... to know its meaning. Her attendants, who could not venture to explain its real signification, told her that the word was used to designate “a serious, reflecting man. "The empress forgot neither the term nor the definition. During the time she was intrusted with the regency an important question one day came under discussion at the council. Having remarked that Cambaceres, the archchancellor, was silent, she turned towards him and said, "I should like to have your opinion, sir, for I know you are a ganache." At this compliment Cambaceres stared with astonishment, and repeated the word in a low tone of voice. "Yes," replied the empress, a ganache, a serious, reflecting man; is not that the meaning of it?" No one made any reply, and the discussion proceeded. On the 20th March, 1811, Maria Louisa presented her husband with a son. The birth was a difficult one, and the agitation of the medical attendant was very great. Napoleon, who was present, encouraged him. "She is but a woman," he said; "forget that she is an empress, and treat her as you would the wife of a citizen of the Rue St. Dennis. The accoucheur demanded whether, in case one life must be sacrificed, he should prefer the mother's or the child's. "The mother's," he answered, "it is her right." The child at length appeared, but without any sign of life; and it is said that the young King of Rome only recovered from his lethargy by the effect of the concussion and agitation produced by the hundred and one pieces of cannon fired at his birth. The public impatience greeted the announcement by rending the air with cries of"Long live the emperor!" Paris had never before presented so uniform a picture of joy. A balloon suddenly rose up, carrying into the clouds a car containing the aerial traveller Madame Blanchard, with thousands of printed notices of the auspicious event, which, by following the direction of the winds, she scattered all over the environs of the capital. In May, 1812, Maria Louisa accompanied the emperor to Dresden, where she was received with great distinction by the court of sovereigns which he had assembled around him. As Napoleon was much occupied in business, the empress, anxious to avail herself of the smallest intervals of leisure to be with her husband, scarcely ever went out lest she should miss them. In 1813, on leaving Paris for the army, Napoleon appointed Maria Louisa regent, and constituted a council for her guidance; as St. Louis, on setting out for the Holy Land, had deposited his power in the hands of Queen Blanche. The government of the empress was mild, and well calculated for the unfortunate circumstances in which the country was placed. She presided at the council, guided by the archchancellor. She gave orders that the department of the grand judge, whence she received the reports of the proceedings of the tribunals, should not lay before her the cases of unpardonable offenders, as she was unwilling to sign her name to any judgment, except for purposes of mercy. She granted nu merous pardons, and she did so without ostentation. No pains were taken to trumpet forth her praises; her merits were, nevertheless, appreShe was ciated by all who surrounded her. simple and natural, and made no effort to gain admiration. She received all who sought to approach her; but she never tried to attract those who were not drawn to her by sentiments of esteem. On the approach of the allies towards Paris, in March 1814, she removed, with her son and the Council of Regency, to Blois. During the first days of her residence there, she was very desirous of joining her husband, and following him and the army. On being told by Colonel Galbois, one of Napoleon's aids-de-camp, that this was impossible, she said, with warmth, "My proper place is near the emperor, at a moment when he must be so truly unhappy. I insist upon going to him." It was while the empress was at Blois that Joseph and Jerome Bonaparte formed the design of carrying her off beyond the Loire, hoping that through her they might be enabled to make better terms with the victors. On Good Friday, the eighth of April, having ordered two carriages to the gate of the prefecture, they entered Maria Louisa's apartment, and informed her that she must go with them. Upon this she inquired, whither and why? for, added she, "I am very well here." Jerome replied, "That we cannot tell you." She then asked, if it was by order of the emperor that they acted? and, on their answering in the negative, she said, "In that case I will not go."-"We will force you," replied Jerome. She then burst into tears, which did not, however, prevent their dragging her roughly towards the door; upon which she cried out, and several of her attendants coming to her assistance, the two brothers retired.* On the following morning, all her inferior domestics, except one, abandoned her, and returned to Paris. However, by means of the authority of Count Schuwaloff, the empress, the King of Rome, and the court attendants were enabled to reach Orleans. She here took leave of the members of the government who had accompanied her, as well as of the great officers of the crown: she begged each of them to retain some recollection of her, and expressed her anxiety for their happiness. She also sent several small tokens to different persons at Paris. To Gerard, the painter, she presented her mahogany easel; while to Isabey, the eminent miniature painter, who had been her drawing-master, she gave a little memorandum-book, which she carried in her pocket, in which she wrote, "Donne a Isabey, par une de ses cleves, qui aura toujours de la reconnoissance pour les peines il s'est donne pour elle.-LOUISE.' L On the 12th, attended by Prince Esterhazy, she set out for Rambouillet, where she had an affecting interview with her father, and a reluc * Histoire de la Regence a Blois, p. 62; and Narrative of an English Detenu, p. 282; tant one with the Emperor of Russia. A few days after this visit, she bent her course towards Vienna, travelling under an escort of Austrian troops, through the departments of a country in which, just four years before, triumphal arches had been erected on her passage, and the road had been strewed with flowers. How aptly do the following lines apply to the situation of the youthful empress! "Au bonheur des mortels esclaves immolees; Sur un trone etranger avec pompe exilees, De la paix des etats si nous sommes les nœuds, Souvent nous payons cher set honneur dangereux; Et, quand sur notre Hymen le bien public se fonde, Nous perdons le repos que nous donnons au monde."qa When the treaty of Paris was signed, Maria Louisa returned to her father's court; where she was compelled to lay aside her imperial titles, and assume that of Grand Duchess of Parma, Placentia, and Guastalla, with the sovereignty of which fiefs she was invested by the allies. Thus, by the strange caprice of fortune, did the little principality conferred on Cambaceres, become the refuge of an Austrian arch-duchessthe consort of the mighty Napoleon! Maria Louisa was of a very charitable disposition. She deducted from the allowance granted for her toilet a certain sum monthly for the relief of the poor; and she never was told of a case of distress which she did not immediately endeavour to relieve. Napoleon conducted himself towards her with the most marked politeness, and she was unquestionably, very fond of her husband; in speaking of him, she always termed him " mon ange." It has been remarked, that in the account to be adjusted between them, the balance will appear considerably in his favour. Napoleon, however, does Maria Louisa ample justice on this head. After her forced separation from him, he says, she avowed, in the most feeling terms, her ardent desire to join him. On a person expressing to him his surprise that she had not made any exertions on his behalf, he replied, "I believe her to be just as much a state prisoner as I am, and that it is totally out of her power to assist me.' He understood that she had been surprised and threatened into an oath, to communicate all the letters she might receive that had any relation to her husband.f Between the two wives of Napoleon there existed a striking contrast. Josephine possessed all the advantages of art and grace; Maria Louisa the charms of simple modesty and innocence. The former loved to influence and to guide her husband; the latter to please and to obey him. Both were excellent women, of great sweetness of temper, and fondly attached to Napoleon. "It is certainly singular," says Sir Walter Scott, "that the artificial character should have belonged to the daughter of the West Indian planter; the one marked by nature and simplicity, to a princess of the proudest court in Europe." ORNAMENTAL ARTIST. A BASKET of a more difficult construction may be made in the following manner:-Procure for the top and bottom, two octagon pieces, as a (Fig. 3); and for the sides, which are formed of an upper and a lower series, sixteen picces, as bb; the narrow edges of all these must be equal to the several sides of the top and bottom pieces, a: being first separately bound with 4 narrow riband, they are to be tacked in pairs by their wide ends, and then fastened together by the sides of each pair; the bottom piece is also to be bound and fixed in the usual manner to the ends of the lower series of side pieces. The top must be fastened with silk riband or wire hinges, by its binding, in such a manner that it may fall upon and rest on the inside of the edges of the upper series of side pieces. The handle may be formed of pasteboard and wire, covered with silk, and sewn firmly to the edges of the basket. (Fig. 4.) The whole of the binding, and the sides of the handles, may then be ornamented in the same manner as those of the basket first described; the glass may be either plain, ground, painted, or transparent, with small paintings on velvet inside; the lining may be puffed or plain, according to the fancy of the maker. FRENCH WOMEN. THE women of France are gifted with so redundant a share of genius and energy, that in them common sentiments become passions: of this nature was Du Doffand's friendship for Walpole, and the love of De Sevigne for her daughter. For near two centuries, France was embellished by a succession of resplendent women; their decay was indeed "impregnated with divinity," which shone with great lustre; as life's frail taper waned; their youth was crowned with wit and gaiety-their age consoled by devotion or philosophy, brilliant recollections, and above all, by the early acquired habit of happiness: the friendships of youth were retained and matured by these amiable old people, and youth sought admittance to their venerable coteries as to the repositories of the wit and grace of other days.. In our land, old people have no influence over sentiment and fashion, custom prescribes to them a dull, cloistered monotonous life, which withers the mind ere the frame loses its vigour; there exists no good without its attendant evil, and our happy government, which ensures to youthful industry the certainty of independence, re-acts on age in the form of cold neglect or reluctant obedience. THE BIRTH OF THE MESSIAH. GREAT GOD! thy voice the wondering nations hear; And worlds unnumber'd bow beneath thy mighty sway- The world fell prostrate at her shrine. See in the East the darken'd world to cheer, MEETING AGAIN. YES, we shall meet again, my cherished friend, Not in the well-remembered hall of mirth, There we shall meet no more. Not in the haunts of busy strife, which bind There we shall meet no more. Yet mourn not thus-in realms of changeless gladness, A STORY OF THE HEART. say no such thing. We have seen, we have known, we can imagine; and, without further argument on the passion or no passion-the affection or no affection which produced this or that consequence, we are content to draw our own conclusions. Therefore, without any sweeping denunciation against the race of man-without any libel against the law of love-without raising one man to the elevation of greater or better spirits-without degrading the species to the level of this one-we shall sketch a simple picture, in a simple way, and let the moral, if there be any, rest with the reader. The precepts scattered to the young are as seeds sown on the bosom of the earth; time shall roll on, but the season shall come round to show that the husbandman has been there; and so it was with Delacour. Wealth, emolument, and self-interest, had been the lessons of his youth, and he had profited by them. On the death of his father, a respectable tradesman, he found himself in fair circumstances; and-by aid of his profession-for he was a lawyer-on the high road to reputation, and, it might be, to riches. sessed of a fine person, a graceful demeanour, a majestic figure, pleasing voice, lively conversation, and easy vivacity, it is no wonder he got Pos into good society, and, from thence, into some notice as a professional man. He was now turned thirty, and in the full career of fortune; still unmarried, still sought by anxious mothers, and wooed by forward daughters; but he was not in love, or scarcely dared believe it himself. The father of Emily Sidney was a merchant, who had been mainly instrumental in the good fortune to which Delacour had attained; she was the heiress of a supposed large property, and the beauty of her circle. This was enough to depress a less ardent admirer or a more calculating man; but Delacour had owed much to chance, and perceiving, as he thought, something not altogether unpropitious to him, he commenced his secret suit. Ah! I remember her as yesterday. She was then eighteen-youth scarce mellowed into early womanhood. The face, as it peeped from the chastening chesnut ringlets around it, was worthy. the hand of the painter, though the smile that played on the lip might have defied his skill; the small and well-rounded figure vied with sculpture, but marble had vainly essayed to express the grace and dignity of that demeanour. And this was the least part of all. She knew what was kindness and charity, and practised what she knew. She-but let her story delineate her character. It must be presumed that Delacour was, in his way, ambitious, and this was the object at which he now aimed. He had imagined beauty; here was beauty unrivalled, unexcelled; virtue-here was virtue the most alluring; modesty, simplicity, truth, love all combined in one; and for fortune, here was such as he could never have anticipated; connexions the most to be desired, and influence the most to be coveted. But why reason upon it! She should be his in any condition of lifeher beauty were alone dowry fit for a prince. In all stations alike lovely, alike to be desired. In such ecstacies he passed his hours; when a new suitor appeared, in the person of a young baronet of considerable fortune. Money was nothing to him, and happiness every thing. Equally handsome and agreeable, and more rich than Delacour, he was, in every respect, no common rival; besides which, all the arts of a true lover were devised to secure the treasure to himself. About this time, Mr. Sidney incurred a great loss of property by an unlucky speculation. The affair was stated to the baronet-the carriage was put down-but he was not to be changed by time or place; the same accomplished suitor, the same unchanged admirer-nor did he fail to show the preference he felt. But what will love not effect! Emily Sidney was an only child, and with all the sweet ignorance of affluence, she wondered what riches had to do with content. The old question of "love in a cottage, or a palace without," this eternal young girl's theme, was pondered upon, but all thoughts leaned to the same side-the predilection she felt, happily or unhappily, for Delacour. He protested disinterested affection -total disregard of all future or present expectations-and could she do less than believe him! The father consulted, the mother advised-but Emily wept, and it ended in the refusal of the baronet. A week after, Delacour made his offer and was accepted; and who could fail to be flattered by the preference! From that time they were all the world to one another-for ever together-he the most attentive of lovers, she the happiest of women. As no man, by looking in the glass is likely to form a just estimate of his own defects, or his peculiar perfections; so no man discovers his true character by gazing, however intently, in that inward mirror of the mind-his own imagination. For as our shadows, seen in the sun, are most defective representations of our own forms, so are these mental likenesses like the bright shape of fancy, too airy and too heavenly, and too perfect to be aught but ideal types of what we would fain believe. Delacour had his vanity. He had hitherto been a happy and prosperous man; he was much sought, and, moreover, was beloved by one whose opinion most men had been pleased to have gained. And if he deceived himself, or believed too firmly in himself, what are not the deceptions that we practice on ourselves, and on others-and this, when we would be true to all parties. It was, however, no deceit that he was in love, though the manner of his loving might be another thing. Here his heart was fixed. The world might go round, and the seasons change, but each and the other could not affect him. All his feelings, his associations were here combined, and nature must change ere he could. But why descant upon, or question, his emotions? Who, in a dream, ever dreamed that he should awake again in five minutes, or five hours, or ages, or centuries! For us, we have oftentimes stood on the utmost height of a green and glorious hill, and there have seen nature's most awful might spread out around us. The vale, the sloping mead, the verdant lawn, the bloomy garden ground, the river, the lake, the slender stream, all blessing and giving glory to the darkness of our thoughts within; and when the golden sun broke out, we hailed the earth as joyous and happy. We do not know that the cloud was noticed, or the tempest heard to mourn, though in the deep forest its voice might have been heard deploring. We must confess, that when the rain came down, we were taken unawares. Our thoughts were leading on hope, not treading after servile despair. And when the landscape was effaced, the brightness of the heavens gone away, then we could have wept, but that tears were denied. So Delacour had before his eyes some such gorgeous scene; it was still bright, and without shadow, as if never meant to fade. It was a delightful evening at the latter end of summer when, mounting his horse, he took his usual way to the mansion of the Sidneys. His easy and fashionable lounge, his fine person, set off by the splendour of his attire, as well as by the beauty of true content there depicted, might alone have attracted the passengers; but then his steed, as if proud of his duty, contrived by certain coquettish knaveries and ambling graces, to fix the attention. Delacour was born to be admired, "the observed of all observers," and many were the remarks as he passed onward. He had been riding thus for some time, when he was overtaken by an acquaintance. "What! Delacour, on the old road again, in spite of the news. Why, Sidney is in the gazette." "Impossible," cried Delacour, "I would have wagered my life against it-you joke." "Incredulous as a lover," replied the other, "look and be satisfied." The paper was handed to him, a glance was sufficient, and, murmuring a hasty adieu, he set spurs to his horse, and was quickly lost to the view; the cloud of dust that followed his flight, alone told of his passage; and those who now saw him, pale, agitated, and flying desperately forward, might have well mistaken him for the messenger of more than common woe. A dagger, indeed, could scarcely have caused a greater revulsion of the heart. He no sooner entered the house, than the voice of the domestic proclaimed that something had happened; he met Mrs. Sidney on the stairs. “You will find Emily," said she, "in the drawing-room. This affair has agitated us all-you will excuse Mr. Sidney to-night." He whispered a polite reply, and hastened forward, but was, for the first time, unheard. Emily was seated at the table, lights were in the room; she was gazing at something-it was his picture, the one he had himself given her; he drew nearer the lip quivered, and tears were trembling in the eyelids; she sighed and sighed again; he advanced a step farther, a slight cry escaped her. "Oh! it is you," she exclaimed, but there was something tremulous in the voice, half joy, half anguish: "I knew you would come, that is, I thought you would.” "How could I do less than come, when I have so often come before," was the answer. “You are very good,” she sighed, "but my father's misfortunes, oh! Delacour, you can guess my feelings." "Your feelings are perhaps peculiar to you," he returned, somewhat coldly, "you are very suspicious to-night." "I hope not," she replied meekly, "but you are tired, we will have some refreshment, and tune the harp: you were always fond of that." The refreshments were brought, she helped him with her own hands; but when she turned to the instrument, the full and surcharged eyesthe flushed face-the heaving of the bosom-the trembling speech-the look wandering to and fro on the face of her lover, too plainly indicated that she had perceived something more or less than usual in the manner of his address. She seemed to Delacour, as she touched the strings, to have the finest figure in the world, and indeed her soul was on the chords. She felt that she needed some other person to make all he had once been to her; she was a gentle and excellent girl, and Delacour, who was an admirer of all excellence, was quickly won to her side. She had never played with such execution, and now attentive, and now wavering, he listened, and was now impassioned, and now as cold as ever-and now he dreamed himself back to all his former adoration of her. At length he snatched a kiss-said something of forgiveness, and all was forgotten; but another hour was over-he was silent and more cold than death, at least, to the heart of Emily. It was now getting late, and he declined, on plea of business, staying the night, which was his usual custom. She sunk into silence and despondency. "You are sad, Miss Sidney," said he, angry, but my Emily used not to be either." "I am sad," she murmured, "but not angry-you are full of mistakes to-night." She smiled faintly. "I am surely not mistaken," he returned, "not a word has been spoken this half hour; byt some people mistake temper for feeling." or "Excuse me," she cried, and as she was seated by his side, she placed her hand gently upon his. shoulder: " do not understand me; there is you no temper in me but sorrow. I am not angry," but he arose and hinted that he must depart. "Good night, Miss Sidney," said he, “good night, Emily-we shall meet to-morrow." His hand was upon the door--she looked upblushed-and advanced towards him. "I am not angry," she added, "you mistake me. Let us be friends." The last gush of feeling burst from his heart-and be caught her in his arms. A scarcely audible "God bless you," came from his lips-an instant and he was gone. In her bosom was left sorrow-and anguishand repining; the red blush was on her brow, but she sighed not, neither did she weep. The ra' next day she received an apology for not waiting on her, as his business was urgent, but a promise so to do as quickly as possible. But day after day past on, and he came not-she watched in vain. It was late one evening, she thought she saw him leaning as usual against the garden gate. She went to the window, but it was delusion-she looked more intently, answered incoherently some questions addressed to her, and fell senseless to the ground. Let us pass over the rest. It has been said that the father waited on Delacour, but all that could be elicited was, that his views were changed, his mind, but not his affections, altered. With these words he left him: "Young man," said he, "may the sorrows of this young creature fall a hundred fold on your head!". How strangely we decide our destiny! Led by appearances, even misled by truth. Yet why arraign the Providence of Heaven! For we walk like the wayfarer of the desert, when no star is out to guide us. With the blessing of happiness in our hands, we cast it aside and determine on misery; and when weighed down by the burden of care, we would still seek to be happy: and this, because nothing is desirable we possess, and all to be coveted we can never hope to obtain. Vile weakness of human nature; that we who would, in truth, believe ourselves perfect, should yet allow ourselves, wilfully and willingly, to be so base! Qne would think that "the wisdom of the serpent"-the cunning of true selfishness, might teach us selfish peace: if "the gentleness of the dove"-the artlessness of true nature, might not teach us disinterested love. As for Delacour, he resolved to be wretched, because he feared to be so, and then sought to be happy, even while resigning his greatest of human good. But what if the affections we feel, or others feel for us, be true or false: the falsehood or the truth may be equally miserable-time can alone show us the reverse. In the mean time the world goes on, and we must go likewise, lest, thrown from the channel-broken on the rock of hope-while catching at some other or firmer hold than the reed within our grasp-lest, finally, we be drifted down the tide of time-and left to perish: So Delacour pursued his avocationsrushed into society-and believed himself contented. But the canker of the heart eats not away so soon. If he had any feelings-any sentiments-he had forsworn the better part. As it is never too late for a man to grow wise, so it is never too late to love honour. Had he then lived for this! He remembered his debts of obligation of gratitude to his old friend; but then he recalled, also, the prospects that might yet be open to him -the increase of wealth-his expectations of the future, he thought but once and no more; he hastened into amusements, into dissipation, and, while he forgot his affection, he forgot himself. Some have remarked that his person became altered, his spirits changed, that it was natural depression, and forced, hilarity; but if he ever experienced wretchedness, or sighed in the full |