The Life of the House.

An Ancient Fbench Legend,

The duke of Provence knocked on his daughter's door with, the hilt of his sword : ' Arise, Maguelonne ; it is break of day and the Angelus will soon sound ; thy brothers wait for thee below, the horses paw the pavement in the court it is time to depart.'

it was just after a bloody war, in order to cement a treaty of peace, that Magueloune was married, while a mere child, to Prince Herbert, who was of the same age; after that day they had grown up, separated from one another; but the time had now come to conduct Maguelonne to her husband. Maguelonne made the sign of the cross to commend her soul to the vir gin. «he rose and put on her bridal robe, with the long veil hanging to the floor. Then, very pale, she went below. Her brothers, looking at her admiringly, placed her in her saddle. 1 Is the realm of Prince Herbert a great distance from here?' she asked. ' Oh, a long way off. To get there we must traverse plains and forests, and ascend many a blue-topped moun tain.' Then Maguelonne bowed her head in sadness. Nothing before had ever separated her from the home where ghe was born. Thus mounted she could touch the ivy which covered its walls; but now her father and bro thers said, ' Let us depart!' Just then the mother of Maguelonne came out from the house bathed in tears, and with trembling arms pressed against her heart the little foot of her daughter, which rested on the stirrup, ' Thou leavest me,' she said, ' whom I nourished with this breast! The room where thou didst sleep (Oh my heart!) will remain empty, and I shall seek in vain for thee in my deserted homo.' ' Alas." answered Maguelonne,' is it not you my father who have given me to Prince Herbert?' But it was in vain that tears glittered like drops of dew in the eyes of the noble girl j the cavalcade moved, aad the foot of Maguelonne dropped from the hands of her mother. The stirrups jingled, the spurs clan ked, the pebbles struck fire under the; hoofs of the horses. The duke of Pro-! vence and his three sons were powerful horsemen covered with black armour, | the terror of the Saracens. In. the; midst of this double hedge of ironi rode [the fair Maguelonne on a white, horse

They rode on and on; they traver sed the plains; they disappeared under the green vault of the forest, then' they could be seen on the side of the steep mountain. Their thoughts were sad, and nei ther a song nor a ballad did they utter to divert themselves by the way.

.Nevertheless, days and nights had gone by since their departure, when, at the ford of a river, the old duke stopped his horse entirely. 'As truly as the waters of this river will never flow past here a<2;ain, so true is it,' said he, ' that I will not stir on one step further. Thy brothers, 0 Maguelonne will accompany thee further, my road is now behind me.'

1 What will become of me if thou dost abandon me!' said Maguelonne in tears.

'Is it not rio;ht I should go to con sole thy mother? Farewell, dear child; years have accumulated over my head, and perhaps I shall die without ever seeing thee again.'

'The will of God be done ! "But you, O my brothers, promise me never to abandon me.'

Her brothers bowed their heads in silence. ' How long and tiresome the journey is ! My brothers, we pass without cessation from forest to moun tain and from mountain to plain, but we do not arrive at our destination- Are we not] lost in the country of dreams ?'

'Ko, my sister; but Prince Her bert lives a long distance beyond those blue mountains there.'

' Still on, my brothers; does it not seem to you that as we advance the sky darkens behind us, the grass withers, and the trees bow their weeping branches to the earth ?'

:.",'Tes, Maguelonne, sadness extends behind thee because thou wilt never pass this way again. At this hour our father travels alone, his hear* black with sadness, and our mother wrings her hands in despair.' 'Do you think,' said Maguelonue

'that I have not my portion of grief? But what do I see? Is it thy horse which rises on his feet, or thou who pullest the bridle ?' IDo not accuse my horse. This oak at my right marks the line that I ought not to pass. My brothers will descend with thee to the valley.'

' What!' said Maguelonne, clasping her hands, ' Jiast thou not sworn not to leave me ?'

j • Vain oath, my sister. Ought I not to go and console my father and mother? Farewell, Maguelonne,much beloved. lam young, but one often sees the young die before the old. 'Shall I never see thee again ?' ' Depart then, my brother. No ;by the Holy Virgin thou hast not loved !me!'

Of the two brothers who remained, Amaury, the youngest, was highly accomplished; and Maguelonne loved him intensely. I ' Dear Amaury,' said she, ' sing me one of the ballads which please the 'knights and ladies so much.' ' Willingly, my sister, I will sing for thee the ballads of Inesille dv Beam.' ' titop,' cried Maguelonne, ' that is a very bad. ballad you have chosen for me.' But while she was talking in this ; way the Becond of her brothers stopped suddenly. Maguelonne understood I that this one also was going to leave I her, and retrace his steps. She looked at him with scorn and anger. ' What is it, then, which frightens i thee, valiant knight ? Is it this grass hopper which crosses the road ? Ah ! j keep silent. What canst thou say to me ? G-o and be cursed, thou who dost abandon the woman who is thy sis ter!' Having thus spoken in a fit of pass ion, for the blood of her race was as violent as the flames, she lowered her veil over her eyes so as not to see her brother depart. Very soon a traveller passed them on the route: ' Salutations to thee, Maguelonne, Thy brother who has just left thee was robbed and wounded by the ban dits.' Another passed by soon after and said to her: ' God protect thee, Ma guelonne, thy brother has falleu in an ambuscade, and the Moors have carried him oft' in captivity.' A third called to her from a distance: 'A pleasant journey to thee, itague lonno. Dost thou know that the Duke of Provence was drowned in, crossing the river ?' A fourth passed by and said: ' Pray to God, beautiful woman. The house where thou wast born has fallen in the flames and they are seeking for the body of thy mother in the ruins.' ' Hearken, Maguelonne!' cried Amaury. 'By the holy rood! my horse shall feel the spurs.' 'This is overwhelming,' said Mague lonne. ' W ait for me, my brother, and let us turn our bridles at the same time.' But there passed at this moment a fifth traveller, who crossed on the opposite side. 'Hasten thy steps, Maguelonne, Prince Herbert is dying of grief, for he has been told his young wife has been carried off on the journey, and that they cJo not know what has become of her.'

' Day of misery !' cried the poor girl, ' let us separate, my brother, and let us pray to God to conduct me to the man to whom I belong.'

They saw her then, pale and tremb ling, press on alone with her horse. But the sky became darker than night, the tempest broke loose with violence; gloomy birds flew through the darkness skimming with their heavy wings the soft cheeks of the young bride. Her horse, overcome by terror, rose on his feet. Maguelonne let hersell slide to the ground, and continued the journey on foot j, the thickets caught her dress in their thorny arms, the stones tore her shoes-, of velvet in shreds and made her delicate feet bleed.

At this mb-cnent a hermit met her. 'Ah ! father,' s&id Maguelonne,f take pity on my.misfortunes. Of my three brothers, the eldest i's^wounded, the second is a captive, the tlii'rd has gone to help the other two. The Juke of Provence, my father, has perished in the great river, and my mother has been5" buried under the ruins of our house; and Prince Herbert is perhaps dying at this moment, and has not God said; 'A woman shall leave father and mother, go with her husband and leave all to follow him ?' Tell me, man of God, if I have acted well ?'

' Thou art a noble and courageous woman, Maguelonne,'

Then, how miraculous! the heavens cleared away, the tempest subsided in the distance, and while the rain poured in drops from the leaves of the trees the birds began to sing.' ' Tell me, holy father, what does this signify ? Behold, the sun shines again, the trees are quiet, and the birds sing.' 'This signifies that we approach the domain of Prince Herbert, for joy goes before the woman whose husband waits for her.' ' But see, everywhere my feet rest the earth is covered with verdure and flowers.' ' This is because thy feet will never more be wounded with stones and briers, my daughter.' ' Tell me again, is it not a dream ? It seems to me that high and rugged mountain decreases and lowers itself to the level of the plain ?' ' It is because the dwelling of thy husband, the prince, will soon appear.' And so it was; the palace of the prince could now be seen, but the front looked sombre, and the windows seem ed as though they had not been opened for a long while. ' How gloomy the house looks! They will say, alas, that no one is living to inhabit it.'

'Life will only enter there when thou dost, Maguelonne, for it is a noble and beautiful woman who is the life of the house

At these words the hermit disap peared, and Maguelonne,having taken a few steps further, touched the door of the palace with the tip of her foot, the door opened, and in a moment the whole house seemed illuminated; the most delicious music sounded through, the vast galleries, and Prince Herbert magnificently arrayed, hurried, fol lowed by his retainers, to present his hand to Maguelonne.

'Thou art most welcome here,' said he, ' thou, who art the life of the house!'

Then Maguelonne smiled and col oured in recognizing in her handsome husband the hermit who came to her in the forest. But that which was the greatest surprise of all was to find in the large hall the old duke, her mother and her brothers, who waited for her in festive costume.

'Be blessed, dear child/ said the duke, ' thou hast preferred thy hua band to all others; thou shalt be a noble lady and shall command many servants For God is my witness, if thou hadst failed in this trial the doors of a convent would have shut thee in for ever,'

Having thus spoken he embraced Maguelonne and there were brilliant festivities held on this occasion, which were heard of throughout all Christea dom.

Business.

Sunday night, when a young man drove out of Vicksburg several miles to pass the evening with the girl of his choice, he was mot at the gate by her father, who at once proceeded to business by saying:

' Come to spark Louisa, eh ?' The young man let silence answer the question.

' Expect it'll make a match ?' con tinued the father.

Silence again, while the young man tied the horse. As he was ready to go in, the father blocked the way, braced up and continned:

1 See here, young man, let's have an understanding. If ye mean hitch 'tween now and Jinuary all right, but if ye don't, I want ye to understand that candles is mighty high this Fall and ciops don't turn out wuth a cuss!'

As the young man got through tha gate it is probable that he gave the father a direct and an agreeable answer. — VicJcsburrj Herald.

GRIEF FOE THE DEAD.

O hearts that nevar caase to yearn ! O brimming tears that ne'er are dried! The dead, though they depart, return As though they had not died ! The living are the only dead; The dead live—never more to din; And often whoa we mourn them fled, They never were so ni<h ! Anil though they He buneath the waves, Or sleep within the churchyard dim, (A.h! through how many different grare3 G-od'd children go to him !) Yet every grave gives up its dead Ere it is ovewrown with grass ; Then why should hopaless te*r3 be shed, i. i need we cry ' alis ' ? Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom, And like a sorrowing mourner craped, Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb, *Jjp?ose captives have escaped ? 'Tis but a mound—a^d will be mossed Whene'er the Sumnit^Rnus appears ; The loved, though wept, aia'.ne.ver lost; We only loie—our tear*! Nay, Hope may whisper with the cfe*d By bending: forward where they are"s ._ • But Memory, with a backward tread, ' \ Communes with them afar. The joys we loea are but forecast; \ And we shall find them all once more; \ We look behind us for the past, Butlo!'tis all bttore! \

Treating the Girls.

People have noticed that one of the handsomest young men in Burlington has suddenly grown bald, and dissipa tion is attributed as tbe cause. Ah, no ! he went to a church sociable the other week, took three charming girls out to the refreshment table, let them eat all they wanted, and then found he had left his pocket-book at home, and a deaf man that he had ne>ver seen be fore at the cashier's desk. The young1 man, with his face aflame, bent down and said softly : 'I am ashamed to saj I have no change with '

' Hey ?' shouted the cashier.

' I regret to say,' the young man re peated in a little louder key,' that I have unfortunately come away without any change to ' ' Change two ?• chirped the deaf man, ' Oh, yes, I can change a five if you want it.'.

' No,' the young man explained in a terrible, penetrating whisper, for half a dozen people were crowding up be hind him, impatient to pay their bills and get away,' I don't want any change, because -—'

• Oh, don't want no change ?' the deaf man cried gleefully. ' Bleeged to ye, bleeged to ye. Taint often we get such generous donations. Pass over your bill.'

' No, no/ the young man explained, ' I have no funds •'

1 Oh, yes, plenty of fun,' the deaf man replied, growing tired of the con versation, and noticing the long line of people waiting with money in their hands; ' but I haven't got time to talk about it now. Please settle and move on.'

' But,' the young man gasped out; ' I have no money ' ' Gk> Monday ?' queried the deaf cashier. ' I don't care when you go. You must pay and let the other people come up.' ' I have no money !' the mortified young man shouted, ready to sink into the earth, while the people all around him, and especially the three girls he had treated, were giggling and chuck ling audibly.

' Owe money ?' the cashier said. lOf course you do; '$2 75.'

' I can't pay !' the youth screamed, and, by turning his pocket inside out and yelling his poverty to the heavens, he finally made the deaf man under stand. And then he had to shriek his full name three times, while his ears fairly rang with the half-stifled laugh ter that was breaking out all around him; and he had to scream out where he worked, and roar when he would pay, and he couldn't get the deaf man to understand him until some of the church members came up to see what the uproar was, and recognizing their young friend, made it all right with the cashier. And the young man went out into the night and clubbed himself, and shred his locks away until he was bald; as an egg. — Burlington Hawlceye.

Eighteen Hundred Tears After Death.

ACoEEEsroNDENT of 'Appleton's Journal' writing of excavations at Pompeii, says : ' Among the most interesting of the ob jects found recently are two skeletons, one of a somewhat elderly man, the other of a woman. They were found in the Via Stabia, among the ashes of the last eruption, evidently overtaken in their flight and buried among the cinders. According to the usual method employed to preserve the external appearance of objects, liquid plaster was poured into the cavity, which, serving a& a mold, a fac simile of the forms was obtained, and, thus perfectly preserved, the statue-like bodies were placed in glass cases in the Pompeii Museum. While appreciating all the horror of such a death, and the suffering endured, as shown by the position of the limbs, one cannot but imagine what would have been the as tonishment of that man and woman had some prophet informed them that eighteen hundred years after their death their forms, and even as much of their garments as were not consumed in the eruption, would be placed in a museum for in spection by a multitude of sight-seers— some from lands the existence of which they had never dreamed of. The poor woman is lying on her face, and even the form of her hair, put up behind, is seen. One arm shields her forehead, and she is supported by the other. Her stony limbs are well formed, and traces of a garment are seen passing in folds around her. The man, althogh placed on his back in the exhibition, when found was ' turned on his side. One arm rests on his hip; the other is uplifted. The face is somewhat distorted, but massive and smoothly shaven. Even the form of the fastening of the sandals around the ankle, and of the long button higher up on the leg to hold them, is clearly seen. The limbs are partly drawn up. The skeleton of a tolerably large dog, also recently found, is ia the Museum of

Pompeii, his whole form preserved ' plaster, in the same manner as those \Z mentioned. He is lying on his hff writhing in suffering, biting his hind W The rings in his collar are plainly seen'

A Dream and & Sleep.

Emile, Gerard and I sat smoking inn. dark. The curtains were draw:n; the fi smoldered to its death; the sound rl passing wheels broke but infreqW]! upon the silence of the room. ~\ ,5 near dawn —Winter dawn—and still had no thought of saparating. Emile 2 Gerard had come in at 2 o'clock in i morning, and when such a thing happen!) we generally saw the daylight before^ shooks hands again* We had turn over many subjects, and had had two » three bitter arguments, for Emile Isj Gerard always fought with buttons < At length Gerard yawned. Emile cau» the arms of his easy-chair, sat upm and looked fixedly into Gerard's face , • Gerard,' he said, 'you have yawned.' •No doubt,' answered Gerard. 'Wu of that ? You haven't said a word for quarter of an hour. You have X asleep.' ' Hear him!' cried Emile, appealing,^ it were, to the four millions of sleejk surrounding him. 'He says I slept He has the audacity to seek justificatL or extenuation for his offence in a crii created by his imagination for mj Mark,'he asked, turning to me, 'hale slept P' Beyond the facts that you sat ver still and kept your eyes closed, theiej no circumstantial evidence against m! I replied. 'There!' exclaimed Emile, , "fHJjj independent testimony! But againstm there is irrefutable proof. You= yawna •We heard you. You are beneath cm tempt. You are a creature of sensatij and emotion, wholly destitute of re^i tion or self-supplied stimulant. Bal you are like a woman!' ' Emiie,' I interposed ' you are une lant.' ■ s 'But, Mark,' he replied, • Gerard ii beast.' • You are over the bounds,' protest Gerard. ' Not of truth,' suggested Emile. 'Of civilized conversation. The wj ' beast' is not in any blue book applied a man.' ', I. ' No,' I agreed,' I never saw it.' I 'Then/ cried Gerard, in triumJi ' Emile pays the penalty.' T 8 ' But, as I live,' pleaded Emile,' Ihi no story to tell for forfeit. As I linl] am a squeezed orange.' , 1 1 ' Lemon,' muttered Gerard as he liti 1 pipe. 'ii 'Lemon is over the bounds?' inquii fjj Emile, clasping his hands and tnini | imploring eyes upon me. '' t ' No. Lemon is within the Hants', A t on with a story, Emile.' { He made a pathetic gesture and i {{ back in Ms chair. 'They, or ratherl j said I was asleep,' he whispered i j voice of a stage 'aside,' 'and I wai < I was only thinking. . Thinking of { j first night in London. What"* nigS j was to be sure.' Then, with animati | ' Did I ever tell you of my first ''vieti , London r , ' No.' { 'No.' • , 'IwUl.' <j 'I had just completed my twenty-S t year when I first set foot in London, j had come partly to see the, place! :'; partly to meet a relative of mine wk i we expected to arrive from India anyi | of the week. As you know, Marl, ] have always been a quiet, curious, I h fellow, taking little interest inched I, nary amusements provided for the gent : , public, and having no appreciation , what is called fun. So that, insteal seeking a theatre, or some other brii I place of entertainment, I put on an oi | . coat, lit a cigar, and walked out abc ~ 9 o'clock. ' There was a dense fog, and the aill m, damp and unwholesome. I happened be staying at a hotel so situated that <; the map I took all my bearings I relation to Holborn. The gas,lamp *: the opposite side of the street were J R seen like balls of tow illuminated If «.; dull glow. They were .visible, but J . no light. I was in a large and very to street. Cabs and carts and omnitm passed in an unbroken current. I beta ? a little depressed and confounded | meeting a quiet looking street fl ' | seemed to lead into some silent, lake! square, I turned down, and expend i$ the most inexpressible rehef froffl' : muffted muteness around. '1 suppose I must have gone abw , hundred and fifty yards in a straight | before I discovered th.ere was no WJ m exit at the end. I crossed and j* f : \ walking back toward the head of >, street. Before I had got half M I reached a turning to the left, and,J ■'. moment, stood irresolute as to i j course I should take. 'As I was : deliberating, Ijk " footsteps approaching rapidly. I- :.,, a little out of the way to let .him I I. but as he went to the same side, fe I against me rather forcibly, and trif! £ over a raised stone in the1 kenm i, heavily to the ground I helped w , rise. He was not hurt and when hfljjr had exchanged apologies he turned™^-., down thG^s*treet and to the left, and to; ■•, with benl; head and deliberate step. I • The fwo questions which arose "i were; Who M$ ks> wwl w^' Ht

Evening 1 Star Supplement, December 11, 1875;.