ings. Tell me wherein lies the happiness of of hopes and fears, and delightful visions of the

this?"

Eliza passed her hand over her forehead, and appeared to reflect; then, shaking her head, she said, with all the naïvete of a child, "I feel it, but cannot explain it. It is so blissful to be able to pour out one's soul in harmonious verse, to give vent to all the love and veneration one feels for some great character, or some loved friend or relative, and see one's inmost thoughts clothe themselves in graceful and expressive words. Never did I feel this so deeply as today, when I succeeded in addressing a poem to Chateaubriand, my ideal of all that is great and noble; my teacher, my friend, although we have never met. Long, long has the weight of gratitude, admiration, and veneration, lain on my heart, but I could not find words wherein to express my feelings. To-day they came, and now I breathe so freely-am so happy!"

Adèle gazed with astonishment on the beaming countenance of her friend, whom she had hitherto regarded as almost a child; but she could not sympathize with her; and her plain, practical mode of thinking simply suggested the question, "And what use do you mean to make of your

poems ?"

It was now Eliza's turn to be astonished. Such an idea had never struck her. "Use! What use could I make of them? It amuses me to write them."

You might collect them together, and have them printed."

What joy glittered in Eliza's eyes for a second! but reflection chased it away, and she said, "Ah! but where to find a publisher willing to undertake such a speculation?"

Several months had passed away, and no notice was taken of the poems, excepting a few hasty lines acknowledging their receipt. Eliza pursued her daily occupations, and in her leisure hours poured forth all the bright, joyous thoughts of her young heart in poetry. Her last composition was always the best loved, because it bore the impress of imaginings which were yet vivid; those which had been sent to Paris had almost become forgotten; at any rate she preferred silence to the condemnation which would rob her of half the pleasures of existence, and dreamed on bright dreams, finding harmonies between the air, the flowers, the birds, the sunbeams, the sparkling waters, and her own pure mind.

One evening, when she had returned home later than usual, wearied by giving extra lessons, she found a packet awaiting her, bearing the post-mark, Paris: she turned pale as death as she beheld it. So it was rejected after all! Her hands trembled so that she could scarcely break the seals, and her anxious mother gazed on her in astonishment. It was opened at last, and instead of rejected MSS., contained an elegantly bound book, on the title-page of which stood these words, "Poems, by Eliza Mercœur." With an exclamation of delight she sank upon her mother's breast, and wept and laughed, and tried to explain all, and wept and laughed again. Madame Mercœur could hardly believe her eyes; again and again she read her daughter's name in print,' and turned over the leaves in delight. What mother's heart would not have beaten

"Not here in Nantes, most certainly. If it quicker under such a joyful surprise! Adèle were a Ready-reckoner,' or 'Book-keeping by was sent for to share their happiness, and after double entry, there might be some little pros-glancing over her uncle's letter, in which he ex

assist his fellow-creatures. He is much connected with literature, and has great influence. Now, if you will collect all your poems, I will forward them to him with a letter of explanation, and ask him to endeavour to dispose of them for you. I am sure he will do his best. Should he fail, there is nothing lost; and at least he will tell you whether you have sufficient talent to make it worth your while to go on writing."

pect for you. But I have a plan, although, to cused his long silence under the plea of wishing speak the truth, I by no means approve of your spoke of the success already attained by these to present them with an agreeable surprise, scribbling rhymes; still, if you will do it, we may as well endeavour to get all the good we poems in Paris, and the gratification of Chacan from it. I have a relative in Paris, a kind-teaubriand, to whom they were dedicated, and hearted old man, whose greatest pleasure is to his intention to write to his young eulogist. She pointed out to the mother and daughter the bank notes which the letter contained, far more valuable in her opinion than praise or fame. It was long before they could separate, and when they did retire, Eliza, whose heart was too full to admit of sleep, threw open the casement, and leaning out, suffered the cool evening breeze to fan her burning brow and flushed cheeks. The moon mirrored itself in the silver waters of the eternal love; the flowers breathed forth a soft Loire; the stars shone out like the light of perfume; and the nightingale sang her most melting lay. A sense of rapture stole over the soul of our heroine so deep, so mighty, that it was almost painful to bear; blissful tears streamed down her blooming cheeks. Her soul was filled even to overflowing with all the beauty, the grandeur of creation, with all the joys of existence, and her heart ascended in humble and grateful prayer to God, who had blessed her with this exquisite source of enjoyment,

"I cannot-I dare not. If he should pronounce my poetry bad-worthless, and advise me to resign the greatest joy of my existence!"

"You must bear it, my dear Eliza; it would save you from wasting more time on an idle folly. Next week Madame Drion goes to Paris; she will take the parcel for us. You can get it ready in seven or eight days. One thing more; tell no one of our purpose; not even your mother; she would be too anxious,"

Eliza promised all, and quitted her friend full

From this time forward the postman became one of the most interesting individuals in Nantes to our heroine; for, through him she expected to receive the promised, the coveted letter from Chateaubriand; but days and weeks passed away, and it came not; and Eliza excused him, and persuaded herself that she was satisfied to know that her name, her homage, had reached him, and attracted his attention, nay, perchance his gratitude. Not so Adèle: she said, he ought to have written, having promised to do so.

Meanwhile, Eliza's fame having filled all the salons of Paris, penetrated even to Nantes, and made her there an object of universal attention, remark, and criticism. She was an authoress; some regarded her with distrust, some with envy; none loved her the better for it; and she could not but confess to herself that her position was more agreeable when only her mother and Adèle knew that she wrote. But, living in a bright world of imagination, she troubled herself little about the opinions of others.

One morning, as she was about to go out to give a lesson, a footman in gorgeous livery brought a note addressed to Mademoiselle Mercœur, and waited for an answer. It was from the Duchess of L, one of the most honoured peeresses of France, and stated that her Grace being on a tour through Bretaigne, had taken Nantes in her way, expressly to have the plea sure of making the personal acquaintance of a poetess whose writings had given her such delight. It also added, that she had a letter for her from Chateaubriand, which she should only deliver into her own hands; adding, that if Eliza would appoint an hour, her carriage should fetch her. Of all this the only part that made impression on Eliza was the announcement of the letter from Chateaubriand; gladly would she have set off that very moment, just as she was, to obtain her eagerly-desired treasure; and her mother had some difficulty in making her understand that ten o'clock was too early an hour for such a visit; and that her dress was by no means fit to appear before a duchess in. At last she got her to write, appointing one o'clock. No lessons could be given that morning; almost before the door had closed on the servant, Eliza set about her toilet, which was soon arranged; and then she paced from window to door, and from door to window, occasionally looking at the clock, and marvelling at the slow march of time, until the carriage arrived to fetch her. Fortunately for her impatience, the drive was short; she alighted at the hotel where the Duchess was staying, and passing through a suite of splendid rooms, entered that lady's presence.

The Duchess of Lwas not only one of the noblest, but also one of the most amiable of her sex; and the fascinations of her manner were heightened as much by her intellectuality and sterling goodness of heart as by her beauty. She received Eliza most kindly, and after the first compliments were past, handed Chateaubriand's letter to her. The eyes of the young poetess glittered as she eagerly clasped the precious epistle; her cheeks glowed, her bosom

heaved, and she longed impatiently to make herself acquainted with its contents. The Duchess marked all this, and, apologizing for being obliged to leave her for a few moments, quitted the apartment, in order that she might be at liberty to read the letter. No sooner did Eliza find herself alone with her treasure than with trembling fingers she broke the seal, and with her whole soul in her eyes read—

"There is a period in life when man looks back on the past, and asks himself what he has gained by all his struggles, his labours, his anxieties,; and is obliged too often to confess nought but disappoint. ment and humiliation. When in such hours of depression and doubt, a pure and gentle voice greets us, convincing us that all our endeavours have not been utterly vain; that the inspiration which glowed in us has kindled a holy flame in other souls; that the outpourings of our hearts have been a well-spring of pleasure and instruction to fellow-creatures, in whose hearts our memory will live long after the cold

tomb has closed over our mortal remains; in such moments, under such convictions, death and trouble vanish, and immortality seems to advance from the other world to greet us. Such joy have your poems bestowed on me; I would they had not been dedicated to me, for then you would perhaps have been more inclined to believe me when I assure you that I look upon you as one of the most talented writers of the present day, needing only a little more knowledge of life to mature your genius. Paris would soon give you that. If I might advise you, I would say, quit Nantes and come to Paris. Here a new life would open itself to you; new powers become developed under its influence; new ideas pour in upon your spirit. Come then. You would not be among strangers, for you are known to and admired by many. My honoured friend, the Duchess of L― will consult with you on this point; but, if my words have any influence, come soon to Paris.

"I have yet to thank you for having dedicated your thrilling and delightful poems to me; but my actions shall do so when we meet. Meanwhile, believe that it gives me the greatest satisfaction to think that any writings of mine contributed in the

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least degree to call forth so rich a poetical talent. Hoping that our spiritual intercourse will soon be followed by a personal acquaintance, I beg you to believe in the sincerity of the feelings with which I remain Your truly gratified

"CHATEAUBRIAND."

The Duchess returned, and soon led the conversation to Paris, and was astonished to hear Eliza decline going there. She held out to her the brilliant vista which opened itself before her, and the maiden listened with glittering eyes and flushed cheeks; but, as the Duchess ceased to speak, the realities of life forced themselves back on her mind, and sadly shaking her head she said, "It cannot be! My mother is dependent upon me. Here I know I can maintain her comfortably, in Paris it might be difficult to do so; and whatever right I might have to trust to fortune and fame for my own existence, and however much I might wish to do so, I have a holy duty to perform. My mother has only me to look to."

"I love you the better for such feelings," exclaimed the Duchess; "they do but confirm my

long-cherished opinion that true poetry dwells only in good and noble hearts. But if all the pecuniary matters can be arranged, as I am

PART II.

convinced they can, in such a way as not to" Dans une route defleurie,
wound your pride or delicacy, would you then
refuse to come among us?"

Eliza's reply need not be recorded; it was a glad affirmative, and Madame Mercœur was easily brought to sanction it. The Duchess quitted Nantes, promising that they should very soon hear from her; and not many weeks had elapsed when the influence of these friends obtained for Madame Mercœur, not the petty pension she had so long and vainly solicited, but a yearly allowance of 1,500 francs.

Sous un ceil froid qu' oublie un soleil bienfaisant
Je nai rencontré pour ma vie

Qu' indigences regrets, vains dèsirs; et pourtant
J'ai peur de la quitter cette existence amére,
Et je viens vous crier: sauvez moi pour ma mére!"
ELIZA MERCœur.

It was in Paris, in December 1834-in a simply, but elegantly furnished room, reclined a young maiden on an ottoman. Her features, her attitude, her whole appearance bespoke the utmost exhaustion and weariness. No one who looked on those pallid cheeks, those haggard features, those dim and sunken eyes, would ever have believed that could be Eliza Mercœur. From time to time she raised herself, and resuming the pen which lay on the table by her side, wrote a few lines; but the exertion was too

Much as Eliza longed to be in the great capital, she could not quit the place of her birth, the spots where she had passed so many pleasant hours, and dreamed so many happy dreams, without some feelings of melancholy and regret. But, with the exception of Adèle, it was the inanimate and not the animate objects she grieved to quit; and that friend looked sad and grave, and said, "It were better to have re-great: the weary head sank back under the mained here."

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Why so, dearest Adèle? You know that in Paris I shall find advantages equal to those I resign."

Perhaps! But why resign certain comfort and happiness here, merely to accept an untried lot in that great city? What is wanting to you here? You have health, freedom, comforts, talents which will always insure you independence, leisure to write. The only things Paris can give, which you have not here, are the flattery of society, and the puffs and praises of the journals; and surely you are not vain enough to value such empty bubbles!"

"No!" replied Eliza, in a tone which spoke at once the depth and power of her feelings. "From such childish vanity I am, I hope, free. It is not that leads me to Paris. I feel that I belong there; I feel that there the spirit within me will become developed, that yet slumbering powers will be called into action; and then what may I not thus achieve, not only for the present but for posterity! These prospects are not opened to me for nothing, for the mere gratification of my vanity. No! my path is marked out; fortune favours me, and it were spiritual self-murder to hang back."

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Adèle gazed thoughtfully on her excited friend, and there were, for a wonder, tears in her large bright eyes. May you be happy wherever you are," she murmured. "Heaven bless and protect us both!" was Eliza's reply, accompanied by a tender embrace. They parted with the mutual promise that if either ever required consolation or assistance, to seek it of the other; and on the following morning Eliza and her mother set off for Paris.

weight of thought; the overtasked mind refused to act, and the pen fell from the trembling fingers. Madame Mercœur entered; her eyes were red with weeping: she had been praying for strength to conceal her anguish, her anxiety from her beloved child; and now, in as calm a tone as she could command, she said, "Thou art better, art thou not, dear Eliza?"

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Much, much better!" replied the poor girl, trying to smile cheerfully-an effort that did but increase her paleness. And thus these two loving hearts thought they deceived each other, while the fatal truth was evident to both. Madame Mercœur knew that her daughter could not recover, and Eliza felt too surely her approaching end. "I have worked somewhat too hard, and over-exerted myself; that is all: and then the severity of the winter tries me. As spring comes on, thou wilt see how much better I shall be."

Madame Mercœur shuddered, as a sad prophetic feeling whispered that the spring flowers would bloom on her daughter's grave; and, unable to speak again without bursting into Eliza's eyes foltears, she quitted the room. lowed her mother with a sad, loving look; then, with a deep sigh, she once more resumed her pen. But that inspiration which had formerly sprung at once into action, now lay quenched, and bound in the tears of sorrow and the fetters of illness. The words would not come, and pushing the paper from her, Eliza covered her face with her hands and wept-wept to die so young, to leave her mother alone, helpless and poor, among strangers; then came a vision of the little white cottage on the banks of the Loire, the hours of cheerful industry, and happy contentment; again she seemed to feel the balmy air on her burning brow, to breathe the perfume of her flowers, to listen to the song of the birds. "Why, why did I quit that tranquil spot?" she murmured. Some one knocked, and on her saying "Come in," Adèle entered

the room. Eliza uttered one joyful exclama- strove, the light which fascinated me; until, tion, and sank back senseless. With that pre-drawn into its flame, I felt I had but sought desence of mind which never forsook her, Adèle struction. Should you ever know any foolish, took all the proper means for recalling her vain young thing like I then was, who sighs for friend to life, and Eliza soon opened her large this magic circle, tell her that in Paris our dark eyes, and fixing them on her, said, "Is it fairest visions melt away, inspiration takes its you, Adèle, or only the spirit of past happy years flight, and poetry falls from its bright heaven to appearing to me in your form?" dash itself to pieces against the stony pavement!" She paused, overcome with exhaustion, and Adèle entreated her to spare herself; but after a few moments' silence, she continued: "No, no; let us profit by this hour: God only knows whether I shall have strength or opportunity to speak fully to you again. Let those spare themselves who have hope: I have none! I entered this great city as a hero coming in triumph after some victory, and in fancy felt the laurel crown cooling with its freshness my burning brows. My reception in Paris was splendid. It was well known that I was favoured by the minister, and that the Duchess of L-- interested herself for me; and this was then sufficient to open all the first circles to me. It became the fashion to admire the young provincial, and no day passed without my receiving the most pressing invitations, and having to recite my poems before the highest noblesse. Young and foolish as I then was, I considered all this as homage to my talents, and never once dreamed that I was but a new doll, a fresh toy to these grown-up children-a something which served to pass away their heavy hours. They listened and admired, and I believed they understood me." "Then, at least, you were happy," observed Adèle.

Speechless with grief and amazement, the usually calm and collected girl could only reply by a fond embrace. Little had she expected to find Eliza thus wasted to a mere shadow of her former self, thus care-worn and spirit-broken. Various circumstances had of late rendered their intercourse interrupted. Adèle's employment took up her whole time, and as she saw by the public prints how her friend was praised and feted, she deemed her happy, and was content. Eliza, on the other hand, whirled round in the eddies of public life, and overwhelmed with work, had neither leisure nor spirit to maintain a regular correspondence, and of late she would not have written on any account. Business called Adèle to Paris, and she had come full of joyful hopes of finding Eliza proud, happy, famous, and still her friend. How different was the reality! As soon as Eliza recovered, Adèle must sit down by her, and answer all her questions, and tell her all about herself. This was soon done. She had pursued her work, increased her connection, and was now well to do in the world. Her industry had been rewarded, and she could look forward confidently to the future, for now she was known and established. Her simple tale told, she, in her turn, wished to know all that had happened to her friend. "It gives me pleasure," she said, glancing round the room, "to see you surrounded by the elegancies of life. This is somewhat different from your little parlour at Nantes."

"And do you know the price at which I have purchased all this, Adèle ?-My life!"

"For heaven's sake speak not thus, dear Eliza! This is folly!"

"I must! Is it not enough that I must feign health and spirits when my poor mother is nigh? Would you have me speak to you of recovery and long life, when I know that my days are numbered? And you know it too, Adèle. One glance must have been enough to convince you how it is with me! You cannot have mistaken the ravages of disease."

"I certainly find you altered; but time neither makes us younger nor more beautiful. I, too, am much altered."

"Yes-but for the better. We are nearly of an age, Adèle; compare yourself with me. You retain all the strength, the freshness of youth. Disappointments, anxieties, dissipation, have long ago robbed me of every trace of it. Oh! what demon inspired me with a desire to visit this Pandamonium which men call Paris?"

"I was pleased and flattered: but that which enhanced the value of all this was, that my mother enjoyed it. Very soon I felt this life would not do. If any one requires quiet and leisure to think, it is a poet; for the spirit becomes silent, amid the shrill voices, and the daily nothingness of the every-day world, and of polished society. I therefore lived more retired, and studied and endeavoured to develop my mind. I only wrote when the inspiration came; I walked or rode out; visited all the galleries and works of art; saw a few friends, and ended each day by thanking God most sincerely for all his mercies to me. Then-yes, then-I was completely happy!" She closed her eyes and leaned back, as if willing for a few moments to indulge in recollections of that brief period of earthly bliss; then passing her hand across her brow, as one who would chase away some lingering dream, she continued"This lasted until the fatal events of those terrible days of July drove a royal family from the throne, and robbed me of my best friends. With the Bourbons ceased our pension, and now it came that I must work to live, to support my mother. You will perhaps think, and so you did at Nantes.' True; but there my employment was almost mechanical from daily practice: it taxed my mind but little and it is not mere bodily fatigue that wears out life. Up to that time poetry had been a pleasure, a blessing from heaven; now it must be pursued from