Then plunges along,
Striking and raging,

As if a war waging

Its caverns and rocks among;
Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound!
Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in ;
Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,

And dipping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,

And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;

And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,

And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,

And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And s› never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar;
And this way the Water comes down at Lodore.

EMILE SOUVESTRE.

SOUVESTRE, ÉMILE, a French dramatist and essayist; born at Morlaix, Brittany, April 15, 1806; died at Paris, July 5, 1854. He studied law, but was unsuccessful in practice. He went to Paris, where he wrote a drama, "The Siege of Missolonghi." In 1836 he brought out his study of the character and customs of the people of his native province ("Les Derniers Bretons "), which was successful. Returning to Paris, he soon achieved success as a contributor to the leading Parisian publications. His best works were: "The Confessions of a Workman," "The Red Mansion," "Travels in Finis terre," "The Greased Pole," and "Un Philosophe sous les Toits," translated into English under the title "An Attic Philosopher."

WHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW.

(From "An Attic Philosopher.")

March 3d.

A POET has said that life is the dream of a shadow; he would better have compared it to a night of fever! What alternate fits of restlessness and sleep! what discomfort! what sudden starts! what ever-returning thirst! what a chaos of mournful or confused fancies! Always between sleep and wakefulness; one seeks in vain for repose, and stops short on the brink of action. Two-thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation, and the last third in repenting.

When I say human existence, I mean my own! We are so made that each of us regards himself as the mirror of the community what passes in our minds infallibly seems to us the history of the universe. Every man is like the drunkard, who reports an earthquake because he feels himself staggering.

And why am I uncertain and restless-I, a poor day laborer in the world I who fill an obscure station in a corner of it, and whose work it avails itself of without heeding the workman? I wish to tell you, my unseen friend, for whom these lines are written; my unknown brother, on whom the solitary

call in sorrow; my imaginary confidant, to whom all monologues are addressed, and who is but the shadow of our own conscience.

A great event has happened in my life! In the midst of the monotonous way along which I was travelling quietly and without thinking of it a cross-road has suddenly opened. Two roads present themselves, and I must choose between them. One is only the continuation of that I have followed till now; the other is wider, and exhibits wondrous perspectives. On the first there is nothing to fear, but also little to hope; on the other, great dangers and great fortune. In a word, the question is, to know if I shall give up the humble office in which I thought to die, for one of those bold speculations in which chance alone is banker! Ever since yesterday I have consulted with myself; I have compared, and I remain undecided.

Where shall I find any light who will advise me?

Sunday 4th. See the sun coming out from the thick fogs of winter; spring announces its approach; a soft breeze blows over the roofs, and my wallflower begins to blossom again.

We are near that sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of the sixteenth century sang with so much feeling:

'Tis now the gladsome month of May,
And all things are in new array.

My heart is yours, dear lady, pray

Renew it by thy love.

The chirping of the sparrows calls me they claim the crumbs I scatter to them every morning. I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opens out to me in all its splendor.

He who has only lived on a first floor has no idea of the picturesque variety of such a view. He has never contemplated the interlacing of these tile-colored summits; he has not followed with his eyes these gutter-valleys, where the fresh attic. gardens wave, the deep shadows which evening spreads over the slated slopes, and the sparkling of windows which the setting sun has kindled. He has not studied the flora of these civilized Alps, carpeted with lichens and mosses; he does not know the thousand inhabitants which people them, from the microscopic insect to the domestic cat-that Reynard of the roofs who is always on the prowl, or in ambush; he has not witnessed the thousand aspects of a clear or a cloudy sky, nor the thousand effects of light, which make these high regions a theatre with

ever-changing scenes! How many times have my days of leisure passed away in contemplating this wondrous sight; in discovering its darker or brighter episodes; in seeking, in short, in this unknown world for the impressions of travel that wealthy tourists seek for lower down!

Nine o'clock. But why, then, have not my winged neighbors picked up the crumbs I have scattered for them before my window? I see them fly away, come back, perch upon the ledges of the windows, and chirp at the sight of the feast they are usually so ready to devour! It is not my presence that frightens them; I have accustomed them to eat out of my hand. Then, why is this fearful suspense? I look around carefully: the roof is clear, the windows near are closed. I crumble the bread that remains from my breakfast to attack them by a larger feast. Their chirpings redouble, they bend down their heads, the boldest fly near, but without daring to alight.

Let us go, my sparrows are the victims of one of the foolish panics which make the funds fall at the Bourse! It is plain that birds are not more reasonable than men!

With this reflection I was about to shut my window, when all of a sudden I perceived, in a spot of sunshine on my right, the shadow of two pricked-up ears; then a paw advanced, then the head of a tomcat showed itself at the corner of the gutter. The cunning fellow was lying there in wait, hoping the crumbs would bring him some game.

I was so

And I had accused my guests of cowardice! sure that no danger could menace them! I thought I had looked well everywhere! I had only forgotten the corner behind me!

In life, as on the roofs, how many misfortunes come from having forgotten a single corner!

Ten o'clock. I cannot leave my window; the rain and the cold have kept it shut so long, that I must reconnoitre all the environs to be able to take possession of them again. My eyes search in succession all the points of that confused horizon, passing on or stopping according to what is seen there.

Ah! see the windows upon which they formerly loved to rest; they are those of two unknown neighbors, whose different habits they have long remarked.

One is a poor work woman, who rises before daylight, and whose profile is shadowed upon her little muslin window curtain far into the night; the other is a young lady singer, whose