shuddered to bestow on a horse--close his eyes in a doze for half an hour, and wake, cool, sober, and collected, as if he had lived according to the precepts of Socrates or Cornaro! But to return to Morton. It was his habit to avoid as much as possible sharing the good cheer of his companion; and now, as he entered the Champs Elysees, he saw a little family, consisting of a young mechanic, his wife, and two children, who, with that love of harmless recreation which yet characterises the French, had taken advantage of a holiday in the craft, and were enjoying their simple meal under the shadow of the trees. Whether in hunger or in envy, Morton paused and contemplated the happy group. Along the road rolled the equipages and trampled the steeds of those to whom all life is a holiday. There, was Pleasure--under those trees was Happiness. One of the children, a little boy of about six years old, observing the attitude and gaze of the pausing wayfarer, ran to him, and holding up a fragment of a coarse kind of cake, said to him, willingly, “Take it--I have had enough!” The child reminded Morton of his brother--his heart melted within him--he lifted the young Samaritan in his arms, and as he kissed him, wept. The mother observed and rose also. She laid her hand on his own: “Poor boy! why do you weep?--can we relieve you?” Now that bright gleam of human nature, suddenly darting across the sombre recollections and associations of his past life, seemed to Morton as if it came from Heaven, in approval and in blessing of this attempt at reconciliation to his fate. “I thank you,” said he, placing the child on the ground, and passing his hand over his eyes,--“I thank you--yes! Let me sit down amongst you.” And he sat down, the child by his side, and partook of their fare, and was merry with them,--the proud Philip!--had he not begun to discover the “precious jewel” in the “ugly and venomous” Adversity? The mechanic, though a gay fellow on the whole, was not without some of that discontent of his station which is common with his class; he vented it, however, not in murmurs, but in jests. He was satirical on the carriages and the horsemen that passed; and, lolling on the grass, ridiculed his betters at his ease. “Hush!” said his wife, suddenly; “here comes Madame de Merville;” and rising as she spoke, she made a respectful inclination of her head towards an open carriage that was passing very slowly towards the town. “Madame de Merville!” repeated the husband, rising also, and lifting his cap from his head. “Ah! I have nothing to say against her!”