surd, and I ended by almost considering it quite simple. "One morning the jailer entered a chamber, where I slept, along with the Duchess d'Aiguillon, and two other ladies. He informed me he came to take my hair mattress, to give it to another prisoner. How to give it? said Madame d'Aiguillon, eagerly: Madame de Beauharnois, then, is surely to have a belter?-No, no, she will not need, answered he, with a diabolical smile; for they are coming to take her to the Conciergerie, and thence to the guillotine. "At these words my companions in misfortune screamed aloud. I consoled them in the best way I could; at last wearied with their eternal lamentations, I told them that their grief was destitute of common sense; that not only I should not die, but I should yet be Queen of France. Why not name your household? asked Madame Aiguillon, angrily-Ah, that is true, I did not think of it. Very well, my dear friend, I will name you dame d'honneur, I give you my promise. And the tears of these ladies only flowed more rapidly, for they thought me mad, seeing me so cool at such a moment. I assure you, ladies, that I was not acting the heroine, for I was at the time fully persuaded of the realization of my oracle. "Madame d'Aiguillon feeling almost unwell, I led her to the window, which I opened to give her a little air; I observed a woman of the lower orders, who made a variety of signs to us which we did not comprehend. She every moment took hold of her robe, without our being able to conceive what she meant by it. Seeing that she continued to do so, I called out to her Robe; she made a signal that I was right; then she picked up a stone, put it into her apron, which she again showed us, lifting up the stone with the other hand; Pierre, again called out to her. Her delight was extreme on being assured that we comprehended her at last; joining her robe to the stone, she several times eagerly went through the motion of cutting her throat, and then began dancing and clapping her hands. This singular pantomimist excited in us an emotion which it is impossible to express, since we dared not believe that she announced to us the death of Robespierre. "At the moment while we were thus suspended between fear and hope, we heard a great noise in the corridor, and the formidable voice of the turnkey, who was saying to his dog, while giving him a blow with his foot, Will you go on, you S- Robespierre? This energetic phrase proved to us that we had nothing to fear, and that France was saved. "In fact, a few moments after, our compa nions in misfortune entered the apartment, and gave us the details of this great event. It was the 9th Thermidor. "They brought me back my hair mattress, on which I passed the best night that could be. I fell asleep, after having repeated to my friend, You see, I am not yet guillotined, and I shall yet be Queen of France. When I became Empress I wished to keep my word. I requested to have Madame de Girardine (formerly Madame d'Aiguillon) for dame d'hon neur, but the Emperor would not permit it, as she had been divorced. 66 6 Such, ladies, is the exact truth as to this celebrated prophecy. The latter part of it gives me little disquietude; I live here in tran quillity and retirement; I never interfere in politics; I do as much good as I can; so I hope to die in my bed. It is true that Marie Antoinuette-Here Josephine stopped, and we hastened to change the conversation." This story may be true; but it is throughout so deficient in the vrai-semblable, that wa confess, we cannot altogether reconcile ourselves to it. The miserable episode of the woman with the stone and the apron, is, to our taste, particularly nauseous. We do hold this paltry fragment to be quite unworthy of forming a sequel to the really romantic adventure with the sorceress. Besides the characters we have mentioned, the work contains a great many anecdotes, about a great many people whose names even we cannot now pretend to enumerate. A considerable number of those, however, who figure in the table of contents, the reader will find merely named in the body of the volume. But about others, particularly Talleyrand, Perig non, Eugene Beauharnois, the Duke de Laval, Sismondi, M. Huber and his lady, La Maréchale Lefebvre, M. de Clermont-Tonnerre, Moreau, Madame Tallien, M. Portalès, Le Prince Kourakin, M. de Czernicheff, &c. &c. there are some interesting details. The book is written, as such books should be written, without any elaboration of style; but is often. we are sorry to say, so inaccurately printed as to be almost unintelligible. From the Bijou. THERE WAS SILENCE IN HEAVEN. In the full sunlight of the sky? A fainting heart, and aching breast To languish with inglorious rest. The banquet of delight above? The vision of the Lord they love? Entrance the rapt and holy throng. From angel voice or angel-hand; ray, Calm she reclined, as some night-closing flower, A silent captive at the sleeper's throne; Young Mothers came, confessing with a kiss, The babe, the image of their first born love; Or wept for one, 66 more beautiful than this," Gone, from its cradle, to its rest above. Blithe children stopped their laugh, they would not rouse, The gentle baby from its slumber deep; While lofty eyes, and high unbending brows, Long'd for the silence of that dreamless sleep From the London Weekly Review. J. THE JUVENILE KEEPSAKE. Edited by T. Roscoe, Esq. London, 1829. Hurst, Chance, & Co. THIS little work is intended to take a station between such publications as the Christmas Box, and the more expensive annuals. It is adapted rather to youths and maidens, than to inere children. In this respect it stands alone, and is therefore likely to be eminently successful. Mr. Roscoe has performed his task with much taste and judgment, and has produced a work, which is not only happily contrived for the amusement and instruction of a peculiar class, but may be very gene rally read with great pleasure and approbation. Mr. Roscoe's list of contributors is a very attractive one, and the articles in most instances do honour to the names attached to them. Some of the editor's own verses are sweet and elegant, and he is well supported by several members of his own amiable and intellectual family. We shall not enter into a particular account of the contents of this volume, but it is only justice to observe that we were extremely pleased with the prose articles of Zoè and Muriotti, (by the author of "Gomez Arias,") the Albanian Shepherd, and the Christmas Story. In fact almost the whole of the prose department is of a very superior description. The poetry is more unequal, but is never actually bad. Mrs. Hemans, the Roscoes, Mr. Stebbing, Mr. Ritchie, Mr. Hill and Mr. Reading, are among those who have distinguished themselves as poetical contributors. As a specimen of the prose, we shall extract a passage from a very interesting article by Mr. Pringle, entitled "Anecdotes of Elephants." "A band of hunters had surprised two elephants, a male and female, in an open spot near the skirts of a thick and thorny jungle. The animals fled towards the thickets; and the male, in spite of many balls which struck him ineffectually, was soon safe from the reach of wounded, that she was unable to retreat with the pursuers; but the female was so sorely the same alacrity, and the hunters having got between her and the wood, were preparing speedily to finish her career-when, all at once, the male rushed forth with the utmost fury from his hiding place, and with a shrill and frightful scream, like the loud sound of a trumpet, charged down upon the huntsmen. So terrific was the aumal's aspect, that all instinctively sprung to their horses, and fled for life. The elephant, disregarding the others, singled out an unfortunate man (Cobus Klopper I think was his name) who was the last person that had fired upon its wounded comrade, and who was standing, with his horse's bridle over his arm, reloading his huge gun at the moment the infuriated animal burst from the wood. Cobus also leaped hastily on horseback, but before he could seat himself in his saddle the elephant was upon him. One blow from and, without troubling himself about the his proboscis struck poor Cobus to the earth; horse, which galloped off in terror, he thrust his gigantic tusks through the man's body, and then, after stamping it flat with his ponderous feet, again seized it with his trunk and ed vengeance upon his foes, he walked gently flung it high into the air. Having thus wreakup to his consort, and affectionately caressing her, supported her wounded side with his shoulder, and regardless of the vollies of balls with which the hunters, who had again rallied to the conflict, assailed them, he succeeded in conveying her from their reach into the impenetrable recesses of the forest. "One of my own friends, Lieutenant John Moodie, of the Scotch Fusileers, now a settler in South Africa, had an almost miraculous escape on an occasion somewhat similar. He had gone out to an elephant hunt with a party of friends; and they had already succeeded in killing one or two of a small herd, and the rest were retreating before them towards their woody fastnesses, when one of the females having been separated from her young one among the bushes, forgot all regard to her own safety in maternal anxiety, and turned back in wrath upon her pursuers to search for it. Mr. Moodie, who happened to be on foot at the time, was the individual that the animal first caught sight of, and she instantly rushed upon him. To escape from an angry elephant in open ground is often difficult enough for a well mounted horseman. My friend gave himself up for lost: nor would the activity of despair have availed him-the animal was close at his heels. But just at the moment when she was about to seize or strike him to the earth with her upraised proboscis, he fortunately stum. bled and fell. The elephant, unable at once to arrest her impetuous career, made an attempt to thrust him through with her tusks as he lay on the ground before her, and actually tore up the earth within an inch or two of his body, and slightly bruised him with one of her huge feet as she passed over him. Before, however, she could turn back to destroy him, Mr. Moodie contrived to scramble into the wood, and her young one at the same instant raising its cry for her in another direction, the dangerous auimal went off without searching further for him." p. 166-168. The following excellent sonnets, are all that we can find room for from the poetical depart ment. Life's Young Dream. BY W. ROSCOE. I dreamt that in the earliest prime of spring, When shone the sun with mild and tempered ray, I saw two vagrant children take their way Partook the joy; as on the turf they lay, As if a recollection filled my breast, Some of the embellishments are beautiful"Menai Bridge," engraved by Lewis, after Robson, would be worthy of an annual of the first pretensions. "Zoe and Muriotti" is also a very pleasing subject, and the engraving is bright and clear. The "Young Absentee," engraved by Chevalier after Woodford, is extremely pretty. The rest are not equal to those we have mentioned, but they are very far superior to what are usually expected in works of such moderate price as this pleasing, and we trust it will prove, popular little annual. From the Bijou. TO MARY, ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING-DAY. By Martin Archer Shee, Esq. R. A. We've travell'd on together; That Time has laid on either. And though by many a jolt apprized, Nor smooth as wealth could make them; To shorten or forsake them. Nor can we, Mary, justly say, Nor can we say we're much the worse With Care still at our heels; 'Tis true we rarely dance or sing, The steps of youth discover; We'd prove, were not yet over. In times which memory still enhances, To dance down thirty couple. But now, amidst a stately throng, With far more airs than graces, The smile with sense and sweetness fraught, They pucker there most sadly. So plain that you may trace them; A wig must soon replace them. In other points have press'd us; Can ruffle and molest us. At dinner we grow nice, and think Of late, too, quite in love with home, The fire-side seems so cozey; The print 's indeed so bad in all But not in us alone the change; There's nothing that's improving. And Siddons play'd with Kemble? When you and I first knew them; Can hardly struggle through them. While in our children thus we find More comforts than we've left behind, Since Hymen's knot first bound us. Nor let us gloom the little space We've yet to run; though in the race We feel that life is wasting; Our lot we still have cause to bless, Since, as our cares, our hearts confess, Our love is quite as lasting. From the Anniversary. ABBOTSFORD. [We have much pleasure in presenting to our readers a description of the residence of Sir Walter Scott, from the private letter of a distinguished American. The fame of the illustrious proprietor has flown far and wide; and his name has become a passport to his countrymen in every quarter of the globe where the glory of genius is acknowledged. The admiration which his numerous works have excited, naturally creates a wish to know something more of one who has delighted us all so much-to see the place where he gives himself up to meditation-the walks in which he muses-and the study in which he conceives and pours forth his magical productions. The pen of our friend has recorded his own impressions with great vividness and graphic vigour: to the aid of the pen we have brought the pencil, and rendered more complete the account of the distinguished tourist.-ED.] I HAVE been exceedingly unfortunate as to one of the chief objects of this northern expedition? in a word, it has been my luck to select for my visit to Scotland, the only month in which, for some years past, Sir Walter has been out of it. My good friend R― had told me that by the 12th or 13th he was sure to be on the banks of the Tweed, and amply provided with letters of introduction, I quitted the mail coach at Selkirk on the 15th, without the slightest doubt that I was within an hour's ride of the great Minstrel, as well as of his castle. The people at the inn, too, confirined me in my belief. "The Sheriff," so they called him, was, they said, sure to be at home, for "the session was up," and he never was known to linger amidst the dust of Edinburgh when his professional duties permitted him to be in the country. On accordingly I drove, in high hope; and ere long the towers of Abbotsford were pointed out to me, amidst a beautiful wood chiefly of young oak and birch, and at no great distance from the river. But to cut the story short, I found the outer gates barred and bolted; there was nothing, after we knocked and rang for some minutes, but a woful howling of dogs from the interior; and at last a rough looking countryman issuing, with a staghound at his heels and an axe on his shoulder, from a side postern, informed me, in a dialect not over intelligible, that Sir Walter and his family had gone on a tour to Ireland, and were not expected back again for some weeks. This was grievous enough: but what remedy? I asked to see the house and gardens, and was told I might do so any other day I pleased, but that on this particular day there was a fair in the neighbourhood, and the showkeepers had quitted their post to partake of its festivities. Upon a little reflection, I resolved to go on to "fair Melrose," and return to Abbotsford next morning. I was fortunate enough to scrape acquaintance, ere this, with Mr. **** of *** who politely offered to act as my cicerone, and I believe, in the absence of the Poet's own household, there was no one better able to perform those functions. I breakfasted with him, and he conducted me once more to the huge baronial gates, which I no longer found reluctant to turn on their hinges. He took me all over the house and its environs, and I spent a delightful evening af terwards under his own hospitable roof, which is on the other side of the Tweed. Some fifteen or sixteen years ago, he tells me, there was not a more unlovely spot, in this part of the world, than that on which Abbotsford now exhibits all its quaint architecture and beautiful accompaniment of garden and woodland. A mean farm-house stood on part of the site of the present edifice; a "kale yard" bloomed where the stately embattled court-yard now spreads itself; and for many thousand acres of flourishing plantations, half of which have all the appearance of being twice as old as they really are, there was but a single, long, straggling stripe of unthriving firs. The river, however, must needs remain in statu quo; and I will not believe that any place so near those clearest and sweetest of all waters, could ever have been quite destitute of charms. The scene, however, was no doubt wild enough, a naked moor-a few little turnip fields painfully reclaimed from it-a Scotch cottage-a Scotch farm-yard, and some Scots firs. It is difficult to imagine a more complete contrast to the Abbotsford of 1825. Sir W. is, as you have no doubt heard, a most zealous agriculturist, and arboriculturist especially; and he is allowed to have done things with this estate, since it came into his possession, which would have been reckoned wonders, even if they had occupied the whole of a clever and skilful man's attention, during more years than have elapsed since he began to write himself Laird of Abbotsford. He has some excellent arable land on the banks of the Tweed, and towards the little town of Melrose, which lies some three miles from the mansion; but the bulk of the property is hilly country, with deep, narrow dells interlacing it. Of this he has planted fully one-half, and it is admitted on all hands, that his rising forest has been laid out, arranged, and managed with consummate taste, care, and success. So much so, that the general appearance of Tweedside, for some miles, is already quite altered and improved by the graceful ranges of his woodland; and that the produce of these plantations must, in the course of twenty or thirty years more, add immensely to the yearly rental of the estate. In the meantime, the shelter afforded by the woods to the sheep walks reserved amidst them, has prodigiously improved the pasturage, and half the surface yields already double the rent the whole was ever thought capable of affording, while in the old unprotected con dition. All through those woods there are broad riding-ways, kept in capital order, and conducted in such excellent taste, that we might wander for weeks amidst their windings without exhausting the beauties of the Poet's lounge. There are scores of charming waterfalls in the ravines, and near every one of them you find benches or bowers at the most picturesque points of view. There are two or three small mountain lakes included in the domainone of them not so small neither-being, I should suppose, nearly a mile in circumference; and of these also every advantage has been taken. On the whole, it is already a very beautiful scene; and when the trees have gained their proper dignity of elevation, it must be a very grand one. Amidst these woods, Mr. ***** tells me, the proprietor, when at home, usually spends many hours daily, either on his pony, or on foot, with axe and pruning knife in hand. Here is his study; he, it seems, like Jaques, is never at a loss to find "books in trees." "The Muse nae poet ever fand her As Burns says; and one of his burns, by the by, is Huntley Burn, where Thomas of Erceldoune met the Queen of Faery. The rencontre, according to the old Rhymer himself, occurred beside "The Eildon Tree." That landmark has long since disapppeared, bat most of Sir Walter's walks have the Eildon Hills, in some one or other of their innumerable aspects, for background. But I am keeping you too long away from "The Rooftree of Monkbarns," which is situated on the brink of the last of a series of irregular hills, descending from the elevation of the Eildons, stepwise, to the Tweed. On all sides, except towards the river, the house connects itself with the gardens (according to the old fashion now generally condemned); so that there is no want of air and space about the habitation. The building is such a one, I dare say, as nobody but he would ever have dreamed of erecting; or, if he had, escaped being quizzed for his pains. Yet it is eminently imposing in its general effect; and in most of the details, not only full of historical interest, but of beauty also. It is no doubt a thing of shreds and patches, but they have been combined by a masterly hand; and if there be some whimsicalities, that in an ordinary case might have called up a smile, who is likely now or hereafter to contemplate such a monuiment of such a man's peculiar tastes and fancies, without feelings of a far different order? Borrowing outlines and ornaments from every part of Scotland, a gateway from Linlithgow, a roof from Roslin, a chimney-piece from Melrose, a postern from the "Heart of Midlothian," &c., &c., &c., it is totally unlike any other building in the kingdom, as a whole; and that whole is, I have said, a beautiful and a noble whole-almost enough so to make me suspect that, i Sir Walter had been bred an architect, he might have done as much in that way, as be has de facto, in the woodman's craft, or (which they swear he is less vain of) the novelist's |
