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WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE. ANECDOTES.

minute after, Sir John flings the body of the jack-an-ape down to them, and cries that the siller is fund, and that they should come up and help him. And there was the bag of siller sure aneugh, and mony orra things besides, that had been missing for mony a day. And Sir John, when he had riped the turret weel, led my gudesire into the diningparlour, and took him by the hand, and spoke kindly to him, and said he was sorry he should have doubted his word, and that he would hereafter be a good master to him, to make amends.

"And now Steenie," said Sir John, "although this vision of yours tends, on the whole, to my father's credit, as an honest man, that he should, even after his death, desire to see justice done to a poor man like you, yet you are sensible that ill-dispositioned men might make bad constructions upon it, concerning his soul's health. So, I think, we had better lay the hail dirdum on that ill-deedie creature, Major Weir, and say naething about your dream in the wood of Pitmurkie. You had taken ower mickle brandy to be very certain about onything; and, Steenie, this receipt, (his hand shook while he held it out)-it's but a queer kind of document, and we will do best, I think, to put it quietly in the fire."

"Od, but for as queer as it is, it's a' the voucher I have for my rent," said my gudesire, who was afraid, it may be, of losing the benefit of Sir Robert's discharge.

"I will bear the contents to your credit in the rental book, and give you a discharge under my own hand," said Sir John, "and that on the spot. And, Steenie, if you can hold your tongue about this matter, you shall sit, from this term downward, at an easier

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"Mony thanks to your honour," said Steenie, who saw easily in what corner the wind sat; "doubtless I will be conformable to all your honour's commands; only I would willingly speak wi' some powerful minister on the subject, for I do not like the sort of summons of appointment whilk your honour's father-❞

"Do not call the phantom my father!" said Sir John, interrupting him.

"Weel then, the thing that was so like him," said my gudesire; "he spoke of my coming back to him this time twelvemonth, and it's a weight on my conscience."

"Aweel, then," said Sir John, "if you be so much distressed in mind, you may speak to our minister of the parish; he is a douce man, regards the honour of our family, and the mair that he may look for some patronage from me."

Wi' that, my father readily agreed that the receipt should be burnt, and the Laird threw it into the chimney with his ain hand. Burn it would not for them, though; but away it flew up the lumm, wi' a lang train of sparks at its tail, and a hissing noise like a squib.

My gudesire gaed down to the Manse, and the minister, when he had heard the story,

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said, it was his real opinion, that though my gudesire had gaen very far in tampering with dangerous matters, yet, as he had refused the devil's arles, (for such was the offer of meat and drink,) and had refused to do homage by piping at his bidding, he hoped, that if he held a circumspect walk hereafter, Satan could take little advantage by what was come and gane. And, indeed, my gudesire, of his ain accord, lang forswore baith the pipes and the brandy-it was not even till the year was out, and the fatal day passed, that he would so much as take the fiddle, or drink usquebaugh or tippenny.

Sir John made up his story about the jackan-ape as he liked himsell: and some believe till this day there was no more in the matter than the filching nature of the brute. Indeed he'll no hinder some to threap, that it was nane o' the Auld Enemy that Dougal and my gudesire saw in the Laird's room, but only that wanchancy creature, the Major, capering on the coffin; and that, as to the blawing on the Laird's whistle that was heard after he was dead, the filthy brute could do that as weel as the Laird himsell, if no better. But Heaven kens the truth, whilk first came out by the minister's wife, after Sir John and her ain gudeman were baith in the moulds. And then my gudesire, wha was failed in his limbs, but not in his judgment or memory-at least næthing to speak of was obliged to tell the real narrative to his friends, for the credit of his gude name, He might else have been charged for a warlock.-Redgauntlet.

ANECDOTES OF CELEBRATED
WOMEN.-No. II.

MADAME DE MAINTENON.

THIS celebrated woman, who, from a low condition, and many misfortunes, was raised to be the wife of Louis XIV. was descended from an ancient family of the name of d'Aubiguy. Her grandfather distinguished himself for his zeal for the Reformation; he served under Henry IV. with courage and fidelity; and on his master's embracing the Catholic religion, retired from court, and spent the rest of his life in literary pursuits. His son does not seem to have inherited the virtues of his father: he was accused of some crime, and thrown into prison; his wife, a prudent and amiable woman, remain ed faithful to her husband in all his distresses, and in the Marshalsea of Nivol, gave birth to a daughter, Frances, the sub ject of this memoir. Madame de Villette, sister to M. d'Aubigny, visited him and his wife in this season of calamity, and taking the infant from this abode of misery, placed her in the care of a nurse, to whom she had entrusted her own child.

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After a few years, Madame d'Aubigny obtained the liberty of her husband, with whom, and his family, including the little Frances, she embarked for America. During the voyage, Frances was reduced by an ill

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ness to the verge of the grave; in the crisis of the disorder, she lay without sense of motion, and was thought to be dead. In this situation, a sailor was going to throw her into the sea, the signal gun was loaded, when Madame d'Aubigny requested to be allowed once more to press her infant in her arms. Placing her hand on her heart, she felt it faintly palpitate: "she is not dead," she exclaimed with a mother's joy; and by her cases, the infant was restored to life and health. At Martinico, M. d'Aubigny reestablished his fortunes, and enriched his family, when the settlement of some important affairs obliged his wife to return to Europe. During her absence, he fell into dissipated habits, lost all his property at play, and on the return of his wife, was found by her, ruined, and at the point of death.

The unhappy widow, in the hope of obtaining assistance went back to France, leaving Frances, then seven years old, in the hands of her creditors as a pledge; but they soon became weary of the charge, sent her to Europe after her mother, where she was taken care of by Madame Villette, her aunt, by whom she was instructed in the Protestant faith. In the meantime, Madame Neuillant, a relation by the maternal side, and a Roman Catholic, obtained an order to take her from Madame Villette, and instruct her in the Catholic religion; this, however, was not effected, without many threats, artifices, and hardships, which drove her at length to a compliance to the wishes of Madame Neuillant.

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At the age of 16, she was married to the Abbé Scarron. Madame de Neuillant fook her with her to Paris, where she became acquainted with the Abbé, and preferred marrying him to the dependent state she was then in. Scarron was of good family, but deformed, infirm, and not in affluent circumstances, in the marriage contract, he acknowledged the receipt of four louis d'ors, as the whole fortune of his wife, adding pleasantly, two large murdering eyes, a most elegant figure, a pair of beautiful hands, and a great deal of wit." These riches, however, were but little calculated to make ainends for the canonry which he lost by his marriage, the yearly revenue of which had been two thousand livres. Scarron, notwithstanding, still continued to draw round him the company which his habits and infirmities rendered almost indispensable. Of these parties, his young wife was the delight and ornament: by the charms of her wit and conversation, she frequently made her visitors forget the deficiencies of the table: a servant whispered to her one day, another story, Madam, for the roast is too small to-day." She scarcely ever left her "

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poor paralytic," as she was accustomed to call her husband; when ill, she was his nurse, when revived, his friend and companion, and at all times his amanuensis and reader.

Madame Scarron having passed ten years, probably the happiest of her life, with her husband, became a widow in October, 1660, in the bloom of youth and beauty, with: very scanty means of support. She long petitioned in vain, for a continuance of the pension which her husband had received from the court. At length Madame de Montespan, the King's mistress, who had been an acquaintance and friend of Madame Scarron, undertook to present a petition to the King, which beginning as usual with, “The widow Scarron humbly prays your Majesty, &c." "How," cried he," the widow Scarron again, shall I never hear of any think else?" "Indeed Sire," replied Madame de Montespan " you ought to have ceased hearing of her long ago.' This reproof produced the desired effect, and the pension was granted. Some time after, Madame de Montespan being in search of a person to whom she might confide the education of her children, fixed upon Madame Scarron as a person qualified for the trust, and likely to keep the secret; but she wished to decline the charge, and it was not until the King himself signified his will to her, that she could be induced to accept it.

Her objections had not been without foundation; she now led a laborious and retired life, with only a pension of 2,000 livres, and had the mortification of knowing, that notwithstanding her employment, she was disagreeable to the King: he looked upon her as a wit, and though he possessed wit himself, he disliked those who made a display of it. He never mentioned her to Madame de Moutespan, but by the name of

your vel esprit." When the children grew older, they were sent for to court, which occasioned the King to converse fre quently with Madame Scarron, in whom he found so much sense, sweetness, and elegance of manners, that he not only by degrees lost his dislike of her, but gave her: proofs of his esteem; he raised her pension to 2,000 crowns, and made her a present of a hundred thousand francs. The King afterwards bought her the lauds of Maintenon; and seeing her extremely pleased with the acquisition of her estate, called her publicly Madame de Maintenon; this change of name was of greater use to her than she could have foreseen. She could not have been raised to the rank she afterwards held, with the name of Scarron, which must always have been accompanied with a mean and burlesque idea. A woman, whose very name was a jest, must have detracted froni the respect and veneration paid to the great and pompous Louis, nor could the reserve and diguity of the widow efface the remembrance of her buffoonish husband. It was necessary, therefore, that Madame de Maintenon should obliterate Madame de Scarron. As the passion of Louis for Madame de Montespan decreased, his esteem for Madame de Maintenon increased. The violence of the temper of Madame de Montespan occa

ANECDOTES OF CELEBRATED WOMEN-MADAME DE MAINTENON.

sioned frequent quarrels between her and the King; who, on these occasions sought refuge from the peevishness of his mistress, in the more agreeable society of Madame de Maintenon. This lady has been accused of fomenting these quarrels, in the hope of rising through the favourite's disgrace; though there is no actual proof of this, ambition would in all probability prevent her endeavouring to reinstate Madame de Montespan in the affections of the monarch, when she found herself attracting his admiration. Madame de Maintenon, though she had completed her fortieth year, had lost only the bloom of youth, a loss, which the graces of her manner, and the elegance of her person, fully compensated; her behaviour, though occasionally gay and sportive, was in general reserved. The king, when jesting or playing with the ladies of the court, always passed the governess; he was accustomed to say, "As for her, I know I must not venture." Her stature was commanding, and her appearance dignified and graceful; she possessed a kind of native, but simple elegance, that irresistibly attracted attention. Soon after the death of the queen, Louis went to Fontainbleau, where he was followed by the Dauphiness, and in her train Madame de Maintenon, to whom the king had some time before given the place of first lady of the wardrobe Her importance at court hourly increased; her society was courted, and her circle considered as honourable by ladies who had always shunned the mistresses of the king. But her elevation was to her only a retreat; shut up in her apartment, which was on the same floor as the king's, she saw little company: the king came to her room every day after dinner, before and after supper, and continued there till late in the evening. She often complained in her letters of the tedious uniformity of her life. She found a relief and amusement, however, in founding an asylum for the young and indigent nobility: the sufferings of her early youth had inspired her with compassion for those unfortunate females, to whom the pride of birth is the only inheritance derived from their ancestors, and she seems to have had a peculiar predilection for the instruction of youth, for which, by her temper and talents, she was well qualified. She formed the design of founding the society of St. Cyr: Louis, to whom she communicated it, liberally concurred in her purpose; she obtained a grant of a house within the boundaries of the park at Versailles, which was enlarged for her design, and in less than a year, completed on a scale of extent and magnificence. It was rendered capable of receiving 250 pensioners, 36 matrons, with the necessary attendants. Two qualifications were necessary, as conditions of acceptance at St. Cyr, nobility, and indigence. The pupils were maintained and educated for thirteen years; and on their dismissal from the house, were to receive, either as a marriage portion, or as the means of their future support, the sum of 1,000 crowns.→

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The regulations of the house were framed by the foundress, and digested into order by capable persons. The education of the pupils were superintended with the utmost care and attention, and their minds formed on the strictest principles of morals. About the end of 1685, Louis married Madame de Maintenon, and certainly acquired an agreeable and submissive companion; he was then in his 48th year, she in her 50th. The only public distinction which made her sensible of her secret elevation, (for nothing could be more secretly conducted than this marriage,) was, that at mass she sat in one of the two little galleries or gilt doors usually appropriated to the king and queen. She has given no intimation of her situation; on the contrary, manifested the most scrupulous delicacy, in destroying every trace of the fact, and every memorial that might throw any light upon the subject. The letters written to her confessor, the year of her marriage, are not to be found; and were, there is reason to believe, either destroyed by herself, or at her express desire. One indirect confession of her station alone escaped her. She went to visit the convent of the Grand Carmilites, where queens only have the right to enter. You know our rules," said the superior to her before admitting her; "and can best decide, whether I ought to open the gate." "Open, my good mother," she replied, ". you may always admit me.' The King lived with her openly as his wife, and except making a declaration in form, took no pains to conceal the relation in which she stood to him.

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Her life after her marriage appears to have been exceedingly monotonous; her only amusement was visiting St. Cyr, where objects of her benevolent exertions every where surrounded her it was here, that whole days which she spent with delight in instructing her pupils, happily glided away. "They employ much of my time," said she, "and that far more agreeably than in the intrigues of those people, who are continually deceiving, or deceived, and who very frequently are in both situations." In another letter to a friend, she says, "Why cannot I give you my experience? Why cannot I make you sensible of that uneasiness which wears out the great, and of the difficulties they labour under, to employ their time? Do not you see me oppressed with ennui in a height of fortune, which once my imagination could scarcely have conceived. I have been young and beautiful, have had a relish for pleasures, and have been an universal object of love. At a more advanced age, I have spent my time in literary pursuits, and now I am arrived at the highest summit of favour; but I protest to you, that every one of these conditions leaves in the mind a dismal vanity, a wish for something more; nothing in this world can ever give us entire satisfaction." If any thing, said Voltaire, could show the vanity of ambition, it would be this letter.

After the death of the King, in 1715, she retired to St. Cyr; as she entered the walls,

she exclaimed, "I shall now have none but God and my dear children." She never quitted her retreat; and in 1717, received a visit there from Peter the Great. It is somewhat extraordinary that Louis XIV. made no certain provision for her at his death. The Regent desired her to name her own terms: she limited her demands to 80,000 livres, between 600 and 700 pounds sterling, which were punctually paid, till her death in 1718, at the advanced age of 83. The Duke de Noailles, who directed her funeral, would have no funeral oration. "Because," says La Beaurnelle," he thought it better nothing should be said, than that half only should be told." M.

MAIMING NOT MURDER.

A man of small sense

Once made his defence

On a trial with seeming pomposity;
But proved pretty well,

He knew not how to spell,

For he made use of this word "curosity."

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DUKE OF ARGYLE.

The late Duke of Argyle had a wager with his late Majesty, which would produce the finest light, in the most valuable candlestick. His Majesty produced a wax taper in a candlestick of gold. The Duke produced a piece of mountain pine, and placed it in the hand of his son, then a beautiful boy. They were both ignited, and the king confessed that both the light and the candlestick were superior to his own. The author of Waverley has made use of this anecdote in the Legend of Montrose.

THE FIDDLE CASE.
A man who lived by fiddling
Was known in many a street,
And tho' he play'd but midling,
He still made both ends meet.
He prized his fiddle greatly,
"Twas his in
younger days:
And the case his wife made lately
Of half a yard of Baize.
Returning, led by Rover,

A narrow bridge to pass;
His fiddle tumbled over,
Stick, case and all, alas!
He set up such a roaring,
And made such sad grimace,
The people came before him,
And pitied his sad case.

"Now pray good people hold your clack;" Cried he with rueful face;

"If I could get my fiddle back,

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"I would not mind my case.

THE INDIAN BRIDE.

She has lighted her lamp, and crowned it with flowers,
The sweetest that breathed of the summer hours:
Red and white roses linked in a band,
Like a maiden's blush or a maiden's hand;
Jasmines, some like silver spray,
Some like gold in the morning ray;
Fragrant stars, and favourites they,
When Indian girls, on a festival-day,
Braid their dark tresses: and over all weaves
The rosy bower of lotus leaves-

Canopy suiting the lamp-lighted bark,

Love's own flowers and Love's own ark.

She watched the sky, the sunset grew dim ;
She raised to Camdeo her evening hymn.
The scent of the night-flowers came on the air;
And then like a bird escaped from the snare,
She flew to the river-(no moon was bright,
But the stars and the fire-flies gave her their light ;)
She stood beneath the mangoes' shade,
Half delighted and half afraid;

She trimmed the lamp, and breathed on each bloom,
(Oh, that breath was sweeter than all their perfume!)

Threw spices and oil on the spire of flame,

Called thrice on her absent lover's name;
And every pulse throbbed as she gave
Her little boat to the Ganges' wave.

There are a thousand fanciful things
Linked round the young heart's imaginings,
In its first love-dream, a leaf or a flower
Is gifted then with a spell and a power:
A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign,
From which the maiden can well divine
Passion's whole history. Those only can tell
How the pulses will beat, and the cheek will be dyed,
Who have loved as young hearts can love so well,
When they have some love augury tried."
Oh, it is not for those whose feelings are cold,
Withered by care, or blunted by gold;

Whose brows have darkened with many years,
To feel again youth's hepes and fears-
What they now might blush to confess,
Yet, what made their spring-days happiness!
Zaide watched her flower-built vessel glide,
Mirror'd beneath on the deep-blue tide;
Lovely and lonely, scented and bright,
Like Hope's own bark, all bloom and light.
There's not one breath of wind on the air,
The Heavens are cloudless, the waters are fair,
No dew is falling; yet woe to that shade;
The maiden is weeping-her lamp has decayed.
Hark to the ring of the cymetar!

It tells that the soldier returns from afar.
Down from the mountains the warriors come.
Hark to the thunder roll of the drum!-
To the startling voice of the trumpet's call !-
To the cymbals clash!-to the atabal!
The banners of crimson float in the sun,
The warfare is ended, the battle is won.

The mother hath taken the child from her breast,
The pathway is lined, as the bands pass along,

And raised it to look on its father's crest.

With maidens; who meet them with flowers and song.
And Zaide hath forgotten in Azim's arms

All her so false lamp's falser alarms.

Still is the mandore, and breathless the lute;

This looks not a bridal,-the singers are mute,

Yet there the bride sits. Her dark hair is bound,
And the robe of her marriage floats white on the ground.
Oh! where is the lover, the bridegoom ?-Oh! where
Look under yon black pall-the bridegroom is there!
Yet the guests are all bidden, the feast is the same,
And the bride plights her troth amid smoke and 'mid flame!
They have raised the death-pyre of sweet-scented wood,
And sprinkled it o'er with the sacred flood

Of the Ganges. The priests are assembled :-their song
Sinks deep on the ear as they bear her along,
That bride of the dead. Ay, is not this love?
That one pure wild feeling all others above:
Vowed to the living, and kept to the tomb!-
The same in its blight as it was in its bloom.
With no tear in her eye, and no change in her smile,
Young Zaide had come nigh to the funeral pile.
The bells of the dancing-girls ceased from their sound;
Silent they stood by that holiest in und.

From a crowd like the sea-waves there came not a breath,

When the maiden stood by the place of death!

One moment was given-the last she might spare!

To the mother, who stood in her weeping there.

She took the jewels that shone on her hand;
She took from her dark hair its flowery band,
And scattered them round. At once they raise
The hymn of rejoicing and love in her praise.
A prayer is muttered, a blessing said,
Her torch is raised!-she is by the dead,
She has fired the pile! At once there came
A mingled rush of smoke and of flame:
The wind swept it off. They saw the bride,-
Laid by her Azim, side by side.

The breeze had spread the long curls of her hair:
Like a banner of fire they played on the air.

The smoke and the flame gathered round as before,
Then cleared;-but the bride was seen no more!

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THE SOLDIER'S REWARD.

A TALE OF THE MOUNTAINS.

THE war that a few years since agitated all Europe, had just achieved Talavera amongst its exploits, when a young officer, worn out by the fatigue of a military campaign, determined to leave all the bustling pleasures and cloying dissipations of Paris, for the calm and secluded valleys of Switzerland, till his military duties should again recal his presence to the capital.

It was on a heavenly and delightful evening when he reached the Alps. Here seating himself on the flowery turf, he revelled in the delightful contemplation of Nature's sublimest efforts. Below him smiled the lovely valley of Lauterbrunn, clothed with every variety of rich and luxuriant scenery; and in the distance he could discern the mighty torrents pouring their never-failing tribute into the bosom of the grateful valleys. Not a breath disturbed the air, and in the coutemplation of these sublime scenes, he had nothing to remind him of life, save the tinkling of the bells of the home-plodding cattle, intermingled with the bleating of a kid, or the echoes of the surrounding water-falls.

His meditations were disturbed by the sound of footsteps; upon his looking up to see from whence they proceeded, guess his surprise, when instead of some homely shepherd driving home his flock, as he anticipated, he beheld an elegant and beautiful girl. If you have not been in Switzerland, the theatrical and engaging dress of the first woman you meet, would render you inclined to think that the inhabitants wished to make you believe that you had found the fabled Arcadia, and had sent forth one of

their loveliest beings, drest in the fashion of a tender idyl, to render the delusion more effective.

She indeed seemed to the romantic fancy of our youthful traveller, no less than a beautiful though frail vision. She appeared not to have passed her 16th year,and, joined to a form the most exquisite, possessed the most beautiful countenance imagination can conceive. Youth and health revelled in her dimpled cheek, in her coral lips, and the plumpness of her whole love-inspiring figure. The silent mirrors of her soul were of an azure blue, and protected from your admiring gaze by long and silken lashes, which tempered the fire of her own passion-fraught glances. She was drest in a simple though elegant dress; she wore a corset of velvet, with muslin sleeves; a habit-shirt of the finest cambric, modestly, though to our traveller's mind, enviously concealing her neck and bosom, and yet not so much as to deprive you of an idea of its beautiful whiteuess, which sight was sufficient to remind you of the " glance that some saint has of heaven in his dreams." Her petticoat would be, to our English notions, rather too short, and yet he would not have it half an inch less for the world; inasmuch as it gave sufficient testimony of an exquisitely shaped leg, and a well turned ancle.

In this part of the Continent, where, if the inhabitants were to wait for regular introduction before they spoke to strangers, it is ten to one if they would ever have visitors of any description. The reader will, it is to be hoped, forgive Eugene, if he took advantage

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