both the consolation of a final interview. I was on the eve of setting off for her residence, in order to be myself the bearer of this heartrending intelligence, when I encountered the object of my anxiety wandering like a ghost through the streets of Angers. She had learned accidentally of her husband's apprehension and trial, and, like a faithful and devoted wife, had instantly hurried off to be near to comfort him in his last moments. Strict orders, however, had been issued to prevent all access to the prisoner, whose execution had been delayed until the result of an appeal he had made to Paris should be ascertained; and his unhappy wife, ready to catch at the slightest hope, had now resolved to repair to the capital in person, and solicit his pardon at the king's feet. This project she unhesitatingly communicated to me; and, struck by her magnanimity, I felt a spirit of errantry stir within me, and volunteered to bear her company.

Jacqueline had already made her preparations, and was urgent that no time should be lost. When I suggested the propriety of waiting until she had consulted with her father, she assured me that she had already secured his consent; and, moreover, that he had supplied her with the money requisite to defray her expenses. His own reasons for not accompanying her to the capital were too obvious to be disputed. He was known as an avowed Bonapartist; and instead of serving his daughter by appearing as her protector, his name was of itself likely to shut the ears of royalty to her petition. Under these circumstances he had left her to rely solely on Heaven and her own heroic spirit.

We departed by the earliest public conveyance that started for the capital; and though it was late on the third day before our journey terminated, my fair companion bore the fatigue of travelling and the agony of her own mind without complaint. She was no longer the timid, heart-stricken girl whom I had known under her father's roof, but the magnanimous wife, resolute even to death to succour her husband. As the vehicle in which we travelled emerged from the defile of Sevre, and the towers and palaces of Paris rose in splendour before us, I tried in vain to interest her by pointing out the more prominent features of the scene, and recapitulating the historical events with which they were associated. My Victor!-my Victor!" was her answer. "Of him alone I can now think. You tell me that yonder green meadow is the plain of Grenelle; alas! was it not there that Ney and Labedoyere perished? You say that these arches that span

66

the river are the bridge of Jena :--that yonder broad grove-surrounded field is the Champ de Mars:-but I only remember that at Jena my Victor fought his first battle; and that on the Champ de Mars he was the most admired of the host of warriors that swelled the last pageant of his imperial master's pride. Lead me! lead me to the Tuileries. It is there my fate must be decided."

I carried my charge to a hôtel in the Rue Croix des Petits Champs; and, leaving her to regain strength for the trials of the coming day, set off to learn how she might best obtain the ear of royalty. On this point I was not long in coming to a decision. A religious procession from the Tuileries to the Cathedral of Nôtre Dame was to take place next morning; and aware that no moment could be more opportune for working on the feelings of the king than that on which his mind was occupied by devotional enthusiasm, I resolved that poor Jacqueline should avail herself of it to make the essay.

Next morning the deep roll of the drums of the royal guard announced the approach of the important hour, and, with trembling hearts, we repaired to the Place du Carrousel. Jacqueline was dressed in deep mourning; and a long black veil, flung lightly over her simple yet becoming head-dress, shrouded her pallid but lovely countenance. I thought I had never seen one of her countrywomen equally beautiful. Her sable garments,-extremely rich of their kind, and conventual in their fashion,—gave an unusual air of grace and dignity to her tall, graceful form; and, for the moment, I could have imagined her the sister of those dark-eyed Andalusian damsels I used to admire so much when cooped up by the French within the walls of Cadiz. I had instructed her that she was to throw herself before the king at the moment he emerged from under the triumphal arch in the centre of the Place:-as to her petition, I left her own heart to frame it.

On entering the Place du Carrousel, that vast arena, so famous in the history of the national vicissitudes, we found the troops already marshalling, and the giddy, pleasureanticipating populace beginning to congregate. Cuirassiers, lancers, chasseurs à cheval, and several battalions of the Garde Royal, filed in proud, military march, from their distant casernes into the palace-yard, their bands playing "Vive Henri Quatre," their banners flaunting bravely over their splendid array. Jacqueline had no eye for this military pomp; and fluttering pennons and flashing steel had long ceased to excite in me any extravagant

The procession commenced. All the pomp of Catholicism was called into requisition to increase its splendour. Priests, statesmen, warriors, princes, walked in penitential mood behind the sacred emblems of their faith; but Jacqueline looked only for the king. At length His Most Christian Majesty emerged from beneath the proud triumphal monument of his predecessor's glory:-and the trembling girl saw before her a corpulent, unwieldy man, with an expression of benignity on his countenance, supported by attendants, and faltering under the weight of bodily infirmities and pious cogitations. I merely whispered to Jacqueline, "That is the king." The next moment she had sprung past the lancer's horse and prostrated herself at the feet of royalty, exclaiming, in a voice that might have softened adamant, Mercy, mercy from my king!"

The commotion this interruption occasioned for a time among the guards and priesthood threatened to annihilate our hopes. Several soldiers made attempts to push the suppliant away; but Louis, so soon as he saw that he was in no danger of being daggered, ordered them to desist and allow the petitioner to state her claims on his clemency. Jacqueline was not slow to profit by this permission. With an eloquence which amazed even me, and excited a breathless attention in the listeners, she detailed the birth, the services, the proscription of Delagarde. She dwelt with feminine pathos on his love for her, and on her unutterable misery at the prospect of his death; and vowed, that if his life were spared, his fidelity to his king should henceforth be as inviolate as that of his ancestors. Louis listened with some patience to her appeal. He was not insensible to the popularity which he would acquire by publicly reprieving one of the bitterest of his enemies; but a constitutional timidity made him hesitate to grant the boon. At that moment one of his courtiers, an elderly nobleman, knelt down beside Jacqueline and joined in her prayer, exclaiming, "Sire, I too am a suppliant. Save this Victor Delagarde, for the loyalty of his father and the fidelity of the servant who now humbles himself at your feet."

It was the Count de Laval who had thus stepped forward to support the heroic wife of his nephew. Louis could not resist the sup

FATE.

[Ralph Waldo Emerson, born at Boston, U. S., 1803. He is regarded as the Carlyle of America, and is as widely known in this country as in his own by his various philosophical and ethical works, but he is

not so generally known as a poet. Although his verses are chiefly reflective, there is considerable lyrical feeling in some of them, as in The Romany Girl. His poems, May Day and other Pieces, were published in 1846. Those of his prose works which will be found most interesting by general readers are Representative Men; English Traits; and the Conduct of Life-a series of valuable essays. He died 1882.]

Deep in the man sits fast his fate
To mould his fortunes mean or great:
Unknown to Cromwell as to me
Was Cromwell's measure or degree;
Unknown to him, as to his horse,
If he than his groom be better or worse.
He works, plots, fights in rude affairs,
With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares,
Till late he learned, through doubt and fear,
Broad England harboured not his peer:
Obeying Time, the last to own
The Genius from its cloudy throne.
For the prevision is allied
Unto the thing so signified;
Or say,

the foresight that awaits Is the same Genius that creates.

THE ROMANY GIRL.

The sun goes down, and with him takes
The coarseness of my poor attire;
The fair moon mounts, and aye the flame
Of Gypsy beauty blazes higher.

Pale Northern girls! you scorn our race; You captives of your air-tight halls, Wear out in-doors your sickly days,

But leave us the horizon walls.

1 The word "brigand" has been used, throughout the preceding narrative, in the sense in which it was applied by the Bourbon government to the proscribed

partisans of Napoleon, immediately subsequent to hie dethronement.

And if I take you, dames, to task, And say it frankly without guile, Then you are Gypsies in a mask, And I the lady all the while.

If, on the heath, below the moon,

I court and play with paler blood, Me false to mine dare whisper none,— One sallow horseman knows me good.

Go, keep your cheek's rose from the rain, For teeth and hair with shopmen deal; My swarthy tint is in the grain,

The rocks and forests know it real.

The wild air bloweth in our lungs, The keen stars twinkle in our eyes, The birds gave us our wily tongues, The panther in our dances flies.

You doubt we read the stars on high, Nathless we read your fortunes true; The stars may hide in the upper sky, But without glass we fathom you.

R. W. EMERSON.

THE SKY-LARK.

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithsome and cumberless,

Light be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness!

Bless'd is thy dwelling-place!

O to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud;

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day; Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, hie, hie thee away!

Then when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather-blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be:
Emblem of happiness!

Bless'd is thy dwelling-place!

O to abide in the desert with thee!

JAMES HOGG.

SCENE FROM

"THE TRYAL, A COMEDY."

BY JOANNA BAILLIE.

[Joanna Baillie, born in Bothwell, Lanarkshire, 1762, died at Hampstead, London, 23d February, 1851. She made her reputation by her Plays on the Passions, the first volume of which appeared in 1798. The principle she adopted was to make one play subservient to the development of one particular passion, as love, hate, envy, and so on. She attempted to reveal the serious and the absurd aspect of each humour in the course of a tragedy and a comedy. The idea was novel, and attracted attention; but the theory narrowed the development of her genius, and it was only the possession of rare poetical gifts which rendered the result successful. For the stage they are unsuitable, owing to the absence of that variety of passion which is requisite in dramatic. representations. "De Montfort" was produced on the London stage in 1801, with John Philip Kemble and Mrs. Siddons in the leading parts, and again in 1821 with Edmund Kean as the hero. On both occasions it was comparatively a failure, in spite of the ability and popularity of the principal actors. The "Family Legend" was played in Edinburgh in 1810, the preparation having been superintended by Scott, who wrote a prologue for it, whilst Henry Mackenzie wrote an epilogue. The production was successful, and the play was afterwards brought out in London. The merits of her compositions can only be properly estimated in the study, and they will always hold a high place in literature. "The Tryal, a Comedy," is the companion play of "Count Basil, a Tragedy." She has also written a number of Scotch songs, which are still popular. Amongst others, The Gowan Glitters on the Sward, Woo'd and Married and a', and Hooly and Fairly.]

MR. WITHRINGTON's house: Enter Withrington and his two Nieces Agnes and Mariane, hanging upon his arms, coaxing him in a playful manner as they advance towards the front of the stage.

With. Poo, poo, get along, young gipsies, and don't tease me any more.

Ag. So we will, my good sir, when you have granted our suit.

Mar. Do, dear uncle, it will be so pleasant! With. Get along, get along. Don't think to wheedle me into it. It would be very pleasant, truly, to see an old fellow, with a wig upon his bald pate, making one in a holiday mummery with a couple of mad-caps.

Ag Nay, don't lay the fault upon the wig, good sir, for it is as youthful, and as sly, and as saucy-looking as the best head of hair in the country. As for your old wig, indeed, there was so much curmudgeon-like austerity about it, that young people fled from before it, as, I daresay, the birds do at present, for I am sure that it is stuck up in some cherry-orchard, by this time, to frighten the sparrows.

With. You are mistaken, young mistress, It is up-stairs in my wig-box.

Ag. Well, I am glad it is anywhere but upon your pate, uncle. (Turning his face towards Mariane.) Look at him, pray! is he not ten years younger since he wore it? Is there one bit of an old grumbler to be seen about him now?

Mar. He is no more like the man he was than I am like my god-mother. (Clapping his shoulder.) You must even do as we have bid you, sir, for this excuse will never bring you off.

With. Poo, poo, it is a foolish girl's whimsy: I'll have nothing to do with it.

Ag. It is a reasonable woman's desire, gentle guardian, and you must consent to it. For if I am to marry at all, I am resolved to have a respectable man and a man who is attached to me, and to find out such a one, in my present situation, is impossible. I am provoked beyond all patience with your old greedy lords, and match-making aunts, introducing their poor noodle heirs-apparent to me. Your ambitious esquires and proud obsequious baronets are intolerable, and your rakish younger brothers are nauseous: such creatures only surround me, whilst men of sense keep at a distance, and think me as foolish as the company I keep. One would swear I was made of amber, to attract all the dust and chaff of the community.

With. There is some truth in this, 'faith. Ag. You see how it is with me: so my dear, loving, good uncle (coaxing him), do let Mariane take my place for a little while. We are newly come to Bath; nobody knows us: we have been but at one ball, and as Mariane looks so much better than me, she has already been mistaken for the heiress, and I for her portionless cousin: I have told you how we shall manage it; do lend us your assistance!

With. So in the disguise of a portionless spinster, you are to captivate some man of sense, I suppose?

Ag. I would fain have it so.

With. Go, go, thou art a fool, Agnes! who will fall in love with a little ordinary girl like thee? why, there is not one feature in thy face that a man would give a farthing for.

Mar. You are very saucy, uncle.

Ag. I should despair of my beauty, to be sure, since I am reckoned so much like you, my dear sir; yet old nurse told me that a rich lady, a great lady, and the prettiest lady that ever wore silk, fell in love, once on a time, with Mr. Anthony, and would have followed him to the world's end too, if it had not been

for an old hunks of a father, who deserved to be drubbed for his pains Don't you think he did, sir?

With. (endeavouring to look angry). Old nurse is a fool, and you are an impudent hussy. I'll hear no more of this nonsense. (Breaks from them and goes towards the door: they run after him, and draw him back again.)

Ag. Nay, good sir, we have not quite done with you yet: grant our request, and then scamper off as you please.

it.

Mar. I'll hold both your arms till you grant

With. (to Mar.) And what makes you so eager about it, young lady? you expect, I suppose, to get a husband by the trick. O fy, fy! the poorest girl in England would blush at such a thought, who calls herself an honest one.

Ag. And Mariane would reject the richest man in England who could harbour such a suspicion. But give yourself no uneasiness about this, sir; she need not go a husbandhunting, for she is already engaged. —(Mariane looks frightened, and makes signs to Agnes over her uncle's shoulder, which she answers with a smile of encouragement.)

With. Engaged! she is very good, truly, to manage all this matter herself, being afraid to give me any trouble, I suppose. And pray what fool has she picked out from the herd, to enter into this precious engagement with?

Ag. A foolish enough fellow, to be sure, your favourite nephew, cousin Edward.

Wit. Hang the silly booby! how could he be such an idiot! but it can't be, it shan't be!it is folly to put myself into a passion about it. (To Mariane, who puts her hand on his shoulder to soothe him.) Hold off your hands, ma'am! This is news indeed to amuse me with of a morning.

Ag. Yes, uncle, and I can tell you more news; for they are not only engaged, but as soon as he returns from abroad they are to be married.

With. Well, well, let them marry in the devil's name, and go a begging if they please.

Ag. No, gentle guardian, they need not go a begging; they will have a good fortune to support them.

With. Yes, yes, they will get a prize in the lottery, or find out the philosopher's stone, and coin their old shoes into guineas.

Ag. No, sir, it is not that way the fortune is to come.

With. No; he has been following some knight-errant, then, I suppose, and will have an island in the South Sea for his pains.

Ag. No, you have not guessed it yet. (Strok

ing his hand gently.) Did you never hear of a good, kind, rich uncle of theirs, the generous Mr. Withrington? he is to settle a handsome provision upon them as soon as they are married, and leave them his fortune at last.

With. (lifting up his hand). Well, I must say thou art the sauciest little jade in the kingdom! But did you never hear that this worthy uncle of theirs, having got a new wig, which makes him ten years younger than he was, is resolved to embrace the opportunity, and seek out a wife for himself?

Ag. O! that is nothing to the purpose; for what I have said about the fortune must happen, though he should seek out a score of wives for himself.

With. Must happen! but I say it shall not happen. Whether should you or I know best?

Ag. Why me, to be sure.

With. Ha, ha, ha! how so, baggage? Ag. (resting her arm on his shoulder, looking archly in his face). You don't know, perhaps, that when I went to Scotland last summer, I travelled far and far, as the tale says, and farther than I can tell; till I came to the isle of Skye, where everybody has the second sight, | and has nothing to do but tear a little hole in a tartan-plaidy, and peering through it in this manner, sees every thing past, present, and to come. Now, you must know, I gave an old woman half-a-crown and a roll of tobacco for a peep or two through her plaid, and what do you think I saw, uncle?

With. The devil dancing a hornpipe, I suppose.

Ag. There was somebody dancing, to be sure, but it was not the devil though. Who do you

think it was now?

With. Poo, poo!

Ag. It was uncle himself, at Mariane's wedding, leading down the first dance, with the bride. I saw a sheet of parchment in a corner too, signed with his own blessed hand, and a very handsome settlement it was. So he led down the first dance himself, and we all followed after him, as merry as so many hay-makers.

With. Thou hast had a sharp sight, 'faith! Ag. And I took a second peep through the plaidy, and what do you think I saw then, sir?

With. Nay, prate on as thou wilt.

Ag. A genteel family house where Edward and Mariane dwelt, and several little brats running up and down in it. Some of them so tall, and so tall, and some of them no taller than this. And there came good uncle amongst them, and they all flocked about him so mer

rily; everybody was so glad to see him, the very scullions from the kitchen were glad; and methought he looked as well pleased himself as any of them. Don't you think he did, sir?

With. Have done with thy prating.

Ag. I have not done yet, good sir; for I took another peep still, and then I saw a most dismal changed family indeed. There was a melancholy sick-bed set out in the best chamber; every face was sad, and all the children were weeping. There was one dark-eyed rogue amongst them, called little Anthony, and he threw away his bread and butter, and roared like a young bull, for woe's me! old uncle was dying. (Observing Withrington affected.) But old uncle recovered though, and looked as stout as a veteran again. So I gave the old woman her plaidy, and would not look through any

more.

With. Thou art the wildest little witch in the world, and wilt never be at rest till thou hast got everything thine own way, I believe.

Ag. I thank you, I thank you, dear uncle! (leaping round his neck), it shall be even so, and I shall have my own little boon into the bargain.

With. I did not say so.

Ag. But I know it will be so, and many thanks to you, my dear good uncle! (Mariane ventures to come from behind,—Withrington looks gently to her, she holds out her hand, he hesitates, and Agnes joins their hands together, giving them a hearty shake.)

With. Come, come, let me get away from you now: you are a couple of insinuating gipsies. LEXIT hastily.

SONNET.

What art thou, MIGHTY ONE! and where thy seat?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
And thou dost bear within thine awful hands
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet;
Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind,
Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead noong
Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon,
Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind.
In the drear silence of the polar span
Dost thou repose? or in the solitude
Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE