highly ingratiated 1 himself with him. Uberto kept him some time at his house, treating him with all the respect and affection he could have shown for the son of his dearèst friend. At length, having a safe opportunity of sending him to Gěnoa, he gave him a faithful servant for a conductor, fitted him out with ĕvery convenience, slipped a purse of gold into one hand, and a letter into the other, and thus addressed him : 12. "My dear youth, I could with much pleasure detain you longer in my humble mansion, but I feel your impatience to revisit your friends, and I am sensible that it would be cruelty to deprive them, longer than necessary, of the joy they will receive in recovering you. Accept this provision for your voyage, and deliver this letter to your father. He probably may recollect somewhat of me, though you are too young to do so. Farewell! I shall not soon forget you, and I hope you will not forget me." Adorno poured out the effusions of a grateful and affectionate heart, and they parted with mutual tears and embraces. 13. The young man had a prosperous voyage home, and the transport with which he was again beheld by his almost brokenhearted parents may more easily be conceived than described. After learning that he had been a captive in Tunis-for it was supposed that the ship in which he sailed had foundered2 at sea-" And to whom," said old Adorno, am I indebted for the inestimable pleasure of restoring you to my arms!"—"This letter," said his son, "will inform you." He opened it and read as follows: 3 - 4 66 14. "That son of a vile mechanic, who told you that one day you might repent the scorn with which you treated him, has the satisfaction of seeing his prediction accomplished. For know, proud noble! that the deliverer of your only son from slavery is The Banished Uberto." Adorno dropped the letter and covered his face with his hands, while his son was displaying, in the warmest language of gratitude, the virtues of Uberto, and the truly parental kindnèss he had experienced from him. 1 Ingratiated (în grā' shi at ed), introduced or commended to the favor of another; brought into favor. 2 Found'ered, sunk with water. 3 In ěs'ti ma ble, above all measure or price. 4 Pre dic'tion, the act of foretelling; that which is foretold. 15. As the debt could not be canceled,1 Adorno resolved, if possible, to repay it. He made so powerful intercession with the other nobles, that the sentence pronounced on Uberto was reversed, and full permission given him to return to Gěnoȧ. In apprising him of this event, Adorno expressed his sense of the obligations he lay under to him, acknowledged the genuine nobleness of his character, and requested his friendship. Uberto returned to his country, and ended his days in peace, with the universal esteem of his fellow-citizens. M SECTION XVI. I. 56. THE DYING CHILD. OTHER, I'm tired, and I would fain 3 be sleeping; But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping, When from my weary eyes I shut out light. 2. Mother, one stands beside me now! and listen! Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord ? 4 3. Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going? Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine? ' Căn'celed, obliterated or blotted out; made void. 2 In ter cession, a prayer or pleading for the cause of another. 3 Fain, with joy or pleasure. 4 Ac cord', the union of different sounds, which is agreeable to the ear; agreement of things. Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing; ANDERSEN.1 II 57. DIARY OF EUGENIE DE GUERIN. J AN. 1st, 1840.—What will happen to me, oh, my God! this year? I know not, and even if I could, I would not lift the eûrtain of the future. What is concealed beneath it might, perhaps, be too terrifying; to sustain the vision of things to come-one should be a saint or prophet. I consider it a blessing to see no further than a day, than the next moment. If we were not thus limited by the present, where would the soul stop in apprehension, in grief both for itself and for what it loves? 2. How much even a presentiment,2 that shadow of the future, can make us feel and suffer when it passes across the mind! At this moment I am without anxiety or emotion about any one my year begins in confidence respecting those I love. My father is in good health, Erembert is improving, Marie has still her rosy, apple-like cheeks, and the other Marie, the friend of my tears, the woman of sorrōws, bears up with somewhat more strength. 3. For all this thanks be to God, whom I pray to bless and preserve all my dear ones. Christians look for their Newyear's gifts to heaven, and I turn thither on your behälf, while you are going into society, into the gay sälōns of Paris, to offer compliments and bonbons.3 If I were there, perhaps I would 1 Hans Christian Andersen, a Danish poet and novelist, was born at Odensee, April 2, 1805. His writings generally are very popular. His novel, "Improvisatore," his charming "Fairy Tales" for children, and many of his other works have been translated into almost every modern language. He died in 1875. 2 Pre sěnt'i ment, a previous feeling or belief of coming evil. 3 3 Bonbon(bòngʻbong), sugarcandy. have some too; as it is, perhaps I shall have a thought, a remembrance from that brother to whom Maurice has bequeathed me for sister. How crisp, bright, and beautiful the sky is, this cloud-flecked winter sky! 4. A letter from Louïse', sweet New-Year's gift of the heart! but nothing any longer gives me much pleasure; nothing that comes can console me for what is missing. This morning, in embracing my father-this poor father who, for the first time in the first year, did not embrace all his children-I was very sad. I seemed to see Jacob when he had lost Joseph. Here are my first written thoughts, my first date of 1840, which is bound by a tie of crape to 1839 and to you. 5. 2d. I make my escape here from the New-Year's letters that I have to get through. What a tiresome custom it is to be bandying1 compliments for a whole day long, and sending them a distance! My lazy mind, which prefers dreaming to working, is not very ready to set about these flattering compositions. As to that, one does it because it has to be done, but briefly, with only a few phrases of the season and good wishes at the beginning and end. The world and those of the world excel in this in speaking archly, prettily, and flatteringly. Not so I; for I have no fluency in this roguish, gilded, brilliant talk—this lip-tinsel that one meets with in the world. In the desert one only learns to think. 6. I used to say to Maurice, when he talked to me about Paris, that I should not understand its language. And there are some there that I did understand. Certain souls in all places comprehend each other. This helps me to believe what is said of the saints who communicate with the angels, although of different natures. The one looks up, the other bends down, and thus it is they meet, thus that the Son of God came down among us. This reminds of a passage of the Abbe Gerbet 3 in one of his books that I like much: "One would say that the whole creation rested on an inclined plane, so that all beings whatever bend down to those below them to love and to be beloved by them.” 1 Băn ́dy ing, påssing back and gaudy, having the appearance of forth; exchanging. being better than it is. 2 Tin'sel, something shining and Gerbet (zher bā'). 7. Maurice pointed out this thought to me, and we thought it charming. Dear friend! who knows that he may not be bending down toward me now, toward you, toward those he loved, to draw them up to the high sphere in which he is, to raise us from earth to heaven! May we not believe that those who precede us into the splendors of life take compassion upon us, and in their love communicate to us some attraction to the other world, some gleam of faith, some bûrst of light which before had not illumined the soul? If I dwelt near a king, and you were in prison, most assuredly I should send you all I could from the court. Thus in the celestial sphere, whither our affections doubtless follow us, and become divinized,1 and participate in God's love for man. EUGENIE DE GUÉRIN.3 III. 58. THE DYING RELIGIOUS.^ HE gave up beauty in her tender youth, SHE Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; She covered up her eyes lest they should gaze On vanity, and chose the bitter truth. Harsh toward herself, toward others full of ruth,5 Long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days; A hōme, until the least of all sufficed Her wants; her own self learned she to forsake, |