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her objects; and, as soon as she had come to a determination, she got up, at break of day, to write the following letter to the rector:

"My dear Benefactor,-I am sadly grieved that it is not in my power to testify my sense of the duty which I owe you, by a submission equal to the gratitude which I feel. The gracious God knows, that if to give my life were all that would be necessary to satisfy you, I should not be so wretched as am. But what difference is there between dying and quitting Benjamin? I cannot do it, reverend sír; I have tried to the utmost of my strength: do not hate me, for I cannot do it. I do not wish to continue to be a burthen to my poor sister, nor to the good madam Felix, nor to you, who have done so much for me. When this letter comes into your hands, I shall be a long way from Salenches, and I shall never come back again. I have found out the means of gaining a livelihood, without being in any body's service, and without runnir the risk of losing the virtue which you have taught ine to love so truly. Put yourself quite at ease on this head, my dear benefactor. Ishall go away without saying anything to the kind madam Felix; she would try to retain me, and I should not have courage enough to refuse her. In the drawer of my little walnut-tree table I leave five-andforty livres, which I owe her for the quarter which is just up. I beg that you will give them to her, and tell her, too, that I shall always regret, and bless her. As to you, my dear benefactor, the good God must bless you, for you are his image on earth; and, next to him, it is you that I most honour, respect, and cherish. CLAUDINE."

When she had sealed this letter, she left it on the table, tied up her bundle, put into a handkerchief twenty crowns, which were the remains of her stock, and then, taking Benjamin in her arms, she set out from Salenches.

She took the road to Geneva, but stopped to sleep at Bonne-Ville, because she could not walk very fast with the little Benjamin. On the second evening she reached Geneva. The first thing she did there was to sell all her clothes and linen, and, with what she got for them, to buy three shirts, a pair of men's shoes,

breeches, a flannel waistcoat, a brown cloth jacket, a silk handkerchief, and a red cap. She cut off her beautiful black locks, which she sold to a hair dresser, and she made a leather knapsack, into which she put all her baggage. The beautiful green diamond, which she had always worn, she now drew from her finger, and hung it on a ribbon suspended from her neck, and hidden under her shirt. Thus dressed like a little Savoyard, with a great stick in her hand, the knapsack on her shoulders, and Benjamin seated on the knapsack, and his two little hands clasped together under Claudine's chin, she departed from Geneva, and took the road to Turin.

She was twelve days crossing the mountains, but met with no mischance on her journey. On the contrary, in the inns where she dined and slept, the age and figure of the handsome Savoyard, and the child which he carried on his back, and which he called his brother, interested every body in his favour. The little travellers were every where well treated; and when Claudine came to pay the reckoning in the morning, she was never charged more than half as much as another person. Sometimes even, all that was required was, that she should sing the famous song of the wandering musicians of her own country. Claudine then, without waiting to be pressed, began, in a soft and tender voice, the well-known air, in the words of which .she had made a small alteration.

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"Poor Jeannette! so gladly
Whose song used to flow,

Why, lonely and sadly,

Why mute dost thou go?"

"Ah! my heart throbs with pain,
For my love's far away!

And to none but my swain
A word can I say!"

"A maid, young and blooming,
To change canst thou hate?
Chase this sorrow consuming,
And chuse a new mate!"

"If the king were to sue,
I'd his offer refuse;

When once we love true,

Never more can we chuse."

The journey of Claudine was not an expensive one. When she reached Turin she had still some money left. She took a garret at a public house; she bought the few things which were necessary for her new occupation, a stool, some brushes, and a bottle of oil, and then, followed by Benjamin, who was never away from her, she fixed herself, under the name of Claude, in the square of the king's palace, to clean the shoes of the passengers. For some days after she began, her earnings were but trifling, because she was not yet accustomed to such work, and it took her a good while to earn a penny. But she soon became handy, and the business went on much better. Intelligent, alert, and ready, Claude was employed upon all the errands of that part of the town. While she was gone, Benjamin sat upon the stool, and took care of the things. If there was a letter or a parcel to deliver, a box to carry up stairs, or a hamper of bottles to put into a cellar, Claude was always called, in preference to any other person. All the servants, and lazy cook-maids, chose him for their confidential man; and in the evening Claude frequently took home above half-a-crown as his earnings. This was more than sufficient for the support of himself, and of Benjamin, who grew wonderfully, became handsomer every day, and was caressed by every one who knew him.

TO BE RESUMED.

FOR THE POCKET MAGAZINE.

REFLECTIONS, WRITTEN IN A CHURCH YARD.

"Say, pensive muse, whom dismal scenes delight,
Frequent at tombs, and in the realms of night,
This truth how certain-when this life is o'er,
Man dies to live, and lives-to die no more.”

Young. HOW solemn is the stillness which prevails over every object in this repository of death! All around seems

to wear a saddened hue, as if mourning over the wrecks of human nature deposited in these dreary abodes; and Desolation here holds her court, and asserts her sovereignty. I cast my eyes around the lonesome prospect, but no objects salute them, save an assemblage of graves; at every step my feet stumble ou the raised turf, under which repose the bones of my fellow creatures. How important is the lesson conveyed by these silent monitors; and how truly wise is he who improves by the information they offer. They point, as so many beacons, to the frailty and uncertainty of human life. Methinks they warn me of the importance of the consideration of death, and chide the indifference evinced by mankind to the subject. They practically urge on my attention the necessity of preparing for a change, which it is the irrevocable fate of mortality to undergo. Compared with the solemnity of death, and the realities to which it is the introduction, every other consideration sinks into comparative insignificance. Shall we, then, neglect a subject in which we all bear an individual interest, and the power of which we must either sooner or later acknowledge? for the decree is past, the edict is gone forth, which proclaims to all mankind collectively, and to its members individually, "Thou shalt surely die! Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return!" To this silent habitation we are all hastening. In whatsoever occupation we are engaged, or by whatsoever road we are journeying, we are still in our road to the grave.

"Earth's noblest honours end in "Here he lies !"
And" Dust to dust" concludes the noblest soug."

Some of our fellow travellers are continually arriving hither, to this their last home; "the house appointed for all living;" and we, too, in our turn, shall join their numbers; we, who are now the spectators, will shortly be gazed upon, and the tear of regret may fall for us as we before have shed it for those who have preceded us.

The grave is the goal of human life, where, after the race is ended, the competitors seek and find rest. The weary and heavy laden here cast of their burdens, and

obtain repose. The labourer has finished the work of the day, and has here sunk to sleep. The man of pleasure, surfeited with the entertainment, bas retired from the feast. The man of business has balanced his accounts, and is gone to the final audit. The mariner, once tost on the stormy ocean, the sport of winds and waves, has arrived at length in the haven. How peaceful is the repose of the inhabitants. Peace! peace! is the watch-word maintained amongst them. There is no jarring of interests; no animosities are suffered to disturb the tranquillity of the grave. All dispositions and occupations mingle together without disturbance. They do not interfere with the rights of each other; even the claims of kindred and affection are totally forgotten here. The mother heeds not the child of her bosom, who rests by her side; the child retains no remembrance of the caresses of its parent. The master usurps no authority over his servant, for the menial is equally well accommodated as his lord. No ambition for precedency seizes the tenants of this kingdom of darkness. All the distinctions of earth have passed away, and its boasted honours have confessed their vanity. The obscurity of the shadow of death alike spreads its gloom over every tenant of this cold habitation, and the King of Terrors holds his undisputed sway over the dreary domain. The monarch, stript of his royal robes and gorgeous habiliments, must be content to lie down with his meanest subject, and acknowledge, with him, the earth as his mother, and say to "Corruption thou art my sister." Death not only levels all distinctions, but effects an awful change on the persons of its victims. How altered, how dreadfully altered, are the features of those on whom we have heretofore gazed with delight! Could we now behold them, instead of the wonted pleasure the sight has communicated, they would strike us with horror. Corruption has set its seal on every member, and the worm now revels undisturbed in the fallen fabric of of mortality.

TO BE RESUMED.

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