cried the officer: 'let every one alight!' Louvet, whose face was perfectly known in Orleans, heard this ominous speech, and drew his pistol from his bosom, being determined not to be taken alive. He was stretched in the far corner of the wagon, half covered with packages and straw. In going out, however, the other passengers left him almost uncovered. Quickly, and noiselessly, Louvet drew bundles and straw again about his body. Having examined the faces of all who had gone out, the officer asked if there was nobody else in the vehicle, and jumped in to satisfy himself. 'I both heard,' says Louvet, and felt him enter. He placed one of his feet on one of my legs. His hands tumbled over the large packages heaped behind the back-seat; he struck the seats with many blows, at the foot of which I was lying, among a number of little bundles. Protecting Heaven! his feet could not feel me, his hands could not touch me, his searching eyes doubtless passed over me, but he did not see me. Had he stooped the least way, had he looked upwards from below, had he deranged a few straws, or lifted up the flap of the greatcoat, all would have been over with me!' The officer left the wagon, and let it pass. To the credit of his fellow-passengers, none of them shewed any disposition to betray Louvet, either on this or other occasions.

The proscribed deputy, for whom every officer of justice in the kingdom was on the watch, at last got safe to Paris in spite of all dangers. But here a new distress awaited him. He found his wife at the house of a friend from whom he expected a safe asylum. He had not, however, been a few minutes in the house, until his host's terrors overcame all sense of friendship, and Louvet was requested to depart within a single half hour; but he refused to go till the ensuing morning, and his friend did not carry inhospitality so far as to inform upon him. In the morning, he found another refuge; and in a few days afterwards, his indefatigable wife had taken a lodging in a proper spot, and had, moreover, furnished it with a place of concealment, which rendered Louvet almost

secure. 'My wife's delicate white hands,' says his narrative, 'had never been accustomed, as you may suppose, to handle the plane, the saw, or the trowel; yet in five days more [after they entered the lodging] she finished, without the least of my assistance, which my short-sightedness rendered me totally incapable of giving, a piece of joiner's work and masonry on so correct and neat a plan, that her first attempt might have passed for the work of a master. Unless some one were known to be hid in that box, which appeared to be like a solid wall, in which a single crack could not be perceived by any one who knew not of it, I might defy the scrutiny of the sharpest eye.'

In this retreat, which he entered towards the close of 1793, Louvet remained in security for two or three months, trusting always that the wild convulsion would at length expend its fury, and be followed by a calm. Robespierre, however, still continued lord of the bloody ascendant, when, in February 1794, Louvet was compelled again to fly from Paris for safety. By the most cautious preparations, he made his way without much difficulty to the mountain caverns of Jura, where he found a comparatively secure retreat, and where he was joined by his wife. Their privations here were great, but their minds were at ease. From Jura, Louvet's narrative is dated, and four days only after the conclusion of it was written, Robespierre died on the scaffold. Soon after that event, France, it is well known, returned to a state of comparative repose, and Louvet, with many others, came forth from their retreats to enjoy the light of day in safety.

ODE TO YIMMANG RIVER.

BY AN AUSTRALIAN POET.

[From the following pastoral, it will be seen by the European reader, that there is something to captivate the admirer of nature in the woods and wilds of Australia, and also to afford an idea of the rural scenery on the banks of Hunter's River and its tributary the Yimmang.]

ON Yimmang's banks I love to stray,
And charm the vacant hour away,

At early dawn or sultry noon,

Or latest evening, when the moon

Looks downward, like a peasant's daughter,
To view her charms in the still water.

There would I walk at early morn
Along the ranks of Indian corn,
Whose dew-bespangled tassels shine
Like diamonds from Golconda's mine;
While numerous cobs outbursting yield
Fair promise of a harvest-field.

There would I muse on Nature's book,
By deep lagoon or shady brook,
When the bright sun ascends on high,
Nor sees a cloud in all the sky;
And hot December's sultry breeze

Scarce moves the leaves of yonder trees.

Then from the forest's thickest shade,
Scared at the sound my steps had made,
The ever-graceful kangaroo

Would bound, and often stop to view,

And look as if he meant to scan

The traits of European man.

There would I sit in the cool shade,
By some tall cedar's branches made,
Around whose stem full many a vine
And kurryjong their tendrils twine;
While beauteous birds of every hue-
Parrot, macaw, and cockatoo-
Straining their imitative throats,
And chirping all their tuneless notes,
And fluttering still from tree to tree
Right gladly hold corrobory.1

Meanwhile, perched on a branch hard by,
With head askance and visage sly,
Some old Blue-Mountain parrot chatters
About his own domestic matters:
As how he built his nest of hay,
And finished it on Christmas-day,
High on a tree in yonder glen,
Far from the haunts of prying men :
Or how madame has been confined
Of twins-the prettiest of their kind—
How one's the picture of himself—
A little green, blue-headed elf—
While t'other little chirping fellow
Is like mamma, bestreaked with yellow :
Or how poor Uncle Poll was killed
When eating corn in yonder field;
Thunder and lightning!-down he fluttered-
And not a syllable he uttered,

But flapped his wings, and gasped, and died, While the blood flowed from either side! As for himself, some tiny thing

Struck him so hard, it broke his wing,

So that he scarce had strength to walk off!
It served him a whole month to talk of!

Thus by thy beauteous banks, pure stream! I love to muse alone and dream,

1 Noisy chatter.

At early dawn or sultry noon,
Or underneath the midnight moon,
Of days when all the land shall be
All peaceful and all pure like thee !

THE JOHN OF BELFAST.

Ir was at an early period of the present century, that my acquaintance with the ocean commenced. Circumstances required my presence in South America, and I sailed from the Thames in a large merchantman bound for Demerara, touching at Kingston, Jamaica, on our way. The first part of our voyage was favourable. We ran out of the Channel with fine easterly breeze, which continued until we had fairly cleared the Bay of Biscay. This lucky beginning, however, soon received a check. A south-wester met us in the teeth, which lasted for a whole fortnight, blowing during almost the whole time a heavy gale. We had nothing for it but to lie to; and it was now that, for the first time, I had an opportunity of contemplating the much-resounding sea,' as Homer terms it, in all its stormy grandeur. We had a full complement of passengers; and my berth was a sofa on the starboard side of the after or captain's cabin. Another passenger occupied the sofa on the larboard side; and the captain himself had a couch made up on the bulkhead right astern. I was awaked about midnight by the mate reporting to the captain that a heavy gale appeared to be coming on.

'From what quarter?'

'Right ahead, sir.'

'Call up more hands then,' rejoined the captain; and, springing up, proceeded to hurry on his clothes.

Ere he had half completed this business, however, the squall was upon us; the ship was in an instant thrown almost right on her beam-ends, and myself nearly pitched