I do so gasp for air and light! I cannot bear this gloom- For oh! I feel the dews of death are hanging on my brow! In solitude I've often wept-'twas pain that made me weep- I feel as though my spirit had bright wings to flee away. A SCENE DURING THE EARLY PART OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. BY MISS SKELTO N. DURING the early part of the French Revolution, ere the Reign of Terror had reached its height; when society had still some shape and form; when the deaths or trials of the Royal family were not even anticipated; when the disturbances, though daily, frightful, and sanguinary, were yet but child's play in comparison with what was to follow, -and the aristocrats still believed all would end well, they, under this impression, still continued from time to time those displays of wealth and elegance for which Paris, up to that period, had been so renowned. Balls, banquets, petit soupers, followed each other in gay succession, gathering together the noble and the lovely, and made radiant by the light of eyes, soon to be quenched in tears, or closed for ever. The crisis, however, was approaching; the large assemblies became less frequent; the carriages of the nobility and clergy, and of all connected with the court and aristocratic party, were invariably saluted with yells, curses, and execrations, and even attacked with stones. It became at last unsafe to venture to the réunions at each other's houses, except on foot or in hired vehicles. A grand ball was to take place at the Hotel de M. Six hundred of the élite were expected; many had arrived in safety, some because they were in a sort of disguise, traversing the streets in public carriages, or without their liveried attendants; some because their arms and equipages were unknown to the populace; and a few because, though known, they were not obnoxious to them. The Marquis Léotand possessed large estates, a fine hotel in a gloomy suburban street, a high command in the army: he was of great weight with the party of the state, and claimed respect from all; he was of unblemished character, ancient family, high connexion; he was proud, brave, and honourable. I have said he was proud, and in this instance he shewed his pride by refusing to stoop to the necessary precautions: "He would not," he said, "go to the house of his friend like a felon flying from justice; as to that miserable rabble, not one among them would dare to touch him!" He seemed to think the deep contempt and scorn of his own heart must wither those who encountered it. Accordingly, in his splendid coach, drawn by its four black horses, with all its proud emblazonry, and gay accompaniments of liveried footmen and torch-bearers, he proceeded at a rapid pace through the streets of Paris towards the scene of festivity. The carriage whirled along, surrounded by a blaze of light, the smoky glare of the torches showed but too plainly the splendour of the trappings, the pomp of heraldic bearing, the magnificent costume of the attendants, and the gleam of jewels from within. Still it passed on, though not without many a howling curse, as the mob parted before its flying steeds, then closed again behind it, only to follow its track with loud execrations, and occasionally a random stone, or handful of mud. At last, on emerging from the quiet suburban streets into the crowded thoroughfares, they found their progress sensibly impeded; the mob, like a tossing sea, rolled from side to side, dashing against the horses, swaying by the impulse of their weight the carriage, which still struggled onwards, as the waves sway the storm-tossed vessel. The horses reared and plunged, the coachman lashed them on, the terrified lackeys clung to the vehicle, the Marquis Léotand lowered the blinds, and the strong light from the lamp over the door of a private house shewed the surrounding multitude his stern profile and haughty brow charged with a heavy frown. In an instant the horses' heads were seized, the coachman dragged from his seat, and a dozen hands stretched forth to tug at the silver door-handle; the closing of the blinds had, however, checked the opening of the door for a time -the assailants pulled in vain. Suddenly a hand, fair and small, let down the blind, and as it fell, the carriage door flew open, and the steps were lowered; a form, lovely as an angel, rose from the furthermost corner of the coach, and filled the entrance with a glory of perfect beauty and extreme magnificence. The crowd fell back, leaving a ring of open space at the foot of the steps, and directly under the blazing lamp. Into this ring-this ring of savage faces and uncouth forms-that creature of another world descended; it was Madeline, the daughter-the only daughter-of the widowed Marquis. Her father, who had striven in vain to detain her, leaned forward from the carriage, his straining eyes fixed upon her, his countenance expressing the deepest anxiety. For a moment all was suspense and silence; her voice, high and clear, broke the spell: "Gentlemen, why are we thus detained?"-then clasping her hands and bending towards them in a supplicating attitude-" Oh, gentlemen, allow us to pass in peace; we have done you no harm, and it was but this morning my father distributed to forty poor families corn and wood sufficient for a week's consumption; for the sake of that good action, suffer us to pass now!" A wild shout of applause burst from the crowd, the leaders pressed forward, presenting their huge, coarse hands, and bowing grotesquely over the delicate fingers she laid in theirs. They handed her into the carriage; they allowed the coachman to resume his seat; they released the horses, nay, they even preceded the equipage, till it entered the court-yard of the Hotel de M--, and there left it in safety, with its freight of beauty, spirit, and wealth-its untold wealth of jewels, its yet richer burden of unmatched loveliness and high nobility. This act of homage to the power of mind and the charms of person was one of the last gleams of generosity that lightened the entrance into that pit of horrors-that woful first French Revolution: the days of the Princess Lamballe were yet to come! ON SEEING AN ADVERTISEMENT OF THE INTENDED RETIREMENT OF AN EMINENT FIRM. BY MRS. GORE. RETIRE from business?-Shut up shop?- If you suspend your handiworks, Where shall we find our spoons and forks- Reflect on all the happy pairs Your plain gold rings have wrung with cares Reflect how many a cruel hoax Your racing cups, where jockeys bold Or where, with vast display of muscles, As sung in classic story! Your salvers chased-your huge épergnes- By voluntary subscription!" Your silver trowels, meet to grace Some coin-sustain'd foundation Of penitentiary or college For checking sin, promoting knowledge, Your Georges with all grace endued,— Your stars of every magnitude, The Guelphic,-Bath,-or Garter; The days of Magna Charta! "These are your glorious works," oh! ye Great pair, who, indivisibly Immortalized in story are ; Sternhold and Hopkins-(where's the fun?) Or Albert and Victoria! Pause, then, ye Ludgate kings, before Without ye, none can bribe or wive,- THE SERIOUS MILLER. BY DUDLEY COSTELLO. THE wide spread of intellect, which distinguishes the present generation from all that have preceded it, and the intense desire for knowledge which pervades all classes of society, have impressed upon the writer of the following lines the necessity of ministering to the wants of an educated public in a manner hitherto unattempted. Frivolity has, until now, characterized by far too large a proportion of our literature, and familiarity of style has bred contempt in the minds of the majority of readers. Antiquity has ceased to be venerated, and old age has been held in disesteem. Our best comic authors have suffered from this cause-and more particularly one who is identified, not only with the English language, but with the daily intercourse and intimate conversation of Englishmen, in all our relations of life, and particularly -after dinner! Is it necessary that the name of Joseph Miller should be mentioned? He to whom we owe the most, has met with the least gratitude in return. A witticism is uttered,-not the very newest, perhaps, and straightway the listener curls his lip, and scornfully exclaims, "A Joe!" as if it were a crime to repeat that which, when first it was told, imparted the keenest delight! This false feeling arises, not from any defect in the jokes themselves, but from the manner of putting them; and this we purpose, according to our present system, to remedy. Instead of descending to the common-place level of prose, it is our intention to raise the respected Miller to the dignity of blank-verse; to impart a tone of lofty sentiment to the exordium which heralds his poignant anecdotes, and by the force of startling antithesis, to enhance the value of the witticism. With this view, the following specimens are respectfully submitted to a discerning public : THE MASQUERADE. 'Tis merry in Lord William's hall to night; The guests are clothed in garbs of many lands: One sat beside that table. He was pale- Broke from his eye; his hand with rapid motion KEEN blew the blast across the dreary waste, And mock'd the wat'ry moon that gleam'd above. Anselmo stood within his ancient hall: Sudden the trampling of a steed was heard ; For what thou lack'st;-coals now are coals indeed." Anselmo's brow grew dark, his breath came short; And gazed upon those characters of fire- He slowly mutter'd to the messenger, "I'm glad 'tis so-the last you sent were slates !" THE ILLUMINATION. LONDON was in a blaze-great Wellington Raised her enamelled crest, and crow'd for joy! London was in a blaze-Saint James's Street |