of the Chevalier de la Motte-Piquet, who so

greatly distinguished himself in the American

war.

Claude-Toussaint, Count de la Garaye, was a man personally attractive in appearance and manner, and very dexterous in fencing and feats of horsemanship. To the plaintive beauty of his wife's portrait I have scarcely been able to render justice, even with the advantage of its being engraved by Mr. Shaw.

Those who may desire to read the narrative in plain prose, will find a notice of the Château de la Garaye in the "Recherches sur Dinan et ses Environs," by Luigi Odorici, Curator of the Museum of that town, and in the travelling guide lately issued by M. Peignet, both works published on the spot. Allusion is also made to

the story, or rather to the beneficent works of

charity performed by the De la Garayes, in

Madame de Genlis' "Adèle et Theodore;" but inasmuch as she has totally altered the real circumstances, and attributed these holy deeds to the result of grief for the loss of a daughter, even while admitting in a foot-note that she is aware the De la Garayes never had a child, and that all is her own invention, I do not think it necessary further to allude to her version of the tale; more striking in its unadorned truth than all the art of the poet or romancist could make it.

The Lady of La Garaye.

PROLOGUE.

UINS! A charm is in the word:

It makes us smile, it makes us sigh,

'Tis like the note of some spring

bird

Recalling other Springs gone by,

And other wood-notes which we heard

With some sweet face in some green lane,

And never can so hear again!

Ruins! They were not desolate

To us, the ruins we remember:

Early we came and lingered late,
Through bright July, or rich September ;
With young companions wild with glee,
We feasted 'neath some spreading tree-

And looked into their laughing eyes,

And mocked the echo for replies.

Oh! eyes and smiles-and days of yore,

Can nothing your delight restore ?

Return!

Return? In vain we listen ;

Those voices have been lost to earth!

Our hearts may throb-our eyes may glisten,

They'll call no more in love or mirth.

For, like a child sent out to play,

Our youth hath had its holiday,

And silence deepens where we stand