From 9 to 92. Breakfast, of soup and a plate of meat. The pupils are here seated at table, and eat with fork and spoon-the more adroit aiding those less so.

9 to 10. Recreation in open air; running, playing ball, driving hoop, or cultivating a small plot of ground, the hire of which for three months, each one may gain by a certain number of tickets of good conduct.

10 to 11. Reading class, in which all take part, divided, however, into various groups, as before.

11 to 12. Writing class. Here the lowest group is taught only to trace on the blackboard, with a ruler, these lines:

The next group is taught to make up on the board the rudimental characters, as

/// C C C o o o

making the three in each line. After this they write on slates, and when further advanced, the monitor being ready to guide their hands, they write in ruled books. The highest class rules its own books, and writes alternately a page of large and fine hand.

12 to 12. Gymnastics. 12 to 1. Music.

1 to 43. Manual labor. In this all take part; some as shoemakers, some as carpenters, or rather cabinet-makers, and some as tillers of the ground. One of the best exercises for the body, inasmuch as it compels the idiot to walk and balance himself unaided, is that of wheeling a barrow, charged with a weight proportionate to his strength. The most stupid may be soon taught this. Others, more intelligent, wield spade and pickaxe most energetically and profitably; but nowhere does their awakened intelligence appear more satisfactorily than in the workshop of the cabinet-maker. When one of them has sawed through a plank, or nailed together two pieces of wood, or made a box, his smile of satisfaction,the consequence of "something attempted, something done," the real result of which he can estimate,—is beautiful to see. Nor is their work, by any means, to be despised. With one cabinet-maker as teacher and monitor, they performed, last year, all the work necessary for their school-room and dormitories, as well as for a good part of the great establishment at Bigetre. At shoemaking they show intelligence; but this is too sedentary an occupation for them. Some, however, who have quitted the school, work at it; but the greater number of them become farmers and gardeners.

After this manual labor they dine, and after dinner play till 6 P. M. From 6 to 7. Grammar class; the lowest group is taught to articulate syllables, the highest, as much as in any grammar school.

From 7 to 8 is passed in reading to one another, or in conversations and explanations with the teacher, upon things which may excite the reflective power; two evenings in the week this hour is devoted to a concert and a dance.

After this comes the evening prayer, sung by all; and then, fatigued, but happy, they retire to rest.

Such is a day at the school of Biçetre. Every Thursday morning the teacher takes them to walk in the country, and then inculcates the ele

mentary notions of botany, designating by their names, and impressing by smell, taste, and sight, the qualities of different flowers and useful vegetables which they see. At the same time he explains, by locality, the first elements of geography. On Saturday evening there is a distri bution of tickets of good conduct, three of which, I have before observed, pay the rent of a garden, and one of which may buy off, for another, with the consent of the teacher, the punishment adjudged for certain slight acts of negligence. You will see at once the effect which this must have upon the generous sentiments of the pupils. The sentiment of possession is developed, the rights of property taught; but its duties and its true pleasures are, at the same time, impressed.

These tickets of good conduct are given also to those who are designated by the pupils themselves, as having done some kind and generous action,- —as having been seen to run to the aid of one who had stumbled at play, who had divided among his companions the bon bons he may have received from a visiter, or who had helped, in any way, one weaker than himself. Thus they are constantly on the look-out for good actions in one another; but they are most positively forbidden to repeat the negligences or unkind conduct which they may observe. The surveillance of the monitors is sufficient to detect these; and even were it not, Mr. Vallée prefers that they should go unpunished, than that they should serve to cherish the grovelling sentiments of envy and malice which lurk in the breast of the informer and scandal-monger.

Paris, Feb. 1st, 1847.

SKETCHES OF MARY'S LIFE.

(CONCLUDED.)

WITH the coolness of intensity of hatred and mortification, I owned myself perfectly willing to accompany them immediately to Livingston's office, which was in a building near by. There I related my story; but alas! the proofs of its truth were for ever out of my reach. Livingston, with affected nonchalance, heard me through, smiled at some of my bitterest speeches, and affected to look at me with pity, when my anger overpowered me. Then he spoke; he drew quite a pathetic picture of our school-boy love, and, of course, his wish to see all my actions in a favorable light, until he could be blinded no more; his grief at his discovery of my unworthiness; and then he drew forth proof after proof of my rascality, and asked who should be believed? the one who had never been known to perjure himself, or the one who was well proven a perjured man? Then he told a plausible story, explaining his actions in the charges I brought against him; taunt after taunt he heaped upon me, with coolness and apparent sorrow, that it was but doing justice to himself to expose one he had so loved; and thus openly to display a character he had so long shielded; and confessed that all which had prevented his debasing me before the world, was for the sake of the peace of my beautiful, queen-like wife. I demanded, what is generally called satisfaction; but he coolly refused to fight with one he could

not consider a gentleman. At last he said to me, when his anger overcame his cool policy: "What dear brothers we shall be, when my son marries your daughter." Mary, Mary, my daughter, now comes the part of my history which will madden me to tell you, and you to hear; but be calm, for the vow I registered will not have to be cancelled; you are safe-lay your head on my shoulder, dear child-so, there. In that dreadful quarrel there was no revenge for me; everything was against me; he refused to fight with me, and he had it in his power to utterly disgrace me. But my anger was so fearful, that some revenge I must have had or I should have died. I took up pen and paper and wrote, in the bitterest terms, my hatred and defiance of him, and vowed that if my daughter should ever marry his son, I would kill her with my own hand. But, Mary, you are safe, as I said before; the marriage was illegal-some trifling form was forgotten, which, however, saves me from my vow. Be calm, be calm-in God's name be calm; there is more yet for you to hear this night. Why I did not strangle Livingston, I do not know. Principle did not save me-my destiny, perhaps. By law, dear child, you cannot be recognised as Edward's wife. You are saved-perhaps for a wretched, perhaps for a happy life. That is as God wills. Day after day I have thought upon my vow, for it is only within the past few days I discovered that there was some trifling forgetfulness about the usual forms of marriage, and I have tried to be your murderer. Thank God, I am saved from that! I have crept up, many a night, to your room, and laid my hand upon the door of your chamber, and strength has left me, for how could I strangle you in your sleep. Then I have tried to hate you, and have almost succeeded; but more than once I have been kept from my purpose of drugging your cup, by some chance word or look that reminded me of your mother. How well, my child, you bear my story! It is dark, indeed—and darkness seems to shroud your future-and will seem to settle still more heavily upon it when you hear all I have yet to say. But for you there is hope; it may be far off, but it must come to one so young. I doubt if I live long, Mary, with my constitution. The hard life I must live to compass my purposes, will even court death to come to release you—then you can marry Edward. I honor and love him for your sake; but mark me, Mary, if you should marry him before I die, I will not rest day nor night until I have fulfilled my vow. I pray and plead with you to spare me that sin. I know you will; and in all the loneliness of these coming years, believe me, I will not rest day or night to bring comfort to you. We can talk more calmly upon this night's revelations in future years. But I must tell the rest of these dreadful things; and in the future, Mary, I will try and find palliations for my sin, so that you shall almost feel you could love me; and if repentance and sorrow can aid me to seem lovable to you, then I shall; for I am a heart-broken man. My ambition and selfishness are buried now. My ambition will be to gather up the world's goods, to do as much as I can to alleviate the trouble and ruin I shall soon bring upon hundreds, and that done, God grant that I may die, and then, child, perhaps the dim hope of the present, your future marriage with Edward, may be realized.

"Soon after the last meeting with Livingston, he left the city for another, and year after year added honors and wealth to me. Intercourse with Edward was no longer a thorn in the flesh, I became very happy, and your mother was changing me into a gentle personage; but she died, and with her for a time died all my energy, ambition and activity. But the reaction came, and I sprang from the desolation of my house and my heart to grasp the wildest dreams of ambition. To carry on my schemes, I borrowed from the vaults of the banking house of which I was president, and succeeded in

VOL. XXI.-NO. CXL

4

replacing it in a few days without detection; but I did not succeed in my intention of never, whatever might be the temptation, doing the same. Again and again was I tempted; sometimes I resisted, sometimes fell. This has been my course for the last two or three years. At the time of Edward's appeal, I was maddened by my struggles to replace some money I had taken. Since then the struggle has continued, and all things have so happened that inevitable discovery is my fate; and in three days I shall be known to have taken at least half a million more than my property can repay. And now, Mary, this is my plan: In a few hours you must be ready to go to New-York, from there we sail to Europe in disguise, and I will place you in a convent in France. I shall yet repay all I owe and make you independent. My schemes are well matured. I have taken for capital yet more from the vaults, and in ten years I believe I shall accomplish all that I wish. In those ten years I shall have to work like a galley slave, not only in my business operations, but to escape detection; and the only cheer I can have, will be the satisfaction of seeing you not sink under these terrible afflictions, but with bravery and hope, steadily study and work. You are brave to-night, dear child. Only continue so, and the blessings of a wretched, penitent man will be yours. What is it you say, Mary? you write to Edward? Yes, poor child, but had it not better be only a few words? Heaven keep you, Mary!" and Mr. Brighton, yielding to his emotions, sobbed aloud, while Mary was calm and quiet, but it was the calmness and quietness of despair. She gently put her arm around his neck, kissed him, and then walked to the table, and with a steady hand opened the desk and wrote:

"Edward, dearest Edward—go to your father and ask a narrative of his acquaintance with my father. Read their written agreements and my father's vow, and you will understand why I say farewell to you. When you hear of my father's disgrace, believe there are palliations for his crime; and still, I pray you, let there be some portion of love in your heart for me, ever through life. Our marriage, by some slight neglect, is not strictly legal, and so, Edward, we are parted in life. I must go with my father; and you, Heaven bless you, dear Edward! may you be happy, and find for your wife one who can be a more obedient daughter than I have proved myself, and one who can render you happier than I might have done. But think of mepray for me. MARY."

For one moment she laid her head upon the desk and groaned aloud; but then, with the strength of utter sorrow, that cannot find hope or comfort, she left the table, moved to the door and said-" Father, will you seal and direct my note after you have read it? What time must I be ready to go with you? At nine o'clock, you say-and my trunks are packed. Well-Heaven help us!" And she was gone.

SKETCH THIRD.

Five years rolled by, and Mr. Brighton had succeeded much beyond his wildest hopes; and those five years had been spent by Mary as a boarder in a convent in southern France, with not the utter wretchedness of life one would imagine. There had been gleams of sunshine for her--many times when her heart bounded with youth, and times of deep sorrow. She had borne hours of calm despair and times of listless apathy--hours of rebellious thoughts-times of wild restlessness. But within the past few months the boon of tears had been denied her, and a settled depression of spirits, wordless, complaintless, had rested upon her; and this had alarmed Mr. Brighton, who watched his child on his occasional visits with terrible

anxiety. He now feared her mind would be wrecked in insanity. Mr. Brighton came to see her once in a few weeks, and constantly received letters from her, or from the Lady Abbess relative to her. The Abbess loved Mary deeply, as all did who were near her. She was one of those gifted ones who pass through the world, gaining love without the usual thorns that accompany that power of gathering love-the getting of envy and detraction. The sisters of the convent and the pupils loved her; and when they saw her sad glance, and the quiet, hopeless expression on her face, they would lay a flower or gift beside her, or by some endearing caress tell her their love and sympathy.

It was twilight-a summer twilight was almost over, and the full moon rose beautiful and bright, high in the heavens. For many an hour Mary had been lying on a couch in her parlor, in listless, sad reverie; and now she had risen, and was standing by a window, which, like a door, opened upon the garden. Pushing back the muslin drapings of the niche, within which was the window, she leaned against the casement, and let the soft evening air blow upon her. The light of the moon served to show that time had given that face newer beauty; it had deepened every line and shading of feature, and her face wore a more Madonna-like expression. Her form was somewhat thinner, but her glorious eye was not dimmed. As she stood there, the bell of the chapel at the end of the garden tolled the call to vespers, and presently, from the nunnery, glided over the great walk the white-robed nuns, with their torches in their hands, and Mary blessed them in her heart. With silence and slow step they passed on to the chapel, and soon from every window gleamed the lights of the service. She listened breathlessly for, and yet started involuntarily when, the well-known, deep, bass notes of the organ poured forth their rich sound. With volumes of harmony those notes rolled, swelled and were stilled, and again rose, until, gradually losing themselves in the high notes, they died as if in an echo. The dearth of sound was but momentary; a sweet, clear voice took up the strain, and another and another joined her's; the organ notes crept in, until, in one grand burst, it seemed, from the long, deep hush that followed, as if music had sung her strength away and gone to heaven. Then, after a time, the nuns came noiselessly over the walk. Again the great door of the nunnery swung to its place, and all was still. The religion of the scene and hour filled Mary's heart, and she seemed to understand in all its glory the gift of being, and the connection of God and child. The hour of happy thought seemed not disturbed, only deepened, by the unexpected entrance of her father. In her joy at seeing him, and the fullness of her thought, she did not observe the unwonted paleness of his face, until he put his arm affectionately round her waist, and drawing her to the window, said: "Mary, I must leave you in one hour, and I came upon an important mission. You must be prepared to hear news that will startle you, and dash to the ground many day-dreams. But Mary, love, God is love, and will comfort and gladden you with many years of happiness yet. I found, yesterday, upon a torn American newspaper, a notice of the death of a dear friend-of Lieut. Edward Livingston; here is the notice." Mary took the scrap with calmness, and read: "Died, of consumption, Lieut. Edward Livingston, beloved by all who knew him. His loss is irreparable. His country has lost a brave officer, and"- Here the paper was torn.

Without a tear, but with a look of relief, she said: "Father, is that all? I am so relieved! Now," she exclaimed, "I am at rest, for I can love and think of him as mine, without fear that he loves another and forgets me. Ah, that has been so dreadful! To have the dream of his having loved me, and still loving me, dashed to the ground by thinking that, possibly he is