—But life is deep and words are vain.
Mark yonder hedgerow, here and there
Sprinkled with Spring, but mainly bare;
The wither'd bank beneath, where blows,
In yellow crowds, the fresh primrose:
What skill of color thus could smite
The troubled heart-strings thro' the sight
What magic of sweet speech express
Their primeval tenderness?
Can these not utter'd be, and can
The day-spring of immortal man?
"GIVE WISELY!" AN ANECDOTE.
One evening, a short time since, the curate of B., a small village in the north of France, returned much fatigued to his humble dwelling. He had been visiting a poor family who were suffering from both want and sickness; and the worthy old man, besides administering the consolations of religion, had given them a few small coins, saved by rigid self-denial from his scanty income. He walked homewards, leaning on his stick, and thinking, with sorrow, how very small were the means he possessed of doing good and relieving misery.
As he entered the door, he heard an unwonted clamor of tongues, taking the form of a by no means harmonious duet—an unknown male voice growling forth a hoarse bass, which was completely overscreeched by a remarkably high and thin treble, easily recognized by the placid curate as proceeding from the well-practiced throat of his housekeeper, the shrewish Perpetua of a gentle Don Abbondio.
"A pretty business this, monsieur!" cried the dame, when her master appeared, as with flashing eyes, and left arm a-kimbo, she pointed with the other to a surly-looking man, dressed in a blouse, who stood in the hall, holding a very small box in his hand. "This fellow," she continued, "is a messenger from the diligence, and he wants to get fifteen francs as the price of the carriage of that little box directed to you, which I'm sure, no matter what it contains, can't be worth half the money."
"Peace, Nanette," said her master; and, taking the box from the man, who at his approach, civilly doffed his hat, he examined the direction.
It was extremely heavy, and bore the stamp of San Francisco, in California, together with his own address. The curate paid the fifteen francs, which left him possessed of but a few sous, and dismissed the messenger.
He then opened the box, and displayed to the astonished eyes of Nanette an ingot of virgin gold, and a slip of paper, on which were written the following words:
"To Monsieur the Curate of B.
"A slight token of eternal gratitude, in remembrance of August 28th, 1848.
"Charles F——.
"Formerly sergeant-major in the —th regiment; now a gold-digger in California."