by a maiden aunt fills one corner; the other is occupied by a cabinet of shells. If I am not comfortable in these pleasant quarters, it is owing to a diseased mind that will not be comfortable any where. But I am happy. I take my meals at a pleasant cafè when I wish, or have them sent if I prefer. No tattling hostess tyrannizes over or slanders me.

More

reputations are ruined by boarding than in any other way. Let a being be perfection itself, the faults lacking are easily supplied by fertile invention. I long ago resolved to judge for myself, and have never repented the resolution. When envy and jealousy are banished the world, I will unstop my ears, and believe all I hear. Thus independent and contented, I devote my evenings to meditation on paper, orally or in profound silence. Oft-times a throng of memories will arise, some sad, others brilliant and meteor-like.

In my profession many incidents naturally occur, and in my travels I have been an actor in certain adventures, the reading of which may entertain for an idle hour some who have had a less stirring life. Partly from selfishness, then, and with some true willingness to make others happy if I can, I commit these memories to paper, and waft The reminiscence that now

them into the crowded mart of literature.

occupies my thoughts I shall call, if you please,

AN EPISODE OF TRAVEL.

AMONG Our fellow-passengers in the miserable steamer plying between London and Boulogne was a group of persons who attracted my attention, from the fact of their speaking my language fluently, although evidently not English. Their vivacity was not at all French, yet unlike our shy affability. The youngest of the group, which consisted of four persons, was a young lady not over nineteen, whom they called Anna. She was slender to fragility. Her pale, clear complexion contrasted strikingly with the dark hair that shaded, and still darker eyes that illuminated her expressive countenance. She was neither beautiful nor sickly-looking. Interesting she was, beyond any being I had ever seen. She had far more repose than the others, whose fine animal spirits surmounted all the désagrémens of our position.

A young lady, a few years her senior, had a bloom that defied the assaults of the most unstable of elements. Her features, eyes and hair betrayed the sister of Anna, but air, manners and expression were utterly unlike that interesting being. The other female was a finelooking matron, whose love for her husband had evidently not waned with her youth and beauty. He seemed to enjoy the circle of which he was the protector, and received their sallies of wit and sense with delight. I gradually neared them, and apparently absorbed in reflections of my own, caught much of their converse, which was not sottovoce. I was not long in ascertaining their birth-place, for they were speaking of their own dear home in Canada. This rivetted my attention; for a deceased friend of mine had been a native of that place, and often during our intimacy at college had he expatiated on the loveliness of his country-women, whose manners, he said, were a bewitching blending of French sprightliness with English dignity. I now longed to speak to the strangers, but this seemed impossible. roused myself, however, and by my manner endeavored to betray the interest I felt. The gentleman perceived it. With some hesitation, he asked how soon we should reach the opposite shore. I replied with great affability, and to my own surprise, continued the dialogue, own

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ing that I had overheard that they were Canadians. I spoke of my friend. They knew him, and were intimate with many of his relatives, who frequently spoke of him, and mourned his early death. This was a sufficient introduction for me, and I was regarded as a friend immediately. When I mentioned Granville's name, my eyes were fixed on Anna's face, for she seemed to me a justification for his extravagant praises of the fair Canadians. I was startled at the deathly pallor of her countenance as I spoke his name, and the truth flashed on my mind as I noticed the anxious glance of her sister. In his eulogy of his country-women, Granville was thinking of but one.

The rest of our voyage was shortened perceptibly by the delightful conversation that ensued. When we parted at the wharf it was with the promise of meeting again at Amiens, and with a determination on my part to visit the country they loved so well.

At Boulogne, I hired the services of François Loohê, a Belgian courier, whose best recommendation was an open countenance and winning manner.

François informed me immediately after his installation as courier, that it was the fashion neither to stint nor stay a minute in the city without visiting the cathedral. I resolved to be odd, and postponed my visit until the next morning. Before breakfast, therefore, we sallied out. I was sincerely pleased with the venerable building; the kneeling forms around, silently absorbed in worship, moved my heart with sympathy and respect. At some distance from me one figure rivetted my attention. Could it be? Yes, it was certainly, Anna. I approached softly, requesting François to remain where he was. behind one of the vast columns I looked upon the young devotee. She was kneeling before St. Genevieve. Upon the altar beneath the picture was a fresh chaplet of blossoms and a wreath of autumn leaves, preserved in all their brilliancy, and brought from her free forest-land as an offering of gratitude for her safe flight over the uncertain sea. Beautiful superstition!

From

She arose without perceiving me. As she walked away, a paper fell from her missal. I stooped for it, and as it unrolled, perceived it to be some verses, in a feminine hand. I followed her to the principal altar, where she rejoined her friends, who were admiring the fine picture above it. Our meeting was a joyous one, and it was decided that we should enter Paris in company. I told Anna of the waif I had found, and should claim. A deep blush convinced me that she was the author of the verses. After some opposition she yielded the point, and I read the artless effusion. Often do I read these gentle lines: