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nun who had taken part against the abbess, and who was relating her cruelty to the people, "created horror and surprise throughout, but when she related the inhuman murder of Agnes, the indignation of the mob was so audibly testified, that it was scarcely possible to hear the conclusion. This confusion increased with every moment. At length a multitude of voices exclaimed, that the prioress should be given up to their fury. To this Don Ramirez positively refused to consent. Even Lorenzo bade the people remember that she had undergone no trial, and advised them to leave her punishment to the Inquisition. All representations were fruitless; the disturbance grew still more violent, and the populace more exasperated. In vain did Ramirez attempt to convey his prisoner out of the throng. Wherever he turned, a band of rioters barred his passage, and demanded her being delivered over to them more loudly than before. Ramirez ordered his attendants to cut their way through the multitude. Oppressed by numbers, it was impossible for them to draw their swords. He threatened the mob with the vengeance of the Inquisition but, in this moment of popular phrenzy, even this dreadful name had lost its effect. Though regret for his sister made him look upon the prioress with abhorrence, Lorenzo could not help pitying a woman in a situation so terrible but in spite of all his exertions and those of the duke, of Don Ramirez and the archers, the people continued to press onwards. They forced a passage through the guards who protected their destined victim, dragged her from her shelter, and proceeded to take upon her a most summary and cruel vengeance. Wild with terror, and scarcely knowing what she said, the wretched woman shrieked for a moment's mercy: she protested that she was ignorant of the death of Agnes, and could clear herself from suspicion beyond the power of doubt. The rioters heeded nothing but the gratification of their barbarous vengeance. They refused to listen to her: they shewed her every sort of insult, loaded her with mud and filth, and called her by the most opprobrious appellations. They tore her one from another, and each new tormentor was more savage than the former. They stifled with howls and execrations her shrill cries for mercy, and dragged her through the streets, spurning her, trampling her, and treating her with every species of cruelty which hate or vindictive fury could invent. At length a flint, aimed by some well directed hand, struck her full upon the temple. She sank upon the ground bathed in blood, and in a few minutes terminated her miserable existence. Yet though she no longer felt their insults, the rioters still exercised their impotent rage upon her lifeless body. They beat it, trod upon it, and ill-used it, till it became no more than a mass of flesh, unsightly, shapeless, and disgusting."

does not mince matters,-Professor Wilson, has spoken
highly of Mr. Howitt's book. The Athenæum speaking
of its having arrived at a second edition, exclaims, "A
"second edition! it ought to have been the ninth." We
quote these authorities to strengthen our own, and to do
what we can towards bettering the growth of the edi-
tions. And now for a good, luxuriant, proper piece of
May-time out of Mr. Howitt's pages. It is a lump of
rich earth and turf, which we transplant into our garden,
with all its daisies on it.


"When I said I would die a bachelor," observes Benedict, "I did not think I should live to be married." When we said last week that we could make use of the

pages of no author, whose pages on the seasons had already been turned to account, and when we named in our list the writings of Mr. Howitt, we did not think that we should make use of him the very week after our boast. So it is however, and we have three reasons for it; first, (to put on a bold face and be candid about the matter-and it is fitting that "pride should have a fall") because we find we cannot do justice to subjects of this kind, without some help of the sort; second, because Mr. Howitt is the latest, as well as one of the very best of the good writers upon it, and therefore has been less quoted than others; third, because in consequence of the sale already attained by this cheap little paper of ours, the quotations from any book must of necessity be new by many readers who have not met with the book; and fourth, because we have a very particular reason for it, which we shall give an insolent and peculiar piquancy to, by keeping it to ourselves. In writers who have animal spirits, and are tasting of success upon the strength of them, the reader must allow something of an inconsistency now and then,-at least as far as regards system, and what we shall do with the dishes before us; otherwise we give him notice that he is not returning us charity for charity, and that we shall think ourselves authorized to turn round upon his conscience, and ask him if he has had no inconsistency or other infirmity of his own, to test the good-nature of others. Besides, it is May; and who that knows what May is, or feels it as be ought, cares for any of the ordinary unreasonable reasonableness of things, and does not give way to the prior reasons of natural impulses, and all the openness and jovialities that belong to them,-always provided they are honest and have a conscience. We will hear of no faults and inconsistencies this month, and certainly shall not except our own. We stifle objection with Maybushes-pelt it with cowslips-overthrow it into clover, An eloquent and wholesale enjoyer of Nature, who

66 However the festivities with which our ancestors
hailed the opening of this month, may have sunk into
neglect, Nature has not forsaken her festivities. She
still scatters flowers, and revels in dews; she still loves
her leafy garniture, and the bursts of unoppressive sun-
shine; for though we moderns may abandon the customs
joyous attributes with which they delighted to invest
of our forefathers, and may even deny to May those
her; though we complain of cold winds, dull days,
and frosty nights, cutting down flower and leaf, and
have them too, yet is May a gladsome month withal.
Vegetation has made a proud progress; it has become
deep, lavish, and luxuriant; and nothing can be more
delightful than the tender green of the young hawthorn
leaves. Primroses still scatter their million of pale
stars over shady banks, and among the mossy banks of
hazels; and once more, amid the thickly-springing ver-
dure of the meadow, we hail the golden and spotted
cowslip. In woods there is a bright azure gleam of
Myorotis sylvatica, à species of forget-me-not, and of
those truly vernal flowers called by botanists Scilla nu-
tans, by poets blue-bells, and by country folks cuckoo's

stockings. The ferns are pushing forth their russet
scrolls amongst the forest moss and dead leaves. In
pools and none of our indigenous plants can rival our
aquatic ones in elegance and delicate beauty-are this
month found the lovely water-violet (Hottonia palustris)
and the buck bean, originally bog-bane or bog plant,
from its place of growth (Menyanthes trifoliata), like
a fringed hyacinth. The gorse and broom are glorious
on heaths and in lanes.

"In the early part of this month, if we walk into woods,
we shall be much struck with their peculiar beauty.
Woods are never more agreeable objects than when they
have only half assumed their green array. Beautiful
and refreshing is the sight of the young leaves bursting
forth from the grey boughs, some trees at one degree
of advance, some at another. The assemblage of the
giants of the wood is seen, each in its own character
and figure; neither disguised nor hidden in the dense.
mass of foliage which obscures them in summer ;--you
behold the scattered and majestic trunks; the branches
stretching high and wide; the dark drapery of ivy which
envelopes some of them, and the crimson flush that
grows in the world of living twigs above. If the con-
trast of grey and mossy branches, and of the delicate
richness of young leaves gushing out of them in a thou-
sand places be inexpressibly delightful to behold, that of
one tree with another is not the less so.
One is nearly
full clothed,-another is mottled with grey and green,
struggling as it were which should have the predomi-
nance, and another is still perfectly naked. The wild-
cherry stands like an apparition in the woods, white with
its profusion of blossom, and the wilding begins to ex-
hibit its rich and blushing countenance. The pines look
dim and dusky amid the lively hues of spring. The
abeles are covered with their clusters of albescent and

powdery leaves and withering catkins; and beneath
displaying their crimson clubs, presenting a sylvan and
them the pale spathes of the arum, fully expanded and
unique air. And who does not love the wood-notes
wild? We again recognize the speech of many a little
creature who, since we last heard it, has traversed seas
and sojourned in places we wot not of. The landscape
derives a great portion of its vernal cheerfulness not
merely from the songs of birds but from their cries. Each
has a variety of cries indicative of its different moods of
mind, so to speak, which are heard only in spring and
summer, and are both familiar and dear to a lover of
Nature. Who ever heard the weet weet and pink-pink of
the chaffinch, or the winkle winkle of the blackbird as it
flies out of the hedge and skims along before you to a
short distance, repeatedly on a summer evening about
sunset, at any other time? In spring mornings by
three or four o'clock the fields are filled with a perfect
clamour of bird-voices, but at noon the wood is their
oratory. There the wood-pecker's laugh still rings from
deep and rich as ever-the little chill-chall sounds his
a distance the solemn coo of the wood-pigeon is still

two notes blithely at the top of the tallest trees; and the
voice of the long-tailed titmouse, ever and anon, sounds
like a sweet and clear-toned little bell. Nests are now
woven to every bough and into every hollow stump.
"As the month advances, our walks begin to be haunted
with the richness of beauty. There are splendid even-
ings, clear, serene, and balmy, tempting us to continue
our stroll till after sunset. We see around us fields
golden with crowfoot, and cattle basking in plenty. We
the nooks of crofts, and on the other side of hedges."
hear the sonorous streams chiming into the milk-pail in
May, being a good-natured month, seems resolved to
see fair play in its birth-days to all sorts of opinion;
though perhaps there is not a name among them alto-
gether ungenial. Some of them are gloriously the re-
verse; and the most unchristian in their theology are

not without some Christianity of nature. Last week we noticed the birth-days of Shakspeare and Fielding; in the week before us we have

Oliver Cromwell, born on the 9th of the month (26th of April, old style) in the year 1599, at Huntingdon. David Hume, born on the 10th, 1717, at Edinburgh. Edward Gibbon, the day after him, 1737, at Putney, in Surrey; and

Joseph Addison, May 14th, 1672, at Wilston.

Let us see what May-time and Christian charity can incite people to say of them, in hopes of getting a favorable verdict when they want it themselves. And you may hear of the faults and mistakes of such men (observe) in all the histories and biographies.

Cromwell, the rough teacher of monarchs, and disappointer of republicans, was, with all his faults, a kind son, father, and husband. He was fond of music, though his sect was against it; could be very jovial at a party and yet said withal, that he would make the name of an Englishman as respected as that of an old Roman; which, during his life, he did.

Hume, the most unphilosophic (in some respects) of all philosophic historians, and a bigoted enemy of bigotry, (that is to say, unable to give candid accounts of those whom he differed with on certain points) was a good-natured, easy man in his own personal intercourse, dispassionate, not ungenerous, and could do people kind and considerate services. Out of the pale of sentiment, and of what may be called the providential and possible, he was an unanswerable, or at least an unanswered dialectician; but there was a whole world in that region, into which he had no insight; and for want of it he was not qualified to pronounce finally on matters of faith and religion.


Gibbon was a sceptic, in some respects, of a similar kind, and more immersed in the senses. Perhaps his life was altogether a little too selfish, and lapped up in He lumbered from his bed to his board, and back again, with his books in the intervals, or rather divided his time between the three, in a sort of swinishness of scholarship, the most prone of bookworms. Martyrdom and he were at a pretty distance! He was not the man to die of public spirit, or to comprehend very well those who did. But his scepticism tended to promote toleration. He was an admirable Latin scholar, a punctilious historian, an interesting writer, in spite of a bad style; and his faults, of every kind, appear to have been owing to temperament and disease, and to his having been an indulged infant, and weir to an easy fortune. Let us be thankful we got so much out of him, and that so diseased a body got so much out of life. A writer's infirmities are sometimes a reader's

gain. If Gibbon had not disliked so much to go out of doors, we might not have had the Decline and Fall.

And is charity wanted for Addison too? Yes. For whom is it not? The least of us cannot escape, nor the Addison's nature cergreatest whom we look up to. tainly was not the free, open, generous nature of his friend Steele ; neither was his Christianity always as Christian as he took it to be, not even perhaps when he died. But what grace, ease, wit, and sense in his writings; and how much good they did to private life, and what gratitude we owe him to this hour in consequence! No inan can be sure, that a good part of the decency and amenity of intercourse which he enjoys in his own house at this moment, is not owing to the lessons of Addison. This fine writer died in Holland-house, Kensington, and has a street named after him in that quarter, probably by direction of the noble and accom plished owner of the mansion.



WE are indebted to the third volume of Mr. D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature (now republishing) for this most affecting narrative, the deep impression of which upon us, after our first perusal many years ago, has never been effaced; and we find the stamp go sharply again, -yet not without sweetness! Blessings on the heart and soul and immortal memory of that beloved woman, (far superior to all ordinary strength, or fancied callous) ness-for no such common-place would or could have supported it,) who attended the dying, tortured man in his"agony and bloody sweat,"-(words that we dare

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heated fancies as much too open and intelligible, they
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venture to apply, even to a nature so far inferior, and
so mistaken in its heroism,) and who held his burning
head, and saw him make the sign of the cross-and
blessings on the sweetness of humanity surviving in these
miserable and deluded, yet noble spirits, the Chidiock
Titchbournes, and on the letter written by Chidiock to
poor "Sweet-cheek" his wife, (what a gentle flower of
a word to remember and comfort himself with in his
last anguish,) and on all the mingled greatness and ten-
derness which, as Mr. D'Israeli truly observes,
marks the age of the men of Shakspeare. We hear
"Sweet-cheek,"-a name that
nothing more of poor
seems to paint her nature, and fortunately promises for
her patience. She had need of it, thus losing a young

and noble husband.

Mr. D'Israeli did quite right to retain the horrors of the story, horrid though they are. The beauty is greater than the horror. The gold is proved by the fire.

"Midst intestine struggles, or perhaps, when they have ceased, and our hearts are calm, (says our author,) we perceive the eternal force of nature acting on humanity then the heroic virtues and private sufferings of persons engaged in an opposite cause, and acting on different principles than our own, appeal to our sympathy and even excite our admiration. A philosopher, born a Roman Catholic, assuredly could commemorate many a pathetic history of some heroic Huguenot; while we, with the same feeling in our heart, discover a romantic and chivalrous band of Catholics.

"Chidiock Titchbourne is a name which appears in the conspiracy of Anthony Babington against Elizabeth, and the history of this accomplished young man may enter into the romance of real life. Having disovered two interesting domestic documents relative to him, I am desirous of preserving a name and a character which have such cliams on our sympathy.

There is an interesting historical novel, entitled "The Jesuit," whose story is founded on this conspiracy; remarkable for being the production of a lady, without, if I recollect rightly, a single adventure of love. Of the fourteen chapters implicated in this conspiracy, few were of the stamp of men ordinarily engaged in dark assassinations. Hume has told the story with his usual grace: the fuller narrative may be found in Camden; but the tale may yet receive, from the character of Chidioch Titchbourne, a more interesting close.

Some youths, worthy of ranking with the heroes, rather than with the traitors of England, had been practised on by the subtilty of Ballard, a disguised Jesuit of great intrepidity and talents, whom Camden calls "a silken priest in a soldier's habit;" for this versatile intriguer changed into all shapes, and took up all names; yet, with all the arts of a political Jesuit, he found himself entrapped in the nets of that more crafty one, the minister Walsingham. Ballard had opened himself to Babington, a catholic; a youth of large fortune, the graces of whose person were only inferior to those of

his mind.

In his travels, his generous temper had been touched by some confidential friends of the Scottish Mary; and the youth, susceptible of ambition, had been recommended to that queen; and an intercourse of letters took place, which seemed as deeply tinctured with love as with loyalty. The intimates of Babington were youths of congenial tempers and studies; and, in their exalted imaginations, they could only view in the imprisoned Mary of Scotland a sovereign, a saint, and a woman. But friendship, the most tender, if not the most sublime ever recorded, prevailed among this band of self-devoted victims; and the Damon and Pythias of antiquity were here out numbered.

But these conspirators were surely more adapted for lovers than for politicians. The most romantic incidents are interwoven in this dark conspiracy. Some of the letters to Mary were conveyed by a secret messenger, really in the pay of Walsingham; others were lodged in a concealed place, covered by a loosened stone, in the wall of the queen's prison. All were transcribed by Walsingham before they reached Mary. Even the spies of that singular statesman were the companions or the servants of the arch-conspirator Ballard; for the minister seems only to have humoured his taste in assisting him through this extravagant plot. Yet, as if a plot of so loose a texture was not quite perilous, the extraordinary incident of a picture, representing the Secret conspirators in person, was probably considered as the highest stroke of political intrigue! The accomplished Babington had pourtrayed the conspirators, himself standing in the midst of them, that the impri. soned queen might thus have some kind of personal acquaintance with them. There was at least as much of chivalry as of machiavelism in this conspiracy. This very picture, before it was delivered to Mary, the subtile Walsingham had copied, to exhibit to Elizabeth the faces of her secret enemies. Houbraken, in his portrait of Walsingham, has introduced in the vignette the incident of this picture being shown to Eliza; a circumstance happily characteristic of the genius of this crafty and vigilant statesman. Camden tells us that Babington had first inscribed beneath the picture this verse:


"Hi mihi sunt comites, quos ipsa pericula ducunt." These are my companions, whom the same dangers lead. But as this verse was considered by some of less

"Quorum hæc alio properantibus?"

What are these things to men hastening to another purpose?

sent one was full of horrors. Ballard was first executed, and snatched alive from the gallows to be embowelled: Babington looked on with an undaunted countenance, steadily gazing on that variety of tortures which he himself was in a moment to pass through; the others averted their faces, fervently praying. When the executioner began his tremendous office on Babington, the spirit of this haughty man cried out amidst the agony, "Parce mihi, Domine Jesu!"-"Spare me, Lord Jesus!" There were two days of execution; it was on the first that the noblest of these youths suffered; and the pity which such criminals had excited among the spectators evidently weakened the sense of their political crime; the solemnity, not the barbarity of the punishment, affects the populace with right feelings. Elizabeth, an enlightened politician, commanded, that on the second day the odious part of the sentence against traitors

should not commence till after their death.

This extraordinary collection of personages must
have occasioned many alarms to Elizabeth, at the ap-
proach of any stranger, till the conspiracy was suffered
to be sufficiently matured to be ended. Once she per-
ceived in her walks a conspirator; and on that occasion
erected her "lion port," reprimanding her captain of the
guards, loud enough to meet the conspirator's ear, that
he had not a man in his company who wore a sword."
"Am not I fairly guarded?" exclaimed Elizabeth.
It is in the progress of the trial that the history and
the feelings of these wondrous youths appear. In those
times, when the government of the country yet felt it-
self unsettled, and mercy did not sit in the judgment-
affected at the presence of so gallant a band as the pri-
seat, even one of the judges could not refrain from being
soners at the bar: "Oh Ballard, Ballard!" the judge
exclaimed, "what bast thou done? A sort (a company)
of brave youths, otherwise endued with good gifts, by
thy inducement hast thou brought to their utter destruc-

tion and confusion." The Jesuit himself commands
our respect, although we refuse him our esteem: for he
felt some compunction at the tragical executions which
were to follow, and "wished all the blame might rest
on him, could the shedding of his blood be the saving of
Babington's life!"

When this romantic band of friends were called on
for their defence, the most pathetic instances of domestic
affection appeared. One had engaged in this plot solely
to try to save his friend, for he had no hopes of it, nor
any wish for its success; he had observed to his friend,
that the haughty and ambitious mind of Anthony Ba-
bington, would be the destruction of himself and his
friends; nevertheless he was willing to die with them!
Another, to withdraw, if possible, one of those noble
youths from the conspiracy, although he had broken up
housekeeping, said, to employ his own language, “I
called back my servants again together, and began to
keep house again more freshly than ever I did, only be-
cause I was weary to see Tom Salusbury's struggling,
and willing to keep him about home." Having at-
tempted to secrete his friend, this gentleman observed,
"I am condemned, because I suffered Salisbury to
escape, when I knew he was one of the conspirators.
My case is hard and lamentable; either to betray my
friend, whom I love as myself, and to discover Tom
Salusbury, the best man in my country, of whom I only
made choice, or else to break my allegiance to my sove-
reign, and to undo myself and my posterity for ever."
Whatever the political casuist may determine on this
case, the social being carries his own manual in the
heart. The principle of the greatest of republics was to
suffer nothing to exist in competition with its own am-
bition; but the Roman history is a history without fa-
thers and brothers! Another of the conspirators re-
plied, " For flying away with my friend, I fulfilled the
part of a friend.' When the judge observed, that, to
perform his friendship, he had broken his allegiance
to his sovereign; he bowed his head and confessed,
"Therein I have offended." Another, asked why he
had fled into the woods, where he was discovered
among some of the conspirators, proudly (or tenderly)
replied, "For company.'


When the sentence of condemnation had passed, then broke forth among this noble band that spirit of honour which surely had never been witnessed at the bar among so many criminals. Their great minds seemed to have reconciled them to the most barbarous of deaths; but as their estates, as traitors, might be forfeited to the queen, their sole anxiety was now for their families and their creditors. One, in the most pathetic terms, recommends to her majesty's protection a beloved wife; another, a destitute sister; but not among the least urgent of their supplications was one, that their creditors might not be injured by their untimely end. The statement of their affairs is curious and simple. If mercy be not to be had," exclaimed one, "I beseech you, my good lords, this; I owe some sums of money, but not very much, and I have more owing to me." Another prayed for a pardon; the judge complimented him, that he was one who might have done good service to his country; but declares he cannot obtain it." Then," said the prisoner, "I beseech that six angels, which such an one hath of mine, may be delivered to my brother to pay my debts." "How much are thy debts?" demanded the judge. He answered, "The same six angels will discharge it.' That nothing might be wanting to complete the catastrophe of their sad story, our sympathy must accompany them to their tragical end, and to their last words. These heroic yet affectionate youths had a trial there, intolerable to their social feelings. The terrific process of executing criminals was the remains of feudal barbarism, and has only been abolished very recently. I must not refrain from painting this scene of blood; the duty of an historian must be severer than his taste, and I record in the note a scene of this nature.*


The pre

Let not the delicate female start from the revolting scene,
nor censure the writer, since that writer is a woman-suppress
ing her own agony, as she supported on her lap the head of the
miserable sufferer. This account was drawn up by Mrs. Eliza-
beth Willoughby, a Catholic lady, who, amidst the horrid exe-
cution, could still her own feelings in the attempt to soften those
of the victim: she was a heroine, with a tender heart.
The subject was one of the executed Jesuits, Hugh Green, who
often went by the name of Ferdinand Brooks, according to the
custom of these people, who disguised themselves by double
names he suffered in 164%; and this narrative is taken from

blood) was Chidiock Titchbourne, of Southampton the One of those generosi adolescentuli (youths of generous most intimate friend of Babington. He had refused to connect himself with the assassination of Elizabeth; but his reluctant consent was inferred from his silence. His address to the populace breathes all the carelessness of life, in one who knew all its value. Proud of his ancient descent from a family which had existed before the conquest till now without a stain, he paints the thoughtless happiness of his days with his beloved friend, when any object rather than matters of state engaged their pursuits; the hours of misery were only first known the day he entered into the conspiracy. How feelingly he passes into the domestic scene, amidst his wife, his child, and his sisters! and even his servants! Well might he cry, more in tenderness than reproach, "Friendship hath brought me to this!"

"Countrymen, and my dear friends, you expect I should speak something. I am a bad orator, and my text is worse. It were in vain to enter into the discourse of the whole matter for which I am brought hither, for that it hath been revealed heretofore; let me be a warning to all young gentlemen, especially generosis adolescentulis. I had a friend, and a dear friend, of whom I made no small account, whose friendship hath brought me to this; he told me the whole matter, I cannot deny, as they had laid it down to be done; but I always thought it impious, and denied to be a dealer in it; but the regard of my friend caused me to be a man in whom the old proverb was verified; I was silent, and so consented. Before this chanced, we lived together in most flourishing estate: of whom went report in the Strand, Fleet-Street, and elsewhere about London, but of Babington and Titchbourne? No threshold was of force to brave our entry. Thus we lived, and wanted nothing we could wish for; and God knows what less in my head than matters of state. Now give me leave to declare the miseries I sustained after I was acquainted with the action, wherein I may justly compare my state to that of Adam's, who could not abstain one forbidden thing, to enjoy all other things the world could afford; the terror of conscience awaited me. After I considered the dangers whereinto I was fallen I went to Sir John Peters in Essex, and appointed my horses should meet me at London, intending to go down into the country. I came to London, and then heard that all was betrayed; whereupon, like Adam, we fled into the wood to hide ourselves. My dear countrymen, my sorrows may be your joy, yet mix your smiles with tears, and pity my case. I am descended from a house, from two hundred years before the Conquest, never stained till this my misfortune. I have a wife, and one child; my wife Agnes, my dear wife, and there's my grief-and six sisters left in my hand-my poor servants, I know, their master being taken, were dispersed; for all which I do most heartily grieve. I expected some favour, though I deserved nothing less, that the remainder of my years might have recompensed my former guilt; which seeing I have missed, let me now meditate on the joys I hope to enjoy."

Titchbourne had addressed a letter to his " dear wife Agnes," the night before he suffered, which I discovered among the Harleian MSS.* It overflows with the most natural feeling, and contains some touches of expression, all sweetness and tenderness, which mark the Shakespearian era. The same MS. has also preserved another precious gem, in a small poem, composed at the same time, which indicates his genius, fertile in imagery, and fraught with the melancholy pbilosophy of a fine and wounded spirit. The unhappy close of the life of such a noble youth, with all the prodigality of his feelings, and the cultivation of his intellect, may still excite tha

the curious and scarce folios of Dodd, a Catholic Church History of England.

"The hangman, either through unskilfulness, or for want of a sufficient presence of mind, had so ill performed his first duty of hanging him, that when he was cut down he was perfectly sensible, and able to sit upright upon the ground, viewing the crowd that stood about him. The person who undertook to quarter him was one Barefoot, a barber, who being very timorons when he found he was to attack a living man, it was nearly half an hour before the sufferer was rendered entirely insensible of pain. The mob pulled at the rope, and threw the Jesuit on his back. When the barber immediately fell to work, ripped up his belly, and laid the flaps of skin on both sides; the poor gentleman being so present to himself as to make the sign of the cross with one hand. During this operation, Mrs. Elizabeth Willoughby (the writer of this), kneeled at the Jesuit's head, and held it fast beneath her hands. His face was covered with a thick sweat; the blood issued from his mouth, ears, and eyes, and his forehead burnt with so much heat, that she assures us she could scarce endure her hand upon it. The barber was still under a great consternation." But I stop my peu atnid these circumstantial horrors.

*Harl. MSS. 36. 50.

sympathy in the generosis adolescentulis, which Chidiock Titchbourne would have felt for them!

wedlock; a transaction, which exciting considerable
surprise, was thus explained.

Their first union having been what is called a love


To the most loving wife alive; I commend me unto her, and desire God to bless her with all happiness; let her pray for her dead husband, and be of good comforte, for I hope in Jesus Christ this morning to see the face of my Maker and Redeemer in the most joyful throne of his glorious kingdome. Commend me to all my friends, and desire them to pray for me, and in all charitie to pardon me, if I have offended them. Commend me to my six sisters, poore desolate soules, advise them to serve God, for without him no goodness is to be expected were it possible, my little sister Babb, the darling of my race, might be bred by her, God would re

match, the lady's guardians, actuated by laudable prudence,
had the whole fortune settled on the wife, absolutely
independant of her husband, whose moments in the
giddy raptures of the honeymoon, rolled on with facility
and pleasure. But when time and reflexion had sobered
his senses, he complained that his hands, by the illiberal
distribution of his wife's fortune, were tied up from
engaging in agricultural, professional, or commercial
pursuits, so admirably calculated for giving a zest to all
enjoyment, by occupying those intervals of life which
are otherwise so apt to stupify our faculties in the list-
lessness of leisure, or the gloom of inactivity. For such
evils, this excellent wife saw and provided a remedy. By
dissolving their first marriage she became the uncontrolled
mistress of her fortune, and gave an effectual proof of

warde her; but I do her wrong I confesse, that hath by her liberality and affection, if not of prudence, by making Stothard's genius was richer than bis, and included it.

A letter written by Chidiock Tichbourne the night before

he suffered death, unto his wife, dated anno 1586.

my desolate negligence too little for herselfe, to add a further charge unto her. Deere wife, forgive me, that have by these means so much impoverished her fortunes; patience and pardon, good wife, I crave-make of these our necessities a virtue, and lay no further burthen on my neck than hath already been. There be certain

debts that I owe, and because I knowe not the order of the lawe, piteous it hath taken from me all, forfeited by my course of offence to her majestie. I cannot advise thee to benefit me herein, but if there fall out wherewithal, let them be discharged for God's sake. I will not that you trouble yourselfe with the performance of these matters, my own heart, but make it known to my uncles, and desire them, for the honour of God, and ease of their souls, to take care of them as they may, and especially care of my sisters bringing up; the burden is now laid on them. Now, Sweet-cheek, what is left to bestow on thee, a small joynture, a small recompense for thy deservinge, these legacies following to be thine owne. God of his infinite goodness give thee grace alwaies to remain his true and faithful servant, that through the merits of his bitter and blessed passion thou maist become in good time of his kingdom with all the blessed women in heaven. May the Holy Ghost comfort thee with all necessaries for the wealth of thy soul in the world to come, where, until it shall please Almighty God I meete thee, farewell lovinge wife, farewell the dearest to me on all the earth, farewell!

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MR. WALSH, a gentleman of large fortune, who died
about fifty years back, bequeathed an estate of four
thousand a year to his niece, Mrs. Benn; but from negli
gence, resentment, or some other cause, neither ex-
plained or understood, left his next male heir, and near
relation, unprovided for.

With an addition so important, and at a period which calculates, to a nicety, gratifications and expenses to keep pace with, or exceed the most enormous rent-roll, the majority of mankind would have sate down passively contented; or if any solicitude interrupted their brilliant dreams, it would have been anxiety to determine in what species of luxurious superfluity the new acquisition should be expended. But Mrs. Benn, a very epicure in the theory of real and substantial luxury, declared that ner present income was adequate to all her wishes and all her wants, and reserving only a little Berkshire villa, endeared to her by early habits, and in which she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life, presented, and by legal conveyance made over this considerable bequest to her neglected cousin; a free and gratuitous gift, neither demanded nor expected, vast in its amount, and worth, at its lowest valuation. A HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS.


The law of divorce decreed by the national convention had passed but a short time, when there applied to take the benefit of it a young couple, who had been generally considered by their neighbours, as patterns of connubial felicity. The young woman was beautiful, rich, and married to a lover without fortune; but a few days after the divorce had taken place, they were again united in

her husband, on their second marriage, the unfettered
master of all she had. The happy husband was thus
enabled, by love, the great arbiter of destinies, to whom
we are indebted for supreme happiness, or harassing
inquietude, to devote a portion of his fortune to elegant
or useful occupation.



THE death of Mr. Stothard, at the venerable age of
eighty-four, has grieved all the lovers of art, though
it has been long expected. But they regret to think that
they can have no "more last words" from his genius-
no more of those sweet and graceful creations of youth,
beauty, and womanhood, which never ceased to flow
from his pencil, and which made his kindly nature the
abode of a youthful spirit to the last. An angel dwelt
in that tottering house, amidst the wintery bowers of
white locks, warming it to the last with summer fancies.
Mr. Stothard had the soul in him of a genuine and
entire painter. He was a designer, a colourist, a
grouper; and above all, he had expression, All that he
wanted, was a more perfect education, for he was never
quite sure of his drawing. The want was a great one;
but if those who most loudly objected to it, had had
a tenth part of his command over the human figure, and
even of his knowledge of it, (for the
purposes of
sion,) they would have ten times the right to venture
upon criticising him; and having that, they would have
spoken of him with reverence. His class was not of the
very highest order, and yet it bordered upon the gentler
portion of it, and partook of that portion; for since the
days of the greatest Italian painters, no man felt or ex-
pressed the graces of innocence and womanhood as he
did. And his colouring (which was little known,) had
the true relish, such as it was. He loved it, and did not
colour for effect only. He had a bit of Rubens in him,
and a bit of Raphael-and both of them genuine ; not be-
cause he purposely imitated them, but because the seeds
of gorgeousness and of grace were in his own mind. The
glowing and sweet painter was made out of the loving
and good-natured man. This is the only process. The
painter, let him be of what sort he may, is only the man
reflected on canvass. The good qualities and defects of
his nature, are there; and there they will be, let him
deny or disguise it as he can. In youth, Stothard was
probably too full of enjoyment, and had too little energy
at the same time, to study properly. In the greater
masters, enjoyment and energy, sensibility and strength
of purpose, went together. Inferiority was the conse-
quence; but inferiority only to them. The genius itself
was indestructible.

Mr. Stothard, for many years, was lost sight of by the public, owing to the more conventional elegancies of some clever, but inferior men, and the dullness of public taste; but it was curious to see how he was welcomed back again as the taste grew better, and people began to see with the eyes of his early patrons. The variety as well as grace of his productions soon put him at the head of designers for books, and there he has since remained. What he did of late for the poems of Mr. Rogers is well known, and his picture of the Canterbury Pilgrims still better, though we cannot think it one of his best. Many of his early designs for Robinson Crusoe and other works, especially those in the old Novelist's Magazine far surpass it; and so do others in Bell's British Poets. There is a female figure bending towards an angel in one of the volumes of Chaucer in that edition, which Raphael himself might have put in

his portfolio; and the same may be said of larger designs for editions of Milton and Shakespeare. See in parti

cular those for Comus, and for the Two Gentlemen of Verona, where there is a girl in boy's clothes. Nothing can be more true or exquisite than the little doubtful gesture of fear and modesty in the latter figure, blushing

at the chance of detection. Stothard excelled in catch

ing these fugitive expressions of feeling-one of the rarest of all beauties. But he has left hundreds, perhaps thousands of designs-rich treasures for the collector and the student. He is one of the few English artists esteemed on the continent, where his productions are bought up like those of his friend Flaxman, who, we believe, may be reckoned among his imitators; for

The lovers of wit, patriotism, and poetry will be glad to hear that there is a small bust to be had, of the famous

Andrew Marvell, done in a composition imitating marble, by C. Stephens. It is copied from an old print, which is reckoned his most genuine likeness; and is probably superior to it, inasmuch as the sculptor has added a certain refinement, not to be found in the original, but such as might reasonably be expected in it, when we consider that Marvell was a man of sentiment as well as wit, and worthy to be the friend and champion of Milton; to whose busts by the way, this new one of his brother patriot (the first, we believe, that has appeared) may be deemed in every respect a companion. The costume is the same; they were companions in their lives; and on mantle-pieces they "ought not to be divided." Marvell should go along with his friend in bust as he does in book; for the noble lines are his, which are generally printed before the Paradise Lost, beginning When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold."


Paganini has brought forth his viola; the grand viola, he calls it. In his hands, it is indeed grand. We have not as yet heard him play any of his most interesting, performances on it; none of those melodies of Mozart or Haydn, with which he has enchanted us on his violin,

"Con simplicia parole, e puri incanti ;"

but we have heard his handling still, and his is "a master's hand," worth hearing, for its own sake alone. It has been said that it is no novelty; that it is like his violin playing. This is in some respects true. It is like his violin playing, but it is lower, and finely lower. It has enabled Paganini to descend, like another Orpheus, into the lower regions, with all his beauty. It is less brilliant, of course, than the shorter-stringed instrument; but fuller toned, with a sweetness and mellowness in the harmonics, and a compass, rich in loveliness. We long to hear him play Possenti Numi!" the finest of bass songs, upon it; or "Qui Sdegno," the most beautiful.


THE rare sight of a Rhinoceros in England,—(a sort of hog-elephant, or mixture of elephant, hog, tapir, and cattle-mouth, cased in compartments of armour, and with a bit of horn on his nose,-whence his name,Rhinoceros signifying Nose-horn,*) will give double zest to the following description of a hunt of him in the new novel, Makanna or the Land of the Savage,—a book defective in artifice of management, but very interesting upon the whole, both in a general point of view, in incident and in character.


The Rhinoceros, with its strange compound of sensibility and callous skin, acuteness and awkwardness, irritability, bulkiness, mildness, and huge appetite, looks like a sort of lesser Dr. Johnson among animals, as the elephant seems the larger and more respectable protatype. It was, doubtless, from an instinct of this sort, that Davies the bookseller struck out that simile, which every body thought so unaccountable and yet some how so happy. He said that the Doctor laughed like a Rhi


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For a long way the track continued to traverse the lower bed of the hollows, now piercing through fields of dry reeds, which, in the proper season, form a chain of morasses, or threading the broken jungle that fringes the hanging woods above. The hunters were even becoming careless from the dull unvarying sameness of the pursuit, when, in passing a thicket, Laroon observed that the tender branches of a small euphorbia had been so recently cropped, that the corrosive, but, * From the Greek. 'Pry (Rhin) a nose; and Kepas (Keras)

a horn.

as the black hull of a storm-tossed boat staggers through
the foam of broken waves, was seen by starts, environed
with a flashing ocean of glowing fire, or disappearing in
whelming eddies of whirling smoke.

On such occasion the damage is not so great as might
be imagined; and when the retreating Dwyka' made
the shore, he was in fact more dazzled by the glare,
and intimidated by the crackling and smoke, than
scorched by the flames. Upon the whole, however, his
valour was on the wane, and, totally sick of the adven-
ture, he very prudently prepared for flight, by rushing
past Laroon, to retrace his former path through the

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The justice of this opinion appeared to be generally admitted, and immediate arrangements were made to act upon it. One of the first of these was to send two Hottentots into the wood alone, with the view of rousing the gentleman's attention. Drakenstein and Vernon made slowly for the farther side of the swamp, while Laroon was left to hold the incensed animal in check should he attempt to retreat by his former path into the jungle. In his present condition little could be expected from Gaspal, to whom was therefore assigned the more easy task of firing the reeds if occasion demanded.

This distribution of force was very judiciously effected, but nothing appeared to follow it. The intense green of the wood above drank in the sunbeams in undisturbed serenity as before; and except the low crooning of a wood pigeon, or the remote chatter of a baboon, that seemed, as he moved on a neighbouring tree, to mock their patience, the hunters found no token of life or motion.

This unsatisfactory stillness had continued for some ten minutes longer, when suddenly a small portion of the wood above become violently agitated ;-the higher branches smote together, and some of the tallest trees bowed their leafy heads, as if the axe was at their roots. The commotion increased,-trees fell, and, with a harsh grunting snort, the ponderous beast burst through the crashing branches.


Not a shot had been fired, and the Dwyka,' making for the swamp, finished his gambol by rolling in the mud.

The creature was still splashing about most gloriously, when the Hottentots, following his track, issued from the wood. Hitherto they had acted with exemplary prudence, by doing nothing:-but now they marred all, by firing without any proper aim, or chance of success. Astonished by the report, or rather pricked into attention by a trifling flesh-wound, the swarthy monster sprung to the land. For a few seconds he stood puzzled and irresolute, swinging his grotesque head from side to side, with a strange impatient motion. Whatever might have been the intention of this harlequinade, it was soon over, for, with a sudden lunge, the creature threw himself into extreme speed, and charged full in the direction of Laroon.

Long inured to emergencies of danger, the quickeyed Creole foresaw the attack, and waited coolly for the proper moment to guard against it, by wheeling his horse behind a hummock of rock, most invitingly at hand. This moment had arrived, the Dwyke' within some hundred paces, was rushing snorting forward amid a cloud of dust, when, had the manœuvre been effected, his skull must have been dashed against the projecting rock, for such was his speed, that halt or turn was equally impossible.

The moment had arrived, but when Laroon attempted to give his horse the necessary impulse, he found the conscious animal shivering and motionless, paralyzed by


Among the jungles of this level, his tremendous strength, as the hunters knew, would most avail him; and they accordingly made every possible exertion to impede his course.

Two of the re-mounted Hottentots put their horses on full speed, in a parallel direction, with the hope of overreaching the beast; and Drakenstein, Vernon, and Gaspal followed, pêle-mêle, on the 'spoor.'

Hoarse shouts and frequent shots, now rattling in the jungle or booming from the hollows, gave a wild animation to the scene. From time to time, too, a small cloud of white smoke, arising here and there above the distant foliage, gave notice that the expedient of firing the herbage was again had recourse to; but as the tumultuous rout passed off, and its discord, growing remote, died on the ear in a faint hoarse murmur, little idea could be formed as to the ultimate event of the chase.

they have nothing to do with our history, we will leave the curious reader to seek them in our original, and well will they repay him if he does. The omnibus starts, but makes but little way, on account of its frequent stoppages. At length it is shaken by a sudden shock; some one has jumped on the steps without allowing the mass to stop. "It is a soldier, a noncommissioned officer, in a hussar's uniform, young, tall, with large black mustachios, which together with eyes and eve-brows of the same colour, a verv dark complexion, and features strongly marked, gave his countenance an expression somewhat hard and repulsive. "Where the deuce is this gentleman going to put himself?" said the fat gentleman; but in a low voice, and less insolently than he usually spoke. The soldier did not seem at all embarrassed; he advances, pushes back legs, knees, looking all the while right and left, as though, to choose his place. At length he throws himself pele-mele among the people, and forces a place. The soldier recognizes in the young man, his school-fellow, Charles Darvillé, and announces himself as Emile Mongérand. To the dismay of the passengers he talks across every body to his old friend, in a loud voice, reminding him of all their wild frolics as school boys and youths, as though they were alone. It was Sunday, and Charles Darvillé was going to dine with his mother, but Mongérand persuades him to go into a coffee-house to rejoice over their meeting, for Charles is a good fellow, and cannot refuse to do any thing he is asked at the moment. From the coffee-house he drags him to the house of Rozat, another of his school-fellows; thence he takes them both to a billiard-room, where he gets into a row. Rozat evades at the commencement of the disturbance. Charles magnanimously waits till Mongérand himself leaves him to pursue some of his enemies of the coffee-house. It is ten o'clock when he gets to his mother's. His mother is a kind woman, but has hurt her own authority with her goodnatured but careless son, by a severe and reserved manner. Some friends are with her, and among them M. Formerey and his niece Leonie; which latter the elder people intend as a wife for Charles. M. Formercy is a very exact tradesman, and Charles's want of punctuality annoys him. Charles, however, manages to excuse himself to the satisfaction of all parties. The


DE KOCK'S NOVEL "UN BON ENFANT," girl pleases him, and he pleases her. They are married, and old M. Formercy retires, leaving Lis business to the young couple.

But who, in so stirring a moment, could reason so coolly? Absorbed in the headlong fury of pursuit, the hunters had passed Laroon unheeded; and no sooner were they gone, than obeying one of those impulses that were as the leading angels of his fate,--the latter mounted the spare horse before mentioned, and venturing on the wild track through which the 'Dwyka' had broken, sought, with an anxious look, the deepest shadows of the forest."



There is nothing more ridiculous (quoth our author) than to see a person pursuing an omnibus, already far in advance, which still continues to gain in the race; the conductor who is employed in looking right and left, never casts his eye upon the dilatory passenger. If the unfortunate be a man, he runs, then he stops, he lifts his hand to the air, he lifts his cane, his umbrella, if he have one; he shakes his arm, as if he would play the drum-major; he puts forth every now and then a-hoy! hoy! hoy!--Conductor!-hallo! hau! ho, there! Now he runs a little, now he pants through the mud, and at last catches the unlucky coach half-way to his place of appointment. If the pursuer be a woman, she either runs not at all, or runs always,; women do nothing by halves, they are sooner decided than men ; and moreover they run with more grace; they have the tact to choose the pavement too, in courting the attention of the conductor. They certainly sometimes withdraw their garment a trifle; but after all, where is the crime of shewing a leg, especially when it is well made? and few are shewn that are otherwise.

"A young man was in pursuit of the sixpenny coach, a goodlooking fellow, of moderate height, but well made; his countenance was frank and pleasing; his dress of a good fashion. At length he caught the omnibus as it turned towards la Madeleine, following the Boulevards; it was tolerably full.

"Have you room, conductor?" "Yes, sir ;—on the the right, at the bottom; sit a little closer, gentlemen, if you please."

"The young man enters, and does his best to make his way among the immoveable legs, the projecting knees, wet umbrellas, muddy feet, and ill-tempered faces; for if ever you have been in an omnibus, gentle reader, (and it is most likely, if you inhabit the capital,) you must have remarked, that when the coach is something furnished with passengers, the arrival of another darkens the countenance of every one; firstly, because it is a cause of delay, and then because it is troublesome to be squeezed. The new-comer is therefore but ill received, and no one moves to make room for him. I have often wondered that those who speculate in such vehicles, have not yet thought of dividing them into stalls, like the front rows of the pit at the theatre; they would then at least be visible, and one would not be liable to receive a passenger on one's knee; and that passenger not always light and pretty. Our new comer sate himself between a man very large, who seemed displeased that any one should sit by him, and a lady who seemed to think the contact of her gown and the young man's coat indecent. They are going to pack us like herrings!" grumbled the enormous gentleman, stretching his limbs, so as to make himself comfortable. The lady says nothing; but as a fold of her gown remained under her new neighbour, Now was the time for firing the reeds; and Gaspal she draws it back with quickness, assuming an air of managed the matter so adroitly, that as the Dwyka' dignity, of prudery, one of those airs that prove nothing floundered through the morass, the crackling fast-spreadbut the absence of amenity." The young man also ening flames gathered fiercely and terrifically around. deavours to settle himself as comfortably as possible, Defended by his impenetrable hide, the obdurate beast, without paying any attention to the murmurs of the though bellowing with affright, still dashed impetuously gentleman or the airs of the lady. As soon as he was forward, while ever and anon, his huge and dusky bull., fairly seated, he looks about him to see what his fellow rising with sudden bounds from amid the burning reeds, passengers are like. They are a motley crew, but as

The time for thought was past: with the icy chill of desperation at his heart, but still not disconcerted, Laroon cast his rifle on the adjacent rock, with convulsive energy withdrew his feet from the stirrups, pressed them on the shoulders of his steed, and vaulted in the same direction. Scarcely was this desperate spring effected, when the Dwyka' came in contact with the horse, and crushing him against the rock, with the blow staved in his ribs, at the same moment as, by a jirk of his head, he disemboweled him. The Dwyka's' horn hung rather in the chest of his victim; and in a second effort to withdraw it, the vicious beast fell on the mangled body. Cootje said, afterwards, that at this juncture Laroon might with ease have dispatched the enemy, and that with even a single shot. Be that as it might, the 'Dwyka' soon arose, and shaking the clotted gore from his head, looked around, as if in search of a second conquest. Gaspal with Laroon's led horse, were at hand; but the 'Dwyka,' as if disdaining the slaughter of Hottentot er cattle, with a loud wild snort, galloped off in the direction of Cootje.



Darville is charmed with his wife, and pays more attention to her than to his business. He plays, however, on the violin. At length Leonie presents him with a daughter. He promises himself the satisfaction of giving her a fine education. Leonie smiled and said to her husband, That which will be above all things necessary to give her, my friend, is a portion. You know women seldom marry without it. You must therefore endeavour to earn money, and get up our business again, which has not gone on very well for some time." "Be easy, that will all come right: Vauflouck has promised me two commissions. I will give our child a hundred thousand livres, not a jot less."


In order to begin making his child's portion, Charles runs to announce its birth to all his friends; and, to celebrate the happy event, he eats oysters with one, a cutlet with another; plays for his coffee with a third, and drinks beer with Vanflouck; and thus he passes the day out of doors that he ought to have devoted to his wife. Scarcely is Leonie recovered, when she places herself again in the counting-house, and examines the books. She sees with affright that already they have suffered considerable losses in a business which, in her uncle's time, was so fruitful. Charles now often stays out the whole day, and if in the evening he sees signs of distress in his gentle wife's face, he takes his hat and goes out again; a way husbands have when they are in the wrong; it is a short one, but not the best!" The day of payment for six thousand francs arrives, and Leonie has but half that sum in her strong box. Charles went out in the morning to get some bills discounted, and, according to his custom, stayed out till evening. Rozat and his wife look in while Leonie is still anxiously waiting for her husband. Charles at last comes home. He had been dining with Vanflouck. His colour was higher than usual, and he spoke as if every one were deaf. Leonie saw at at once that her husband was a little elevated, and her face was overshaded with care. Rozat, shaking hands with his friend, smiled archly, while Madame Rozat murmured between her teeth" very pretty Here I am," cried Charles, with a joyous air; "good evening, Rozat-good evening, madame!-I could not come home to dinner, for I was detained with Vanflouck by a Brussels man, who took us to Grignon's, and treated us magnificently!" "Do you know this Bruxeleois then?' said Leonie, coldly. No; I saw him for the first time -but he is a very pleasant man, without ceremony; besides, he is the most intimate friend of Vanflouck's." Charles draws something from his pocket for his wife. Leonie said tranquilly What, my friend, is this another present?" Charles opened a little box, and drew from it a handsome pair of diamond earrings, which he presented to his wife, saying, "A week ago I made you stop before a shop window, and asked you which you thought the prettiest, and you showed me these, and I have brought them to you." How gallant," said Rozat. Leonie took the earrings, but did not seem enchanted with the present, and she said with a little hesitation, "Good, good, my friend, I said I thought those earrings pretty, because you would positively have my opinion; but that was no reason why you should buy them—such rich jewels-it is a folly !"-

!" 66






Charles grew still redder; he drew back a step or two, crying, angrily, "Make presents to your wife, and see how she receives them. This is pleasant. It is enough to make the best tempered man angry! Women do not deserve that we should pay them any attentions!" Leonie had never seen her husband angry; she grew pale, and large tears stood in her eyes. Rozat pinched up his lips, and his wife again muttered "very pretty!" "Come, my dear Charles," said Rozat, affecting an air of pimple govu nature, པས པ ཐམ་ བ༑ ་མ་རྒྱལ་ མ“; women will always merit our homage, our care, our adoration." Before Rozat had finished, Leonie rose from her chair; she ran to her husband, and throwing herself into his arms, hid her face in his bosom, sobbing out, "Ah! my friend, do not be distressed, I was wrong, and I ask your pardon!" With Charles, anger did not last long, and he tenderly embraced his wife. "What a picture!" said Rozat. "Very fine! magnificent! full of fire!" said his wife, looking at the diamonds. Charles borrows some money to replace what he had paid for the diamonds.

ance of Mongérand, who is in a great rage, for the address given him was a false one. The day of payment arrives for Mongérand's bills, and the holder comes to Charles for the amount. Charles is all the poorer for the transaction, and so also is Mongérand. Instead of coffee-houses, Mongérand now takes his easy friend to public-houses. Charles is a little shocked at first, but he soon gets used to it. Charles is at last embroiled in a duel on Mongérand's account, and severely wounded. In the same house with the Darville's, in a small room among the attics, lived a young workman, a cabinetmaker, named Justin; he was twenty-two years of age; but the simple sweetness of his face, and the timidity of his manners, made him appear no more than eighteen. Of all the lodgers, he was the only one whom Leonie know even by sight. In reading at his window he had continually seen Leonie working beneath. Her appearance struck him. At length he got so accustomed to see her, that it was his only pleasure. He desired ardently to speak to her, to serve her, but dared not make an opportunity. Uneasy at the protracted absence of her husband, Leonie goes down stairs to seek some news of him. Justin seizes the opportunity to offer his services. Alas, he only returns to announce the coming of the wounded man. In the confusion, for Leonie faints, he is the presiding genius, and his zeal enables him to acquit himself like one experienced in such scenes. Charles's illness is long and severe, and so reduces their funds, that on his recovery they are obliged to change their lodging for a meaner one. His first task, however, is to visit his mother, who has heard of his mischance, and been ill in consequence. She tells him that she has done all she could for him during his illness; she had sent him money by the people his wife sent to her, but complains that Leonie should have sent drunken men with her messages. Charles guesses justly, that Mongérand is at the bottom of this. As soon as they are settled in their new lodging, which consists of two attics, Leonie sets herself hard to work at embroidery. The children miss much the company of Justin, who had made them his friends during their father's illness. At length they are delighted one day by the sight of him;-he has come to live in the same house. Charles does nothing but play upon the violin, and plague his neighbours by perpetually playing country-dances. One day, going into the house, the porter accosts him, and offers him fifteen francs if he will attend a bridal party as fiddler, at a house where a friend of the said porter's is servant. Charles is offended at the offer, and refuses. He goes up stairs. His wife's eyes were red. For some days the state of health of the little Felix had made her very uneasy; she held him in her arms, for she feared he was cold. Little Laura was running up and down the room blowing her fingers to warm herself. Charles was touched by this picture. "Certainly," said he, "if I went to this dance -fifteen francs,-that is something." He drew near his wife, and said to her-"You do not earn fifteen francs in a day, with your needle, do you?" "Alas! said she, "It is with great pains that I earn fifteen sous;" but why do you ask? "Why-just now-the porter spoke to me ;-in short he proposed to me to play dances for a party to-night, and offered me fifteen francs for it." Leonie looked at her husband with anxiety, for her children were cold, and nothing seemed to her too painful to do, that would procure what was necessary for them. "Well, my friend," said she at length, "What did you answer?" "You must know that it could not be very pleasant for me to play the poor fiddler; I learnt the violin for my amusement, not to play to dancing," "Yes," said Leonie, sadly, "I feel all that there is in it which must be disagreeable to you; but when misfortune overwhelms us, we are often glad to turn to those accomplishments we have learnt for our amusement as resources. In short you "I refused." Leonie said nothing, she dropped her eyes, and pressed her little son to her heart. Charles was hungry; he opened a cupboard and found nothing in it but bread. He exclaimed, where then is the dinner?' "The linen-draper did not pay me to day; we have had nothing else." "Deuce! that is a sorry meal!-That rascal, Mongerand! if we catch him!-To leave me in the lurch, after having borrowed money too of my Charles finished his sentence between his teeth, and slowly munched his bread for a bit. Suddenly be got up, and exclaimed; Certainly I will go to this dance." He goes, and is ushered into a room full of people. They are waiting for the future bridegroom, for the wedding is not to take place for a week, this being merely a preparatory rejoicing. At length he comes, and Darvillé recognises Mongérand. Charles is not the only person who is already acquainted with the reckless adventurer, he is recognized also by an acquaintance of his wife's, and the startling fact announced of his being a married man! He is fiercely turned out of the house, and Darvillé of course accompanies him in his ignominious exit. In the turmoil Mongérand breaks the nose of his bride's uncle with Charles's violin, and the violin with the uncle's nose. Mongérand persuades Charles to forgive him for his deception upon his mother, and they go to console themselves in a public-house.





"Where is this dd rascal Charles? where is he, that I may embrace him?" said a tall dark man one day, entering cavalierly into the counting-house where Leonie



Sir, my husband is out; but"-"Oh, you are his wife, ma'am. Ah! I recollect they told me he was married. And I-I have been married too; I did that folly a year ago. But that is done with, thank God! I cut the Gordian knot. I laugh at it! I made myself a bachelor again. We separated, for good and all!- we had had enough of it, both of us!-Enchanted, madame, to make the acquaintance of my school-fellow's wife-Charles must have spoken to you often of me?"-"Your name, Sir?" "Ah! true! I ought to have told you at first: Mongérand-Emile Mongérand, class-fellow of Charles, then non-commissioned officer of hussars, then marchand de nouveautés, then married, then-I don't know what yet-but always, a faithful and devoted friend, and I hope Charles thinks so."

With Mongérand Charles does not retrograde in dissipation. Mongérand takes him every where, to drink, to smoke, to gamble. Charles's easiness gives way before Mongérand's peremptory persuasions, his sarcasms against a led husband; for your weak people, of all others, have the greatest dread of being thought to be governed by their wives. He stays out late at night, and returns smelling of wine and tobacco. His affairs get more and more deranged. His wife loses her health, her peace, but never her affection for her unthinking husband. One day he dines with Mongérand, Rozat, and two ladies of very equivocal repute. His love for his wife fails in this ordeal of temptation; he gets very drunk after dinner, and returns late at night. His wife is already asleep; and he succeeds in getting into bed without waking her. But he cannot sleep; il conscience and excess of wine disturb his rest, and he is ill.



His groans wake his wife. "What is the matter, my friend," said she; can you not sleep?" No, I can't sleep." "Are you unwell?" "Yes, I feel ill, I don't know-perhaps-I feel unwell!" "Wait a moment, I will get up." Perhaps if you call the maid!""The poor girl works hard all day, and must be very tired; I can take care of you, and get you any thing you wish." Leonie gets up, overcomes her weariness, puts her dressing gown on, and lights a fire. In a little while some tea is made, and the young wife brings it to her husband. Presently he feels better, and goes to sleep. Leonie would not return to bed till she was quite sure that Charles was asleep; then placing near her any thing her sick husband might wish for, if he waked, she lay down. Still it was almost against her will that she went to sleep, still she kept her ear attentive, while her eyes were closed, in case her husband should complain Soon after that night Leonie was again a mother, and Charles had a son born during one of his habitual absences.

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His new mistress wishes him to take her to a bal champêtre. He has never passed the night out before, but he must take her, or see her no more. He pretends business in the country, and goes. While dancing at the ball, he hears that his house has stopped payment. He persuades himself he can set all things right on his return, and so he dances on.

Madame Darvillè comes to see her son, immediately after his return. She reproaches him with his neglect of business, of his child, his wife. She upbraids him with having exposed himself in public places accompanied by a mistress! Leonie hears it and faints, for she was quite unsuspecting. Madame Darvillè leaves her son to make his peace with his wife, leaving with him two-thirds of her property. His gentle wife forgives him. They pay their creditors, and change the house for a lodging, living on the wrecks of their fortune, till Charles can find something to do. Meantime the failure of his former business puts a period to the existence of old Formerey, who leaves fifteen thousand francs to Leonie. Meantime Mongérand sets up as a wine and spirit merchant. As he has little capital, he obtains Charles's signature to some bills: As Mongérand is one of those who cannot do any business without drinking, Charles and he get drunk. In this condition they intrude themselves into the company of some persons who are celebrating a wedding at the same coffee-house. They are turned out. Mongérand insists upon fighting the people next day, and accordingly an address is given him. Charles returns home late, in a very battered bewildered condition. His wife hears with terror that he is engaged in a duel; but her fears are dissipated next morning by the appear

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Early in the morning Leonie hears some one enter the house. She goes down stairs to see if it is her husband. It is the porter's friend, come to tell him of the dis turbance at his master's house. Leonie, hearing of her husband's danger, falls to the ground. Justin, who has been roused also, lifts her up and carries her up stairs, while he sends the porter for medical assistance. He laid her on the bed, still lifeless. He knew not what


to do, he despaired, he wept, for he thought that Leonie was about to die. He threw himself on his knees be fore her, took one of her cold hands in his, and endeavoured to warm it, sobbing out Ah! do not die, Madame, do not die!-Heaven will not always suffer you to be unhappy!" A little voice alone answered him; it was Felix, who awoke complaining, and asked for drink. A bright redness coloured the chi face. Justin had nothing to give, for there was nothing there. At length the porter returns with a doctor. The surgeon bled Leonie, and she recovered from the fainting; but only to fail into a state of frightShe called on her husband; she thought ful delirium. she saw him murdered, and accused Mongérand of all their misfortunes. The doctor declared that some one must watch by her while her delirium lasted, and Justin vowed that he would not quit her. While Leonie is in this condition, Charles returns. In his despair, he is rushing from the room, to throw himself into the canal; but Justin detains him. Leonie 'gets better, but her poor boy dies; a fact that is carefully concealed from the unhappy mother. As Leonie's illness cuts off their only resource, in her needle, Justin supplies Charles with money for the necessary things for the family Money even thus obtained, Charles cannot devote to its proper purpose, but spends much of it at the ale-house. Justin, with all his simplicity, suspects as much, and then purchases the things himself. Leonie is allowed to believe that her husband's violin, though a failure at first, is more fruitful now, and supplies the wants of his family. While Leonie is slowly recovering, news is brought her one night that her husband has been arrested by the guard. She begs Justin to go and look after her husband's safety. At length Justin returns, but alone. Charles is safe, but cannot be liberated till the morning. "And all that is true, is it not, Justin?" "I assure you on my honour." "Oh heavens!--I've been very ill!and my child, my poor child, who has sate up to try and console me! go, my dear child, go to bed; wait, let me kiss you again." "And you will not cry any more, mamma?" "No, dear Laura." "And you will sleep too?" "Yes."

Laura went to bed; Justin helped the little girl to undress herself, and then he said to Leonie, who seemed overwhelmed by the events of the night, "How do you feel now, madame." "I have suffered much-in my heart-chest-every where!- but that will go off." "You suffer still, I see, madame!-Will you grant me one favour." "A favour!-I-Justin !-alas! what can I do for you." "Allow me to watch this night near you; to remain there, on that chair! You are ill, and if I knew you were alone, without help, I should not be able to taste repose! Here I shall be more easy! I am responsible for you to your husband! Madame, you will not refuse me!" Leonie remains some moments without answering, and then she murmured, in a voice, in which there was something of solemnity, "Very well! Yes, this night-remain near me!"

"Leonie seemed overcome, she closed her eyes. Justin, pleased at being allowed to remain near her, went to seat himself on a chair a few steps from the bed. He placed the light so as not to inconvenience Leonie, and abandoned himself to his reflections, lifting his head occasionally to hear if she slept, and striving to hear her breathing. It is three o'clock in the morning. The quiet which till now has reigned in the chamber is broken by some hollow sighs which escape from Leonie. Justin approached her, and asked her what what was the matter. "I feel very ill," said the young woman, in a faint voice; "the event of this night has killed me. I had not strength to bear it!" "Ah, Madame, you are ill; I will go and seek for help -a doctor!" "Do not go, Justin-it would come too late. Remain near me that I may speak to you stillwhile I have the strength." "Oh, Madame, you will not die! do not think so! Oh, do not say so!" "Justin, a doctor would be useless-and every other help!My life is gone, I feel it." "Madame, for pity-Oh, stay-I shall be able to help you myself--to give you what you want. This is nothing--a weakness--but not to die-you-can it be !"-And Justin ran like a madman about the room seeking Leonie's customary medicines; then he came back, and throwing himself on his knees by the bed-side, bathed her hands with his tears.

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"Justin, do you weep for me? and my child she sleeps. Ah! she must not be waked. Laura! Felix! you will never abandon them, Justin!" "But, Madame, you are not going to die!-Oh! tell me that you will not die!"-" Charles will return too late! Justin I thank you for all that you have done for me! I should like very much to have seen my child! my poor Felix! He is no longer ill, you told me so! But I would yet pray to God for him!"

Leonie's voice failed-it soon became unintelligible; at last its sound ceased altogether, and the hand that Justin held grew motionless and cold.

Charles returns and finds Justin still kneeling by the bed.

A brother of Leonie, who had gone to sea when very He young, returns to hear that his sister is dead. adopts her daughter, and offers to get Charles a situa tion in America. Mongérand persuades him to remain

with him.

Eight years after this period Charles and Mongérand return to Paris. They have exhausted all their resources. Charles is pale and haggard-Mongérand is untameable even by misfortune. Charles visits Pere La Chaise, he perceives an elegant though plain monument. It contains the remains of his wife and son. A fresh

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