"UBI MEL, IBI MUSCA." No. 21-NEW SERIES.] SATURDAY, MAY 25. [TWOPENCE. Every purchaser of this number of "THE FLY," is entitled to an exquisitely-executed Lithographic PRINT, "Revenge," which is presented gratuitously.—[A similar print with every number.] RECOLLECTIONS IN THE TIME OF THE EMPIRE. (For the FLY.) (Continued from page 78.) THE DIVORCE. On invitation from the Emperor, Eugene entered the cabinet pale and dejected: the most settled melancholy was impressed upon his countenance. He had just heard from his mother's lips all that had passed the night before. This confidence had well nigh overpowered him; and as if he was unable to give credit to the terrible invitation, he was come to seek confirmation of it from the Emperor's own mouth. On seeing him enter, Napoleon, without moving from his chair, contented himself with answering by a sign of his head affirmatively all the questions which were respectfully put to him by his adopted son. "Then, sire," replied Eugene, his eyes cast on the ground," permit me from this moment to leave your Majesty." "How so, Eugene ?" demanded the Emperor, rising up on the instant. "Yes, sire; the son of a woman who is no longer Empress cannot with propriety continue viceroy. It is imperative on him to follow his mother into that retirement which you shall destine for her." "Ah, Eugene! is it right that you thus threaten to leave me ?" replied Napoleon, greatly moved. "Are you ignorant how imperative the reasons are that oblige me to adopt this measure? Has not thy mother, then, explained them to thee? And should I obtain this son, an object of my dearest thoughts, who will fill my place towards him when I am absent? who will then be a father to hini? who will bring him up? who will aid and counsel him?-in fine, who will make him a man? Ah, Eugene! I confess it; I had depended on thee; for, in fact, have I not been a father to thee-aye, both to thee and thy sister ?" Napoleon was unable to add one single word more; the tears which bedewed his face not overcome his feelings, and embracing the stopped his voice. The Prince himself could hand which the Emperor had abandoned to him, pressed it several times to his lips with the most lively emotion, but Napoleon drew most parental ardour and affection. him towards him, and embraced him with the "Yes, promise me that you will never leave me," murmured he, in a voice hardly articu late. "Never, sire, never!" And the Emperor, having turned aside his head to conceal his tears, made a sign to Eugene, by which he comprehended that his step-father desired to be alone. To date from this period, on which her new destiny had been revealed by Napoleon, Josephine rarely quitted her apartments, and very seldom appeared in the circle of the Tuileries; Madame Mère officiating in her place, and doing the honours of the Court. However, Napoleon wished that the Empress should be present at the Te Deum, sang at Notre Dame two days afterwards (the 2d of December), for the anniversary of the coronation, and of the battle of Austerlitz, and in commemoration also of the signing the treaty of peace at Vienna, the consequences of which were become so momentous and sorrowful for her. Upon this occasion Josephine appeared seated in a tribune, and surrounded by all the princesses of the Imperial family, while Napoleon repaired alone in grand ceremony to the metropolitan temple. The next day the Empress was again obliged to be present at the festival which the city of Paris gave in honour of these events. The Emperor had ordered that this fête should begin early, because he de sired to give audience to every body, and above all the less of court robes the better. "I see every day enough of them at the Tuileries," said he to M. de Remusat. "Since it is the city, of l'aris who give this entertainment, it is the inhabitants of Paris that I desire to find in my path beyond all others. The ball was magnificent. The Salle du Trone, amongst others, was splendid without precedent; decorated as it was with flowers, illuminated, and sparkling with diamonds and costly dresses worn by the ladies, amongst whom were many very beautiful women, each one more adorned than her neighbour. This truly was a most gorgeous sight. One would have said it had been got up, and perfected by fairy art. Josephine arrived the first. Never was her toilette so scrupulously adjusted, nor so brilliant in its character. Never was her physiog nomy uniformly mild and gentle, but that day especially embued with a deep and settled melancholy had never exhibited so sublime an expression, characteristic at once of forgiveness and resignation. When she arrived in the great hall, after having passed under the eyes of the chief magistrates, and of the élite of the inhabitants of her good city (sa_bonne ville), as she called it, she advanced with slow and measured steps towards the throne upon which she was now to seat herself for the last time. Her eyes appeared half closed, her knees were feeble, and she was forced, in order to prevent herself falling, to lean upon the arm of Madame de la Rochefoucault, her lady of the robes. "I shall never have strength to reach there," said she, in a voice scarcely audible; "I feel as if I should expire." "A little courage, Madame," said her waiting lady, in a low whisper, all eyes are directed on your Majesty." "Oh! how weighty is a crown," said she, in a still lower voice; and making one last and successful effort she said smiling, "the Emperor has deserved it." A moment afterwards, and the ruffle of the drums in the Palace-yard announced the arrival of Napoleon. He advanced with his usual rapid step, accompanied by seven kings, their names as follow, all marching in his suite. Onward he proceeded, and came and placed himself on the right hand of the Empress, having merely addressed a word or two here and there with such as he found in his passage. The fete commenced. Napoleon, who wished to be amiable, soon rose from his imperial chair to go and perform what he termed his tournée; but, before he descended from the estrade - a platform so called--he leaned towards Josephine, and had whispered something in her ear, probably to engage her to accompany him, for she had rose up at the instant. Monsieur de Talleyrand, who in quality of Grand Chamberlain, was standing behind the Emperor, hastened to follow, but he got somehow entangled in the Empress's train, and was nearly making her fall and himself likewise. Once disengaged, he joined Napoleon without addressing even the slightest apology to Josephine. We must suppose the Prince of Benevento incapable intentionally of offering an insult, or of even manifesting a want of courtesy towards the resigning Empress, but certainly he was not ignorant of the secrets of the grand drama which were in train to be played; he knew also that the last act was about to be accomplished, and certes the man who was uniformly polite to every one would not have acted after such a fashion a year ago. As to Josephine she stopped, and with ineffable grace and dignity smiled upon M. de Talleyrand, as if it was a maladresse they were both equally guilty of, but at the same moment her eyes filled with tears, and her lips became white, and trembling with vexation. Arrived at the extremity of the grand gallery, their Majesties separated; Napoleon taking the right hand staircase, and the Empress that on the left, every one striving to get a sight of her-the "admired of all admirers." To this end every body arranged themselves on her side, that they might see her for the last time probably, for she was adored by the Bourgeoisie, as also by the ladies of her court, who took pleasure in proclaiming her good and most indulgent. Thus it was that this sad exhibition of hers produced a strong and lasting impression on the minds of all such as were present upon this occasion, perhaps the most painful oocasion ever witnessed by the reple during the imperial dynasty. This was the last time that the Empress appeared in public. (To be continued.) EXPLANATION TO ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT IN NO. 19. One oft-repeated vowel (e) only is required to make it read as follows: Persevere ye perfect men, IS THERE AN UNBELIEVER? BY THE LATE T. H. BAYLY. Is there an unbeliever? One man who walks the earth And madly doubts that Providence Watch'd o'er him at his birth! He robs mankind for ever Of hope beyond the tomb; What gives he as a recompense? The brute's unhallow'd doom. In manhood's loftiest hour, In health, and strength, and pride, O! lead his steps through alleys green, Where rills 'mid cowslips glide; Climb Nature's granite tower, Where man hath rarely trod ; And will he then, in such a scene, Deny there is a God! Yes, the proud heart will ever pt the false tongue's reply! CHEERFULNESS AN INDEX OF THE HEART. "I never knew," says a German writer, "a man of a cheerful temper and open countenance to be a bad man. With me, on the contrary, they act as a good indication, and are passports for goodness. Where innate evil is an inhabitant, how can the mind be cheerful? And if this is clouded, the character and features of the face are subject to their influences. "I would (says the same philosopher) encourage that habitual appearance which at first sight should act in my favour with the least observant portion of our species. Every honest man's opinion is worthy of being conciliated." LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. BY LORD BYRON. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone THE DOVE. BY BARRY CORNWALL. The dove her golden plumage hath, 66 LODGERS IN LONDON, In London the lodger who occupies a first floor would scarcely deign to speak to the common people" who live in the attics. There is as much difference between the habits of the people who all live under one roof, as there is between the pure aristocrat and the independent and quiet citizen. He who occupies the third floor is perhaps a mechanic; he comes home regularly at twelve to dine, gives a single knock, is admitted by his poor but clean-looking wife, wipes his feet, and goes up stairs: first and second-floor doors never by any possible chance opening in the mean time. Second-floor comes with a double knock; he dines at one or two; his wife is on nodding terms with first floor. Sometimes they exchange a "good morning" with each other, especially if second-floor is not intimate with the common people" up stairs. First-floor dines at three or four, if he is a clerk, or holding some situation under Government; he gives a regular "ran, tan, tan," for they keep a girl, a little dirty begrimed wretch: no matter, it is "our servant." The groundfloor people, generally the landlord and family, if they chance to be at the window, bow and smile to the first-floor-he is such a respectable man - he pays so regular-has a gallon of spirits at a time-and never such beggarly bits as a quarter-of-a-hundred of coals at once; disgracing the appearance of the house." Then, perhaps, there are the children of each floor: first, have platted behind and long tails; second, very tidy indeed; perhaps they put most of their washing out, and can spare more time to look after their children: third-floor, often a dirty face, and sitting on the top landing eating bread-and-butter, or pulling the coals out of the cupboard while the mother is washing. 66 OXYGEN. (For the FLY.) Oxygen, it is well known, is that life-giving principle in the air by means of which we breathe and live, and find the animal system invigorated and refreshed. It appears to be as essential to vegetables almost as to animals, for vegetables suck it in, and derive nourishment, in combination with other causes, therefrom. Without this principle, this chemical ingredient in the air, all nature-i. e., all animated beings, must perish. A fact as plain as it is wonderful. Our object, we confess, in sketching those ideas which float the mind is to induce a religious meditation. What! shall we daily receive the benefits of the divine mercy, and observe the wonders of creation, and yet be ashamed at least to own our convietions, because some of our fellow-creatures may foolishly smile at us? Consider, my friends, only five minutes silently and thought fully. Whenever we breathe, we throw off useless air, and take in that which is beneficial; that is to say, the oxygen. But, were we to throw off noxious gases from our system in larger quantities, and there were ? much smaller proportion of oxygen in the universe than is at present distributed over its surface, in what condition would the millions of the human family be placed? Malaria of every kind would abound of necessity every where; contagious distempers multiply with surprising rapidity, and thin the human race with a quickness and malignity as to which no correct notion can be formed through the shortness and limited nature of our understandings. And yet this simple principle we breathe daily; with diminished quantities we should groan indeed, "being burthened," without it we could not live, constituted as Is there then no knowledge to be gathered from an acquaintanceship with the wonderful processes every hour going forward in natural chemistry? Well and truly might David say, "Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge and the simple fact, but too little regarded, that oxygen is supplied, more or less, to every living thing according to its wants and necessities, is enough fully and satisfactorily, and unto a devout mind undeniably, prove that the tender inercy of God is "over all His works." May 20, 1839. M. A. P. men are. A BARK IS ON THE SUNNY SEA. "A bark is on the sunny sea"- Thus sang the love-lorn maiden there, LABLACHE. DEBUT EXTRAORDINARY. and festive manner, was his restoration hailed. I left London to visit my native home-to place my feet upon the very hearthstone by which I had sat when a boy. Mine was no affected feeling, no imaginary delight, but a mad wild eagerness to look upon the old woods and green hills which had been familiar to me from childhood, and to which my mind had so often sailed on the dreamy wings of pleasure, asleep or awake, just as fancy wandered. The old house was still the same, and every thing it contained seemed to stand in the very position that they occupied twenty years ago; there was no change, saving that they appeared to look older, somehow more venerable; but the alteration was more in myself than the objects I looked upon. I gazed upon the old clock, and fancied that the ancient monitor had undergone a great change since my boyish days; it seemed to have lost that sharp clear clicking with which it had greeted mine ears when a child, and when it told the hour it spoke in a more solemn tone than that of former years. I looked upon the brass figures which ornamented the old clock-face, Hopeless of plight, more hopeless of relief;" until fancy began to trace a resemblance bethe young aspirant hangs dubious, high in the tween myself and them in former days they regions of the liquid air. Fear takes posses- looked bright and gladsome, they seemed not sion of the stage, the actors forget their parts, to bend under the huge load they supported; and uttering deafening cries make their es- but now they have a care-worn look about cape. The orchestra rises in the greatest dis- them, and what they seemed to bear once with order. The women partially leaning over the a playful grace, now hangs upon them like a boxes, call fearfully out; the further part of burthen; their brows, too, seemed heavy, as if the pit and gallery partake of a like commo- they had passed away long years in painful tion, though as yet hardly knowing the cause thought. The gilt balls, which decorate the of alarm. A dreadful scene now succeeds, tall case, were tarnished; the golden worlds and the confusion is general, all being con- into which my fancy had so often conjured vinced that the poor debutant must fall on the them were gone; the light that played around stage, or in the midst of the crowd paralysed them in other days was dimmed; the sunshine with fright and dismay. A few moments are rested upon them no longer. I heard the passed in this painful suspense. At length he clock-chains slipping at intervals, as if they reaches terra firma. Here, for the first time, could not keep pace with time; they seemed he learns that one of the men engaged in the weary with long watching; they could no machinery above, had got his arm between longer keep a firm foot hold down the steep two cords, running close together, attach-hill which they had traversed so many years. ed to the flies, which supported the cloud, and had made his way down to the stage by the same conveyance with himself; the sight of which object-a man suspended by the lacerated, and in jeopardy, had caused the alarm that had so fearfully assailed the house. In this terrible passage and on reaching the ground, Lablache had his locks literally whitened; nevertheless his courage and presence of mind never forsook him, for he sang the air, and got through the part in the best he was able. After this trial scene, which in every sense of the word it may be called, if we apply the poet's couplet to the actor, ludicrous as it may seem : arm, way "Should the whole frame of nature round him break, It was after the Congress at Laybach that the counter-revolution took place at Naples with a rapidity that astonished all parties. The king had returned but a few days to his palace, and every where, in the most joyful says Juvenal. "Such fate pursues the votaries of praise," My eye fell upon the old mirror into which I had looked twenty years ago, on which I had gazed when a child, and marvelled how an other fire and another room could stand within the compass of so small a frame. It gave me neither flattery nor welcome, but gravely threw me back, seated by the same hearth which I had so often scrawled over with the misshapen figures of men and monsters when a boy. We confronted each other with a familiar boldness, as if proud that we had stood the wear and tear of time so well. We looked seriously, but not unkindly, upon each other. The image in the mirror seemed as if it would have accosted me, and had much to utter, but its lips became compressed, as if it scorned to murmur. It gave back another form for a moment a lovely maiden stood arranging her ringlets before it but that was only fancy, for I remembered she had long been dead. The very crack which I had made along the old looking-glass when a boy, with my ball, seemed like a landmark dividing the past from the present. I could have moralised for hours on that old mirror. On the wall hung the large slate on which I ventured to write my |