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Camilla had gradually recovered her health and her gentle calmness of demeanour; but the melancholy which had formerly been but as a light shade mellowing a brilliant landscape, had now settled over her like the tints of autumn. All the amusements procured for her by her uncle, all his care and kindness were gratefully received; but they could not obliterate the recollection of that gentle being who had watched over her childhood and infancy: she loved her uncle, but forgot not her mother.

her lips, while tears swam in her large dark eyes.

ceeded a delirious fever, and then a long period of weakness and deathlike languor, and all who tended her believed that she would not long M. Giraud had secured a private box in the survive her lost parent. Uncle Giraud had best circle for himself and niece. The perhastened to Charbonnier, on hearing of the sud-formances had commenced when they arrived, den death of his niece, and there found himself and Camilla paused in wonder and delight as the sole present relative of the orphan girl, for she beheld the spacious and crowded theatre, the Chevalier's departure and his wife's death the throng of elegantly attired men and women, had been so sudden, that no one knew where he the lights, the gilding, the glittering chandeliers, was to be found. The good old man superin- and the gorgeous spectacle represented on the tended the funeral, watched by the sick-bed of stage; she grasped her uncle's arm, and seemed Camilla, and after vainly trying to arouse her, almost choking for want of means of expressing resolved to see what entire change of scene could her feelings. Nor was she unnoticed, so young, do, and accordingly determined to quit his so beautiful, so new, so elegant in appearance, dearly loved retirement, and all his rural plea- and attended by such a quaint-looking tall gaunt sure and occupations, and remove to Paris, where man: the women gazed upon her in curiosity, we now will join him. the men levelled their lorgnettes at the box in admiration. In a few moments she had recovered her self-possession, and taken her seat. Then gradually as she looked around her and beheld so many faces dressed in smiles, so many persons evidently exchanging ideas, and appearing to enjoy and comprehend all the labour she saw going on in the orchestra, all the gesticulations of those on the stage, a sense of melancholy and isolation stole over her, becoming each moment stronger and stronger, until she felt as if her heart must burst, and, starting up, was about to retire to the back of the box, when her attention was attracted by two persons who sat in the balcony beneath; the one young and richly attired, the other a venerable-looking old man. The younger one held in his hands an ivory tablet, on which he rapidly inscribed characters with a pencil, and then handed it to his companion, who, having glanced at it, marked other characters, and gave it back; then by opening and closing the hands, and twisting the fingers in various ways, they evidently communicated ideas the one to the other; but their lips did not move, that Camilla clearly perceived; and hence the eager interest with which she regarded them. Astonishment as to how this could be, and an eager desire to understand it, kept her riveted to the spot, watching every movement, and longing-oh! so earnestly!for the power of thus easily expressing her thoughts. Again was something marked on the tablets, and as they were passed from one to the other Camilla involuntarily put out her hand, as if she would have seized them, and in the movement her bouquet fell close to the feet of the young man. He started, and looked up towards that lovely expressive countenance. Their eyes met; earnestly and inquiringly they regarded each other: and that long look plainly said"We are both dumb!"

At the time at which we resume the narrative the uncle and niece were alone together; she sitting in a bay window, the parting radiance of the setting sun throwing a halo around her youthful and almost motionless form, full of statue-like grace; and he pacing the room, and indulging in his usual habit of talking to himself. Thus ran his soliloquy :

"I wonder whether she would like to go to the Opera: most girls do. Surely the ballet would amuse her! I cannot say that I care much for the music myself; but I like to see them capering about so merrily. And I have bought such a pretty dress for her: I wonder whether those confounded people have sent it home. Camilla! have they?-but what am I saying? Poor thing! poor thing! How beautiful she is, and how sad she looks!-thinking of her poor dear mother again, I'll be bound. I must just go and see if that dress is come: at least it will attract her attention for a minute or two." And off went the good old man, and returned in a few moments, holding a very elegant robe in his rough hands. Touching Camilla to attract her attention, he exhibited it, throwing himself into all kinds of droll attitudes, and then invited her by signs to try it on. The young girl reading his meaning took the dress, and withdrew to her room; then came back in a short time attired in it. M. Giraud made signs to know if she would go out with him; and when she nodded a smiling affirmative, caught her up in his arms as if she had been a child, and kissing her heartily, set her down again, and withdrew to prepare himself. Camilla drew near a glass to arrange her hair, and smiled as her own gracious form met her view; but the next moment drew a slight gold chain and locket from her bosom, and pressed it to

The old man was the Abbé de l'Epée, who was just then bringing his wonderful method of teaching the deaf and dumb before the public, and the youth was one of his first pupils; born of noble family, gifted with every mental faculty, but, had it not been for the discoveries of that wise and good man, shut out from all intercourse with his fellow beings from want of speech and hearing. Under the judicious care of this benefactor of his species, the young Marquis de

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had but written her own name. From that day uncle Giraud was constantly called upon to write some fresh word; and as she mechanically imitated it, and saw that he comprehended it, her rich fancy attached its own signification to it, and she thought she had made some progress in this new and absorbing study: a new impetus seemed given to life; a new spring of thought was opened; something of her former joyous

Moubrai had acquired external accomplishments as well as valuable information, and was now as talented as it was possible for one in his situation to become. In disposition he was most amiable; his misfortunes saved him from all knowledge of vice, and made him humble and gentle, while a secret consciousness of innate worth and high birth gave a sufficient tone of pride and manliness to his character. Fair dames regarded him with admiration and in-ness returned, and connected in her mind with terest; but hitherto he had had eyes for none. Now his looks scarcely wandered from Camilla, until the performance was over, and she had quitted the theatre with her uncle.

From the very retired life M. Giraud led in Paris, and the limited number of his acquaintances, he had never heard of the Abbé de l'Epée, or of that newly-discovered science which gave to the deaf and dumb a mode of expressing themselves and understanding others. Had Madame von Arcis lived, her anxiety respecting her child would doubtless have led her to the knowledge of it, and the Chevalier ought to have known it; but enwrapt in morbid grief, he had long ceased to take any interest in what was going on in the world.

all this was the handsome form of the young Marquis and his sympathizing looks. Nor was it alone to the eye of fancy that he was present; for in her walks he constantly crossed her path, or, if the weather confined her to the house, he might be seen to loiter by and gaze wistfully on the windows.

One day when Camilla had, as usual, been covering everything with her hieroglyphics, and was sitting contemplating her performances, she was startled by the sudden entrance of the Marquis: he had seen the door open, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, had entered and made his way to her presence. Had she been a princess he could not have approached her with more ceremony and respect. Kneeling at her feet, he raised her hand to his lips, and would fain have told her how he had followed her from the Opera, learned her name, watched her day by day, loved her as his life, and desired no greater bliss than permission to lay his hand and fortune at her feet. All this he would have said if possible; as it was, his eyes discoursed eloquently, and the language of love seldom needs any other interpreters, but speaks thus at once from heart to heart. After the first all-absorbing feeling of delight at finding himself thus unexpectedly near her he loved, the young Marquis recollected the impropriety of this intrusion, and glancing around to see how he could best introduce himself, and at the same time apologize, he espied the chalk and the word "Camilla," and immediately wrote underneath "Peter de Moubrai.”

All the way home Camilla thought of nothing but those signs and characters, and wondered what they could signify. She had often seen her mother write, and her uncle; but had not noticed it, as it possessed to her no more apparent interest than any other action of daily use. But here it had evidently formed a channel of communication between two persons who did not move their lips. Scarcely had they arrived at home, than she endeavoured to make her uncle understand that she wanted a pencil and tablets, and the old man having with difficulty deciphered her meaning, rummaged out a slate and a bit of chalk, and was then about to sit down to supper; but Camilla was not yet satisfied he must write something on it:"What a curious whim! Well, my child, what is it you wish me to write? Your father's name, pretty one? or your poor dear mother's? "Well, and what may Peter de Moubrai want or your own?" At this moment Camilla nod-here?" exclaimed a rough voice. "How did ded her head somewhat impatiently, and so he wrote in large letters-"Camilla,' and then attacked his supper with a famous appetite. But not one morsel could his niece eat; she sat impatiently watching until her uncle had finished, her eyes scarcely quitting the slate and chalk, as if she feared to lose those treasures, and her thoughts revolving all she had seen. At length he had finished, and had embraced her, and bade her "good night."

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As soon as she found herself in her own room, she betook herself to the contemplation of the written word; and then with infinite pains copied it again and again on the tables, the shutters, the walls, and bureau, and then with a beating heart passed from one to the other of these combinations of mysterious marks, gazing on them, and thinking how delightful it must be thus to express all the thoughts which often crowded her mind, connecting some idea with each line and curve, and little dreaming that she

you get in, young Sir, and what is your business with my niece?" The young Marquis feeling the heavy hand laid on his shoulder, turned round, and instantly recognizing the person he had always seen with Camilla, drew out his pencil and tablets, and wrote-"I love this lady, and would marry her. My birth is noble; my fortune princely; my study should be to make her happy. Will you bestow her on me?"

"And why the devil don't you speak?" exclaimed Uncle Giraud; for it was he who had followed the youth in. "I am not deaf, if my poor girl is.-What! dumb? You dumb too! and yet can write! Dear me! dear me! What a strange couple they would make! One comfort is they could not easily fall out. How sad to see two such young and lovely beings so cut off from the world! There! he's writing again! Well, I suppose I must write too. What will the Chevalier say?" and he took the tablets. |

Let it not be supposed that the Chevalier had

Under the guidance and tutelage of her husband and his excellent preceptor, her mind rapidly expanded and some two years after the visit of Uncle Giraud, the Chevalier received a letter from his daughter, written and expressed with great feeling and eloquence, praying him to come and be present at the christening of his little grandson. After some struggle he resolved to conquer his feelings and comply with her request.

all this time been wholly unmindful of his child. | ceremony tolerably well, and Camilla imitated As soon as the intelligence of the sudden death him as far as possible. But though its actual of his wife reached him, he had returned home, sense might not reach her, she felt the solemnity and for many months was so overcome with of the ceremony, and felt, moreover, that she grief and remorse as to be incapable of seeing loved her young husband with her whole heart any one. "Had I been with her on that fatal and soul. night she might have been saved" was the ever-recurring and torturing thought. Again and again he resolved to atone by devotion to his child for all his faults towards her mother, and to supply to her the parent she had lost. But his courage always failed him. Camilla's very name seemed a reproach; he could not prevail upon himself to see her, and was content to know that she was under the protection of her uncle, and occasionally to hear that she was well. When Uncle Giraud now sought him to make known the Marquis's suit, the Chevalier listened with incredulity, believing that the old man was in one of his joking humours; but no sooner did he understand him to be in earnest than he impetuously exclaimed-"What! suffer two such unfortunates to be united, and become the parents of a race of beings afflicted like themselves? Never! never! Why, what is she; or what this would-be son-in-law? Very babes in helplessness and ignorance, who can neither speak nor understand, read nor write!"

"Why, as to not writing I don't know what you call this!" said Uncle Giraud, handing the Chevalier a very neatly indited and well expressed letter, in which the young Marquis formally made his offer.

"How! since when is it that the deaf and dumb have been able to do this? You mock me, Giraud!"

But

"I can't pretend to explain the matter; but thus much I know: that young fellow can use his pen more freely than I can; and they tell me that an old abbé, whose name I forget, has devised means of teaching the deaf and dumb every thing. Heaven reward him for it! come, now: view this matter in a reasonable light. Here is a young, rich, handsome nobleman, who wishes to marry your daughter; and you object to him for the very cause which, in my opinion, makes him peculiarly adapted for her. Their mutual affliction will be a bond of union and sympathy between them. She is now seventeen, and during the whole of those years you, who are her own father, have not been able to reconcite yourself to the sight of her deprivations. How then can you expect that any other man will? If one should be induced by love of her fortune, or by a transient passion for her rare beauty, to marry her, is there not every reason to fear that he might afterwards shun her as you do, or even ill-treat her? Besides, I am old, and-forgive my speaking thus plainly should I die, who will cherish and protect her?"

The Chevalier's conscience secretly acknowledged the justice of the old man's remarks, and he bade him act as he thought fit, and in his place, for he could not see them.

The

The marriage was privately solemnized. Marquis was enabled to perform his part of the

Two beautiful and happy-looking beings received him with affectionate welcome; and with all a mother's pride Camilla hastened to place her cherub child in his arms. The little creature, as if it knew his thoughts and was willing to relieve his fears, began instantly to crow and prattle away in its unformed language, and he bowed his head over it, and wept tears of joy; while, for the first time for many a year, his heart ascended in grateful thanksgiving to God.

THE RARE OLD HOLLY.

BY J. J. REYNOLDS.

The laurel may deck the hero's brow-
A type of valour is he;
On poets may deathless fame endow,

A wreath of their own bay-tree;
The willow to love-sick swains I leave;
To sons of Bacchus the vine;
And care-worn souls may cypress weave :
No symbols are they of mine.

But the emblem I love, oh the emblem for me
Is a sprig of the rare old holly-tree,
A sprig of the rare old holly!

He tells of the merry winter-time,

When hearts with love o'erflow-
When the blazing hearth and pealing chime
Drive thence all care and woe-
When fire-side joys around are shed:
He dwells in hut and hall,
With his prickly leaves and berries red
Glistening on the wall.

He's the emblem I love; oh, the emblem for me
Is a sprig of the rare old holly-tree,

A sprig of the rare old holly!

Sweet scenes of many a by-gone day
To Sorrow's child he brings,
To lighten his dark and thorny way,
And heal for a time her stings.
He gladdens the eye with joy and mirth,
And checks the falling tear :

Oh, where is the shrub that grows on earth,
To a Briton's heart so dear?

'Tis the emblem we love, and ever shall be ;
So we'll sing of the rare old holly-tree,
A song for the rare old holly!

LINES TO A LEAF WHICH GREW ON

THE GRAVE OF GRAY.

(Sent to me in America.)

By the author of the "Life of Challerton."

My footsteps press a foreign strand;
Above me bend Columbia's skies;
Yet doth the old ancestral land

Appear before my eyes.

Aye, from thy rifted rocks, Nahant !

Round which the everlasting seas
Rave, rage, and roll with mighty pant,
Imagination sees

The isle to which yon bark is now

In sunshine dancing far away,

Whilst blue waves dance around her prow
In Massachussets Bay.

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Their little world a valley-fold,

Where, free from turmoil and affright,
He, who did bear the lambs of old,
But penn'd them for a night.

And standing in the ancient pile,
I see the windows arch'd and dim;
Where pictur'd angels sweetly smile
On pictur'd cherubim.

I listen to the sacred word,

Till sound in silence dies; and then, Deep echoing from the walls, is heard The many-voic'd "Amen!"

And near me are their tombs who rot,
Though monumental marble hide,
Like those of humbler heart and lot,
Who lone and nameless died.

Now, issuing from the House of God, And, pausing on their homeward walk, Of those who sleep beneath the sod,

The village people talk ;

Of youth gone down, of beauty lost;
Of energy and strength departed;
Of passion stilled, of project cross'd;
Of mourner broken-hearted;

Of him who swept his living lyre,

And sang the place in which he sleeps ; Whilst for his quench'd "celestial fire" Some village genius weeps.

As when cathedral anthems swell
In some vast venerable pile,
Sweet spirits seem with us to dwell
Within the solemn aisle.

Our rapt soul soaring on the sound
To heaven and endless life-it stops!
Then, to the cold, material ground

Our broken spirit drops.

So, borne on Fancy's wing by thee,
O little leaf, I've roam'd away
From where sweeps on the sounding sea
In Massachussetts Bay.

I've seen the joys of other days

Whilst seated on this old gray stone,
But the mock mirage fades away,
And I am left alone.

Yet do I thank thee for the dream

So full of beauty, though so brief;
And thou unto my sense dost seem
A missionary-leaf,

Sent to me as a cherish'd thing

To greet me from beyond the wave-
To tell when Genius folds its wing
It sanctifies the grave.

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A TALE OF TRUTH.

BY P. P. C.

"The truth is not always true-like," says the Scottish version of the well-known French proverb; and the said truth runs a great risk of being contemptuously cast aside for some sparkling fiction of a skilful story-weaver. The following little tale, which can be authenticated in all its parts, is, I fear, too like a romance of the old-beaten track, and yet it is true.

One lovely spring evening he was sitting at the door of the farmhouse beside his wife, who had been tempted by the unusual warmth to remove her spinning-wheel from the inglenook to the open sunshine. The eyes of both were following the gambols of their only child, a sun-burnt, golden-locked fairy of three years old, who was rolling over and over, in a romp with a colley dog. James's face was lighted up with all a fond father's admiration, when it suddenly became overshadowed as his glance rested on a new object, and he uttered an exclamation of impatience, which did not escape the listening ears of his attached helpmate.

"What is it that vexes you, Hamish?" she asked in endearing tones.

"Only that old witch, Lizzie Robertson, coming again on her fruitless errand. But I cannot listen to her; my mind's made up, and I cannot afford to let my best beasts be ruined by her idle ne'er-do-weel callant of a grandson."

His accents rose as he went on, and the last words were so loud that they reached the hearing of the aged and feeble woman, who was slowly toiling up the steep ascent from the valley.

In the last century, when the rage for innovation and improvement moved at a slower rate in its progress than now, when it travels in an express train across the country, Athole, that lovely strathe which stretches upwards from Dunkeld to beyond Blair, was very different in appearance to what it is at present. Its grand natural features must ever have been the same; its rapid rivers, swelling mountains, and rocky torrents leaping in a succession of falls to the bottom of the vale. But farms then were few, and badly cultivated; the Highland Society had not arisen to make the wild moors of the Gael blossom like the meadows of the Sassenach. Woods there were none; or if there were any infant plantations, their tiny stems scarce speckled the brown sides of the hills. It was the era of sheep-farming, that obnoxious change which drove so many broken-hearted clansmen from the lands of their selfish chieftains to the far "Aye, Jamie Grant," she said, as she apSavannahs of a western world. Some few proached him; "the callant may be idle now, tacksmen were able to bear up against the when the quick blude of boyhood rins sae lightly whirlwind which had changed the very face of in his veins; his father was a brave lad, who the country; still they preserved their patri- died nobly at Culloden; and, troth, I canna archial wealth of herds, buying at a reduced wonder that Charlie finds it ablins weary, folprice the smaller possessions of their self-expa-lowing day after day at the tail of those silly kye triated friends. Among these was James Grant, a man of some solid education, of a shrewd, thoughtful character, and great probity. He steadily stood his ground in the panic of those distressed times, after the disasters of the rebellion; and by adding sheep to his horned cattle, he was enabled to prosper where many had been ruined. He was not an Athole man; he came, as his name announced, from the gathering place of the Grants, Speyside. But he had lived long and happily in Athole, and married there; so that he loved it as his adopted home. No one was more respected in Blair than our friend; but beneath all his worldly wisdom and generally kind dispositions there lurked a root of bitterness in the shape of pride and haughtiness, which had been unhappily fostered by his success in life. His drovers, whom he sent annually to England with his flocks and herds for the southern markets, feared rather than loved him; he was too apt to insist upon the distance between master and man, which in those days of homely sociality gave great umbrage to his inferiors.

in the Southron's land. But, ochone, ochone! we are a' idle in the wark o' our great master, and 'deed we maunna be too heavy on the short comings o' ane anither; and bread is dear, and the mouths that want it are many. And I ask you, Jamie Grant, to tak' back my grandson as a drover, and the widow's heart shall sing aloud for joy.'

Kind Mrs. Grant was evidently affected by this appeal, and drying her womanishly tearful eyes with one hand, nudged her husband with the other to grant the poor old woman's request. But the lord of the farm did not seem softened like herself; he felt his dignity hurt by the blunt unceremonious way in which old Lizzie had demanded the re-establishment of her truant relative, and his answer betrayed the wound his vanity had received.

"My certie, woman! ye think cows can luke after themselves in strange lands! Gin ye fancy such a gomeril as Charlie Robertson is to be trusted with them? Ye may want the place, but I want the wark; and, in gude truth, Charlie's na likely to gie me the worth o' his

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