'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on; but such Things will happen-ay, e'en 'mongst the phlegmatic

Dutch.

"When Woman," as Goldsmith declares, "stoops to folly,

And finds out too late that false man can betray," She is apt to look dismal, and grow "melan-choly," And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.

He goes on to remark that " to punish her lover,
Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,
There is but one method" which he can discover
That's likely to answer-that one is "to die!"

He's wrong-the wan and withering cheek;
The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;
The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak
The misery of the breaking heart;

The wasted form, th' enfeebled tone
That whispering mocks the pitying ear:
Th' imploring glances heavenward thrown
As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;

These wring the false one's heart enough,
"If made of penetrable stuff."

And poor Therese Thus pines and decays,
Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise

With, for "wheelers," two bays, And, for "leaders,"
two greys,

And soon reaches France, by the help of relays,
Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim,
And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick'd him.

She, poor sinner, Grows thinner and thinner, Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her.

One evening-'twas just as the clock struck elevenThey saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven, She breath'd one deep sigh, threw one look up to

Heaven,

And all was o'er!- Poor Therese was no moreShe was gone!-the last breath that she managed to draw

Escaped in one half-uttered word-'twas "St. Foix!

Who can fly from himself? Bitter cares when you feel 'em,

Are not cured by travel-as Horace says, "Cœlum
Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare!"
It's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary-
Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded, is
A shadow you can't sell as Peter Schlemil did his;
It haunts you for ever-in bed and at board, -

Ay, e'en in your dreams, And you can't find, it

seems,

Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored!
It is much if he slumbers at all, which but few,
-François Xavier Auguste was an instance-can do.

Indeed, from the time He committed the crime
Which cut off poor sister Therese in her prime,
He was not the same man that he had been-his plan
Was quite changed-in wild freaks he no more led the

van;

He'd scarce sleep a wink in A week; but sit thinking,

From company shrinking- He quite gave up

drinking.

At the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came,
Fish, fricassee, fricandeau, potage, or game,
Dindon aux truffes, or turbot à la crême,

No! he still shook his head, -it was always the same,
Still he never complained that the cook was to blame!
'Twas his appetite fail'd him-no matter how rare
And recherché the dish, how delicious the fare,-
What he used to like best he no longer could bear;

But he'd sit there and stare With an air of despair;
Took no care, but would wear Boots that wanted

repair;

Such a shirt too! you'd think he'd no linen to spare.
He omitted to shave; he neglected his hair,
And look'd more like a Guy than a gay Mousquetaire.

One thing, above all, most excited remark ;
In the evening he seldom sat long after dark.
Not that then, as of yore, he'd go out for "a lark"

With his friends; but when they, After taking
café,

Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a

tray,

-Which I own I consider a very good way,
If a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day-
No persuasion on earth could induce him to stay;
But he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head,
By way of "Good evening!" and walk off to bed.
Yet even when there he seem'd no better off,

For he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem! and

he'd cough.

And they'd hear him all night, Sometimes, sobbing
outright,

While his valet, who often endeavour'd to peep,
Declared that "his master was never asleep!

But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead,

and weep;

That about ten o'clock His door he would lock, And then never would open it, let who would knock!He had heard him," he said, "Sometimes jump out of bed,

And talk as if speaking to one who was dead!

He'd groan, and he'd moan, In so piteous a tone, Begging some one or other to let him alone,

That it really would soften the heart of a stone
To hear him exclaim so, and call upon Heaven
Then-The bother began always just at eleven!"

François Xavier Auguste, as I've told you before,
I believe was a popular man in his corps,

And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the
Nun,

Now began to consult what was best to be done.
Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue

Confess'd they did not know at all what to do:
But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille
Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville

Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel
For their friend, so distinguished an officer's weal.
"The first thing," he said, "was to find out the matter
That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this

clatter

Mort de ma vie!" - Here he took some rappee"Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me!" He was right, sure enough-in a couple of days He worms out the whole story of Sister Therese, Now entomb'd, poor dear soul! in some Dutch Père la

Chaise.

-"But the worst thing of all," François Xavier declares, "Is, whenever I've taken my candle upstairs, There's Therese sitting there-upon one of those chairs! Such a frown, too, she wears, And so frightfully glares,