[FROM BOHEMIAN POEMS, TRANSLATED BY A.H. WRAITSALL, M.A., JUST PUBLISHED IN LONDON.] Whither, oh, whither, now all things are over? We to our journey and he to his home; Eyes cannot pierce through the vail that must cover Him whom we laid in the still silent tomb. He hath but ended his journey before us, We for a season are sojourning still On the same earth with the same heaven o'er us,-- Turn we, oh, turn we, our tasks to fulfill! Whither, oh, whither, now all things are ended? We to our labor and he to his rest; Let not the heart by its woe be offended, Man seeks the pleasant, but God gives the best. * * * * * FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS. THE YOUNG ADVOCATE. Antoine de Chaulieu was the son of a poor gentleman of Normandy, with a long genealogy, a short rent-roll, and a large family. Jacques Rollet was the son of a brewer, who did not know who his grandfather was; but he had a long purse and only two children. As these youths flourished in the early days of liberty, equality, and fraternity, and were near neighbors, they naturally hated each other. Their enmity commenced at school, where the delicate and refined De Chaulieu being the only gentilhomme amongst the scholars, was the favorite of the master (who was a bit of an aristocrat in his heart), although he was about the worst dressed boy in the establishment, and never had a sou to spend; whilst Jacques Rollet, sturdy and rough, with smart clothes and plenty of money, got flogged six days in the week, ostensibly for being stupid and not learning his lessons--which, indeed, he did not, but, in reality, for constantly quarreling with and insulting De Chaulieu, who had not strength to cope with him. When they left the academy, the feud continued in all its vigor, and was fostered by a thousand little circumstances arising out of the state of the times, till a separation ensued in consequence of an aunt of Antoine de Chaulieu's undertaking the expense of sending him to Paris to study the law, and of maintaining him there during the necessary period.