arrived of the child. Every half-hour my servant went to the police-office, which was luckily close by; but half hours, and hours, succeeded one another, and still no tidings of him had been obtained. The fact of little Pierre's disappearance having soon become known to the neighbours, several zealous volunteers had started off for the purpose of searching for him in all the streets through which the little truants had passed on their unlucky expedition. These had now come back, one by one, as evening wore on; but none of them had been able to learn anything of the child. The night was sultry, and the window of Thérèse's little room was-left open. The clocks had just tolled one, and the stillness of the streets was now only broken by an occasional footfall. In the poor sempstress's chamber, only her heavy passionate sobs were audible, from time to time, as she raised herself out of her chair to listen, only to fall back again, heart-sick and despairing. Despite the sincerity of my sympathy for the poor young mother, and my anxiety respecting the lost child, I was just becoming conscious of an uncomfortable stiffness of the eyelids, when I suddenly heard a sound of feet and voices coming down the street, and followed by a loud ring at the house-door. More like the bound of a panther, than the movement of a Christian woman, was the spring with which Thérèse leapt from her chair, and down the long staircase, as her ear took in these welcome sounds. Surely little Pierre was found at last, but in what condition? "Heaven grant the little monkey be safe and sound!" was my mental ejaculation, as I hastened after her. We reached the foot of the stairs, just as the porter, in answer to the noisy summons from without, had jerked open the porte cochère; a shout of welcome from that personage, his wife, and several tenants of the house, who had put their night-capped heads out of their respective windows, in sympathy with the presumed cause of this late appeal to the door-bell, accompanying the entrance of a good-looking young soldier, who was crossing the court with the missing child seated in triumph on his shoulder, and a group of soldiers and policemen following close behind. Thérèse had rushed forward, in her wild joy, to seize her child; but stopped short, half-fainting, as she caught sight of the young soldier's face. "Pierre !" "Thérèse!" The recognition was mutual and instantaneous. The young soldier, who had thus brought back the missing child, and in whose strong arms the poor, forsaken girl, was now clasped so tenderly, was, as my readers have doubtless divined already, no other than her long-lost lover, Pierre Blanc. The rest of this little history may be briefly told. I have merely to add, that the false report of Pierre's death had arisen from the decease of another soldier of the same name; a mistake which had not been rectified until after Thérèse had left the village. On learning that his son was still living, Old Blanc had duly notified him of the setting aside of his marriage, and the disappearance of Thérèse; and Pierre, whose determination to make her his wife was only strengthened by his father's harshness, had caused various enquiries to be made after her, through the Colonel of his regiment, to whom he had imparted his history, and his anxieties on her account. At the solicitations of that officer, the maire of the village had been applied to for information respecting Thérèse; but, as she had quitted the neighbourhood without informing any one of her intentions, it was impossible to discover any trace of her whereabout. After a stay of nearly four years in Algeria, during which period Pierre had never ceased his endeavours to obtain tidings of Thérèse, and had regularly remitted all his savings to the maire of his village for her use, in case that functionary had been able to discover her retreat, his regiment had been ordered to Italy, where it had taken part in various engagements, and whence it had returned just in time to take part in the "solennités" of that memorable day. As Pierre, with his regiment, was marching off to quarters, he had suddenly come upon a young child who was standing in the line of march, to which it seemed to have found its way through the legs of the soldiers stationed on guard along the pavement; and yielding to the impulse of the moment, had picked up the little child, placed him on his shoulder, and marched off with him, just as a sergeant de ville was approaching the child, apparently with the intention of putting him back into the crowd. Being near the barracks where they were to dine, Pierre,-with whom his new acquaintance was soon on the best possible terms― determined to keep him to share his dinner. With the exception of the Turcos-who inspired to much apprehension in the minds of the Paris shopkeepers, and were marched out of the city as soon as the procession was over-all the soldiers who had taken part in the entry, had received permission to spend the night as they liked; and Pierre consequently counted on being able to take the child home directly after dinner. Scarcely, however, had Pierre reached the barracks, when he was sent for by his Colonel, and hastily committed his little charge to a comrade, who promised to take care of him until he returned. The business on which Pierre had been sent for, detained him for a couple of hours; and on returning to the barracks he found that his comrade had gone off, with several others, to one of the theatres, taking the child with him. On their return, Pierre lost no time in carrying the little truant home to his mother, whose address he was, fortunately, able to give correctly; but as the child had given the name which Thérèse-with a view to the more effectual concealment of her whereabout-had taken when she came to Paris, the young soldier was altogether unsuspicious of the surprise awaiting him. The joy of all parties at this unlooked-for meeting may be easily imagined. Pierre Senior, whose pride in the possession of the son and heir so strangely discovered, is only equalled by the delight of Pierre Junior in the acquisition of a sire, and who has now reached an age at which he is legally independent of paternal authority, lost no time in repairing the shortcomings of the past. The marriage of this humble couple, so happily reunited, took place as soon as the formalities of the French matrimonial law could be gone through with; and gave more sincere satisfaction to the few who witnessed it, than might have been afforded by many a more brilliant affair of the same kind. In a couple of years, Pierre hopes to leave the army-to settle quietly to some honest calling, by which, with the aid of his industrious wife-now as happy as the day is long-he will be able to gain a fair livelihood. Meantime, Thérèse is living on in her old room, and working even more busily than before; her earnings being destined to furnish the future home which she is bent on getting ready for her husband's return. Up to the present time, old Blanc has shown no symptoms of relenting; but, as his son's marriage is now a fait accompli, it is just possible that the existence of a grandchild, and the excellent conduct of its mother, may eventually mollify his obstinate resolutions; in which case, I must resign myself to losing the services of my little sempstress a few years sooner than might otherwise have been the case. A. B. LABOUR. PAUSE not to dream of the future before us; "Labour is worship!" the robin is singing; Speaks to the soul from out Nature's great heart. Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part. Labour is life! "Tis the still water faileth--- Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep them in tune! Labour is rest from the sorrows that greet us!- Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee, Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee, Look to yon pure heaven, smiling beyond thee Rest not content in thy darkness-a clod! WORK for some good, be it ever so slowly! Let thy great deeds prove thy love to thy God! A NIGHT AT AN OLD PARIS TAVERN. BY EDWIN F. ROBERTS. WHOEVER has been to Paris-I am speaking of by-gone days, by the waywill necessarily know the locality of the "Temple," the astonishing "RagFair" of that very astonishing city. It is to this immediate neighbourhood that I wish my reader to accompany me. Passing by the Rotonde, emerging thence into the Rue Forez, and next into that of the Beaujolais, the wayfarer will find himself near the spot where the Old Tavern-now, alas! swept away, was to be found. This last street used to bear a very gloomy look, indeed. At night, lamps placed at long intervals cast a flickering glare on the closed shops of the Rotonde, while deepest shadows reigned under its sombre perityte, between the columns of which ragged garments dangled in the passing wind. But let us on to our Old Tavern. A dark passage or alley, lighted only by a single lamp, was to be found in the midst of a dense mass of houses. Above the entrance, the feeble light reflected upon a sign whose ancient grandeur was become very faded, but in its smoky depths might be traced the forms and effigies of four men habited as dragoons, and mounted on four animals-hippograffs which had no name in natural history. These represented the "Four Sons of Aymon;" and beneath this achievement could be traced a sentence to the effect that there they dispensed wine, beer, and brandy. That there was a billiard table within; also that there was a garden and bowling-ground (le jeu de Siane) at the bottom of the court. From these chaotic depths would come hurtling forth in the middle of the night a "derry-down" sort of chorus in the following form : La ri fla fla fla, La ri fla fla fla, the last being given with a peculiar and significant energy. The establishment denominated "Les quatre fils d'Aymon" enjoyed a reputation for general jollity, as also for commercial pursuits more equivocal. Here the Parisian "Autolycus" rejoined his associates at night with his collection of "unconsidered trifles," having filched during the day some thirty francs' worth of garments; and here necessity or speculation could be fully tempted and satisfied. "Autolycus" on his return generally presented a swollen and pulpy appearance, being clad pretty much like the rider in a circus, who has, beneath a couple of coats, vests and pantaloons innumerable, while his pockets are not empty, and his hat, inclining a little to one side, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, is stuffed with stolen cravats. Here, according to temperature, they become frank and communicative, or vicious, quarrelsome, and more witty than polite. Some gamed, some drank, and some did neither; but here they held a rank and social status, and here, as a rule, that portion of their life not spent in prison, or in following, like Falstaff, their "vocation," was passed away. The business (let us go back at once a sufficient number of years, and speak of the past, as present)—the business of the "Quatre fils d'Aymon," presided over by the estimable and extensive relict of a certain M. Tambour, late of the Imperial Guard, is carried on at the back of the establishment facing the Rotonde. The mere common-place visitors enter and depart by the dark alley opening on the same; but the more favoured (those who are in the good graces of the gentle widow) use another mode of ingress and egress, gaining thus, unnoticed, the Rue Charlot, by a neighbouring alley. Among the habitual customers of the tavern there are many not indifferent to an accommodation so convenient; and as a favour of this nature becomes soon especially appreciable to such as follow an eccentric and even perilous course of industry, it is used with due discretion. The frequenters of the " Four Sons" are of a numerous and motley order. Some are simply of the vagabond and gamin class. Others are of the genus "black-leg," while a third division, on the pretence of selling checks and tickets, pursue their occupations with immunity in the neighbourhood of the theatres. Besides these, there is your unfortunate sailor saved from shipwreck on some flying island or laputa. A few sell tinheaded canes, or small steel chains, on the Boulevards. Some who have rural tastes dispense the holy thorn blessed on Palm Sunday. What they pay for, or how they obtain this sacred verdure, is always a mystery, but the returns are excellent, and the traffic gives the vendors a right to make their way into the thickest of a crowd in the neighbourhood of the churches. This is sufficient for them if they have a ready hand and a good conscience, that is to say, a conscience which fits like a glove. Here from time to time assemble the thousand and one speculators in openair amusements, games of chance, and other enlivening attractions, some being tolerated by the police, while others are as stringently prohibited. Here you find your old acquaintance with his "white rabbit," whom you have met at Sceaux, or Meudon, or Loges, and who graciously invites the amateur to cover his enchanted table with pieces of white iron. Here assemble the amusing tricksters in every "dodge" that human ingenuity can invent. This is the rendezvous of those perfidious perambulating bankers, who, by the inducement of tempting macaroons, revive the forbidden roulette under the open sky, and pocket the sous of the simple. Here may be encountered those redoubtable scamps, the scourge and terror of more Fauxbourgs than that of St. Antoine, who despoil the credulous and the eager at the never-to-be-enough-admired game of Tirlibili. While these are most fiercely hunted by the police, the rascals distain to pollute their fingers with copper, but, as at Frascati's, they play for five-franc pieces. This, if it asserts the dignity of the game, is certainly not intended to defray the expenses of their...... establishment, since they form their party in the middle of the street, and play under the shadow of an old hat. Three cards, deftly handled, which leap one after another with a magical rapidity, a lonely street, a sunless day, four of five companions who watch every avenue, a dupe and a rogue-these are the simple elements of the noble game of Trilibili. The industrial confraternity who held their nightly revels at the "Quatre fils d'Aymon" are mostly, and despite exceptions, engaged in the clothes, cloth, and stuff "line." That is to say, as purveyors or otherwise (for "what's in a name?") purloiners, the very contiguity of the Temple being. to this free brotherhood as important in its way as the Exchange is to the merchant. A good "hand at business" is alone enabled to stock a couple of dealers, while the thing is all the more successful if he possesses a female partner who honours with her occasional presence the shops, bazaars, and "emporiums" of the city, without restricting herself by any objectionable favouritism to any one in particular, or even to one quarter" in general, |