So said, and so it was done. Monday night came, and found me in full uniform at the door of the royal box, standing upon a purple carpet, and surrounded by garlands and festoons of flowers. The manager was bustling about like a man too happy to stand still, and seeking Gretry, whom he met, at length, just opposite the place where I was standing. "Ah, Gretry, my dear Gretry," said the manager, "tell me, I beg of you, may I not speak one word with this celebrated vocalist you have brought me? Not that I presume for a moment to doubt her talent, but you know how anxious I feel-the queen-there has been no rehearsal." "Time enough," coolly answered Gretry, "when she comes upon the stage. Make yourself perfectly easy; Sedaine and I have seen and heard her that is enough for you. But, tell me ; you have doubled your prices, I hope ?"

"Better than that, Monsieur Gretry: I have raised them to a louis-d'or; less than that would have been disrespectful to the queen."

At this moment there was a great noise of carriages and horses, and the shouts of the people without, announced the arrival of the queen, who entered so quickly that I had barely time to "present arms" before she had passed into her box. She was followed by a number of ladies and courtiers, among whom I recognised the sweet but melancholy face of her who had accompanied the queen on her visit to Montreuil.

The performance began at once. The queen chatted and laughed all through the tragedy, and of course, nobody listened; but when the opera commenced, she was all attention, and the audience were profoundly silent. All of a sudden I heard a full, rich, melodious voice that went straight to my heart, and affected me so much that I trembled, and had to lean upon my gun for support. There was, there could be only one voice in the world like that. I listened-I stood upon my toes, and looking over the heads of the royal party through a crevice in the door, beheld the singer. It was a little peasant; and I marvelled at the resemblance she bore to my Pierrette. There was her height, her shape, her

very dress; the same red frock, the white apron, the sweet little foot, the blue and red striped stockings, and the silver buckles in her shoes.

"Mercy upon me!" I exclaimed, "how clever these actresses must be to adopt so completely the look and manner of all sorts of people; here is this famous Mademosiselle Colombe, who lives in a splendid house at Paris, dresses like a duchess, and has scores of servants to wait on her; and see how exactly she resembles Pierrette! And yet it is clear enough that she is not Pierrette. My poor sweetheart cannot sing like that, although her voice is every bit as fine."

Still I continued to look, until the door of the box was suddenly banged in my face. The queen was incommoded by the heat, and wished it open. I heard her speaking quickly, and laughing with great delight.

"This is excellent," she said, “and the king will be amused with our adventure. Mademoiselle Colombe will lose no credit by permitting me to take advantage of her name and reputation. My dear princess," she continued, speaking to Madame de Lamballe, "we have taken them all in, finely; these good people are doing a good action without knowing it; they are delighted with the great actress, and we have but to give the signal to bring down thunders of applause." Thus speaking, she tapped with her fan upon the front of the box, and in a moment the house re-echoed with the clapping of hands and cries of "Brava, brava." Rose could not open her mouth without a storm of approbation, and the lovely queen was in raptures.

At length the piece was ended, and a shower of wreaths and bouquets was thrown at the feet of Rose, from every part of the house. "And the real lover, where is he?" said the queen to the Duke de Lauzun. The Duke came out of the box and beckoned to my captain, who was marching up and down the corridor. My captain bowed profoundly and spoke to the duke in a low voice; the queen looked at me; in another moment I saw Michael Sedaine coming up the stairs, followed by Gretry and the manager; and with them came Pierrette, the real Pierrette, my own, my bride, the Pierrette of Montreuil. The manager, unable to restrain his joy, was muttering to himself, "a fine house-a splendid benefit-eighteen thousand francs at the very least." The queen rose from her seat, and coming

out of the box with a bright smile and a look of benevolent gaiety, she took Pierrette by the hand, saying, "There, my girl, this is the only way in which a marriage portion can be gained in an hour without disgrace or crime;" and then turning to me she added, "I hope Monsieur Maturin will have no objection now to accept the hand and the fortune of Pierrette, since she has earned it for herself."

THE NEW BOOK.

BY A CANTAB.

"None are so fond of secrets as those who do not mean to keep them. Such persons covet secrets as a spendthrift covets money-for the purpose of circulation."-Lacon.

WHAT a pity it is that men will not allow the feelings which suggest their more trivial and insignificant actions, to have equal influence also in the greater con. cerns of life. Who can witness the trouble taken by the reading part of a small village for the first perusal of a new book, or, which is more often the case, of an old book which has made its first appearance at the solitary circulating library, without lamenting that a little of the energy, activity, and emulation, visible in the beings who throng round the tormented librarian, is not put to some service in the real business of life.

About two or three summers ago, I was so much amused by an incident connected with this prevalent appetite for the first cut of a new book, that I have been tempted to put it into some sort of legible shape. I have an aunt, an old romance-reading maiden lady, who, for the last thirty years of her life, has inhabited a small house in the neighbourhood of a village lying at some distance from the metropolis; therefore, as might be expected, containing only one circulating library. As with all novelreading persons, the first perusal of a new one, in my aunt's imagination, doubles the beauties of a first-rate, and renders even the dullest of its kind, piquante and delightful. By burning one candle, instead of two, except when company are present, she is enabled, without any stings of conscience, to pay a double subscription; and upon those terms, receives every new publication, uncut from the librarian; thus gratify ing, at a little sacrifice, the first wish of her soul.

At the time above-mentioned, I was paying a visit at her house, and was highly delighted at perceiving in the old

lady an energy and activity, which I thought her age had not allowed me to expect. But the riddle was soon solved, for I had not been ten minutes in the house, when she told me she was in hourly anticipation of the arrival of a new work, entitled, the "Tales of the O'Hara Family." I did not think it charitable to undeceive her with regard to the age of that exquisite book, by letting her know that it had already been ten or twelve months before the public, and therefore let her remain in blessed ignorance. The clock had scarcely struck seven, and the tea things barely removed from table, (my aunt drinks tea early), when John entered the room with three respectable sized, novel-looking books, that is, done up in blue boards, with a little white paper title at the back of each. My aunt, with the avidity attributable only to demi-starvation, snatched at the volumes, and with difficulty by the fading light, puzzled out the title page.

"John! did you see any other new books on Mr. Brown's counter ?"

"Yes, ma'am; there was three others, uncommon like them; and Miss Gibson's servant comes in and axes for summat fresh, and then, ma'am, Master Brown gies those there."

"Good heavens! you don't say so; that must be another copy, and that envious Miss Gibson got it. John, get candles, and make haste, for we will begin it to-night, and see whether, in spite of the two copies, we cannot get the start of Miss Gibson."

The shutters having been closed, and the candles brought in, the first volume was placed in my hands, and I commenced reading. Just before I had got half through the first tale, "Crohoore na Bilhoge," my aunt became exceedingly nervous. I was continually interrupted by exclamations, such as these "Hist! hark!" Twice did I go and see if the hall-door was closed; and at last, was dispatched to the kitchen for the cleaver, for John had not been more than three years in the family, and who knew what might happen? But, notwithstanding all her terrors, I was ordered to read on by the light of the flaming, long-wicked candles, which, though ghastly enough to frighten my aunt with innumerable misty shapes in the gloom of the corners, she had not courage enough to snuff, evidently fearful of the temporary darkness it would occasion. At the end of the first tale, however, she permitted me to go to bed;

and, taking the book with her, retired for the night.

The next morning, too impatient to read the whole novel, before she triumphed over Miss Gibson, which she expect ed to do in consequence of the last night's hard reading, my aunt, immediately after an early breakfast, put on her walking things, laid hold of my arm, and set out on a visit to the aforesaid lady. Sure enough, when we entered, we found Miss Gibson in the middle of one of the volumes of a set of books which lay upon the table, exactly the counterpart of those we had left at home. I observed my aunt's eye glance anxiously and vigilantly at the two volumes which lay upon the table, and likewise her smile of triumphant satisfaction at the pleasing conviction from seeing them uncut, that Miss Gibson had not yet emerged from the first volume, while she herself had travelled half through the second.

"Well," my dear, said my aunt, after the usual inquiries at morning visits, "I see you have got this dear, delightful new book. How very good of Mr. Brown to get two copies, isn't it? It is so unpleasant to keep one's friends waiting; for you know, my dear, my arrangements with Mr. Brown enable me always to peruse the new books instantly upon their arrival. But you have not, I perceive, finished the first story. Shocking-very shocking, it is the beginning, isn't it? But, thank heaven! it all ends happily. That Crohoore now I'll bet you a wager you think him the murderer of that old man ?"

"I do not wish, my dear Miss S.," --said Miss Gibson.

But my aunt interrupted her immediately. "Stop, my dear;-right enough: you don't wish to hear the end of the story beforehand; it takes away the exquisite mystery- -so it does-I never like it myself. But really, what do you think? I myself thought, for a long time, that that Crohoore was the murderer, because, you know, Pearce Shea seems so different a man. Well, but I'll say nothing about it-you will enjoy the more yourself, all about the WhiteBoy, and the poor lawyer with his ears cut off, &c. &c."-And so my aunt ran on, till, at last, she had gone through the work, in spite of Miss Gibson's continued attempts at interruption, which she as continually parried by saying, "O-ah!-true! I'll say no more;" and then, again, she launched forth into the very pith of the narrative. At last, she stopped for want of breath and mat

ter; and Miss Gibson found room just to say, with a mild patronizing air, and a triumphant smile on her lips, "I was going to say, my dear Miss S., if you had not interrupted me, that I was well acquainted with the story, which I read, I believe, some two years ago in London, when on a visit at my brother's."

"Have you really? how funny !"and my aunt laughed; but oh! how bitter that laugh: in it spoke a sleepless night, and the bitterness of disappointment! "Well! but then," she continued with a groan, for she had misgivings that Miss Gibson had the start of her in some other works also, "What books are these? I hoped-I mean-I thought they were the Tales of the O'Hara Family.' They are very like those we have at home.

"They are, my dear, the 'Tales of the O'Hara Family; but, the Second Series.” J. P. JUN.

CURIOUS ANECDOTE OF TURKISH TREACHERY.

THE intelligent author of the "Correspondance d'Orient" relates the following anecdote, which, as he observes, looks more like a page of romance than an authenticated fact.

Some years ago, Mahmoud, already disquieted by the growing greatness of his vizier of the Pyramids, determined to get rid of him by the following stratagem. Summoning to his presence a young and innocent Georgian from his harem, he thus addressed her: " My beautiful slave, you will be very happy when I tell you, that I have chosen you as the companion of my glorious Pacha of Egypt, the first man on earth, next to me; I am about to give you a ring, a marvellous talisman, by whose aid you may become the absolute sovereign of his heart. If in any of his tender interviews with you, he should ask to drink, secretly slip this ring into his cup, and when he shall have drunk, you will set him at your feet like a captive child, so powerful is the talisman I am bestowing upon you." This ring, which the young Georgian received with transport from the hands of the Sultan, had a small stone or composition, which, when dissolved in water, produced a most ac tive poison. The girl knew nothing of this, and pleased her fancy with the brilliant prospects proposed to her by the Sultan. She soon departed for Egypt, escorted by a numerous suite; she was not however, received by Mohammed

Ali; he, who had then as now, spies at Constantinople, in the very palace of the Sultan, received warning in time. He presented the beautiful Georgian to one of his principal officers; the young slave wished to employ the talisman, to secure her power over her new master; the poor officer swallowed the poison, and dropped down dead as if struck by a thunderbolt. The ignorant girl, astonished at the event, began to bewail her fate, and related simply what she had done, and from whom she had received the fatal talisman. All was then explained without difficulty, and when the news came to Mohammed Ali, he returned thanks to Providence, for averting from him the mortal draught.

SUPERSTITIOUS CUSTOM AT JAFFA.

EVERY evening during Lent, the young children of Greek families go to the door of the Christian houses, and with a monotonous chant, which might be taken for lamentation, demand wood, or money to buy wood. "Give, give," they say, "and next year your children will be married, and their days will be prosperous, and you will live long to witness their happiness." The wood that these children ask, is designed to burn the Jews. It is on the evening of Holy Thursday that the young Greeks kindle their fires, and every little troop has its own pile. They dress a straw figure in the Jewish costume, and the victim in effigy is then brought to the place of execution, amid shouts and hisses. The children deliberate gravely on the kind of punishment, to which the Israelite should be condemned: some say, 66 Crucify him, he has crucified Jesus; "others, "Cut him down-tear him to pieces, for he has slain our God." The chief of the troop then interferes: "What need is there," he says, "to have recourse to all these punishments? Is there not a fire kindled? Burn the Jew." The imaginary Jew is then cast into the flames, and the children exclaim, "O Fire, fire, spare him not; devour him; he has buffeted Jesus Christ, he has nailed his hands and his feet;" and the children thus enumerate all the sufferings which the Jews made our Saviour endure. When the victim is consumed, they throw the ashes to the winds with bitter execrations, and each returns home satisfied that he has taken vengeance on the murderer of Christ. Have not such customs their character imprinted on them? and do they not give rise to very serious reflections?

ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

Wr take the following letter from the Athenæum Journal. The story is German in all its details, and quite as frightful as any of the wild fictions to which "fatherland" has given birth. Pity that Goëthe is not living to immortalize it in a Drama! It is, doubtless, dramatized by our French neighbours ere this. These "sentimental suicides" are one of the many indications of a depraved age.

I was about to send you a gossiping letter on a multitude of comparatively unimportant subjects, when all interest and attention here was absorbed by one of the most tragical and astounding events ever recorded in literary biography. You may rely on every particular I am now about to relate. I know all the parties intimately-know all circumstances by direct letters-am authorized to communicate them to you-and most anxious to do so without the loss of a single moment, lest misrepresentations should find their way into the English papers. You have, at least, heard, by fame and name, of Dr. H-S-,* Custos of the Royal Library at Berlin,-distinguished, as a scholar, by his edition of " Pacuvii Doulorestes—as a poet, by his collection of Greek Songs, and his Bilder des Orients.' He married, four or five years since, a highly-accomplished and amiable young lady, Miss W-, of Leipzig. They lived most happily together, but had no family. Her whole time and attentions therefore were devoted to him: his success, his fame, his happiness, engrossed all her thoughts. During the summer of 1833 they travelled together through Russia, and returned to Berlin delighted with the scenes they had passed through, and full of enthusiasm and new literary projects. But soon after the husband was taken ill. His disorder was peculiar, and the physicians expressed their fears that his mind would be ultimately affected. In the autumn of last year they visited together the Baths of Rissingen, but he did not derive from them the benefit anticipated. They were detained on their return by illness at Hanover, and only reached Berlin late in

We have suppressed the names. To the few personally interested, the parties are sufficiently indicated-to the many, it is of little consequence, and the publication might give pain, although there can be no doubt that, notwithstanding our precaution, they will shortly be bruited about all over Europe.

---

the season; but as soon as he arrived, he resigned his situation of Custos of the Royal Library, that he might enjoy, undisturbed, the quiet of domestic life, and recover, if possible, his health. A friend, and one whom I introduced, had often spoken to them of the beautiful environs of Jena of our habits, manners, and social life. Led by his description, and perhaps a wish, under circumstances, to change the scene, they had resolved to spend the next summer in our little town. This was especially her plan; and in arranging for, and talking over, the contemplated change, the time passed until the 29th of December, when the Doctor went to a public concert. He expressed his intention of leaving it before a symphony of Beethoven's should be performed, fearing that it would be too much for him, and try his weak nerves too severely. His wife persuaded him to the contrary: he remained-was gratified and cheered by it--and returned home full of his plans for the next summer. When he entered his lodgings he found all in confusion. During his absence she, having previously dressed herself all in white, had killed herself-she had pointed a dagger to her heart, and with a resolved spirit struck a sure blow, and expired instantly.

The maid-servant, who heard her mistress fall, finding both doors which led to her chamber fastened, called for the landlord. On forcing an entrance they found her dead. The unfortunate husband arrived at this moment. following letter, written with a firm hand upon a sheet of common paper, lay upon the table:

The

It

"More unhappy than thou hast been, thou canst not be, my most beloved; happier thou mayst become with real misfortune. There is often a wonderful blessing in misfortune. —you will surely find it so. We suffered together one sorrow: thou knowest how I suffered in silence: no reproach ever came from you -much, much hast thou loved me. will be better for thee- much better. Why? I feel, but have not words to express what I feel. We shall meet hereafter, free and unfettered. But thou wik live out thy time upon earth. Fulfil then thy destiny, and act with energy. Salute all whom I loved, and who loved me in return. Till, in all eternity we meet, thy CHARLOTTE.

66

P. S. Do not betray weakness-be firm, strong, and resolute."

These are the brief particulars of perhaps the most extraordinary suicide in the world's records. This heroic woman

had a deep insight into the nature of her husband's malady: she felt and knew that nothing but a real and lasting sorrow could give another direction to his thoughts, and save him from madness; and she offered herself a willing sacrifice to his happiness. It is perhaps still more extraordinary, that from this eventful moment he has recovered; the physicians declare that no medicine could have worked with half such potency either on mind or body. He feels himself strong and able to fulfil her last declared wishes, and to accomplish those great projects upon which heretofore he merely contemplated and speculated.

THE gentleman who had been listening to the enamoured Teodosia's story, kept silence for so long a time after she had concluded it, that she thought he had fallen asleep in the midst of it; and to know if her suspicion was right, she said, "Are you asleep, sir? Indeed it were not amiss that you should be so; for the sufferer who relates his woes to one who does not feel them, may well incline him rather to slumber than to sorrow."

"I am not asleep," answered the gentleman; "on the contrary, I am so much awake, and so much alive to your misfortune, that I know not whether I may not say that it grieves my heart as much as it does your own; so that I am ready not only to counsel, but also to assist you to the utmost of my power, since, although the terms in which you have told me your story, by displaying the fine understanding with which you are endowed, have shewn that you must have been led away as much by your own inclination as by the persuasions of Marco Antonio, yet I am willing to admit, as an excuse for your error, your immature years, too few to have been aware of the numerous wiles of men. Compose yourself, lady, and sleep (if you can) the small portion of the night which can now be remaining; and when the morning comes, we will