FORGIVENESS.

A TRUE STORY.

AN old beggar, known by the name of Jaques, used for a number of years to take his station on the steps of a church at Paris. He was gloomy and taciturn, and only bowed his head in acknowledgment of any alms bestowed upon him. By chance his rags sometimes displayed a cross of gold which he wore upon his breast.

The Abbé Paulin, who came regularly to this church, never passed the beggar without a gift; he was rich, and spent his fortune in relieving the poor. Though Jaques did not know him, he loved him. After some time, he was no longer to be seen in his old place, and the Abbé, supposing him to be ill, inquired his abode, and went to see him. He found him very ill, stretched upon his miserable bed. 'Ah,' said he, 'M. L'Abbé, you are very good to come and see me. I do not deserve it.'

'What do you say? My good man, do not you know that the priest is the friend of all sufferers? Besides, we are old acquaintance.'

'Oh, Sir, if you knew, you would not speak to me thus! I am a wretch, I am under a curse!'

6

Ah, my friend, say not such things. If you have done wrong, confess, repent, there is mercy for all repenting sinners.'

'Oh, no, I shall never be forgiven !' 'Why not? Do you not repent?'

Indeed, indeed I do! I have repented these thirty years, but still the curse is on me!'

The good priest tried to console and encourage him, but it was long before he prevailed on he poor man to reveal the dreadful mystery. At last he was brought to reveal the sin that lay so heavy on his conscience, and thus he spoke :-'Before the time of the great Revolu

tion, I was the steward of a rich family. My employers were most excellent persons, the Count and Countess, their two daughters, and their son. I owed everything to them. The reign of terror came-I denounced them, that I might get their wealth-all were condemned to death, all but the little Paulin, who was too young. I heard the sentence, I saw them enter the cart, I saw the four heads fall, monster that I was, monster that I am! I have since had not a moment's peace, I see them stillthere they are, behind that curtain! This crucifix was my master's, this little gold cross belonged to my mistress. Oh! M. L'Abbé, pity me, pray for me, do not forsake me!

The priest rose from his knees, pale as death; he made the sign of the cross, and slowly approached the curtain. Two portraits were behind it; the priest shed tears. 'Jaques,' he said, with emotion, 'let me hear your confession.' When it was finished, he said, 'I absolve you as the messenger of Heaven, in the Name of Him who forgives true penitents. That is not all; for His sake I forgive you, I forgive you the murder of my father, my mother, and my two sisters.'

The old man shuddered, he tried to speak, he fell back on his bed. The priest approached-he was dead!

NOTICES TO Correspondents.

We are sorry to say we have mislaid the address of the author of *Adelaide and her Godson.' We should be obliged if she would communicate with us.

LO.-We are afraid that no enlargement of the Monthly Packet could render Anna Leytrich admissible.

A. C. C.-St. Olaf was one of the first Christian kings of Norway, and was an ally of Ethelred the Unready, on behalf of whom he defended London Bridge against the Danes. He was killed at Stiklestad, by his rebellious heathen subjects, about 1021. His story was sketched in our 6th Number, June, 1851, vol. I. p. 401. It may be

found in full and poetical detail in 'Snorro Sturleson's Heimskringla, or Chronicle of the Kings of Norway,' translated by S. Laing, Esq.Longman, 1844.

We have two Irish correspondents to thank. To the one we would say that the heroine is often more right in intention than in judginent, although in the instance to which he refers, we think she could harily venture to explain away such a circumstance as if herself certain that it had no meaning. We cannot venture upon any promises with regard to the Hints on Reading. We have not seen all the books our corres pondent mentions. Of those which have come in our way, we think the Myrtle and the Heather' a noble-spirited book. Judith is beautiful; the whole story is to our taste rather exaggerated, and we wish the episode of Vincent and Camilla had been omitted, and that Beatria's triumphs had been more credible; but it is very pretty and elevering reading. We wish young ladies may take example by Judith rather than by Susan in Ivors,' or that Susan had had more excuse. The book is deeper and more true and thoughtful than is the Myrtle ami the Heather,' and the beginning and end of the first volume are very striking; but may no girl think Susan an example in letting hersey dream and fancy herself into such a predicament. Helen and Asa are our favourite characters. If Mrs. Graham had only laughed & the old Admiral's fancy, we should have thought her a better mother, and she might have saved Susan.

As to Eversley,' it is well-intentioned, but very silly. Girls of eighteen are not likely to find Guardsmen brothers-in-law to allow ther to regulate the quantity of wine to be set on the table. Dorothy' and 'De Cressy' are both capital books, not always sustained, but sound, clever, and sensible in each word. We feel throughout that we are reading something with substance in it. But for depth and meaning, who equals Mrs. A. Gatty, in her most sweet and graceful • Workis not Realized,' and the new, and scarcely less pretty, 'Proverbs Illus trated?" They are books to make the readers thoughtful, and may they only make them wiser !

John and Charles Mozley, Printers, Derby.

I HAVE lived in London all my life, and yet I suppose that few have so strong a passion for the country as I have. To breathe its fresh air, and to feast my heart and mind on its endless variety of beauty, is a necessity of my nature. To gratify it, it has been my habit for years to go out of London every Saturday evening, spend Sunday in some sweet quiet spot, and return to the turmoil of our modern Tyre early on Monday morning. It is my one indulgence and extravagance. I cut myself off from every other pleasure for the sake of achieving this. I live in cheaper lodgings, I straiten myself in food and in firing, in order to secure this weekly luxury. I could write a volume of home travels which would, I think, prove at least as interesting as nine-tenths of the continental tours that are published. Many a strange story I have picked up in the course of these journeys, one of which I have had it in my mind to write, ever since I heard it, which is now several years ago.

One Saturday I set off to take a longer journey than asual, for it happened that a royal birthday fell on the succeeding Monday, and was a holiday to me as well as to the rest of the world. It does not suit me to say the direction in which I travelled; it is enough that I disembarked upwards of a hundred miles from London,

PART 75.

and that I found myself, on quitting the railway station, in a large bustling town. I hate such places, and so I quietly turned my face towards the setting sun, and walked out of it. My luggage was in my pocket, and my walking-stick in my hand, and I was free of the world fo at least eight-and-forty hours. Questions I never ask, fo they would destroy the romance of uncertainty, in whic I delight, but sometimes I take the sun, and sometime the moon, for my guide, and always I choose lanes an footpaths in preference to the high-roads, for I know wel the sweetest spots of earth do not lie beside the publi

ways.

It was May, and the thorns were white with blossomi and as I passed out of the town, with the amber light fu in my face, the air was all redolent with the breath the wall-flowers growing in the tiny gardens. And ove many a wall the laburnum hung its golden chains, and the lilac showed its clustered blossoms; and the luscious scen of the horse-chestnut flowers came stealing out into the high-road from many a dainty pleasure-ground. Walking on until I reached the top of a hill, I paused, and looke round on either side, feeling that the moment of fate wa come, and I must choose my path. I did not hesitate long On the east there was nothing visible but the suburbs of the town, and flowery meadows, rich in grass, each with it tidy fence, and here and there a little hedge-row timber But on the west, the sun stood red above a purple wood, and I caught glimpses of a river through the high trees and intersecting hedges, which seemed to break up the foreground of the picture. There lies my path,' I said; 'into that beautiful unknown future I must journey." And walking on, I speedily came to a green lane leading in the right direction, and turned into it. Presently the branching trees met over my head, and the level rays of light came streaming through their trunks, burnishing stem and bough and leaf as they passed, and playing