For the New Mirror.

A SHORT CHAPTER ON

VARIOUS MATTERS AND THINGS.

"Indeed, Mr. Sherwood, if the occasion does not inspire you, I cannot."

"Well, the occasion; should one feel sad or happy at a wedding?"

Mercy, what a question! I cannot conceive the possibility of one's being sad at a wedding; feel happy, at least look happy by all means."

"Think, Miss Bell, what"

How much more Sherwood might have said we know not, but one of his gloves bursting at the moment, he blushed violently, became confused, and without even a passing bow quit Joanna and the house instanter.

WE have a friend, and we are proud of the privilege of claiming him as such; he is an elderly man, upwards of sixty, tall and thin; his hair is gray and his visage wrinkled, but his voice is very sweet, and his manner kind: whenever he enters a house the hostess' countenance brightens as she rises to welcome "good Mr. Maynard." Children love him; and, seated on his knee, will listen attentively for hours together, to his seemingly inexhaustible fund of childish lore; the young baby crows with joy when it sees Sherwood's is by no means a solitary case; he has him, while its elder brothers and sisters seek his advice and many brothers in misfortune, men of sense and attainconsolation in all their little difficulties and trouble; old || ments, but cursed with mauvaise honte; these unfortunates and young respect and love him, for they feel that he is a may readily be recognized by their persevering silence and good and useful member of society; the poor, too, bless grave countenances; at a party they generally keep near him, for he who is beloved by children must have a good the wall or conceal themselves in the corners, but one is and pure heart, and such will never turn aside from the sometimes driven from his fastness and compelled to join wants and miseries of others: always kind and cheerful, || in the dance, and when this happens truly is his patience to and knowing that all men are his friends, a happy man is || be pitied! Happy is she if Orson thrust not his foot through Mr. Maynard. Doubtless in his dreams troops of children the light drapery of her dress! thrice happy if, at supper, dance around him gayly, cheering his path through life with he baptize her not in preserves and cream! Should he atlaugh and song and merry shout; while ever and anon tempt to converse, how bald and disjointed his talk, how some fair young maiden takes him by the hand, and sweet. desperate his efforts to seem at ease! and what is the exly smiling, thanks him for the kindness he has shown her cuse of this class of men? that they cannot find anything in times past; for, loving and loved, Mr. Maynard holds to talk about with strangers! They are at a loss for converthe even tenor of his course, doing good to all he meets. sation? yes, because they will not stoop to pick up the Never can he be lone and friendless, old bachelor though|| materials which are so plentifully scattered around; they he be. certainly have the same opportunities as others, but they will not take the same pains; is not this true? Do not you, reader, know some persons who are incessant talkers; to whom nothing comes amiss, whose preternatural "gift of speech" forces them to say something, no matter how little they may know of the subject they are discussing; and who will oftentimes advance the greatest absurdities with an air of plausibility well calculated to deceive the unwary ?

Mr. Maynard, however, is an exception to the general rule for the most part, we do verily believe that the mar. ried man alone stands a fair chance of true and rational happiness; we go still farther, and hold that where a mar. ried man is unhappy, he alone is to blame, for he has either married for money, or neglected to act according to the golden rule of "bear and forbear," in either of which cases we opine that he deserves to suffer misery unmiti. gated.

One of this class, an acquaintance of ours, strenuously

But, alas! it is not very easy for some men to get mar-insists that on board a ship of war, the officers should asried; there's John Sherwood, for instance, (you don't know him, perhaps, but that's of no consequence,) now nature evidently intended him for a bachelor; he can never muster courage to "pop the question;" he dreads the very thought of paying a visit, and looks on an invitation to a party as a serious misfortune, for he is, poor fellow! a bashful man, and can never find anything to talk about ex. cept among intimate friends. He was, not long since, invited to the wedding of an old acquaintance and felt that he must accept; he accordingly went, the ceremony was over, and John, having most signally failed in his attempt at saying something pretty to the bride, was in full retreat towards the door, when the bridegroom seized him by the

arm.

"Jack, my dear boy, don't be in a hurry; let me pre. sent you to my cousin, Miss Bell. Joanna, this is the friend of whom you have so often heard me speak, my old col. lege crony, Mr. Sherwood!"

A very pretty girl was Joanna; her eyes were bright and sparkling, her mouth small and well formed, teeth white and regular, hair dark and glossy; she had, too, a good figure, and her dress was perfect in its neatness and simplicity; all this Sherwood discovered while looking for his voice and ideas.

"Do, Miss Bell, have mercy on me, and tell me what to talk about!"

Joanna laughed merrily, well she might.

sociate with the crew and treat them as equals; that punishment and discipline should be abolished, and the doctrine of implicit obedience buried in oblivion! We have heard him, time and again, maintain these doctrines with the utmost obstinacy; he says, "this is a free country; God made all men free and equal, and never intended the poor sailor to be a slave ;" and, clothed in words innumer. able, is this one argument brought forward, horse, foot and dragoon. Proteus-like, it assumes the form of either as the occasion may seem to demand, it need scarcely be added that our "advocate of sailors' rights" has confined his maritime explorations to voyages in the Fulton ferry-boats. But it is not only thus that he can talk; high and ennobling sentiments flow freely from his lips, with only one draw-back, that the sense is smothered in a torrent of words.

Fearing that the latter charge may be laid at our door, reader, we will for the present say adieu.

T. T. T.

Love, like the flower that courts the sun's kind ray,
Will flourish only in the smiles of day;
Distrust's cold air the generous plant annoys,
And one chill blight of dire contempt destroys.
Oh shun, my friend, avoid that dangerous coast,
Where peace expires, and fair affection's lost;
By wit, by grief, by anger urg'd, forbear
The speech contemptuous, and the scornful air.

THE GIPSY'S STAR.

A TALE OF THE ABRUZZO.

CHAPTER V.-CONCLUDED.

A TWELVEMONTH had passed away, and many mingled sounds of song and dance, and the light laugh of unrestrained glee, echoed round the old towers of the Castell di Mirialva; gay banners fluttered in the mountain-breeze from the lofty battlements, and the hillside swarmed with merry groups of peasants, who were eagerly watching the approach of a distant cavalcade, impatient to hail the first-born of their liege lady, the heir of the Conradini,

It was the anniversary of the festival of the Annunziata, and chosen by Constanza for the day that was to give the mother church one other member in her newborn son.

"I choose this day," said Constanza to her lord, "for it was on this day I met the mendicant palmer in the church of the Annunziata; but, though I love right well the gentle name of Luigi, yet shall this boy be called Ovidio, in remembrance of the spot where I staid to list my fair fortune."

The lady had her will, and it was her return from the convent the assembled vassals so eagerly abided. As the gay cortege approached the foot of the hill, Constanza turned her palfrey from the side of her infant's litter, and, calling to her lord to follow, gayly galloped over the yielding sward towards Gli Fonti d'Amore.

Together they reined up upon its margin; Constanza fondly pressed the hand of Luigi, and pointing to the rich olives whose branches swept the waters, she told how upon that spot her startled eye first rested on the dark form of the Zingaro. She waved her hand to hasten some of the approaching guests, when a female advanced from the thick shade of the trees, and, laying her finger impressively on her lip, motioned the conte to be gone, glancing at the same time upwards amid the branches. Following the direction of her look, the conte caught sight of the dark visage of the Zingaro, with finger on lip, just visible for an instant through the thick foliage. On this, whispering his discovery to Constanza, they quickly turned together and stayed the advance of their gentle followers. Loud shouts from the hill, at the same moment, bespoke the reception of Mirialva's future lord amid his happy vassals. “Let us hasten to thank the honest knaves," said the conte, and in a moment quickly bounded each steed onward towards the castello.

The day was devoted to sumptuous festivity. At length the sounds of revelry were hushed; the banqueters, wearied with the fulness of their joys, were buried in profound repose. In the silence of their chamber, the conte and his fair wife, at length left alone, marvelled on their strange vision of that morning; for from the time he bade them farewell in the palace of the Conradini, no word of the eagerly sought Zingaro had reached their ears. The fond mother bent above the couch of her sleeping boy, and loudly prayed all evil might be averted from his innocent head, when-" Hark!"-the soft notes of music rose through the air. Imagining it to be a gallant device of their guests, or some rustic serenade, the conte and lady left their chamber, and advanced to that very window whence, twelve months before, they had so fearfully descended.

The night was close and calm, and the casement stood open to court the lazy air. Looking out to greet the serenaders, they recognized at once, standing in the shade below, the figures of the Zingaro and the dark young maiden. She was seated on the rude bench at the foot of the tower; before her lay a huge hound of the mountain breed, and by her side stood her companion, his rude guitar in his hand. The count was about to address them, but motioning for silence, the Zingaro spoke in a low tone to the girl

"Sing, Zea, sing to them the song of joy, made more welcome from thy lips; sing to them the song of our last parting." He pointed impressively towards the distant horizon's edge, and then softly swept the strings of his guitar; while, raising her dark eyes towards Constanza, the maiden obeyed, and sang the

PROPHECY.

"LADY, look from thy bower on high,
Look on yonder western sky,

Look o'er tree, o'er tower, and fountain,
Where the silver cloud sits on the mountain.
Look, lady, look, and mark the star,
Beaming so lightly from afar;
That star is a herald bearing joy
To thee and thy sleeping cherub boy.
I mark'd the day, I watch'd the hour,
I've read its errand, know its power;
It bears to that boy who cradled lies
All of good beneath the skies.
Success in love, in peace, in war,
High fame, and honour brings yon star;
Happy mother, now rest thee well,

His fortune's read! Farewell--farewell!"

Never again did the wild form of lo Zingaro cross the path of the Conradini, nor ever after this hour did the plaintive melody of his guitar awake the night.

THE GRISETTE.-A STORY OF PARIS.

AT the period we were studying medicine in the French capital, in one of the mansardes that were situated at the top walls and ceilings, that only pertain to cocklofts in Englandof our hotel-displaying those eccentric varieties of sloping resided one of the prettiest little girls we ever saw while we lived at Paris. We had noticed her from the first day of our arrival; but we had never entered into conversation with her, although it was frequently our lot to meet her on the staircase in the morning, as she was about "cherchante son pelit godet de creme, et sa domi-once de cafe;" such being, according to the experienced and veracious Paul de Kock, the first daily business of a Parisian grisette. It so chanced that we owed our introduction to her own hospitality, which took place under the following circumstances.

of Paris, are Constant's and Tonnelier's. The former is a The two principal resorts of the dance-loving "jeunes gens" handsome stone building, with a spacious and elegant salon on its first floor, capable of accommodating three or four hundred people. The room is brilliantly illuminated with gas, and adorned with statues and looking-glasses; and round its side a number of little tables are arranged, for those who prefer quietly sitting and sipping their wine, at twelve sous a-bottle, while they watch the mazes of the quadrille and waltz. On danse a la belle etoile, chez Tonnelier; and, consequently, this guinguetee only does for summer weather. The piece of ground appropriated to Terpsichore is smoothly gravelled, and lighted by a quantity of lamps suspended from wires stretching across the garden. Cabinets particuliers, for dinner and flirtation, surround the enclosure, with alcoves beneath them, similar to the supper-boxes at Vauxhall; and at both places the band is composed of ten or a dozen performers, who make a demand of five sous for each quadrille.

The balls of the Barriere du Mont Parnasse were one of our most constant haunts at Paris. The Chaumiere, on the boulevard of the same name, was all very well in its way; but if you did not know a great many of the company, you were not likely to procure many partners. At the barriere, however, there was a greater freedom of introduction, added to which, you saved the few francs which your billet d'entree to Tivoli or Ranelagh would have cost you. Many, many happy and careless evenings have we passed there; the waltz, the wine, and the music, alike lending their powerful auxil iaries to our excitement: and many times have we returned we hardly knew how-five in a citadine, or three in a cab, awaking the lazy echoes of the Rue de Vaugirard and Chambre des Pairs with our student's chorus.

One evening in October, just as autumn was closing its theatre by bringing out some of its best pieces, previously to the arrival of the new lessee, we came home in our usual good temper on fete evenings; and, as we had left the ball-room

red-hot from the galoppe, and found ourselves rather chilly from the change of temperature, we determined on indulging in a little vin chaud. In furtherance of this object, as soon as we entered our apartment, we commenced lighting the fire, or, rather, endeavouring to do so, at the expense of an entire box of lucifers, and two sheets of the Times newspaper, that we had received from home in the morning, containing the intelligence that the lady of somebody or another of our acquaintance had added one more contribution to the breadcrumb and batter-pudding consumers of the nursery. But, lighting a fire in Paris is very different to performing the same task in England. You must first sweep up all the ashes of the day before into a heap; and having done this with satisfaction to yourself, you bring the iron "dogs" together, and place three pieces of wood upon them, which you have dragged from their depository under the bed, or in the top drawer, or along with your tea-things, or out of your carpet-bag, or one of the like receptacles for bois a bruler in French lodgings. You next pick out all the pieces of charcoal you may find on the hearth, about the size of a small cork; and, this finished, you drag an "allumette chemique" across the sole of your shoe, and kindle one of the aforesaid pieces of charcoal by its aid, placing the live ember among the bits of wood; and then you begin to blow gently, first with your mouth, next with your old cap, which has been torn the week before in a row at the Bal Montesquieu, and, finally, you call in the aid of the bellows.

our fair companion, as we were picking out some red-hot pieces from the four. "If you please, you can warm your wine here, and it will give you less trouble."

There was so much sincerity in the invitation, that we ac cepted it as freely as it was offered, and having run down to our room to bring up the wine and its concomitants, and lock the door after us, we commenced the preparation of the vin chaud. Oh! if our friends in England could have seen us, whom they thought all diligence and discretion, sitting on one side of the fire-place, in a blue velvet cap with a gold band, mulling wine; with a pretty French girl for our vis-a-vis, ironing habit-shirts and singing Louisa Puget's songs, just as if she was by herself, what a name we should have acquired amongst the old ladies of our acquaintance, who thought us so steady! Not but that we always had an unconquerable dread of being called a “good young man." Understand us, reader : we had no wish to acquire the reputation of a dissipated student, or profligate idler-far, far from it; but, when we looked amongst the circle of our own friends, we found all the so-called "amiable young women," and all the "good young men," such extraordinary muffs, that we were never afterwards anxious for the appellation.

Well, we manufactured our breuvage, and of course offered our pretty host a portion of it. She was not above accepting our libation, and we gradually entered into conversation. She told us that she earned nearly two francs a-day at her vocation, but that there was a prospect of her soon bettering herself (as country maids-of-all-work say, when they leave a place of six guineas a-year), for she was engaged to be married, and her amant had a good situation in an imprimerie on the Quai Voltaire. "C'est un tres bon enfant," she said; "mais un peu etourdi." After this, she asked us to sing an English song, with which we complied, to the best of our abilities, in attempting something we had heard in London the

But whether there was a spell against our fire-place that night, or whether the woody fibres of the fuel had changed into asbestos in our absence, we know not-all we could do, we could not raise a flame; and, in groping amongst the ashes and charcoal in search of a spark, we formed no inapt personation of the young gentleman on the medal of the Royal Humane Society, with the exception that we were properly arrayed in shirt, shoes, and trowsers, which the said young gen-night we passed "the Hall;" and then, in her turn, she treattleman appears to have dispensed with altogether. At last, ed us with "Son Nom," "Mire dans mes yeux tes yeux," we got angry, and throwing the bellows away, with a jerk and two or three others of the same bearing. Altogether, that sent them sliding over the polished floor to the other end there was such a confiding simplicity and joyous air about this of the room, we determined to throw ourselves upon the gene- || poor girl, living in a garret, and earning but forty sous a-day, rosity of our voisins for "un peu de feu," a bequest we our- that we would not have distressed her feelings by any rude selves had often granted in our turn. We accordingly looked sally for the world. And, when we bade her good night, alout of the window into the court formed by the walls of the though, in the prodigality of our bachelor hearts, we would house, to see if there was a fire gleaming in any of the apart have lived upon bread and water the whole of the week for ments; a doubtful speculation we will allow, for the French a single kiss, we conquered our gallantry by our principle, never light a fire before there is occasion. To our great com- and merely bowed, cap in hand, as we thanked her for her fort, however, we saw some intermittent flashes illumining the hospitality. room of our little neighbour, the grisette. We knew it was her window, for she was a blanchisseuse de fin, and sundry jabots, chemisettes, and fichus fluttered in the obscurity.

"Qui frappe?" asked a soft voice, as we knocked at the door of the mansarde, and, shovel in hand, awaited admission. "C'est moi, mademoiselle." (We addressed her as we should have done a demoiselle comme il faut, for the grisettes of Paris are particular.) "C'est moi; Monsieur S--: I am come to beg a little braise to make some vin chaud.”

"Volontiers," she replied; and she opened the door at once, allowing us to enter the small neatly-arranged chamber.

A day or two after these events, we received an invitation from a worthy friend of ours who resided at Versailles, to go and spend a few weeks with him at his house. Invitations to stay in a French family are something like angels' visits, so we immediately accepted, for fear he might change his mind. We had, moreover, a small brother, who luxuriated upon potatoe salad and potage a l'osielle at a school in the Avenue St. Cloud, in order to learn French perfectly; and we thought we might as well be near him, in order to give him an occasional meal at a restaurateur's to keep him from quite starving until the holidays. Well, we "locked up all our treasures," and sent our boxes to a fellow student to be taken care of; and took our place, one fine morning, in the lumbering overgrown rabbit-hutches, termed gondolles, above all other things in the world, that started from some of the partially unexplored regions between the back of the Tuileries and the Rue St. Honore; and, passing through Sevres and a country which appeared to be inhabited solely by traiteurs and marchands de vin, we arrived at Versailles in two hours after our departure from Paris, for the railway was not yet completed. It is not our intention to describe what we saw during our month's sejour. Every room, picture, and waterwork has been so often alluded to in books, that such a task is rendered perfectly unnecessary. It will suffice to say, that we knew everything by heart by the time we left; and, having seen the grand fountains spouting out like Brobdignag water plugs, and walked blindfolded along the tapis vert, we returned to Paris, not "You will be some time lighting your fire, Monsieur," said very unwilling to get back to a little amusement; for, inde

It was one of the highest of the garrets, and certainly not above ten or twelve feet square; yet it was astonishing how the numerous meubles were arranged in it, and without any appearance of confusion. The little camp-bed stood against the wall at the lower part of the pitch of the roof; and the crockery fire-place was placed at the other end of the room, surrounded by several of those odd earthenware pipkins, that supply the place of saucepans in the menage of the Quartier, Latin. The little square basket, or cabas, (the invariable accompaniment of a grisette,) was suspended over the bed; some flowers were placed in a blown-glass egg-cup on the mantelpiece: two or three prints from the series of the Cours de droit in the Charivari were pinned against the wall, and a birdcage, containing two canaries, stood on the drawers, by the side of the pie-dish-looking basin and milk-jug-shaped ewer, which formed the auxiliaries to the toilette.