78. THE OLD ÉMIGRÉ.

MISS MITFORD.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD-born at Almford, in England. 1786; died 1853. Miss Mitford's sketches of rural life are inimitable in their kind, and her style is a model for such compositions. Her series of sketches entitled "Our Village," and "Belford Regis," form very readable volumes,

1. THE first occupant of Mrs. Duval's pleasant apartments was a Catholic priest, an émigré, to whom they had a double recommendation,-in his hostess's knowledge of the French language and French cookery (she being, as he used to affirm, the only Englishwoman that ever made drinkable coffee); and in the old associations of the precincts ("piece of a cloister"), around which the venerable memorials of the ancient faith still lingered, even in decay. He might have said, with Antonio, in one of the finest scenes ever conceived by a poet's imagina tion, that in which the echo answers from the murdered woman's grave:

2. "I do love these ancient ruins;

We never tread upon them but we set
Our foot upon some reverend history;
And, questionless, here in this open court
(Which now lies open to the injuries

Of stormy weather) some do lie interr'd,

Loved the Church so well, and gave so largely to't,
They thought it should have canopied their bones,
Till doomsday. But all things have their end:
Churches and cities (which have diseases like to men)
Must have like death that we have."

WEBSTER-Duchess of Malfi.

3. The Abbé Villaret had been a cadet of one of the oldest ties in France, destined to the Church as the birthright of a younger son, but attached to his profession with a seriousness and earnestness not common among the gay noblesse o the old régime. This devotion, had, of course, been greatly increased by the persecution of the Church which distinguished the commencement of the Revolution. The good Abbé had been marked as one of the earliest victims, and had escaped, through the gratitude of an old servant, from the fate which swept off sisters and brothers, and almost every individual, except himself, of a large and flourishing family.

4. Penniless and solitary, he made his way to England, and ound an asylum in the town of Belford, at first assisted by the pittance allowed by our government to those unfortunate foreigners, and subsequently supported by his own exertions as assistant to the priest of the Catholic chapel in Belford, and as a teacher of the French language in the town and neighborhood; and so complete had been the ravages of the Revolution in his own family, and so entirely had he estab lished himself in the esteem of his English friends, that, when the short peace of Amiens restored so many of his brother émigrés to their native land, he refused to quit the country of his adoption, and remained the contented inhabitant of the Priory Cottage.

5. The contented and most beloved inhabitant, not only of that small cottage, but of the town to which it belonged, was the good Abbé. Everybody loved the kind and placid old man, whose resignation was so real and so cheerful, who had such a talent for making the best of things, whose moral alchemy could extract some good out of every evil, and who seemed only the more indulgent to the faults and follies of others because he had so little cause to require indulgence for his own.

6. From the castle to the cottage, from the nobleman whose children he taught, down to the farmer's wife who furnished him with eggs and butter, the venerable Abbé was a universal favorite. There was something in his very appearance—his small, neat person, a little bent, more by sorrow than age, his thin, white hair, his mild, intelligent counterance, with a sweet, placid smile, that spoke more of courtesy tan of gayety, his gentle voice, and even the broken English which reminded one that he was a sojourner in a strange land -that awakened a mingled emotion of pity and respect.

7. His dress, too, always neat, yet never seeming new, contributed to the air of decayed gentility that hung about him; and the beautiful little dog who was his constant attendant, and the graceful boy who so frequently accompanied him, formed an interesting group on the high roads which he frequented; for the good Abbé was so much in request as a teacher, and

the amount of his earnings was so considerable, that he might have passed for well-to-do in the world, had not his charity to his poorer countrymen, and his liberality to Louis and to Mrs Duval, been such as to keep him constantly poor.

1. SHE once was a lady of honor and wealth,
Bright glow'd on her features the roses of health;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold:
Joy revell❜d around her-love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul

2. She felt, in her spirit, the summons of grace,

That call'd her to live for the suffering race;
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose quickly like Mary, and answer'd, "I come."
She put from her person the trappings of pride,
And pass'd from her home, with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved—
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved,

8 Lost ever to fashion-to vanity lost,

That beauty that once was the song and the toast—
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat,
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

4. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move,
Now bear her alone on the mission of love;

Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem, Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them;

That voice that once echo'd the song of the vain,

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;

And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

5 Her down bed-a pallet; her trinkets-a bead;
Her lustre one taper that serves her to read;
Her sculpture-the crucifix nail'd by her bed;
Her paintings-one print of the thorn-crowned head,
Her cushion-the pavement that wearies her knees;
Her music-the psalm, or the sigh of disease;
The delicate lady lives mortified there,

And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

6. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind,

Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined.
Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief.
She strengthens the weary-she comforts the weak,
And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick;
Where want and affliction on mortals attend,
The Sister of Charity there is a friend.

7. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapor of death;
Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face,
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace;
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.

8. Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain!

Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain; Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service, fcrgetful of praise.

Ye lazy philosophers-self-seeking men,

Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,
How stands in the balance your eloquence weigh'd
With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?

80. SIR THOMAS MORE TO HIS DAUGHTER.

SIR THOMAS MORE, a celebrated chancellor of England, who succee led Qurdinal Wolsey, as Lord High Chancellor, in 1530, and filled the office for three years with scrupulous integrity. For his conscientious scruples to take the oath of supremacy in favor of that brutal king, Henry VII., he was beheaded in 1535, at the age of fifty-five. He was the author of the celebrated political romance of "Utopía." Dr. Johnson pronounced the works of More to be models of pure and elegant style. The following letter is addressed to his favorite child, Margaret Roper.

1. THOMAS MORE sendeth greeting to his dearest daughter, Margaret :

My Dearest Daughter-There was no reason why you should have deferred writing to me one day longer, though your letters were barren of any thing of interest, as you tell me. Even had it been so, your letters might have been pardoned by any man, much more, then, by a father, to whose eyes even the blemishes in his child's face will seem beautiful. But these letters of yours, Meg, were so finished both in style and manner, that not only was there nothing in them to fear your father's censure, but Momus himself, though not in his best humor, could have found nothing in them to smile at in the way of censure. 2. I greatly thank our dear friend, Mr. Nicols, for his kindHe is a man well versed in astronomy; and I congratu late you on your good fortune in learning from him in the space of one month, and with so small labor of your own, so many and such high wonders of that mighty and eterna Workman, which were found only after many ages, and by watching so many long and cold nights under the open sky Thus, you have accomplished, in a short time, what took the labor of years of some of the most excellent wits the world has ever produced.

ness.

3. Another thing which you write me, pleaseth me exceed ingly, that you have determined with yourself to study philoso