Marengo only the day before the battle. In that battle, to the winning of which Desaix contributed so much, he served his country for the last time, and fell into my father's arms at the very moment when the retrieved field rung with the shouts of victory. The then first consul, to show his sense of his merit and service, caused him to be placed on the summit of this mighty mountain, in the highest consecrated spot of Europe; and here also repose, by choice and chance, the remains of his friend, my father. in the dim chamber on the cliff. To this the maron- | Italy, and, as you know, reached the glorious field of nier would not consent. His finest maron was in peril, and he resolved to rescue him, even if obliged himself to descend. Before doing so, he crept again to the end of the ladder, and began to swing the rope. Foiled a second time, he said, as he afterward observed, thoughtlessly, "Can't you jump at it, Ernst?" In a moment the spring was made, and the dog was swinging violently backward and forward, whilst the startled maronnier nearly lost his presence of mind and his place on the ladder. "Run him up, quickly. He has only his teeth to hold by. He has the rope-up-up!" The dog was saved, and here he lies. Maronnier, let me have the pleasure of keeping him beside me whilst I am here. I hope to see him often, as there is here a melancholy annual duty-a visit to the tomb of my father. He often said that he would like to lie near his friend, General Desaix, whose monument meets you on the stair-case as you enter the monastery; and it was a strange fate that brought him here to die near his illustrious friend. They fought side by side in Egypt; and, when Bonaparte returned to France leaving Desaix in command, only the presence of my father could console the general for the absence of his commander. Even he could not long prevent his repining. He yearned for his chief; and, having patched up a hasty treaty with the Beys, returned to France, asked instantly for leave to join the army of CONCLUSION. If I felt an interest in the beautiful girl before, the feeling deepened as she proceeded in her story, until, at its close, I was too desperately smitten to be able calmly to bear the name of a separation. But events did separate us, at least for a time. How that happened, and when and where we again met, may, if this sketch should be well received by the lovers of romance and devotion, make the subject of a tale scarcely less remarkable than that of the CAVERN IN THE SNOW. THE PICTURE. The beautiful engraving represents the return of the monks and their dogs from the rescue of a part of the party which had been whelmed in the snow. It speaks for itself and them, and is characterized by disinterested goodness, and a most noble and devoted instinct-shall we not say reason! EPICEDIUM. BY W. H. C. HOSMER. But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, WHEN her brow, untouched by corroding care, On her cheek the rose grew strangely white, Since the cold remains of the sleeping maid On the dampened mould dead leaves have thrown. And things unknown are shroud and pall; Her look, all love, had the magical power Milton. And remember the freshness of younger days: When sunset gilds yon azure lake, She will leave, she will leave on the pebbly shore If shadows of gloom becloud the brow If sorrow-pains convulse the heart Well may the storm of grief unseal The tearful fount in a breast of steel When frost descends from the clear, cold sky, asked what was the matter, but she only replied, “I don't know," and the little old woman soon drowned all her anxiety in the humming of her spinning-wheel. It was the universal custom in those days for every child to have a fairy godmother if possible, and she was always invited to the christening, where presents were bestowed on her, in return for the blessings she promised her godchild. The little old woman was so poor that all the fairies declined, under various pretences, to stand godmother to her daughter; but the truth was, the selfish little varlets were afraid they would get no present worth having. The only exception was an old skinflint of a fairy, who, though she had the reputation of a sensible body, was considered excessively ill-natured, and no better than she should be. She condescended to stand godmother, and being complimented by the little old woman with a skein of fine thread of her own spinning, went away in a great passion, muttering something that nobody could understand, about glass slippers and pumpkin coaches. ONCE upon a time-we cannot specify the precise | and unhappy. Her mother observed it, and often year, or whether it was any particular year or not when what is now dignified as the science of Mesmerism was vulgarly called witchcraft, and long before domestic industry was banished from the fireside to the manufactory; when the little fairy imps danced merrily by moonlight to the music of the murmuring stream, undisturbed by the din of steam engines and spinning jennies-there lived a little old woman, in a little bit of a house, by the side of a limpid stream, which, being too small to turn a mill, had luckily escaped being dammed, and was permitted to wander its way wheresoever it would. The old dame was very poor but very honest, and would not have robbed her neighbor of a pin, though she had been sure of escaping discovery. She was, moreover, as industrious as a bee, and might be seen from morning till night turning her spinning-wheel, whose humming was heard in the lonely quiet of the scene as loud as a whole hive. She had an only daughter, the most beautiful damsel in all the country round, who went to church every Sunday only to be admired, and spent all the rest of the week in the laborious task of killing time. Her name was Phillida, and she was very proud of it because it sounded so poetically. She was now eighteen, and though she might have taken the place of her mother at the spinning-wheel, she prefered idling away the whole day long, admiring herself in a neighboring crystal spring-for the little old woman was too poor to buy a looking-glass-thinking about princes and lords, and building castles in the air. By degrees Phillida discovered that the heaviest of all burthens is idleness. Her days, except Sunday, when she dressed herself as fine as a fiddle from the earnings of her mother, and went to church not to hear but to be seen, were so wearisome that she longed for night, though it brought but little rest, that blessing being only to be bought by labor and exertion. She had neither companions nor amusements, and her mind became at length completely absorbed in foolish dreams of future happiness, founded on anticipations of marrying some high born prince or puissant lord, who would fall in love with her beauty. But the mind cannot always live on dreams, or banquet on visionary fare, and Phillida every day became more discontented For a long time afterward the little old woman could never get on with her spinning. Sometimes the band would fly off the wheel; at others the flax would curl up all in a snarl on the distaff; and as sure as she attempted to draw out a fine thread it would break in the middle. The poor soul was fretted and vexed beyond measure, for now she could not do half a day's work, and as her husband was always so sick he could do nothing but eat, drink and sleep, the family were sometimes in want of the common necessaries of life. The good woman was convinced there was some foul play in the business, and, there never being any witches where fairies abound, was convinced in her own mind that she had somehow or other offended one of these testy little bodies, who had taken revenge by spoiling her spinning. All at once it occurred to her recollection that the old skinflint, Phillida's godmother, had gone away from the christening in a great passion, and it came into her head that the bitter old thing had done her this ill turn, because she had not made her a proper present. She accordingly determined to make all the amends in her power, and taking all the money, out of an old stocking, she had been saving for a month, she put on her hood, toddled away to the little town, not many miles distant, and having bought one of the most | place, and she in a sorrowful mood, beguiled her fashionable French bonnets she could find, carried it thoughts with a simple, melancholy song, of long past straight to the old fairy, who lived in a hollow tree on times, which has never been seen either in print or the top of a high mountain. The old sinner at first fell manuscript, but was often sung, in long past times, by into a terrible rage at seeing what kind of a present the love-lorn shepherdesses of the prairies of Illinois. had been brought her. There lived a lass in fairy land, 66 Hoity-toity!" cried she, "do you take me for an opera dancer, that you bring me such an enormity as this? A pretty figure I should cut to-night at the great ball on the banks of the stream that flows at the foot of the mountain, with this thing on my old gray head. Away with you, and bestow it on that vain, idle, good for nothing goddaughter of mine, that she may make a greater fool of herself than ever, if that be possible." But when the old skinflint-who, except her stinginess, had nothing very wicked in her-recollected that the poor woman did not know any better, and brought the present out of pure good will, her heart relented, and she added-" Well, well, go thy ways, goody, thou art an honest, industrious body, with a good for nothing husband, and a daughter not much better. Go thy ways, and I promise thee thy wheel shall hum more blithely than ever." And, sure enough, from that blessed day, it spun two threads at a time, and the little old woman won several premiums from the society for discouraging domestic industry. Phillida continued to grow more miserable from day to day, for want of something to do, or according to the more fashionable phrase, for want of excitement, which never occurs to those who mind their own business, or attempt to be useful to others. She pined, and sighed, and moped about, indulging a thousand foolish conceits, and finally fancying herself going into a decline, or at all events under the untoward influence of some malignant fairy. She had never thought of visiting her godmother, whom in truth she seldom recollected till she wanted her advice and assistance; but now she resolved to go and consult her about the unhappy state of her mind and body. So she dressed herself in all her finery and paid the old skinflint a visit. She found her sitting at the door of the old hollow tree, smoking her pipe very comfortably. "Hey day! Madam Phillida, my loving and affectionate god daughter, what brought thee here? Art thou come to ask me to thy wedding? Thou 'lookest for all the world like a bride, dressed in her finery, and frightened half to death at the prospect of realizing what she has been dreaming for years! What brings thee here, thou paragon of duty and affection?" Poor Phillida was almost struck dumb by this outlandish welcome, but summoned sufficient courage to tell her story, and ask the aid and advice of her god mother. "GO SPIN!" cried the old skinflint fairy, knocking the ashes out of her pipe with such emphasis that she broke it in two pieces, and jiggling herself into the old tree in a great hurry. Phillida could not get another word out of her, and turning about pursued her way home disconsolate, till she came to an old elm, which overshadowed the stream that gurgled at the foot of the mountain, and whose mossy roots afforded a comfortable seat. Here she sat down, and it being a solitary Oppressed with secret, silent woes, She wandered lone, the livelong day, For what, not she herself did know. She sighed in whispers soft and low- The nameless grief that wastes me so; For that whose cause they never know." She had no sooner concluded, and echo finished repeating her song, when she was startled by the sweet sounds of a shepherd's pipe, which, after playing a wild, delectable prelude, was succeeded by a voice discoursing in the following manner : There lives a lad in fairy land, That ne'er knew secret wo, "T is not disease that makes you pine, The grief that wastes that frame of thine "T is idleness that weighs you down, Go take thy mother's place and spin! The surprise which Phillida might otherwise have felt at this unlooked for response to her complaint, was overpowered by vexation at the impertinent piece of advice. "Spin-spin-spin!"-muttered she-"nothing but spinning. If I ask my old cross godmother's advice, she tells me to go spin; and if I complain to the rocks and woods, echo answers nothing but go spin. I can't spin-and I wont spin; so there is no use in talking or singing about it." It will be perceived that Phillida mistook the voice for an echo, having probably heard of Irish echoes, which report says, instead of repeating what is said to them, always return very sensible, judicious answers. But she was soon undeceived, by seeing a handsome youth emerging from among the woods and vines that skirted the murmuring stream, who modestly advancing toward her presented a beautiful bouquet of wild flowers, without saying a word. Phillida was very much tempted to accept it with a blush and a smile, when suddenly calling to mind that this was doubtless the person she had mistaken for an echo, and who had given her such an impertinent piece of advice, she rejected it scornfully, at the same time exclaiming, like a pert little hay as she was No, thank you, sir. You have favored me with such a valuable piece of advice, that I can't consent to rob you of any other treasure." The youth bowed, and passed on without uttering a word, but he could not help thinking what a pity it was, that such a lovely girl should not only be idle, but ill-natured. As to Phillida, she thought of him for several days after, and was sorry she had not accepted the flowers. The next Sunday, and for several Sundays in succession, she saw him at church, gallanting the only damsel of all the neighborhood who could dispute the palm of beauty with her, and soon after heard | they were married. Then it was she wished more earnestly she had accepted the nosegay, and became more idle and depressed than ever. Not knowing what else to do, she determined to go once more and consult her godmother, the old skinflint fairy, though in truth she expected nothing but a good scolding, and some advice which she was determined in her heart not to follow. So she got her mother to spend all her money in buying a great plum-cake, of a confectioner in the little neighboring town, who soon after retired from business, having made his fortune by concocting sugar plums, out of flour and plaster of Paris, sweetened with molasses. She found the old skinflint sitting as usual at the outside of the hollow tree, smoking her pipe. "Well, Mistress Lazybones, what do you want now, and what have you got in that basket? Come here this instant. What a plague are you lagging behind so for? Do you think I am going to eat you?" The old creature was almost dying with curiosity to see what was in the basket, which she snatched away as soon as poor Phillida came within reach of her. "O!-oh!-hum-a fine plum-cake! Well, you are a good girl after all, though I did call you lazybones," quoth the old skinflint, who liked plum-cake above all things, and forthwith cut off a slice, which she began to eat as fast as her crazy teeth would permit. In doing this she unluckily closed on a hard piece of gypsum, which the confectioner, according to custom, had mixed with his sugar, whereby she received a shock that almost jarred her head off her shoulders. This put her in such a passion that she threw the cake, and then the basket at Phillida's head, and bade her go about her business. The poor damsel in vain attempted to excuse herself, for the offence of the caitiff confectioner, and begged her godmother's good offices, or at least advice on the subject of her low spirits and declining health. "GO SPIN!" cried the spiteful old creature, and this was the only reply she would give. Phillida took her basket and her unlucky cake and proceeded disconsolate toward home. It was a delightful spring morning; the birds caroled in the tender foliage of the woods and briery dells; the flowers breathed their young perfumes to the balmy air, and all nature, animate as well as inanimate, seemed rejoicing in one full chorus of happiness. But the damsel shared not in the general joy, for she had not the capacity of sympathizing with the beauties of creation, and was sinking under the leaden burthen of idleness, which is worse than a mill-stone about the neck. As she approached her home, Phillida heard the humming of the old spinning-wheel, which sounded harshly in her ears, partly on account of the advice of the young shepherd and her cross old godmother, partly because she could not help often secretly reproaching herself for idling away her time, while her aged mother was toiling from morning till night. She continued to pine away every day, for want of something to do, and spent most of her time roaming about, either in the lonely wood paths or along the spritely gurgling stream, feeding her vain and idle fancies, with visionary anticipations of one day or other captivating some great lord, or perhaps prince, by her beauty, riding in a coach and six, and living in a fine house with folding-doors, and marble mantlepieces. Being so very handsome, she had many admirers among the neighboring swains, who, whenever she went to church, flocked around, and gallanted her through the grave-yard, where they read all the epitaphs, wondering at the number of excellent people buried there. But though Phillida had no objection to flirt a little with them, and indeed encouraged their attentions, she would have as soon thought of marrying the old man in the moon, as one of these ignoble clodhoppers. She aspired to princes and lords, and a squire was the lowest point of her ambition. One of these simple shepherds, being very welllooking and agreeable, was favored by Phillida with such marked encouragement, that he fell violently in love and made proposals, which were laughed at and scorned. His affections as well as pride being thus deeply wounded, the poor youth pined away in hopeless sadness for awhile and then disappeared from the country. In process of time the news came to his parents that he had died of a broken heart; and while every body cried shame on Phillida, she for a long time reproached herself for deceiving the poor lad, and almost regretted that she had not accepted his vows. One day as she sat musing on the past and the future, the thought of her victim came over her mind with such a cloud of sadness, that she could not refrain from mournfully chanting an old ditty which she remembered, that seemed expressive of her own condition, and ran as follows: Would I were yonder murmuring stream, Now shadowed by the waving tree. And would I were yon waving tree, Whose leaves returning spring renews, Whose whispers always seem to me Returning thanks for showers and dews. Would I were yonder twittering bird, That nestles in the scented thorn, And when the evening comes, is heard As blithesome as at early morn. Would I were yonder buzzing hee, That honey sips in dell and bower, And in one round of ecstasy, Hies him away from flower to flower. Would I were any thing, alas! But what I am, and still must be, As down the vale of years I pass, The sport of care and misery. But fitting 't is that she who spurned The heart whose worth she ne'er denied, Should have the poisoned shaft returned, And die the death her victim died. This homely ballad, sung to an old Doric air, one of those immortal melodies which still survive in the feelings and affections of the children of nature, though the names of their composers are long since buried in oblivion, soothed the sorrows of the disconsolate maid, and the warm weather co-operating with her languid spirits, she fell asleep with her head resting against a venerable mossy tree, the extremities of whose branches indicated the progress of that decay which soon would reach its heart. How long she slept she could not tell, but the first object that met her opening eyes was a young man hovering over, and contemplating her with intense admiration. "Who art thou?" exclaimed Phillida, half awake and rubbing her eyes, as if to ascertain whether she saw clearly or not. heart of the silly maiden to be voluntarily relinquished, In the morning she dressed herself in all her finery, and could hardly wait the hour appointed for meeting the prince in disguise. Her mother begged her to stay at home and take care of her father, who was now almost helpless, but she pretended she was going to a prayer-meeting, and the pious old soul could not bear to interfere with such a praiseworthy design. Phillida was in such a hurry that she arrived at the old tree some time before the disguised prince, who apologized carelessly, by saying that his moustaches had been very refractory that morning and taken a longer time than usual to bring to proper subjection. The damsel was not a little mortified at his thinking more of his moustaches than his appointment, but a profusion of high-flown compliments soon restored her self-complacency, and she talked and listened to as much nonsense as could well be crowded into the same space of time. The prince did not absolutely declare his love in words, but he expressed it through his eyes, and certain expressive evolutions of the hand, which Phillida felt at her very fingers' ends. They parted, after the prince had twice opened his mouth for a yawn, but substituted a compliment in its place, and the foolish girl, at parting, said to herself, "I wonder if he will offer himself at our next meeting." "I am a prince in disguise," answered the stranger, in a stately voice, and with an air inexpressibly noble. "I am traveling, incog., to see with my own eyes whether the people I am destined one day to govern are contented and happy. I heard your song, and sought this cool shade to escape the burning heat, little expecting to encounter a pair of eyes brighter than the sun, and more warming than his mid-day beams. Art thou a goddess, a chanting cherub, or a mortal?" Phillida had never heard such an elegant speech before, and blushed, not in modest diffidence, but proud exultation, at this compliment to her beauty. She simpered and bridled, and smiled and distorted herself into a variety of affectations, while the disguised prince continued gazing on her with an impudent silence that would have been offensive in the highest degree to a modest, delicate sensibility. But Phillida had at this moment but one feeling, that of gratified vanity. The illustrious stranger inquired her name, and where she lived, but she was ashamed of her parents and her home, and answered that her father was a barbarous, cruel man, who robbed and murdered all travelers that came near his castle, and that she had an old skinflint fairy godmother, who turned all the young men whom she saw in company with her goddaughter into baboons and monkeys with tremendous whiskers. "Alas!" exclaimed the prince, casting up his eyes In this way matters went on day after day; the in despair; "alas! then, I shall never see thee more-prince yawning and complimenting, and Phillida unless-unless you will sometimes condescend to meet me here to charm my ears with thy divine song, and ravish my eyes with thy angelic face. Wilt thou, sweet-may I not ask thy name?" bridling and blushing, and expecting every moment he would propose to carry her to the court of his father, for the purpose of presenting her as a daughterin-law. But his royal highness seemed in no great “Phillida,” replied she, for it was a pretty name, hurry, and, instead of becoming more ardent, by deand she was not ashamed of that. "Phillida! Oh! what a sweet name. It breathes of love, music and poetry. Wilt thou meet me here to-morrow at this hour, most enchanting of all the fragrant progeny of spring and summer?" grees relapsed into a careless sort of indifference that was very provoking! He every day brought a little pocket-glass with him, which he would place against the old tree, and, turning his back to Phillida, spend half an hour or more in adjusting his moustaches. In The excitement of vanity was too delicious to the short, he seemed to take much greater pleasure in ad |