In 1822, while the workmen were clearing away the rubbish, a wall fell, and three of the unfortunate men were killed on the spot. Within the last few years, the spirit of speculation and enterprise has almost rased these splendid vestiges, and sixty private houses have been erected on the site. The remainder is made use of as barracks for lodging the king's guards and recruits; for deserters and other offenders; and a chapel for the German and French protestants: but amidst the innumerable attractions of a splendid city, the crumbling ruins of a palace are likely to be in a great measure unnoticed, or are left to those few who delight in the studies of antiquarian lore. The fate of palaces, in this respect, is observable: and their decline and fall furnish mankind with so many miniature representations of the nothingness of earthly splendor. POPULAR DIVERSIONS AT VIENNA. The most exact and least suspicious description that can be given of these diversions, will be literally to translate a band-bill, such as was distributed through the streets every Sunday and festival: This day, by imperial licence, at five o'clock, will begin the following diversions: A wild hungarian ox, in full size, (that is, with fire under his tail, and crackers fastened to his ears and horns, and to other parts of his body) will be set upon by dogs, A wild boar will, in the same manner, be baited by dogs. A great bear will, immediately after, be torn by dogs. A wolf will be hunted by dogs of the fleetest kind. A very furious and enraged wild bull, from Hungary, will be attacked by fierce and hungry dogs. A fresh bear will be attacked by hounds; next Will appear a fierce wild boar, just caught, which will now be baited for the first time, by dogs defended with iron armour. A beautiful African tyger. This will be changed for a boar. A fresh and fierce Hungarian ox. A furious and hungry bear, which has had no food for eight days, will attack a young wild bull, and eat him alive upon the spot; and if he is unable to complete the business, a wolf will be ready to help him.' These barbarous spectacles, says Dr. Burney, in his Travels are usually attended by two or three thousand people, among whom are a great number of ladies!" THE LAST DAY. BY MR. BECKFORD. HARK! heard ye not that deep, appalling sound? VERSES, ON SEEING THE PLACE WHERE THE MAID OF ORLEANS SUFFERED. HERE naked they exposed thee, Here angels waved their boughs, It was no fabling story, That strengthening glimpse of glory, Christ did thy banner brighten, And Christ thy pangs will lighten, With heavenly pity glowing, To thee is Mary showing Her awful virgin eyes: Thy God doth comfort send thee, Blest ministers attend thee; To waft thee to the skies. I see thou dost not bow then No curses come from thee; Whom thou didst oft set free. And thine ungenerous foes When high thy white plume rose. I see the guiltless maiden, Her cheek's proud flush long fading, Hard butcher hands are baring Her bosom to the staring Of them that feared her name. "Twas but a moment's fever, She, paler now than ever, Prays calmly in their view. "God pardon these rude soldiers; Those hard-eyed stern beholders; They know not what they do. "Lord Jesu, for thy sake, I kiss, 1 kiss, the stake; Receive my soul in pity." With this the flames up springing, I see no more the arm, Whose weapon did no harm, The banner, not the sword. No more the snowy breast, But for its Saviour, Lord. The winds disperse her ashes; No tear the dark spot washes, Where martyr blood hath been; From thenceforth pride and honour Shone never more upon her, That land of curse and sin! But aye her soil is teeming Can bear her bards, who jeer At thee, thou virgin seer, Thou holy, meek Joanne? O heartless generation! False, grinning, faithless nation! And chivalry a stranger! God send thee an avenger, Joanne, thou Maid of Arc! And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 22 Shakspeare. IND native streamlet,' said Edmund, seating himself on a grassy plat. "Thy flowery banks invite me to rest my weary limbs. Thy gentle murmurs cannot, however, soothe my sorrow. Oh! scenes of my childhood, you bring not along with you your former endearments.' An old man approached him. He leaned on his staff. His silver locks waved to the gentle breeze. Experience and benignity marked his venerable countenance, "You seem to be faint with travel,' said the old gentleman, whose name was Mr. Townshend. 'I am very much so,' replied Edmund. If you please to retire to my house, which is just at haud, a little rest and refreshment will enable you more agreeably to pursue your journey.' As I find myself exceedingly fatigued I cheerfully accept of your friendly invitation." So saying he rose up and followed him to his villa. 'You are a stranger, I suppose, in this part of the country,' said Mr. Townshend. I was born in a village at no great distance from this; I believe, however, very few here will now know me; I am much altered; besides, I am poor. I have brought nothing home with me but a few scars received in the service of my country,' looking at a stump, the remains of his left arm, which Mr. Townshend had not before observed, Oh! these are marks of glory,' exclaimed the old gentleman; infinitely more valuable than riches. May I be allowed to ask your name? 'My name is Roberts; if you have resided here any considerable time you are perhaps not a stranger to my family. Do you know my father?' I have often heard of him, but never had the pleasure of his acquaintance.'' From your parlour window, I can see the gently sloping hills where roam his snowy flocks, and the spreading groves which shelter his little farm. Oh! delightful spot! residence of exalted virtue! place of my nativity-inexpressibly endeared to me by the indulgence of the best of parents. A parent, perhaps ere now, intombed in earth. Dreadful thought! Oh, why was I torn from him in his old age?' 'Torn from him, did you say?' 'Yes, in the cruelest and basest manner.' I feel myself interested in you concerns, do favour me with your company till tomorrow, and a recital of your story.' Edmund began as follows- My mother died when I was but a boy; my father remained a widower. Though but little acquainted with the world, or the sciences, by a close attention to nature he acquired some of the most important principles of useful knowledge. The cultivation of his little farm afforded him an agreeable exercise; the enjoyment of a select circle of friends sufficiently occupied his leisure hours. He early impressed me with the principles of virtue; my mind, naturally susceptible, from his example, acquired a relish for social endearments. As he intended me to succeed him in his property and profession, he took care to give me an education suitable to such a station. At the grammar school of our parish, I contracted an intimacy with a lad about my own age, the son of a gentleman in our neighbourhood; this connection in time advanced to a most perfect friendship. Having one day taken the diversion of hunting, the pursuit of our game carried us farther from home than we intended. Hunger reminded us that it was dinner time. I carried Mr. Williams, the name of my friend, to the house of a widow lady, in that neighbourhood, where I had before once visited; we were received in the politest manner. It was then I was first blessed with a sight of my Maria; blessed did I say? no, surely it deserves another appellation, since it proved the commencement of my misfortunes. I will not attempt to delineate this lovely maid; any representation I could pourtray would fall infinitely short of the original. Her charms inspired me with the sincerest passion; and I had every reason to think it |