"This is too much!" cried the soldier; "I cannot bear your mother's grief. Oh, Pascal! be blest--be content--be fearless--Françonnette is free! she is not sold to the evil one. It is a falsehood--a mere tale made for a purpose. But had not your mother overcome me by her tears, perhaps we should both have perished. You know--you can feel--how much I love her; like you, I would give my life for her. I thought she loved me, for she had my very soul--all! Yet she rejected me, though she knows we were betrothed. I saw there was no way--I devised a plan--I hired the sorcerer to raise a terror amongst all; he forged a fearful tale, chance did the rest. I thought her then securely my own; but when we both demanded her--when for you she braved everything--when she at once confessed how dear you were, it was beyond my power to bear. I resolved that we should both die; I would have conducted you to the bridal chamber--a train is laid there: all three were to have been victims; I would have bid you cease to fear the demon, but behold in me your foe!--but it is past, the crime I had meditated is arrested. Your mother has disarmed me; she reminds me of my own. Live, Pascal, for your mother! you have no more to fear for me. I have now no one; I will return to the wars; it were better for me that, instead of perishing with a great crime on my conscience, a bullet should end my life." He spoke no more, and rushed from their presence: the air resounded with shouts, and the happy lovers fell into each other's arms: the stars at that moment shone out. Oh! I must cast down my pencil--I had colours for sorrow--I have none for such happiness as theirs! Lines by Jasmin ADDRESSED TO M. DUMON, DEPUTY, WHO HAD CONDEMNED OUR OLD LANGUAGE. THERE'S not a deeper grief to man Than when his mother, faint with years, Decrepit, old, and weak, and wan, Beyond the leech's art appears; When by her couch her son may stay, And press her hand and watch her eyes, And feel, though she revive to-day, Perchance his hope to-morrow dies. It is not thus, believe me, sir, With this enchantress--she we call Our second mother: Frenchmen err, Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd her fall! Our mother-tongue--all melody-- While music lives, can never die. Yes!--she still lives, her words still ring; Her children yet her carols sing: And thousand years may roll away, Before her magic notes decay.