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LOUISE.

I firmly believe all she told us ; and though my father. used to say it was all a dream or the effects of imagination, I always saw too many concurrent circumstances attending it to permit me to think so." New Monthly Magazine.".

THE WANDERER.

FLOAT on, float on, thou lonely, bark,

Across the weary brine;
I know not why I load thee with

Such cheerless freight as mine.
I know not why I wander forth,

Nor what I wish to see;
For Hope, the child of Morn and Mist;

Has long been veiled from me.
Little reck I for ruined towers-

They may be very fair-
Let poet of let painter rave,

I see but ruin tbere.
I think npon the waste above,

And on the dead below;
I see but human vanity-

I see but human woe.
And cities in their hour of pomp,

The peopled and the proud-
What are they? mighty sepulchres.

To golf a wretched crowd.
Where wealth and want are both accurst,

Each one the worst to bear;
Where every heart and house are barred

With the same solid care.
And, fairer scenes—the vine-wreathed hill,

A gold and ruby mine,
Grapes, nature's jewels, richly wrought

Around the Autumn's shrine:
The corn-fields' fairy armory,

Where every lance is gold,
And poppies fling upon the wind

Their banner's crimson gold.
The moon, sweet shadow of the bun,

.On the lake's tranquil breast;--
Too much these gentle scenes contrast.

My spirt's own unrest,
And must I be what I have been,

And not what I am now,
Ere these could call a smile, or chase

One shadow from my brow.
I must lay in some nameless sea.

The ghosts of hopes long fled ;
Efface dark memory's scroll, and leave

A shining page instead.
I must forget youth's bloom is fled,

Ere its own measured honrs ;
I must forget that summer dies,

Even amid its flowers.
And give me more than pleasure's task-

Belief that they can be ;
Then every spreading sail were slow

To bear me on the sea.
But now I care not for their course;

Wherever I may roam,
I bear about the weariness

That haunted me at bome.
I may see all around me changed,

Beneath a foreign sky;
I may fly scenes, and friends, and foes—,
Myself I cannot ily.

L. E; L.

While I was travelling on the continent, I was one afternoon detained by an accident, which happened to the vehicle in which I was journeying. Having vented a little of my spleen, by grumbling at the vile rough roads which had occasioned this mishap, I went into a small auberge by the road side; but, instead of being thankful that I had been within reach of even this shelter, I was in no very enviable humour when I had seated myself in a small, but very neat room. What with the jolting of the carriage, and the bruises I had received from the accident, in addition to my succeeding illtemper, I was really far from well; so having ordered some coffee, I tried to sleep, but tried in vain; and, therefore, inquired of the landlord if he could lend me a book. He said, he would ask his daughter Marion, who, he thought, had one or two; but, for his own part, he never did, and, moreover, searcely could, read In a short time, the spruce Marion--by the bye, a. pretty, simpering, arch-looking, bright-eyed creaturen brought me three or four by no means clean or well. conditioned volumes. Out of these, I selected the one most thumbed and dogs-eared,' because it, if I migbt. judge from those symptoms, was, probably, the most interesting. Marion approved of my choice, saying that it was a very tender and mournful, and she had no doubt a true, narratife : after this summary critique she continued lingering about the room ; so I asked her to sit down, and read it tenderly to me, accompanying my request with a kiss, which she half-pettishly denied, and half-bashfully received. She then while I was taking coffee, which she eonsented to share with me, read a history, which made so deep an impression on my mind, that I even now recollect it suffieiently well to be able to give my readers an idea of its leading features. The characters are taken from humble life; but, although it may be the fashion to imagine that the peasantry have less sensibility, because they have less refinement, than their more accomplished superiors in station, still there is no paucity of instances among them of greater real feeling, sympathy, and affection, than exist in the higher classes : in the former, almost all is unadulte rated, because there is no incentive for display--in the latter, the greater part springs from affectation, and the longing after notoriety. But to my tale.

A mutual affection had existed from their childhood between Henri Merville and Louise Courtin ; their respective parents were near neighbours, and on very friendly terms with one another; they, therefore, watched the infantile attachment of their children with great pleasure, and with more self-congratulation did. they perceive that growing with their growth, and strengthening with their strength, it had ripened into an ardent and deep-rooted passion. When Henri, how.. ever, had attained his twentieth year, Lonise being also, only seventeen, it became necessary that he should leave the humble village of Verny, and perfect himself in his trade as a cabinet-maker, by visiting and working in some large and opulent towns. The lovers, amid their increasing happiness, had never thought of this longti separation ; so that when Henri was told by his father that he must leave home, and be away three years, and Louise informed by her mother of the same circumstance, the intelligence came upon them like an earthquake.

Woman's feelings are more easily excited, and Louise an engagement with a person who had a very extensive felt as if Verny would be a desert without her dear business, of the name of Gerval, for the remaining period. Henri ; he too was sad enough, although the prepara- His master preferred cards and the bottle to work, and tions for his journey occupied the greatest portion of finding Henri honest and attentive, was anxious to retain his time and prevented him so continually thinking of him in his situation. He had a daughter, named the separation as she did. Grief and regret were use- Annette, a quick, lively, and fascinating girl, frequently less; the parting hour arrived, and the now miserable in the workshop with him. Gerval observed, and by pair were left to themselves. Henri was endeavouring no means discouraged, this, thinking that, even after to console the wretched girl, but she remained pale and all, his assistant would become neither a bad partner motionless; the roses of delight had faded beneath the for Annette nor himself, and that their intercourse, at tears that trickled down her cheeks, and her slender all events would keep away Louis, a former workman, form trembled within the arm of her lover, Three who had affected a great regard for his daughter, but years!' at length said she, sobbing, three years ! I,

• three years ! 1, possessed very little inclination to use the saw or plane. who could never bear to be three days without seeing Annette therefore, while Henri was working, bore him you; dear Henri, what will become of me?'_“You company, and read or sang to him, doing her best to must think of memof your friend-of your devoted make his time flit away; in the evening, when work Henri,' replied he, affecting a firmness which the fal. was over, she would, with blended bashfulness and tering tone of his voice belied ; you must say to pertness, take his arm, and show him the most pleasing yourself, Henri loves me he is thinking of me-- he is walks ; or play with him at battledore and shuttlecock counting every moment previous to that of his return. in front of the house. All this attention was very deThat sweet delightful moment will arrive, my darling lightful to Henri, particularly as it proceeded from so Louise; I shall come back a more skilful workman, interesting a creature as his present companion. Are, and, my girl, think of this -better able to increase our then, Verny and the sorrowful Louise quite forgotten? comforts, and to render you happy.' Louise bowed her It must be confessed, that they almost escaped his head: she would have preferred less skill, less pros- memory, when thus employed with Annette; but, to do pective happiness, so that her Henri could have remained him justice, in the solitude of his chamber he exwith her; but their parents' wishes must be attended périenced feelings almost akin to remorse; often in his to, and their orders obeyed. They mutually made vows dreams did he behold Louise, ever tender, ever affecof eternal constancy and fidelity; as is the custom in tionate, as in their infancy; this vision was recalled the provinces, they exchanged rings, and became rather when he awoke, and he rose, vowing that she should more resigned to their unaroidable separation. Louise never have a rival in his heart: but Henri was young, on her part, promised to employ this long interval in Louise two hundred miles off, and Annette only two preparations for rendering their household neat and

steps. comfortable, and he, with a kiss, said, “ This ring, Gerval, to keep away all aspirants, gave it out that while reminding me of my love, will make me more atten- they were betrotbed, and especially informed Louis, tive to my business. Their projects respecting occu- the dismissed swajn, of this engagement, who, in conpations which concerned their future union soothed sequence thereof, immediately left Lyons. Henri's time, their parting, inasmuch as it made him think of a time meanwhile, was passing away; he had received some when they might meet to part no more.

very tender letters from Louise, and had written to her, Henri at last departed, and was ten miles from bat less frequently than he would have done if Annette Verny before he could comprehend how he had sum- had not occupied his leisure hours. Having, however, moned up resolution enough to leave it. Louise, shut received no intelligence from Verny for more than three up in her little room, was weeping bitterly, and felt no months, he began to be disquieted, and determined to inclination to go out, since she could no longer meet leave Gerval, notwithstanding all Annette's attractions. Henri; but, in a short time, both of them, without To be sure, he found her very pretty and agreeable-he feeling less regret, bethought themselves of making the had romped and flirted with her but had never, for a wearisome interval useful to their future prospects. moment, thought of marrying her, and had, strictly She, faithful to her sorrow, and yet intent on her pro- speaking, been faithful to Louise. Judge then of his mised preparations, was scarcely ever idle, and never surprise, when, one night, Gerval returned home, halffelt so happy as when at her work, or on gazing on the drunk, caught and threw away the shuttlecock, and ring her lover had given her, with the passionate de. asked them if they were not beginning to think of a votion attendant on a first and deep affection:

more serious game, 'Well, children !' said he, “when's

the wedding to be? Here, spring's come, so it's just "Oh! only those, Whose souls have felt this one idolatry,

the time for it. Master Henri, your engagement's up; Can tell how precious is the slightest thing

you must enter into another, for life, with Annette. Affection gives and ballows!'

Why don't you answer? and you, you little stupid thing, but, above all, did she feel a pensive pleasure in saying

come and embrace your old father, instead of twisting to herself every evening,' another day is gone!'

and twirling your apron about in that foolish way.'

Annette threw herself into her father's arms; Henri, Heari, also, counted the days passed afar from his beloved, but did not give up all his time to sadness ; in pale as death, hid his face with his hands, and knew

not how to articulate a refusal; and Gerval, at the separations, the person who goes is always the most quickly consoled; he had never been far from his native sight of this confusion, burst into an uncontrolable fit village; he was gratified at the sight of new countries, of laughter, • You put me in mind,' said he at last, and busied in observing fresh manners and strange cos

• of one of those ninnies of lovers on the stage, who

throw themselves on their knees before their mistresses, tumes. During the first eighteen months, he travelled about from town to town; but at last, in Lyons, made

as if they were idols. Come, my lad, embrace your

betrothed-change rings—and long live joy, for it costs Before he could reach the inn, which was at the other nothing.' The words ' exchange rings restored Henri end of the town, he had to pass by the church and to his senses, for he thought he beheld his beloved burial-ground; the former seemed full of women, and Louise, amid her tears, softly exclaim, · Dear Henri, in the latter there was an open grave. This melancholy what will become of me without you?' And this ring, sight rendered it evident that some one was dead; that too, which was asked from him, was the self-same one her loss had suspended the public joy; and the bouquet, that he had received from her!-He immediately ad- enci reled with crape, had been planted before the · house dressed Gerval in a firm, yet touching, tone of voice, of mourning, Henri felt depressed; but his pensive. and, having thanked him, told him he should never ness gave way to a sensation of delight that he was not forget his friendship and his kind intentions; that he at Verny. Good heavens!' thought he, “if, on my should always love Annette as a sister, but that he arrival, I had seen a sepulchre, what would have been could not marry her, because he was already engaged my alarm ? and, oh! if that melancholy tree had been in his own native place. He requested him to ask his

before

my

beloved's door! This idea brought on his daughter if he had ever said a single word about mar- former depression; he in vain tried to rally his spirits, riage to her; he might, indeed, have added, that he had by thinking that he knew nobody at Nuneville; his often spoken to her of Louise, and showed the ring, heart remained saddened, which feeling he naturally about which she has teased him ; but he did not wish to attributed to the striking contrast between the predraw the old man's reproaches on her. These reproaches parations for the festival and those occasioned by this all fell on him; he bore them, however, with so much young person's decease, He entered the church-yard gentleness, that Gerval, who was a good sort of fellow,' -groups of females were walking there—the moon was was, in the end, affected by it. Go, then, aud marry at his full : its mild lustre was reflected on their halfyour bethrothed,' said he, in a half-friendly, half-vexed, veiled countenances, through the foliage of the sur. tone ; • since it is not Annette, the sooner you set off rounding trees, and gave them a tinge of paleness the better. I must say, I shall regret you ; and you congenial with the mournful circumstances under which may, perhaps, sometime or other, regret old Gerval and they were assembled. They were conversing in a low his daughter!

tone, and Henri discovered that the deceased was young Henri took his departure on the next day, quite over- and beautiful ; and that she had been the victim of a powered at the idea of having bidden Annette adieu for misplaced affection : he could not restrain his tears, for ever. She also wept, but she was young, vivacious, he thought how near, perhaps, he had been occasioning and frolicsome-one of those volatile spirits that pass the death of his Louise. · But!' said one of the females, along the current of life without being much annoyed · why did she not imitate her fickle lover? Why did at its shelves and quicksands. Henri was not her first she not receive the addresses of your brother Guillaume?' lover-probably would not be her last. During the - She always told me,' replied Isabelle, the person ad. four or five first days, the young traveller was pensive dressed, and who was in deeper mourning than the enough: Annette's smiling countenance occupied his others, • that she could only love once, and that she thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble from himself had no longer a heart to give.'—Well, then,' said anothat he bad acted unkindly towards Louise — Annette ther, was she sure that her lover was faithless ?'will console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive 'Quite sure! She had long feared that he was, ; she ine?

Oh. yes !-she is so good; I will tell her every saw it in his letters, for when a woman like Marie thing, and she will admire my fidelity, when she knows loves, the heart divines every thing; still, however, she how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I flattered herself with the fond hope, that he would was placed.' Full of this fond hope, he pursued his return, and that her forgiveness of his neglect would journey more gaily, and the nearer he approached his revive in him all his former affection. Three months own dear province, the more was Annette effaced from ago this hope was destroyed, she heard that he washis thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him married. Since that she has only languished : she with the sweetest reminiscences. It was just the be. wished to live for the sake of her parents, but her grief ginning of May : each lover, on the first Sunday of that has proved the most powerful. “ He quitted me in the month, planted a young fir, or birch-tree, adorned with month of May,” said she to me; " in the month of flowers, before his fair one's door. Henri thought how May I shall quit life.” That time is come, and Marie many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise, is no more.'—' Tell us her whole history,' exclaimed and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next two or three of the listeners, at once :-Isabelle conday, that the loveliest girl in the village had had the sented ; they were crowding round her, and Henri was finest May-offering. Oh; could he but arrive soon approaching nearer, and redoubling his attention, when enough to announce his return in that way! He tried the funeral bell tolled drearily and solemnly. He to do so, but his efforts were fruitless; the first Sunday started, and Isabelle said, with a sigh, I must tell arrived, and he was still two days' journey from Verny. you my dear friend's story another time; we must now In the evening he found himself in a large town, called accompany her remains to her last sad home, and place Nuneville, fatigued with his now useless endeavours, these flowers upon her coffin.' and resolved to proceed no further that day. Every They walked on mournfully, two and two, and Henri thing seemed prepared for the festival —the street was followed them with an interest that he could not account neat and clean the fountains adorned with branches, for or define. The coffin advanced, preceded by the and decorated with large nosegays, tied together with priests, bearing torches that were obscured by the silbeautiful ribands—fir trees marked the dwellings of very light of the moon, it was carried by six men, and the young females-all had flowers around them, but among them it was easy to recognize Guillaume, by his he remarked, that one had only white ones on it, fas- profound sorrow; for, to Henri's great surprise, he tened with a crape riband—the street was deserted. alone wept. The more aged men who followed the

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corpse, the one even next, and who, of course, was the father or nearest relative of the deceased, had, like the rest, merely a composed and serious countenance, undisfigured by any great affliction. The body was lowered into the grave—the officiating minister made a brief, and somewhat cold; discourse on the frailty of life—the young females afterwards came forward, and each threw her wreath of flowers on the coffin--and then chaunted some rhymes. which, though only emanating from the feelings of a simple yet sensible village girl, affected the spectators far more than the commonplace address they had just heard.

• Just like the passing April shower,

Youth wanes and vanishes away; And, like the transitory flower,

Its charms bloom forth, and then decay. • Our life is but a sea of trouble

A sad, a melancholy scene-
A waning star-a transient bubble,

That leaves no trace where it has been. • Soon all our pleasure grief destroys.

'Neath it they fade to shine no more; Beyond the grave rest man's true joys,

His bliss begins when life is o'er. • For then the soul, that's undefiled,

Will ever glow in Heaven above; There will oor sorrows be beguiled,

And nought be felt but bliss and love.'

claimed Henri, growing pale as death, ‘Louise'- 'Yes Louise Courtin, of Verny! No sooner had Isabelle uttered these words, than she beheld the

young

traveller fall senseless beside the grave, feebly' repeating the name of Louise. Isabelle, in alarm, called her brother to her assistance; they raised up the stranger, who opened his eyes for a moment, and again muttered the same words. • Gracious Providence!' exclaimed the affrighted girl, . it is it must be-Henri!' The youth made an effort, and cried out, in a frantic manner: • Yes ! Henri, the murderer of his beloved—the assassin of Louise!' He then again fell down exhausted, and to all appearance dead. Guillaume had him conveyed to his father's, where every assistance that skill could devise was tendered him; but he only recovered his recollection sufficiently to learn from Isabelle, that a person named Louis had brought positive intelligence to Verny, that Henri had espoused his master's daughter at Lyons; that her father himself had made him acquainted with the circumstance, and that he had seen the newly-married couple in all the raptures of connubial happiness. It was impossible to discredit this news, which was a death-blow to the sensitive Louise.

Day by day
The gentle creature died away.
As parts the odour from the rose-
As fades the sky at twilight's close-

She past so tender and so fair.' After having listened to this melancholy narrative, Henri, when he had regained sufficient composure, entrusted Isabelle with his vindication, for Louise's parents and his own, and expired without a groan the next day. The same moon which had illumed his betrothed's fu. neral shone upon his, and they repose beside each other in the picturesque burial-ground of Nuneville, not quite forgotten or unlamented by its inhabitants.'

ON SOLITUDE.

It is not that my lot is low,
That bids the silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.

The grave was then about to be filled up—the noise of the earth, in falling, resounded on the coffin, and Henri shuddered. The crowd gradually dispersed ; Guillaume and Isabelle alone remained beside the tomb : Henri approached it, and Isabelle observing him, with a forced sipile, said, “ Did you know her ? I have seen you follow the funeral train with apparent interest, and now I behold you in tears; are you a relation, friend, or only even a native of the same place ?' Henri lis. tened to these questions with great surprise : 'I scarcely understand you,' he at length replied ; ' I am merely a traveller ; but the deceased was, doubtless, your friend ?'

— Yes, my best, my dearest friend ; yet our friendship was doomed to be of very short continuance. I was not at all acquainted with her, until, about three months ago, she came to reside with my father, who is a phy. sician, and to whose care her relations, when aware of her forlorn state, confided her. Oh! she was so meek, 80 patient, so grateful for our attention, that she soon won all our affections. Alas! her malady was in her heart, and that is incurable! Poor Marie, how great were thy sufferings, and how deeply do I regret thee ! Yet I wonder, sir, at your sorrow, unknown as she was to you;'— Her relations,' remarked Henri, • did not seem to be much affected ; they appeared, indeed, quite resigned to their loss.'— Her relations !' replied Isabelle, « she had none here—she was a stranger, and my father attended as chief mourner; he lamented her loss, but Marie was not his daughter, although I myself loved her as a sister.'- Marie! she was called Marie, but what was her family-name? Often shall I think of her unhappy destiny !'~Marie was only a name that she adopted, and we called her, because she could never bear to hear her own. " Isabelle," said she to me, almost at our first meeting, me as he who has destroyed me named me-never, I entreat you, call me dear Louise."'

Louise !' ex

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home,
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With ballow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without according sorrow's sigh !

The woods and winds with sullen wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

never name

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too ;
I start, and when the visions flown,
I weep that I am all alone.

KIRKE WHITE.

DOMESTIC USURPATIONS.

The queen-consort has suddenly become the queen

sovereign ; and Mr. Balderstone, like another Peter III., In the most of well-regulated families, the husband,

is thrown aside, in order that she may reign in his of course, is a person of most consequence. A wife,

stead. No one attends to him now.

The servants, to be sure, is a wife, especially if she be a lady. But

like. ungrateful courtiers, have forsaken him to pay still there is in general so much dependent upon the

homage to the usurper. He gets nothing that he industry of the husband, and so much influence does he wants ; no one will take his order—and he dare not possess, like the House of Commons, by his command ring. By day he sneaks about the house like a conof the purse, that, if he gets any thing like fair play, demned person, and at night he has to steal away with he cannot fail to be regarded with much deference by a paltry dip, stuck without supporting paper into an all the other members of the household. To his con- unclean candlestick, to hide his sorrows in some garret venience, or, as he would represent it, to the convenience room, where a wretched third-rate bed has been preof his profession, every domestic matter must be ac

pared for him, as a favour of which he is hardly wor. commodated. He has the unquestioned power of die

thy. All the respect with which he was formerly retating the meal hours. Servants must rise early or garded is now gone; he is not even allowed to the late, as he may choose to ring them up. The children

Prince of Denmark. All interest, all reverence, all must walk softly past his business-room if he has one; care and feeling, are concentrated upon Madame in the and Mrs. Balderstone must wait his time, before she best bed-room, and nothing remains for him but a can get his company for a walk. : If there by any thing grudged toleration of existence. Under such deplobetter than another at table, it must be devoted to him. rable circumstances, he might perhaps find some small Women can live on anything in fact, are not dining

consolation in the company of his elder children; but creatures at all; and wbenever Monsieur is from home they, from the very commencement of the revolution, a day, it may be observed that Madame contents her

have been banished the house-cantoned out among self with the simplest trifle in the way of dinner, trust

aunts and cousins, at the rate of one to each, except in ing solely to her evening cup of tea. But a man-body,

the case of Aunt Mary, a kind worthy soul, who has as the Scotch housewives say, is an entirely different

been favoured with the two youngest and most trouble. thing. He-must have something substantial, some

some, When he enters (what he has been accustomed thing nourishing and comforting, not only because he to consider) his own house, the very errand-girl, hired deserves it after his toils for the general interest, but in

for a week only, will chide him for the noise he makes, order that he may be able to continue those toils. In

and order him to take off his shoes. If he asks for his short, the first and best of everything must be surren

dinner, he is hustled into a side-room half filled with dered to him the arm chair by the fire in winter, the

lumber, all the better apartments being occupied with whole sofa for a loll in summer. If he comes home

the pomp and circumstance of the usurpation; and with any thing like damp feet, the whole house must

there he has to wait in grim patience, till some one dy to his rescue, and every thing be kept in a stir till chooses to remember his wants, and, after remembering, he has "changed" them. If he take any little illness,

is pleased to think of relieving them. Almost every the alarm and commotion are extreme-for he is compa

thing he does, every step he takes, every word he utters, ratively seldom ill, and much depends on his health. provokes some reproach from the powers that be : till While he lives at home, all goes on well, notwithstand

he is at last fairly scolded and gloomed out of all spirit, ing the great trouble which wives and servants and and could alınost wish that the day were blotted out of every body acknowledge he occasions. But if he be

the calendar when it was said that either a man-child absent, the dullnes and emptiness, the perfect stand

or a woman-child, as the case may be, was born. still of every thing, gives the house so hapless an as

The usurpation, it may be well supposed, is more pect, that all of them would far rather that he were at

passive on the part of Madame. In all probability, home. In short, under ordinary domestic circum

however, she has constituted a regent in the shape of stances, Mr. Balderstone is a troublesome, imperious,

a mother, or a skilly neighbour, or some other female monopolising, consequential, dear, delightful, indispen- hypogriff, who is sure to sway the new authority with

even a more uncompromising severity than could, under Masterful, however, as Monsieur may be in general,

any circumstances, be expected from the original there is one contingeney in married life which seldom usurper. Awfully impressed with the importance of fails to deprive him of his domestie sceptre. It is not

the occasion, this vice-queen moves solemnly but noisethat his wife rebels against his authority, or that his

lessly through the house, taking care that every thing children rise, a fierce democracy, and attempt to chase

is disposed with a regard to the service and comfort him from his throne. The revolution is accomplished

of her constituent, and repressing by the mere weight in an entirely different manner. Madame, in virtue of

of her most tremendous countenance the least rebellion a critical species of illness, suddenly becomes invested

of words, deeds, or things, against the one great cause. with all that interest which had previously rested upon

Monsieur, but yesterday perhaps, saw nothing in this himself, together with ten times more, derived from lady but a kind relation or a good neighbour, and he the circumstances in which she is supposed to be placed ; might now be disposed to treat her accordingly. But and all at once in one hour, one little hour-he feels in the brief space that has since elapsed, she has entirely himself deposed from his high estate, as effectually as changed her character. He now feels awed down by ever was Darius, king of the Persians. Yesterday, Monsieur was a man, a sovereign, a dietator: no one disputed his will or disobeyed his command; his * The corporation of some English city was showing all pos.

sible attention to Queen Anne, to the utter neglect of her every word was law; and there was nothing he wanted

busband, who, though a good-natured man, was at last song that was not sure to be at his elbow even before he had

by their disrespect, and exclaimed, “Why, gentlemen, recol. formed the wish. But to day, what a sad change! lect that I am at least Prince George of Denmark."?

sable person.

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