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governs me. She had a divine vision respecting M. Labadie, wherein she saw, in the spirit, a little man very busy, with a great pole in his hand, with which he strove to hinder the fall of a large building, or a church that was falling. She was fully persuaded from some conferences she had held with him, that this man had no other illumination than that of the learned of those times, reading, study, and barren speculation; and that he was in no respect enlightened by God, or directed by divine inspiration. She had formed a terrible idea of the principles of the Cartesians, who had the temerity to set up the light of reason as a guide. God, she affirmed, had shown, and even expressly declared to her, that this error of Cartesianism was the worst and most accursed of all the heresies that were ever in ' world, that it was a formal atheism or God, in whose place corrupt reaso Every kind of philosophy rence, while she de their malad" nrak

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ejection of was substituted. e held in equal abhorared to the philosophers that proceeded from pretending to comend all things by the activity of the human intellect, without waiting for the divine illumination of faith, which requires the sacrifice of our reason and weak understandings, that God may diffuse in our minds his divine light; that by the activity of corrupt reason, true knowledge is driven out of our souls; and that such reasoners are the real atheists and the contemners of God.

M.

She be

The conversations of Madame Bourignon with God were very frequent at Amsterdam, where she had many visions and particular revelations; and where also she composed many books, which were but little read by the worldly-minded burghers. de Cort died the 12th of November, 1669, and left his spiritual directress heiress to his effects; an event which exposed her to more persecution than she had even suffered for her doctrines, and involved her in many law-suits. Being at the same time in ill-health, and ill attended, she endured about this period great distress. In 1671 she left Holland, with an intention to go to Noordstrandt. She stopped on her way at several places in Holstein, where she found it necessary to dismiss some of her disciples, who, from sinister motives, had enlisted in her suite. gan to despair of collecting a flock of new Christians, when she perceived that everyone appeared solicitous only for his own interest and convenience. Her pen grew now so prolific and her productions so numerous, that she thought proper to provide herself with a printing house, from which her works issued in different editions of the French, Dutch, and German languages. Her tenets and her morals having been attacked by some writers, she vindicated herself in a performance entitled 'The Testimony of Truth,' in which the clergy were treated somewhat severely. This was certainly not the way to remain at proper peace. Two Lutheran ministers took up their pens, and entered the lists against her, declaring that many persons had been beheaded and burned, whose heresies were more tolerable than those of Madame Bourignon. The Labadists also wrote against her, and her press was ordered to be shut up.

In December, 1673, she retired to Flensburgh, where her enemies stirred up the people against her; she was accused of sorcery and witchcraft, and compelled privately to retreat; persecuted from town to town she was at length obliged to quit Holstein, and to take refuge in Hamburgh, where her arrival was no sooner known than endeavours were used to seize her. Having concealed herself for some days, she fled to East Friesland, where the Baron of Lutsburg The direction of an granted her his protection. hospital was here given to her, to which she conseIf she reserved crated her industry and her cares. her purse on this occasion, she gave for it two reasons, both of which, it must be allowed, are admirable: First, she alleged that her effects had already been dedicated to God for the use of those persons who sincerely sought to be true Christians; and, secondly, that men, and all things human, were inconstant, and not to be trusted. To this she added, that these poor people lived like beasts, who had no souls to save; and that she would rather throw her goods, which had been consecrated to heaven, into the sea, than bestow on them the least mite. Her followers The people, also adopted these prudent maxims. who understood not these refinements, were disgusted with what they profanely called the sordid spirit of Madame Bourignon: the authority of the Baron de Lutsburg proved insufficient for her protection; she again became the object of persecution, and was again compelled to fly.

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In 1680, she passed once more into Holland, whence she departed to Franeker, in the province of Friesland, where, on the 30th of Octob er, in the same year, she took a final leave of the world. Her constitution had been so good, that in spite of all her vexations, and of a choleric an morose temper, she appeared at sixty years of age to be no more than forty. Her birth, the time of her commencing author, and her death, were earn signalized by the appearance of a comet; a circumstance which could not fail of proving favourable to the promulgator of a new religion

She is said to have exercised over her family and

servants "a government as cruel as that of the Sicilian court; " and to have justified this humour, so contrary to the meekness of the Gospel, by maintaining, that anger was the love of justice and true virtue; and alleging, as an example, the rigors used by the prophets and apostles. Having suffered some depredations upon her property by the dishonesty of those about her, she manifested a revengeful and vindictiv spirit, severely censuring her friends for not n

must prevent evil, said she. our might, wherever which an extr

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these wretches with all the severity of ursuing ne law. We and oppose it with all It is found. Her system,, of ct has been already given, bore a rece to that of the Quietists, excluding exteral worship, and requiring a cessation of the powers of the human intellect, that God might fill the mind with his divine light. She had also some very singular notions respecting Antichrist, whom she was persuaded would be a devil incarnate, or produced by a demoniac human generation. She was inveterate against the church of Rome; nor did she treat the She Protestant societies with greater moderation. beheld this Antichrist, or devil incarnate, in a vision, from which she described, in verse, his stature, complexion, and hair,

Her writings appear to have made more proselytes than her discourses: she had, after her death, many disciples in Scotland, both among ecclesiastics and laymen. One of her principal works, intitled The Light of the World,' was published in that country in 1696, to which the translator added a long preface, declaring, "that the maid ought at least to pass for an extraordinary prophetess." A controversy afterwards took place, respecting her doctrines, on the part of Mr Charles Lesley, a man of learning and merit, who exposed their absurdity, and Dr Cockburn, against Messrs Paret, de Cort, and the English translator of the Lux Mundi,' who endeavoured to prove that Antoinette was divinely inspired, and had received a commission from God to reform the Christian world. The Bourignonists replied in an The remains of this disapology for their leader. pute still exist in some parts of North Britain.

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The Will of Aristotle.-Antipater, the regent of To his second Macedonia, is appointed his executor. wife, Herpylis, he leaves the choice of two houses, the one in Chalice, the other at Stagira. He commends her domestic virtues, and requests his friends to distinguish her by the kindest attention. To Nichomacus, his son by Herpylis, and to Pythias, his daughter by his first wife, he bequeaths the remainder of his fortune, excepting his library and writings, which he leaves to Theophrastus. desires that his daughter shall be given in marriage to Nicanor, the son of his benefactor, Proxenus, or should he not be inclined to receive her, to Theophrastus, his esteemed pupil. The bones of Pythias (his first wife) he orders to be disinterred, and buried with his own body, as she herself had desired. None of his slaves are to be sold; they are all either emancipated by his will or ordered to be set free by his heirs, whenever they shall become worthy of liberty. Finally, he orders that the dedications which he had vowed for the safety of Nicanor be presented at Stagira to Jupiter and Minerva.-Lives of Zoologists. [The passage we have marked in italics, sh light in which females were regarded in those days; yet Aristotle manifests an affectione te disposition in this will, and even a respect tovards the sex, and probably was thought to manifest both in this very part of the determination of his property. His daughter would be thought well ta'ken care of, however ungallant and arbitrary the nanner appears to modern opinion; and his wife, shows that she had some claims of equality, which her husband has affectionately remembered.

OWS the small

But the history of the progress

of human nature is full of these inconsistencies. Altogether this, will does great honour to the memory of a philosopher, whose heart and moral character have been much, perhaps invidiously, doubted.]

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ARISTO was generally frugal and not choice in his reals, though at times he ate much and hurriely, because, his son says, he was not then t'ainking of what he was doing, being busy in his mind about his verses, or about his plans for building. One day a visiter appeared just after he had dined. While they were conversing, the servant brought up dinner for the stranger; and, as the latter was engaged in talking, Ariosto fell on the viands laid on the table, and ate all himself,

the guest, of course, not presuming to interrupt him. After the guest was gone, Ariosto's brother remonstrated with him on his inhospitable behaviour, when the poet, coming to himself, exclaimed, "Well, it is his fault, after all, why did he not begin to eat his dinner at once?"Gallery of Portraits.

THE WEEK.

From Wednesday the 5th to Tuesday the 11th November.
DESCRIPTION OF NOVEMBER.-KEEPING BIRDS IN CAGES..

(From Mr Howitt's Book of the Seasons.'),
ve in a month of darkness, storms, and
awav of the withered lo
of the whirug

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nists;

...ves, and the

introduction of complete winter. Pain, hail, and wind, chace each other over the fields and amongst the woods in rapid alternatior.s. The flowers are gone; the long grass stands amongst the woodland thickets withered, bleaned, and sere; the fern is red and shrivelled amongst the green gorse and broom. The plants, which waved their broad white umbels to the summer breeze, like skeleton-trophies of death, rattle their dry and hollow kexes to the The brooks are brimful; the autumnal winds. rivers, turbid and covered with masses of foam, hurry on in angry strength, or pour their waters over the champain. Our very gardens are sad, damp, and desolate. Their floral splendours are dead; naked stems and decaying leaves have taken the place of verdure. The walks are unkempt and uninviting; and as these summer friends of ours are no longer affluent and of flourishing estate, we, of course, desert

them.

The country presents, in its silence and gloom, a. ghastly scene to those accustomed to towns and dissipation. To them there is something frightful in its solitude; yet, to the reflective mind it is, and has been, at all times grateful. In its sternest moods it presents solemn thoughts, and awakens solemn feelings. Great and philosophic minds have in all ages. borne but one testimony to the charms of its quietude. In its profound repose the mourner seeks to indulge the passion of grief; to it, the projector of some great work in art or literature flies to mature his labour, and, while hidden from all eyes, to achieve. that which shall make his name familiar to all ears; and to the poet, what is more affluent of imaginative stimulus and precious suggestions than strolls through wood, walks, mountain-glens, and along wild sea-coas's, at this season? The universal stillness is felt through the whole soul. Every object is exaggerated, and yet recommended to the eye through the media of gloom and mist; and while the eye, uns.conded by mind, would discern nothing but dreariness, he finds something congenial to the loftiest moods of his spirit, and is often led into strains, which, though solemn, are anything but sad. Fieldfares and redwings will be generally seen this moath.

Sometimes they quit their northern regions as early as October, if the season be very severe, but raore frequently they make their first appearance here in this month. If the weather be mild, they will be heard, as they sit in flocks upon the trees, warbling in concert very cheerfully in the same manner as before their departure in spring. Fine days will occasionally peep out so Spring-like, that the sky-larks attempt their flights, and sing merrily; but, perhaps the very next morning shows a landscape of frost and snow:

I saw the woods and fields at close of day
A variegated show; the meadows green,
Though faded, and the lands, where lately waved
The golden harvest, of a mellow brown,
Upturn'd so lately by the peaceful share.
I saw, far off, the weedy fallow smile
With verdure not unprofitable, grazed
By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each
His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves
That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue,
Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.
To-morrow brings a change, a total change,
Which even now, though silently performed,
And slowly and by most unfelt, the face
Of universal nature undergoes.

Fast falls the fleecy shower; the downy flakes
Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse,
Softly alighting upon all below,

Assimilate all objects. Earth receives
Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green
And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast,
Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.

COWPER.

The return of winter is pleasurable even in its severity. The first snows that come dancing down; the first frost that rimes the hedges, variegates the windows, or shoots its fine long crystals across the smallest puddle, or the widest sheets of water, bring with them the remembrance of our boyish pleasures, our slidings and skatings-our snow-ballings and snowrollings-our snow-man making-the wonders of hoar frosts of nightly snow-drifts in hollow lanesof caves and houses, scooped in the wintry heaps with much labour and delight; and of scampering over hedge and ditch on the frozen snow, that" crunched

beneath the tread," but broke not.

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are secured, and that like the bees in their hives, we
have not let th e summer escape, but have laid up
stores of sweetness for the time of darkness and
earth. In large farm houses, many useful avoca-
In some
tions may enliven the evening fireside.
districts, the men mend their own clothes and shoes;
in others, various repairs of smaller implements, as
flails, sieves, &c. are done; and it is now become a
laudable custom in many superior farms, to encou-
rage reading and other means of mental improve
ment, which the continual engagements of a rural
labourer preclude during the summer. The promo
tion of this spirit is highly to be desired; no part of
our working population having been so lamentably
deficient in common knowledge as that of farmers'
servants. Through the summer they have toiled
from morning till night, and from day to day inces-
santly, and their only intervals of rest, Sundays and
The
winter nights, have been lost in drowsiness.
cottager may usefully, by his winter fire, construct
With
bee-hives, nets, mole traps, bird-cages, &c.
any of these employments, I have more sympathy
than with the last, however.

Of all men who pursue rural occupations, the birdcatchers, especially the summer bird-catchers, are the least feeling. They do not capture birds when they have congregated in winter, when they have no mates or young to feel the effects of their loss, and are rearing for the table of the epicure, but take only singing birds, and take them too wherever and whenever they can, without regard to their having young, which may perish by their absence, or to that harsh change, from the full enjoyment of summer sunshine When I and pleasures to the captivity of the cage.

see their nets spread in the fields, where linnets, goldfinches, &c. resort to the seeds of grass, plantain, sow-thistles, &c., I wish them all manner of villanous ill-luck; and I never omit a favourable opportunity of deranging or destroying limed twigs, when they fall in my way.

There are none of our customs which more mark our selfishness than that of keeping singing birds in perpetual confinement, making the pleasure of our ears their misfortune, and that sweet gift, which God has given them, wherewith to make themselves happy and the country delightful, the curse of their lives. If we were contented, however, with taking and rearing young ones, which never knew the actual blessings of liberty, or of propagating them in cages or aviaries, the evil would not be so enormous. But the practice of seizing singing-birds which always enjoyed the freedom of the earth and air, in summer, when they are busy with the pleasant cares of their nests or young broods, and subjecting them to a close prison, is detestable-doubly detestable in the case of migratory birds. They have not merely the common love of liberty, but the instinct of migration to struggle with; and it may be safely asserted, out of every ten nightingales so caught, nine pine away and die. Yet the capture of nightingales is very extensively practised. The bird-catchers declare them to be the most easily taken of all birds; and scarcely can one of these glorious songsters alight in a copse or a thicket, but these kidnappers are upon it. Some of these men assure me that the female birds arrive about ten days later than the males, whose songs give notice of their retreats, on hearing which the females alight; therefore, when nightingales first appear, the bird-catchers are almost sure of taking only male birds, which, being the singers, are the only ones they want. The nightingale, a bird which God has created to fly from land to land to crown the pleasantness of spring with the most delicious music, or a lark which he has made to soar in the rapture of its heart, up to heaven's gates "cribbed, cabined, and confined," in a narrow cage by man, is one of Let those the most melancholy objects on earth.

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who have hearts for it keep them, and listen to them with what pleasure they may; for my part, while 1 am myself sensible of the charms of freedom, and of the delights of the summer fields, I shall continue to prefer the "wood notes wild" of liberty to a captive's wail.

Moles now make their nests where they lodge during winter, and which are ready to deposit their young in, the following spring. Salmon begin to ascend the rivers to spawn. Bees require to be moved under shelter, and their hives to be covered with their winter coat; pigeons also require feeding.

Many wild creatures now retire to their winter retreats. The frog sinks to the bottom of ponds and The lizard, ditches, and buries himself in the mud.

the badger, the hedge-hog, creep into holes in the earth and remain torpid till the spring. Bats get into old barns, caves, and deserted buildings, where, suspending themselves by the hind feet, and wrapping themselves in the membranes of their fore-feet, they sleep winter away, except some unusual interval of mild weather should awake and call them out for a little while occasionally. Squirrels, rats, and field-mice shut themselves up with their winter stores; and the dormouse betakes itself to slumber.

When the hedges are bare, numbers of old birds'nests become visible, and when they are near the grove they are found full of the 'seeds of the hips,

the field-mice being in the habit of climbing up the
hedges for this fruit, and using the nests as stations
where they may sit and eat.

Thrashing and wintering of cattle are now resumed.
Many operations of manuring, draining, levelling
ant-hills, and other inequalities, irrigating, ploughing,
and fencing, go on by intervals, as the weather per-
mits. Timber of all kinds, except those of which
Gates, crates, flakes, &c.
the bark is used, is felled.

are made, and fire-side occupations, making and
mending baskets, bee-hives, traps for vermin, &c.
fill up the long evenings. The business of the gar-
den this month is principally in preparing manure,
making all clean and neat, and defending plants from
coming frosts.

ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

XLIII. THE CONSPIRACY OF FIESCO.

BESIDES the reality of this event, there is something,
however brief, in the conjugal part of Fiesco's his-
tory, which comes home to the bosom of familiar
life; nor is the trivial accident by which he died
without its interest, as a circumstance contradicting
the historical grandeur of his attempt.

Giovanni Lodovico di Fiesco was a wealthy,
powerful, and ambitious nobleman of Genoa, which
may be called the land of political experiment, as
there is scarcely any form of government which it
has not tried.

After emerging from the yoke of the Romans, the Lombards, and Charlemagne, it has, at different times, been governed by dukes, by counts, by consuls, podestats, captains of the people, councils of twelve and of twenty-four, and by doges; but, in spite of every precaution, has alternately experienced the evils of family cabals, aristocratic usurpation and popular insurrection.

Andrew Doria, a name still mentioned in Genoa with reverence, seemed at length sent by heaven to rescue his country from foreign interference and domestic dissension. It was during this short interval of repose (1547) that the subject of our present article endeavoured to interrupt it, assisted by the intrigues of France and of Alexander Farnese, who then governed Rome and the Church, as Pope Paul the Third. Most conspiracies have originated from the grievances of an oppressed people, or the ruined fortunes of bold bad men and desperate individuals. But, at the moment of that insurrection which I propose to give a short account of, Genoa possessed more real freedom, happiness, and peace, than it had enjoyed for several centuries; and Fiesco united in an extraordinary degree the precious gifts of fortune, fame, person, and understanding.

In the prime of life, for he had scarcely reached his twenty-second year, blessed with the affections of a wife whom he tenderly loved, the beautiful, the virtuous, and tender Eleanora, and enjoying the friendship of his fellow-citizens, he was stimulated by ambition to aim at supreme power.

To effect this purpose, he joined an ardour, which no obstacle could resist, with a deep policy and premeditating coolness, which baffled or did not excite suspicion. Having secured men, arms, and gallies, and distributed corn and money, under the pretence of a charitable donation, he embraced every opportunity of displaying himself to the people in splendid attire, and mounted on horses richly ca parisoned, gaining the affections of all by gentle manners and graceful familiarity.

On these occasions, as he conversed with the citizens, he would sometimes lament the pride and oppressive conduct of the nobles, venture to hint that a remedy was not impossible; but, after a short pause, recommend patience and submission.

Fiesco continued to visit as usual the two Dorias, Andrew and Jeanetin, treating them on all occasions with marked attention and respect.

To prevent any suspicion being excited by exercising his vassals at his country seat, he complained that he had been insulted by the Duke of Placentia, when, in fact, that Prince had promised to assist him with two thousand men, and he was able to muster the same number himself; at the port and on board the gallies he had also many dependents.

To account for several of his armed gallies entering the harbour, he proposed cruising against the

Turks.

The fatal, the guilty secret had as yet been communicated to three persons only, Calcagno, Sacco, and Verrina, three of his most confidential friends in this unwarrantable proceeding; the two first deliberate, cautious, but determined; the last, haughty, furious, and bloody-minded; each of them considering the plot in which they were engaged as a means of gratifying envy and private revenge, more than the probability of its success; but all devoted to their leader by strong personal attachment and considerable pecuniary obligation.

After many consultations, the conspirators con

sidered the means they possessed as fully adequate to the object in view; and determined, if possible, to dispatch the two Dorias without further delay; as the vigilance, abilities, and patriotism of this family were the chief obstacles to their design.

For this purpose, they were invited to a public entertainment at the Fiesco palace; thus, a man of rank, education, and considerable moral rectitude, who, a few months before, would have started at injuring a fellow-creature in the slightest degree, was stimulated, by thirst for power, to stain his threshold with the blood of the venerable fathers of his country, and, under the guise of hospitality, to A sudden illness of Andrew commit assassination. prevented the execution of this part of their plan. Fiesco thought it necessary to discover the conspiracy to Paul Pansa, the friend and tutor of his youth, respectable for his age, his learning, and integrity, hoping that he would join and assist their counsels.

Pansa replied, that from the alteration in his looks, manners, and mode of speaking, and from his associating with persons of inferior rank and doubtful reputation, he had long suspected that a dangerous enterprise was in agitation, that he had forborne from delicacy, friendship, and respect, to enter on the subject; but, although he would not betray, he could not participate in the undertaking.

The good old man conjured him, by the honours of his house, by his friendship, by his belief in that ness of his life to inculcate and impress on his mind; holy religion, whose maxims it had been the busiby those locks which were grey in the service of his family, and, lastly, by his love for Eleanora; not to throw away the real and certain happiness he possessed for chimerical and hazardous expectations; which, if they succeeded, could not elevate him to a situation more splendid, honourable, and happy, than that in which he was already placed; but, if they failed, would be productive of death, infamy, and confiscation to all concerned.

That, to many of his associates, bankrupts in fame as well as fortune, and looking only to what they could get in a general plunder, massacre, and confusion, such considerations were useless; but that men like himself and a few others, who had something to lose, would do well coolly to weigh the consequences and hazard of so momentous and irretrievable a step; neither argument nor entreaty could prevail on Fiesco, and the worthy veteran departed from his palace in

tears.

The evening of the next day was fixed for executing their purpose, and a cannon fired in the harbour, by Verrina, was to be the signal that he was ready to

co-operate.

An entertainment having been announced, many guests repaired to the palace, which they found crowded with strangers and armed soldiers; the persons invited, being conducted to a spacious saloon in a remote part of the building, found the leader and principal conspirators assembled, when Fiesco thus

addressed them :

The hour at length approaches when you have it in your power to relieve Genoa from the yoke of a tyrannic and haughty nobility; in less than an hour our portion will be honourable death, or the recovery and establishment of our freedom on a glorious and eternal basis ;-this is the feast to which I have invited you.

The younger Doria has, for several years, been endeavouring to secure to himself and family absolute power; in order more completely to deceive, and that your chains may be indissolubly rivetted, he would establish despotism under the forms of a republic; considering me as one determined to oppose his designs, he has resolved to assassinate me, but I have hitherto been preserved by Providence from his stiletto, for the purpose of restoring you to liberty.

You are grievously oppressed by arrogant taskmasters, whose pride and hardness of heart will increase, should the Doria family succeed in their wishes.

If we succeed in the undertaking to which you are called, I will immediately restore the popular government; so well planned are our precautions, and so effective the means we have taken, that success and easy victory may be pronounced as certain.

The city guards and artificers are wholly devoted to my will; their number is nearly three thousand; these, with two thousand of my own vassals, and the same number from the Duke of Placentia, wait only for my orders.

Our designs are a profound secret; the enemy is off his guard, the danger, the difficulty, the expense and anxiety have been mine; to share in the glory, to rescue yourselves from slavery, and enjoy the blessings I offer, is your portion.

But, as I wish no man to engage who cannot cheerfully co-operate with hand and heart, should any person present be averse to the business in question, let them retire to a tower which adjoins to my palace, where they shall remain in safety till the short struggle is concluded, when, I pledge my honour, that they shall return unmolested to their families.

The guests, who had been invited, as they ima gined, to an entertainment, were motionless and

silent; but, when they had recovered from the surprize naturally excited by so unexpected a proposal, they declared, with the exception of only two citizens, that they would support the count with their lives and fortunes: the company then partook of a hasty repast, while to each of them his post and duty were assigned.

A hard, a painful task, still remained for Fiesco; the fever of ambition had not extinguished love; he repaired to the apartment of Eleanora, to which he had invited his friend Pansa for the evening, hoping that his interesting conversation and agreea. ble manners would prevent her from observing what passed; for, with a degree of cruel kindness, he had not yet given her any intimation of the conspiracy. Supporting, as far as he was able, the agitation in his breast, he communicated, in a few words, to the trembling Eleanora, the business of the night. Terrified and distracted, she rushed into his arms, conjuring him, by every tender tie, to abandon his enter prise.

The thunder of the cannon fired by Verrina shook the palace, and prevented further words; tearing himself from the friend he loved, and from the wife he adored, Fiesco returned precipitately, exclaiming, To retract, or even to deliberate, is now too late; success alone can prevent death and destruction; in a few minutes, you will be mistress or a widow of Genoa. Placing himself at the head of his companions, they instantly sallied forth. The city gates were immediately taken possession of, the galleries of the Dorias secured, and the populace in arms, crying out Fiesco and liberty, crowded through the streets; the wishes of the insurgents were accomplished. Jeanetin had rushed, at the first alarm, towards the harbour, but fell a sacrifice to popular fury; the venerable Andrew, sinking under age and infirmity, was safely conveyed by his faithful domestics through a postern, to his villa, a few miles from the city. The senate assembled to know their fate, but Fiesco, for whom everything had been in motion, was no more; in attempting to get on board a galley, a plank on which he trod, being insecurely placed, he fell headlong into the water; the tide was low, but the weight of his armour, the mud, and the darkness of the night prevented his extricating himself.

Thus, by an unexpected accident, which a little care would have prevented, perished an extraordinary young man, at once the ornament and enemy of his country; and his designs perished with him. His brothers endeavoured to take his place, but when the people heard that their favourite was dead, they retired, in sullen melancholy, to their houses, and tranquillity was immediately restored.

The senate proclaimed a general pardon, by sound of trumpet, and the friends of the republic mingling

their tears with those of Andrew Dorea for his ne

phew, and Paul Pansa for his friend, soothed, by every means in their power, the sorrows of the widowed Eleanora.

PRETTY STORY OF AFFECTION IN CHILDHOOD.

(From Mr Clarke's Adam the Gardener.')

[Concluded from last week's Journal.] THE Vessel just then requiring the captain's attention, he left the little boy, bidding him rest himself, as he would have a long way to walk soon. So John threw himself again upon the boat-cloak, where he slept soundly some hours.

He was awakened by a loud confused noise, and, starting upon his feet, he found that the vessel was alongside the quay in the port of Boulogne, where a great number of people were assembled to witness the arrival of a steam-packet from London. All these people seemed to be talking at once, and at the very top of their voices. He saw some men dressed in green coats adorned with silver, with canes in their hands, who seemed to be ordering every one about, and now and then some of them conducted the people who left the packet boat, to a small house at a little distance, surrounded with white pillars. There were some strange-looking women, with very short dark-blue woollen petticoats on, curious little figured cotton caps on their heads, very long gold ear rings, round baskets strapped to their backs, and heavy wooden-soled slippers on, which went clicket-i-clack, clicket-i-clack, every time they moved a step, and added to the noise they made by screaming and bawling to each other. Then he noticed a number of young men and boys who held little cards in their hands, which they seemed to be endeavouring to force upon every one who landed, talking, like all the rest, as loud as they possibly could. Even some fishermen and sailors, who were assisting Bontemps to moor his boat, all shouted in the same high tone of voice as every one else. John Barton could not help remarking how different they were from the English sailors at Dover, who seemed to do double the work, though they spoke not a word, perhaps, the whole time, much less made such a bustle and hub-bub as these strange sailors did. What made all this noise seem still more confusing to little John was, that not one word of what

he heard around did he understand. No; nothing was spoken everywhere about him but French ;-he was now in France! He felt still more helpless and desolate when he had taken leave of his kind friend, Jacques Bontemps, and was wandering along one of the streets of Boulogne, uncertain which way to go; however, he was determined to keep up his spirits, and not to give way to fear and anxiety till there should be real occasion for them. He now began to feel extremely thirsty, and therefore looked about for some place where he might get a draught of water or milk, but it was in vain; there was not a single shop which seemed at all likely to sell anything of the kind. At last he determined to ask, as well as he could, for some at the first shop he should come to of any kind. It happened to be a baker's; he went in, and stood opposite to a woman, who said, Eh, bien ! que voulez vous ?*

John Barton put his finger to his mouth to signify what he wanted.

Ah, vous avez faim; vous voulez du pain? † said she, holding up a small loaf.

John Barton shook his head, still pointing to his mouth.

Allez, allez; je ne vous comprends pas, said she, crossly; and she pointed to the door.

John, disappointed, left the shop, fearing he should never be able to make any one understand him in France; he walked on, and at the end of the street came to a square open place that looked like a market. To his great joy he saw on one of the stalls some fine ripe cherries and strawberries, and upon producing a sous the woman placed in his hand a large cabbage-leaf full of fruit. As he was eating it, and thinking how much better his bargain was here, than the little paper pottles with, perhaps, half a dozen strawberries in them, for the same money in England, he saw standing opposite to him, at a small distance, a little beggar-girl, whose eyes were fixed longingly on the juicy fruit he held in his hand, but directly she perceived he noticed her, she hastily withdrew them. Her face was extremely pale and thin; her eyes, though of a beautiful dark brown, looked hollow and sickly; her clothes hung in rags about her; and her little tender feet were bare. John Barton went towards her, and held his leaf of fruit before her. She hesitated, and looked up in his face; he took her hand, which was hot and parched, and placing it among the tempting red berries, he said, Do eat some, little dear!

some more.

The little child, again fixing her large dark eyes and began to eat very eagerly, as if she were extremeon his, and, smiling, took some of the strawberries, ly hungry. When she had finished all the fruit that remained in the leaf, John thought she still seemed to be hungry, and asked her if she would not like again. I cannot make her understand me, thought The child shook her head, and smiled he, but I will buy some bread, which will be better for her, for I am sure she looks still hungry. He was accordingly going towards a shop, but, directly he attempted to move, the little girl shrieked out Reste donc, reste donc!§ and caught hold of his jacket lest he should escape. He took hold of her hand, and pointing to the shop, he led her towards it, and gave her a little loaf, which she eat as hungrily as she had before done the fruit. As John Barton stood watching his young acquaintance enjoy his present, he was delighted to see the colour come into her cheeks, and he felt very happy to think he had been able to help a poor little creature who was still more helpless than himself. He now began to think of continuing his journey; he therefore shook hands with the little girl, and kissed her, and then pointed that he must leave her. This, however, he could not do, for she placed herself before him, then ran round and put her arm in his, and led him on a little way, then stopped and pointed quickly from him to herself two or three times, and then, clapping her little hands together, and looking up in his face, she nodded and smiled, as if she had arranged that they should go together. John Barton could not help feeling pleased, that this little stranger had taken such a fancy to him, especially as he thought he should not be likely to take her from home, as, from her wandering about the streets alone and hungry, he did not think it probable that she lived there; and he found also, that he could make this little creature understand his meaning better than any one else he had spoken to since he had been in France. Well, they were just trotting off together, when suddenly John recollected, that he did not know which way he ought to turn to go toward Paris. He turned to his little companion and said, Paris, Paris, two or three times; then pointed to himself, and then all around. The child shook her head and smiled. Je ne te comprends pas, mon petit ami,|| said she.

John Barton did not know how to make her

* Well, what do you want?

+ Ah, you are hungry;-you want some bread? Go, go! I don't understand you. O, dojstay, do stay!

I don't understand you, my little frien 1.

comprehend his meaning, when just at that moment a stage-coach came by, and stopped just where the two children were standing. On it were some words in French, and among them was one, which John made out to be Paris; he pointed to it, and when the little girl saw what he meant she screamed out with joy, and exclaiming, A Paris! à Paris! 0, quel bonheur ! nous allons à Paris! she skipped about like a little mad thing.

John thus found out that the word Paris was written the same way in France as in England-but that the French people sounded it differently. The little girl now took his hand, and led him straight up the hilly street they were now in, and when they came to the top, she turned round and pointed across the town. John looked round and saw the wide sea, over which he had so lately passed, dancing and sparkling in the sunbeams, at a little distance off. The day was so clear, that he could distinctly see the cliffs of England; and as he looked upon them, he thought of his own dear mother, and prayed that he might soon return to her with good news. They then entered a gate under some huge walls, on the top of which the trees were growing; and after they had walked through some more streets, they came out at another gate like the former, and they found themselves on a straight road; upon which, at some distance off, John again saw the stage-coach travelling slowly along. They trudged on, keeping it in sight for some time, but it went much faster than they could possibly walk, and so it was not long before they lost it altogether; but still they kept walking on, John every now and then looking at his little companion, to see if she seemed tired. But, on the contrary, she appeared to be gay and brisk, and as if she had been well accustomed to walking; she now and then ran to the side of the road to gather the weeds which she would stick into John's hat, and then smile in his face, as if trying to show how happy she was. Once or twice she endeavoured to get his bundle from him, but when he found that she only wanted it to carry it for him, that she might save him the trouble, he would not let her have it, though she continually put her hand on it, crying, Je le porterai, te dis-je; laisse moi faire. However, when she found nothing could make him give it up, she ran and gathered some very large dock-leaves out of the hedge, and held them over John's and her own head to keep the heat of the sun off, all the time smiling, and playing several little graceful tricks, as if she mocked a fine lady with her parasol, to the great delight of our friend John, who, as he watched her sweet cheerful countenance and winning actions,

thought he had never beheld such a pretty creature
in all his life. Suddenly she stopped, and pointing
to herself, she said Julie, Julie; then pointing to him,
she looked up in his face with an asking look, to
which he replied John, for he could not but directly
understand that she meant to tell him her name and
inquire his.

Tchon! Tchon! Ah, que c'est drole! exclaimed the child, laughing, and again she frisked about; then she came back to him, and, stroking his face, said, in a half-laughing half-soothing tone, Ah, mon pauvre Tchon! $

Little John could not help laughing too, so he patted her on the cheek, saying, O you dear little Julie! which made her laugh and skip about ten times more; so these merry little travellers went on and on, for many a long mile, without feeling tired, so happy they were with each other.

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, when they began to feel both hungry and tired, so John began to look about for some house where they might rest and get something to eat; and as he spied a cottage at a little distance, he went towards it, and upon looking in, he saw a woman standing at a table, cutting some slices off an immensely large brown loaf, and giving a piece to each of her children, six of whom were sitting round the table, with a large bowl of milk before them. Julie, who had likewise peeped in, went towards the woman, and said something to her, when immediately the good woman came to where John was standing, and saying, Entrez, entrez, mon pauvre petit ami, she led him to the table, where she made him sit down, and placed a bowl of milk and two large slices of bread before him and Julie, all the time encouraging them to eat by her kind looks and tone of voice. They were soon quite at home with this good family, for though they could not make out a single word that John said, yet his good-natured face, and (to them) curious language, soon won the children to take a fancy to him; and as for Julie, no one could look at her beautiful face and winning manners without loving her directly. When they had finished their pleasant meal, John took out two of his sous, and offered

⚫ To Paris! to Paris! O what joy, we are going to Paris! I'll carry it, I tell thee; let me do it. French people who are familiar with each other, say thee and thou, not

you, as we do.

Tchon! Tchon! O, how droll!}

Ah, my poor Tchon!

Come in, come in, my poor little friend.

them timidly to the woman, who put back his hand, saying, Non, non, garde ton argent, mon garçon, tu en auras bien besoin; quant à moi j'en ai assez pour mes enfans, et pour un pauvre étranger.*

John could not understand the woman's words, but he saw by her action that she refused his money: he thanked her very heartily several times, hoping, by the tone of his voice, to make himself understood; and he took hold of her hand, and drew her face towards him, and kissed her very affectionately. The woman returned his caresses with a very gentle

manner, and then went towards a door at the other

end of the apartment. She opened it, and pointing to a small bed which stood in the next room, looked at him, and then spoke some words to Julie. John shook his head, in token that they had no place to sleep in, and the good woman seemed to settle that they should remain with her that night. Our two little travellers, after a good game of romps with the children of the cottage, on some hay, which was lying in a field behind the house, went to bed, and slept soundly till six o'clock on the following morning. The good woman having given them some bread and milk for breakfast, our two little travellers took an affectionate leave of her, and proceeded on their journey. We will not follow them day by day, in all their adventures: it will be sufficient to say, that what with John's good natured face, and frank active manners, together with Julie's pretty voice, and sweet engaging looks when she spoke to strangers for him, our two little wanderers were never in want of a supper or a bed. Once, indeed, they met with a very cross man, who would have nothing to say to them; so that they were forced to endure the pain of hunger, and to lie all night in the open air; but even then they were not down-hearted, for John luckily found some wild strawberries, which he gathered for Julie; and when night came, he made up a nice bed for her on some hay, which he piled up in the corner of a meadow, under a thick hedge, and covered her up with his coarse, but warm blue sea-jacket. It was, fortunately, a fine warm night in July, so that, instead of feeling sorry they had no bed, John could not help being very grateful and happy, as he looked up at the deep blue sky over his head, which was sparkling with thousands of bright stars. As he was silently thanking the kind and good God for his protection, and for his enabling him to help himself, and manage his journey so well as he had till now done, he suddenly heard voices on the other

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By being constantly together, and helping and loving each other, John and Julie at last became to understand each other's signs almost as well as by talking; and, by degrees, John learnt to understand a few words of French, and Julie of English.

At length, after about fifteen days' travelling, by the help of Julie's inquiring the way in all the towns they passed through, and by noticing all the stage coaches that passed them on the road, the two little wanderers entered the city of Paris.

Here then, at last, was our hero in Paris; at which place he had, for the last fortnight, been so anxious find out the French gentleman, who, he hoped, would to arrive. But how was he to proceed in order to be a friend to his mother? He did not even know his name, and as he looked at the rows and rows of houses that surrounded him on all sides of this imrecollected that he did not even know the name of mense town, his heart almost failed him, when he the street in which the gentleman lived.

However, he tried to keep up his spirits, for he recollected that he had never found grieving or crying do him any good, or help him forward in anything; so he began to think what he had better first do, in order to set about looking for the French gentleman. At this moment, a rude boy, passing quickly and unconcernedly, happened to knock down a basket of fine peaches belonging to a fruit-woman, whose stall was just opposite to the spot where our two little friends were standing.

John immediately, with his usual active good nature, ran to assist the woman in picking up her fruit, and replacing it in the basket; and she, after having bestowed a few hard words on the awkward boy, turned and thanked our hero, and then gave him a fine peach for his pains. John, although he felt

of the people who purchased them at the stall, and by going on all kinds of errands for her, when out of doors, and when at home, by rubbing the fruit, arranging it in the baskets for the next day's sale, picking out the best leaves and placing them among the fruit so as to make it look more tempting, besides various other little jobs in the household, which made him quite a valuable helpmate.

As for little Julie, she was not able to do much to assist, but her sweet merry face, happy voice, and playful gaiety, made her a most charming companion to their kind friend; and as for her young protector, John, he doated upon her more and more every day, while she, on her part, was so fondly attached to him, that she would never upon any account be prevailed upon to quit him. In all his walks, she accompanied him; during his work she would constantly sit by him, and either sing him some songs, of which she seemed to know an immense number, or merely smile, pat his face, chatter French to him, dance about, and in short use every means in her power to amuse and please him; or if he were sent on any message, she was sure to be trotting beside him, helping him to carry the basket or parcel, and trying, by all kinds of little winning ways, to make the way seem short and pleasant.

In the meantime, John Barton never for a moment lost sight of the main object which had induced ther, and his own home in the little cottage under him to come to Paris, so far from his own dear mothe cliffs. Whenever he was out, in all his long ramblings through the large city, he never failed to look at all the faces he met, in the hope of seeing describe as belonging to the French gentleman, who one like that which he had often heard his mother had been so much benefited by his father. Every name that he saw written up, he took pains to spell out as well as he could, for he thought he had heard his mother mention it, though he could not recollect the exact sound, and he thought that, if he were to see it, it might be recalled to his mind; these were very slender chances, and the poor little boy began at last almost to despair of ever succeeding, when an event occurred which proved that the good and kind God never deserts those who are really persevering, cheerful, and hearty in their efforts to help themselves.

One fine morning John was sent with a message from the fruit-woman to one of her customers who lived in a distant part of the city, and as he was returning through the Rue de he stopped for an instant to look at a handsome cabriolet which

side of the hedge. He listened, but could not make rather hungry, yet (as he always did, when anything stood opposite the door of a fine large house. Just

out a word, as the voices talked in French. He rose softly from his bed of hay, and crept to that of Julie, who was at a little distance. He awakened her very gently, and placed his fingers on his lips, in token that she should listen in silence. Julie, who saw his signs by the star-light, after having hearkened to the voices with great attention, suddenly started up, and drew John quietly, but quickly from the spot. He saw that her face was much agitated, and she looked pale and frightened. He had distinguished in the midst of the conversation he had just overheard, the name of the cross man, who had refused them a supper and bed that evening.

He particularly recollected it, because it was written over the man's door, Lion; and Julie had laughed when she read it, as if she had meant to say that it was a good name for such a cross person. Well, he now noticed that Julie was leading him back to the village where Mr Lion lived, and; that she at last stopped at his door. She knocked loudly, and at last the man came to the window, and asked, in a gruff tone, what they wanted. Julie only spoke a few words in a loud whisper, when he hastened down stairs, muttering all the way, Que Diantre! and Morbleu !+ and opened the door for them. After bringing the children in, he immediately called up some workmen who slept in the house, and placing them at the doors and windows, with sticks in their hands, he gave them some directions in a frightened tone of voice, and seemed to be expecting something in great alarm. They did not wait long before they heard a voice at one of the window shutters. All the workmen immediately sallied out, and after a short scuffle, they came in again, bringing with them two men bound hand and foot, who no sooner uttered a word, than John discovered them to be the same men whose voices he had heard in the meadow. He now found that Julie had overheard them plotting an attack on Mr Lion's house; and had, in fact, returned good for evil, by coming and warning him of his danger, although he had been so unkind as to refuse them a little food and a night's lodging. The man himself seemed now to be ashamed of his behaviour, for he pulled out a golden coin, and offered it to Julie, but she shook her head, and John stepped forward and put back his hand, for he would not be paid for doing a good action, especially by a man whom he did not respect, even

No, no, keep thy money, my boy, thou wilt want it; as for me, I have enough for my own children, and for a poor stranger.

+ What the deuce! and morbleu is another. French exclamation which it is impossible to translate-it is a kind of oath.

nice was given to him) he instantly gave it to Julie, because he thought that she, being a little girl, and weaker than himself, must want it still more than him.

The fruit-woman, who observed this action of his, was very much pleased, and exclaiming, C'est bien fait, mon petit ami, de la donner à ta sœur; tiens, en voilà une autre, pour toi-même, she placed another peach in his hands for himself.

While the children were eating their peaches, and still standing by the stall, a lady bought some fruit of the woman, and then wished to have it sent home

for her.

The fruit-woman, who liked John's honest face and his kindness to the little girl, desired him to carry it to the lady's house; and when Julie had made him understand what he was to do, he took the basket, and, accompanied by his little friend (who would never leave him for an instant), he followed the lady home. Upon his arriving there, he delivered the basket of fruit to a servant, and the lady, who was pleased with the two children, gave them each a cinque-sous piece.†

John, thinking this to be the price of the fruit, immediately returned with it to the fruit-woman, who was still more pleased with him, from this fresh proof of his honesty and goodness, He now made his usual signs to Julie, that she should inquire about a sleeping-place. He soon saw by the smiling looks of the good woman, that their petition for a night's lodging was granted, and he felt very grateful that they had so soon found a home in that great busy city, where everyone seemed to be so much occupied with their own thoughts and business, that John had felt much more solitary and neglected since he had come amongst them, than he had ever felt whilst he was travelling along through country roads, meadows, and had only come now and then to a cottage, where the people seemed to have more leisure and inclination to attend to him. In fact, the good fruit-woman had quite taken a fancy to the two strange children, from their honesty, good behaviour, and fondness for each other, and she felt scarcely less pleased than they did, when they were both happily settled in her nice little lodgings in the Rue.

In return for all her kindness to them, John endeavoured to make himself as useful as possible to her; and he really was a great assistance to his kind friend, by carrying the baskets of fruit to the houses

That's well done, my little friend, to give it to thy sister; hold, here's another for thyself.

↑ A small coin, worth twopence halfpenny, English.

at that moment a piercing scream from Julie made him turn his head abruptly round, and to his horror he beheld her stretched upon the pavement apparently dead! whilst a gentleman was bending over her, and raising her from the ground.

Mon Dieu! J'ai peur que j'ai tué cette pauvre petite!* exclaimed the gentleman.

John ran towards his darling little friend, and lifting her head gently in his arms, beheld her face perfectly pale and motionless. He burst into tears at this dreadful sight, and broke forth into reproaches against the gentleman, (who in passing quickly to his cabriolet, had knocked the little girl down,) forgetting that he was speaking English, and would therefore most probably not be understood.

However, the gentleman mildly replied in the same language, though with a foreign accent, My little friend, I am exceedingly sorry to have hurt your sister; but I cannot imagine how it is she fell, for I scarcely seemed to touch her; I think it must have been something else, and which frightened her, for the poor little thing is in a swoon. Baptiste,+ added he, calling to a servant who stood by, prenez cette petite bien doucement dans vos bras, et placez la sur la chaise-longue dans le salon.

The servant obeyed: and John, seeing they were carrying away his dear little Julie, loudly protested against it.

My dear little friend, said the gentleman, leading John into the house, be patient; we are only going to try to recover your sister from her fainting fit.

John followed the gentleman into a superbly furnished apartment, where he saw his beloved little friend placed carefully on a soft sofa, where she continued to lie for some time, perfectly still and pale. As John hung over her sobbing, and endeavouring as well as he could to assist in the efforts made by the gentleman and his servants to restore her, he at last beheld her colour come a little into her cheeks, and he had the pleasure of feeling her breath come upon his face, as she sighed and turned a little round.

Où est mon cher Papa? said she, in a faint voice, Jai cru l'avoir vu. Est ce un songe ?$

Grand Dieu! c'est mon enfant! c'est ma petite Julie ! c'est ma chere fille ! || exclaimed the gentleman, and

My God! I fear I have killed this poor little thing! + Baptiste (the name of the servant), lift this little one carefully in your arms, and lay her on the sofa in the par

lour.

Where is my dear Papa?

I thought I had seen him. Is it a dream?

Great God! it is my child! it is my little Julia! it is my dear daughter!

rushing to the sofa, he caught the little girl in his arms, and covered her with kisses, while she, in her turn, flung her arms round his neck, and stifled him with weeping and joyful caresses.

John in astonishment beheld this scene, and wondered what could be its meaning, when the gentleman, after indulging in a long embrace of his dear little girl, at last turned to where he was standing, and said, And how came you, my little Englishman, to be with my dear child? Is Julie your daughter, Sir? asked John in amazement.

Yes, my long-lost child, for whom I have grieved these last two years; and whom I feared I should never see again; but come, tell me how you came to be with her, come tell me the whole story.

John recollected at this moment, that his kind

friend the fruit-woman would be uneasy at his long stay, so he told the gentleman that he believed he ought to return to her to relieve her anxiety: but the gentleman, (though pleased with this instance of his thoughtfulness for an absent friend,) would not hear of his leaving him, and therefore he dispatched a footman to bid the fruit-woman not to feel anxious for the two children, as they were perfectly safe.

By this time the poor little Julie had quite recovered from the effects of her swoon, (which was only occasioned by the sudden shock of surprise and joy in seeing her dear papa after so long a separation), and she could now sit up on the sofa and talk, with her usual sprightliness, With her eyes and lips glistening with mingled new-fallen tears and beaming smiles, and her cheek resting on her kind father's bosom, she chatted away to him with such a happy tone of voice as made her father stop every now and then to kiss her for joy, and gave John a sensation of such proud gladness as he had never in his life felt before. And now, my fine brave little fellow, said the gentleman, turning to John after his daughter had stopped speaking, it is but fair you, who have been so kind a protector to my poor little wandering child, should be told who she is, and indeed her whole story, which she has just been relating to me, though I see you did not understand her; and you may be sure that in the course of her tale, she did not forget to mention your kindness to her, my little friend; at any rate, her father never will forget it. So saying, the gentlemen shook John Barton very heartily by the hand, and after doing so two or three times, he continued. Having lost my dear wife when my little Julie was very young, I was compelled to trust the child very much to the care of servants; and one afternoon, when she was about five years old, the maid who had the charge of her, returned home with the dreadful news, that, in the course of their walk, she had suddenly missed Mademoiselle Julie, and that she had searched everywhere in Paris for her, but in vain. The agony I then suffered, said the gentleman, looking affectionately at his little girl, can only be equalled by the delight I now feel in again beholding my child, whom I have so long mourned as lost to me for ever. Her loss was so sudden and strange, as to seem almost like a dream; no trace whatever could be discovered of the cause of her removal, and after the strictest inquiry and search were made throughout Paris, I was compelled to give up my efforts for her recovery, as perfectly hopeless. The cause of her extraordinary disappearance is explained by the account Julie has just given me. She says, that while she was walking with the servant in the gardens of the Tuilleries, she saw a very beautiful butterfly, which she begged the maid to try and catch for her, but as this latter was busily engaged in talking with some acquaintance, and did not attend to her request, she tried to run after it herself, and as she was pursuing it behind one of the many statues which adorn the gardens, a tall woman with glaring black eyes had started out, caught her up in her arms, and ran off with her as quick as possible; at the same time covering her mouth with her dirty brown hand so tightly as almost to stifle her, in order that she might not cry out for help. My poor little girl tells me, that from that day she went through the most shocking hardships; that the horrid gipsy used to beat her dreadfully, if she did not perform tasks which were much too hard for her possibly to accomplish; that she stripped all her own nice clothes off, and dressed her in filthy rags; that she used to make her walk miles and miles with her about the country, till her feet used to bleed, and till she was obliged to drop down by the road-side and cry for very weariness; and that she never gave her sufficient food to eat. This cruel usage was all because my child would never obey her in two things no threats, no entreaties, could prevail upon her either to beg or steal; both of which this wicked wretch wanted her to do, and had stolen her for the purpose. At last my poor little Julie found an opportunity of escaping from the power of this horrid fiend she ran away, but she had not wandered far, when she would have perished for want of food and protection, had she not met with you, my kind good little boy, to support her in her misery, and at last to conduct her to the arms of her sorrowing father.

* These are public gardeus, something like our Kensington

Gardens.

May God Almighty bless and reward you for it, and render your parents as happy as the possession of so good a son ought already to make them, and as he deserves they should be. But I have forgotten all this time to ask your name, my brave boy; twice in her life have I nearly lost my darling. Her first preserver I intirely lost sight of; but you, her second deliverer, must receive the reward due to one who has rendered so important a service to the now happy Béliard.

Béliard! Béliard! that's it! exclaimed John,

utterly regardless of the gentleman's question, I

And

knew I should remember it if I once heard it. is Béliard really your name, sir? added he, eagerly. Certainly, my little friend, answered the gentlemen, astonished; and what then? And you say you

nearly lost your little Julie twice in her life?-O, it must be, it must be! O, my dear, dear mother! my dear mother! exclaimed John, nearly crying with joy, as he started from his chair, and ran to the window, just as if he could have really looked out towards his own house and his dear mother. The gentleman, amazed at this strange behaviour of the little boy's, asked him what he meant by his exclamations, and also reminded him that he had not yet told him his name.

O, sir, I am almost sure you will remember it, for it was my poor father's as well as mine-John Barton.

Good heavens! and are you the son of that brave seaman who rescued my dear infant from the waves? Twice has my darling Julie been saved from perishing by the generous Bartons.

You may easily imagine, that Monsieur Béliard, upon discovering that the wife and mother of the two preservers of his child was living in want and misery, hastened to relieve her. On the very day following, he set out for England, accompanied by John and Julie, (whom he would not trust from his sight for an instant,) but not till he had first called upon the good fruit-woman and handsomely rewarded her for her kindness to the two children. He also stopped a day at Boulogne, for the purpose of recompensing the good Jacques Bontemps.

At last the impatient John had the happiness of again embracing his dear mother, for whom he had done so much, and of beholding her provided for comfortably, for the remainder of her life, by the generosity of Monsieur Béliard, and (as he could not help feeling), owing to his own exertions, his perseverance, his humanity, and his reliance on the good

ness of God.

TABLE TALK.

A True Lesson of Charity.-Let us be sure, our enemy is not that hateful being we are too apt to paint him. His vices and basenesses lie combined

in far other order before his own mind, than before ours, and under colours which palliate them, nay, exhibit them as virtues. Were he the wretch of our imagining, his life would be a burden to himself; for it is not by bread alone that the basest mortal lives; a certain approval of conscience is equally essential to physical existence; is the fine all-pervading cement by which that wondrous union, a Self, is held together. Since the man, therefore, is not in Bedlam, and has not shot or hanged himself, let us take comfort, and conclude that he is one of two things; either a vicious dog, in man's guize, to be muzzled and mourned over, and greatly marvelled at ; or a real man, and, consequently, not without moral worth, which is to be enlightened, and so far approved of. But to judge rightly of his character, we with our own; we must learn to pity him; to see must learn to look at it, not less with his eyes than

him as a fellow-creature, in a word, to love him, or his real spiritual nature will ever be mistaken by us. -Thomas Carlyle.

The better Part of Brahminical Teaching. Those Brahmins who are really learned, and such are by no means uncommon, have a nice perception of moral influence. They teach the doctrines of a refined practical philosophy, contending for inward purity and integrity of heart, as well as for external decorum of conduct, and there are many among them of very rare mental endowments. We find, moreover, many axioms of a high morality among their religious and philosophical writings. I take one at random from the institutes of Menu: "Let not a man be querulous even though in pain; let him not injure another in deed or in thought; let him not utter a word by which his fellow-creatures may suffer uneasiness, since that will obstruct his own progress to beatitude." There is a beautiful maxim quoted by Sir William Jones, and written upwards of three hundred years before the Christian era, which would do honour to any religious community-it pronounces the duty of a good man, even in the moment of destruction, to consist, "not only in forgiving, but even in a desire to benefit, his destroyer, as the sandal tree, in the instant of its overthrow, sheds perfume on the axe that fells it." These are the suggestions of no common minds, and whoever, in seeking to

ascertain the Hindoo character, shall judge of it from those with whom he may happen to come in contact, in passing rapidly through any part of their country, will be sure to look at it through a false medium, and consequently not appreciate it justly. If there be much to despise, there is also much to admire.. It cannot, indeed, be denied that many of their religious teachers are so ignorant as to uphold the most barbarous superstitions, which, of course, are eagerly received by the deluded multitude; but, it is equally true that, in almost every age of the world, they have produced learned men among them, who would have done honour to any country and at any period.

Oriental Annual.

Ducange and his Glossary.-Ducange was a worthy, well-bred, good-natured man; fond as he was of study, he always cheerfully laid aside his book to pleasure, which yet he could always postpone to sowelcome any visiters, saying, that he studied for his cial duties. The most remarkable particular we have of him is, that once having sent for some booksellers, he showed them an old trunk, telling them that it contained materials for a saleable book, and upon any reasonable consideration, they were theirs. The offer pleased, but upon opening the trunk they seemed to have been torn, and thrown by, as of no could only find a heap of flitters of paper, which

use.

Ducange, laughing at their embarrassment, told them again, I assure you, gentlemen, my manuscript is actually in that trunk. At length, one of discovered each to contain a word, with Ducange's them, upon a closer examination of some of the snips, remarks and illustrations upon it; and that all the difficulty would be to bring them into an alphabetical arrangement. Ducange's probity and erudition being well known, the bookseller, without any further explanation, made him a handsome offer for the trunk and its valuablecontents; and this is said to be the origin of Ducange's curious Latin Glossary.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We have not forgotten the poems of J. and M. S. nor is our opinion of them changed. They will be noticed again next week.

We do not recollect having seen the verses mentioned by B. W. C. M.

Our fair correspondent, E. F. A., has much gratified us by the interest she takes in our opinion on the point she speaks of, and will oblige us by putting in practice her kind offer of setting those right who have so strangely mistaken it.

If "One of the Million" will have the goodness to state explicitly his own opinion upon the point in question, we shall be the more easily enabled to give him an explicit answer.

We should have answered the question of ALEPH sooner, but doubted, from the way in which he put it, whether his object might not have been misconstrued in these advertising days. Our opinion is

that "emasculated editions" of such writers as Shakspeare are good, in order to enable every circle of readers to become acquainted with those works; while editions unemasculated are good also, in order that such works may not be at the mercy of different states of opinion, but remain capable of producing whatever chances of improvement and lessons of charity may be suggested even by the licenses of great minds. We must take the world liberally, as it is made.

There are people (at least it would follow so from their assumptions) who, in the impiety of their prudery, would cut and carve Nature herself, if they could; instead of seeing the manifest and kindly lesson taught us by her genial bosom.

A "first attempt" in praise of a native county can afford to be told that its versification requires more study.

The opening specimens of a new weekly publication have been sent us, intitled • Cumberland's Portrait Gallery.' It is written in a spirit singu larly commendable, that of an inclination to approve, combined with the power to object. We shall be happy to quote from it, when in the natural course of its variety it offers us subjects less political or

controversial.

Two correspondents inquire why we do not notice two several publications that have lately issued from The reason is, that it the pens of popular writers? is not a part of the system of this Journal to notice books that are not sent it.

LONDON: Published by H. HooPER, 13, Pall Mall East. From the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney-street.

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