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wlfmeim iMMii mam.
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I Original fnrtnj.
For the Southern Literary (Jazette.
A NIGHT HYMN.
BY WILLIAM C. RICHARDS.
, r Divine! whose hands have drawn
-tar- gemmed curtains of the night,
i, r,, .-leeping earth till morn,
~ .1 the bu -y scenes of light:
. in Thy sheltering arms,
I t my rest refreshing be ;
t sorrows and alarms,
j lie lown and sleep with Thee!
. .t Thy beloved sleep,*
_,,li divinely great and dear!
die’ ’ Thy beloved who keep
f roll) ,ni, their hands and conscience clear ;
|,ow dare / then lo pray
that which to the pure belongs;
. against thee, every day,
ainht a thousand grievous wrongs!
t,i, -ed be the words of grace,
i l; ,t f ; 11 like music on my ear;
nme inv Father hides His face,
V, hn shed for sin the secret tear.”
Saviour’s voice I recognize,
..v .: tune- that stir my inmost soul,
ntains gush, till from mine eyes,
i'iu' tears of deep contrition roll.
, ;,,viiig Thee, in poor return,
11., Father! for Thy matchless love,
- iltarms and spells ot sleep I spurn,
, 1 -ivk iiiy slumbers from above,
i purple wine, nor opiate rare,
,1 v ,u.,1 in Lethean wave shall steep,
..fiit-Thee I’ll lift my prayer,
. no -givesl Thy belovdd sleep.’
UtcenberS, 1830.
♦ •‘Uegiveth His beloved sleep. ** —Psalm 127. 2.
frlcrtfii Coirs.
1 MATILDA;
I A TALK OF THE RHINE.
- trom tin (imnan of Laube, for the American
■ Cabinet.]
lii Alti’iiburg t wo gentlewomen were
• Aval into our conveyance, and re
j.izol each other. They seemed to
t hearty friends who had been far
. •.. tlic one from the other; but
, rxjnv.-vsion of their joy came to me
ilii-avily measured as when one beats
; at the burial of a soldier. They
ach other, and squeezed their
1 did not observe them closely;
: luces also 1 had not seen. I sat
tlit'in on the hindermost seat, and
uas entirely dark, and they be
i me fast asleep, one of them ie
'o.l, in light, whispering tones, the
wing narration. Before,! had paid
.aid to their conversation ; but
,j pic tone which suddenly arose,
r .me at once. The lady who
had a fair alto voice, which at
arose above a whisper. Gener
die spoke entirely without modu
li in a monotone, which heightened
I iaipressions in an unusual manner.
light and the carriage, moreover,
I dark and still, uninterrupted, ex
| ! at uniform measures; and without
I allied. 1 listened, half sleeping, half
l iving, yet, although rehearsing the
rv from memory, I shall scarcely
tinge anything essential.
I
THE STORY.
‘Mi the banks of the Rhine, in a
. ‘lmtu-sized city, sat the family of
i itizeu at breaklast. It was yet very
••••y; tlie morning light shone gray
’ the window ; the ingle-fire blazed ;
• tie table stood two burning lamps.
b"uud the table sat, the father, in a
“•• iu dressing-gown, the mother, in a
‘■ate nighteap, and the son, a noble
1 -til. attired for a journey. Ferdi-
1 would set forth early and would
•ml even to Russia. By the fire
’ “and his sister, preparing a fresh pitch
; t hut beer—for the breeze of the
- morning was cold. The maiden
“:iS" :iS tall and slender; she had cast
tt her a large kerchief and fasten
ed the corners behind. Abstractedly
“v gazed on the fire, while slowly the
glided down her cheeks.
“but, Matdda,” cried her father, “the
l!l is empty, and Ferdinand has drunk
hut two cups.”
1 hen she recollected herself, drew
:,v; tair white arms from the kerchief,
• laying on fresh wood, while her
s fell in the fire, scarcely took time
7 her cheeks with the cloth. The
! r prepared, she brought it to theta
• tilled her brother s cup, and then
■ “g both hands over his head and
• still weeping, she pressed her
“ t; k upon his eyes —
“And now you, too, are going, Fer
dinand”—
-More she could not say. Herbroth
'■'ast his arms around her, the father
1 away his pipe with an uneasy air,
: mother wept sorely, and went and
•k her son by the hand. Finally,
lather spoke as if peevish, andcom
-1 laid that they would not let the
uth breakfast in the least quiet,
ihen there was a loud call in the en
tire hall, and all exclaimed —“The
•iehman!”
t erdinand sprang up —k ssed his
: ‘ l 'iier; the old man’s face was troubled
h emotion ; he kissed his weeping
■ ‘bier; she bound a foxtail around his
and would not let him remove it.
‘l’ kerchief, which lay upon the chair,
thrust into his bosom. Now must
‘■"pint with his sister. She laid her
; :i1 upon his shoulder, and said, “ Not
I '• Ihe parents went no further than
door, as it was too cold for them
“ithout. At the carriage, when she
r more pressed her trembling, w arm
‘ ‘ls to his face, she prayed heartily
l!l “t he might live right happily. “And
w! *en you meet him in Riga, ask him
II he is faithful.”
, The carriage rolled away. Matilda
I '"ked after it with sad countenance,
i covered her fair arms beneath the
’ ‘chief. It was cold ; the street look
) et as dead as an old apartment the
‘"ig of which has been removed. —
J “c watchman at his stand was awake
I rr' ose slowly to the spear above, liftec
151 broad hat, and piped the fifth hour.
a mm msm, mmm n Lamms, m ms m stums, am to qw rnmifism
Slowly, shuddering with cold and grief,
Matilda returned into the house. The
chimney fire had gone out; her parents
were sitting in darkness. She sat quiet
in a corner hy the stove, where she of
ten had been seated with her brother,
and him to whom she had sent greet
ing in Riga.
11.
THE iEA PARTY.
One evening Ferdinand came into
Riga. He had finished his studies in
Heidelburg, and would now educate
the children of a rich banker. There
fore he was here, and passed over the
threshold of a brightly illuminated
dwelling. It was a tea-party. The
banker received him very kindly, and
introduced him to his family. The la
dy of the house had a vain haughty ap
pearance : there was much beautv in
her form, but a certain negligence in
her manner; she treated Ferdinand
with a mingling of tradesman’s pride,
conceit of wealth, and half concealed,
half-framed politeness. Her attire was
rich, but without taste; her toilet lux
urious and free. Behind, in part lean
ing over her shoulder, stood her eldest
daughter, Emily, aud looked inquisi
tively on the new comer with her burn
ing eyes. She had raven-black hair,
and black eyes, and was already as
large as her mother. Ferdinand would
teach her French aud music. She fell
as fire on his eyes, and he beheld her
with beaming looks. Her mother per
ceived his countenance, and smiled.—
She asked if he could read before them,
and gave him Goethe’s “Stella.”
Ferdinand read; Emily sat near him;
he felt her breath, her eyes were on the
book, and he read eagerly and patheti
cally. The maiden heard with great
interest; after the act she drew a deep
breath, and smiled thankfully on the
reader. Her mother praised ; her fa
ther walked slowly up and down the
adjoining apartment, conversing at ran
dom with a stranger, concerning his af
fairs Gnly for a while he remained
standing in the door, and looked on the
group; but one could easily perceive
that lie did not listen to “Stella.”
W hen the book was at an end, Fer
dinand was happy. The mother went
near, smiled confidently, and thought
it charming that lie read so beautifully
and with so much feeling. “Oh, yes,”
added Emily, quickly, and stood near
him, thoughtfully, with downcast eyes.
HI.
“ CUCKOO !”
On the following day, Ferdinand
met, on the street, his college friend,
Richard. Great was their joy. They
had studied together, and Richard had
once, on a beautiful Whit-suntide holi
day, gone with Ferdinand to his home
on the Rhine, in that little village where
it is still and beautiful; Matilda sat
before tlie door, and embroidered a
gay-coloured students oag. in tire
spring, when the flowers came, and
Richard had kissed Matilda before
those dear friends departed, there had
been great joy on the Rhine. Later
he had come again, and had gone to
walk arm in arm with the maiden, and
>eople said—“ That is a beautiful pair!”
Father and mother had bestowed their
blessing.
Ferdinand now delivered the greet
ing of Matilda; and Richard.inquired,
iu return, how she was. Afterward, he
allowed Ferdinand to introduce him
into the house of the banker. Ho
played the piano better than Ferdi
nand, and consumed in sport and friend
ship the music-hour of Emily. The
mother was pleased with him, for he
was a very mannerly man, and an ac
ceptable companion in Riga; he had
much of the obliging, and was in a fair
way to make a shining career as a law
yer. The banker made him a very
friendly bow ; and Ferdinand rose in
estimation because he had such respec
table connections.
In the morning, Ferdinand taught
Emily and her brothers, while their
mother slept or made her toilet; and
the father had engagements and was
not seen.
Ferdinand taught all things so fer
vently and impressively, that Emily
continually prized the hours more dear
ly. When, after leaving the table, her
parents went out, she always remained
at home, in order to attend upon her
brothers, and she herself learned many
things with them. When the sun shone,
Ferdinand let the boys run in the yard,
and as winter was departing, this often
happened.
Then spake Emily and Ferdinand
quiet, cordial things with each other.
It was on ofie such a sunny mid-day,
that he took heart and ardently kissed
her hand. Trembling with joy and
fear, she laid her other hand upon his,
looked in his eyes, and finally fell in
his arms. J ust then the breeze pushed
open the window towards the yard;
one of her brothers cried “ Cuckoo!” —
and they, alarmed, hastened into the
sitting-room.
Ferdinand, in the tumult of his hap
piness, told Emily that, when her fa
ther returned home, he would ask his
fair daughter in marriage, Yesterday
he had received letters from the Rhine
stating that the parsonage of his native
village was otic red to him.
The carriage was brought —Emily
hastened into the court to restrain her
brothers from their vain conversation.
Ferdinand went to the banker and re
quested an interview.
IV.
THE PROPOSAL.
Richard was in the court playing
with the lads. The elder one told
him what he had learned that day, and
how long he already had played. VV hen
he asked after Emily, he answered she
was kissing Mr. terdinand. Richard
then hastened to the noble mistress of
the house, and Ferdinand had scarcely
reached the banker, when she also ap
peared, her face flaming with anger,and
interrupted the proposal which Ferdi
nand had just begun. Turning half to
him, half to her husband, she said with
cutting words, “that Mr. Tutor allowed
himself intimacy with his scholars which
was certainly unfitting.”
With difficulty .Ferdinand interposed,
that he had sought the father to request
Emily’s hand. At this, the mother ex
claimed aloud, scornfully and sneering
ly ; but the father who hitherto had
looked on with half-closed eyes, stared
upon him suddenly, knit his brow, and
said, in a firm voice—“Sir, there can
not be a word of this.”
(An the corridor, returning, Ferdi
nand found Emily, who awaited him,
trembling with joy, affection, and an
guish. He reached her his hand, told
her in a weak voice, agitated by deep
pain, that all was lost. She fell upon
his neck, and overwhelmed him with
hot tears and kisses.
“ Let us flee to Germany,” said Em-
Ny
“ Will you ?”
“I will do anything that joins me to
yourself.”
Now they conversed how to begin
this; lor it was not likely they would
longer endure Ferdinand in the house.
Doors would be opened, they were no
longer safe in the place, and decided
on a point of rendezvous. Emily should
obtain the key of the summer-house,
and there, when all in the house slept,
they would talk over the needful pre
parations.
The same evening there was a ball
at the house. Emily appeared richly
dressed, and was entirely unrestrained.
She danced, smiled, and sported wild
ly, especially with Richard. Ferdinand
stood in a window-recess, and looked
on her with rapture ; his soul was fill
ed with love for the fair young maiden
ami with anxiety tor the contemplated
flight. He did not dance. As the
company broke up, she whispered two
words in his ear, and hastened to her
chamber.
V.
THE RENDEZVOUS.
It was a moonlit night. The garden
gate creaked, and a close-veiled female
form glided beneath the shadow of the
trees. It was Emily. Ferdinand on
the same side, crept along by the gar
den wall. She must be prudent for
the moon was shining out treacherous
ly clear, and there was yet a iight in
her father’s chamber w hich looked out
upon the court. Suddenly Emily cried
out, regardless of consequences ; Fer
dinand sprang over the beds to her
side. She trembled through her whole
frame, and pointed to a dark part of
the garden, whence she had heard her
name called. Ferdinand went to the
place, but found nothing. They went
into the summer house, and came to
the following agreement. Ferdinand
should hasten from the pavilion, that
Jed into the open air, us quickly as
possible, to the port, bespeak two places
on board a ship, and then return to the
same place. Emily should bind her
money and jewels u, „
await him, prepared for a journey.
Ferdinand first led her back to the
house, took his cloak, placed a New
Testament in his pocket and departed.
All was quiet at the port ; a sailor lay
asleep on the pier. He awoke him and
began his enquiry. The sailor, main
taining his position, heard him through
and then, without speaking a word,
rowed Ferdinand to the ship. The cap
tain was called ; the business was soon
settled ; at six o’clock the ship would
put to sea.
Ferdinand hastened back, found Emi
ly waiting, and led the way to the port.
She imagined that a figure was follow
ing them, at a distance, with equal
pace ; but Ferdinand called it a dream.
First, on reaching the pier,it also seem
ed to him that someone was following
them; the boat delayed which should set
them over, and he was ill at ease. By the
side of the dwellings the figure ap
proached them. But the boat was
there ; they passed over and mounted
the ship. Both drew a long breath,and
felt themselves in safety.
VI.
IMPEDIMENTS.
It was not yet day, when there be
gan a great confusion in the house of
the banker. A man, veiled in a long
cloak, had suddenly rung at the door
in great haste, and demanded instantly
to speak with the master of the house.
The carriage of the banker rolled down
to the Police Office; the policemen
hastened in the direction of the port.
The ship had weighed anchor as the
clock in Riga had struck six, when the
head man of the police in a boat came
up to the ship, and in the name of the
Emperor demanded to speak with the
captain. The seamen shouted the an
chor was cleared, it was too late—“ln
the name of the Emperor!” sounded
fatally in the confusion. The captain
came. A moment saw Ferdinand and
Emily descending the narrow ship’s
ladder into the boat. Richard, veiled
in his long cloak, stood on the stone
pier ; he led Emily to her father’s car
riage, lifted her in, kissed her hand, and
called to the coachman to drive to the
house. Ferdinand was taken to prison,
and a criminal process commenced.—
The first day Emily w T ept much, but
Richard used every means to comfort
her. After a short time they told her
that Ferdinand was sent to Germany.
VII.
ADVENTURE.
In the meantime, in the little village
on the Rhine, the letters of Ferdinand
were discontinued, and they no longer
expected letters from Richard. Ma
tilda was become very pale and still
more grave than before. One day, she
told her father she would go by the
port to Riga. Ferdinand was certainly
sick, and in a strange land had no care.
Her father said nothing, and gave her
money for travelling.
At Riga she heard that Ferdinand
had been transported to Siberia. She
wept not, but made preparations to go
to St. Petersburg, and present her case
at the feet of the Emperor. As she
went to the port, to bespeak a place in
a ship, an elegant gentleman walked
before her, who sang a German song
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, DEC. 28, 1850.
which they often used to sing at home
upon the Rhine. She h i tened forward;
perhaps the man had known Ferdinand.
He turned around. Matilda stood still
as a statue ; she knew the man—it was
Richard. But he knew her not, and
went on, trilling his Rhine-song.
VIII.
DENOUMENT.
V ith much difficulty did she obtain
a hearing in Petersburg; with much
difficulty, she obtained the pardon of
her brother. Now she hastened over
the wide ice-plains of Siberia ; she had
already left many hundred miles behind
her; the village lay before her with its
huts where she should find Ferdinand,
and announce to him his freedom.
They were bringing out a body on
a sledge; and, as she came to the place,
she found it was the corpse of Ferdi
nand.
Matilda wept not. She would go
back to the Rhine and perform her du
ty towards her aged parents.
In the neighbourhood of Riga she
met a rich equipage. The coachmen
of the fair carringe drove swiftly against
a stone; crashed a wheel ; those with
in descended ; the postillion who car
ried Matilda stopped to render assist
ance to the coachman. The gentleman
and the lady, a fair young dame, de
sired Matilda to carry them to the near
est city. Matilda knew the man, and
let her veil fall over her face—it was
Richard. He sat opposite to her, and
jested with her companion. The com
panion was his young wife ; and, as
they drew near Riga, the postillion told
her that she was the daughter of a rich
banker, who once sought to escape
with a young German. Matilda sup
pressed her feeling's, and went onward
towards her destination in tumultuous
silence.
From the Maux Liberal.
THE PIRATE.
By the time that the several dispo
sitions ordered by the captain had been
made, the stranger, a beautiful brig j
had approached within long gunshot.
\Y e (that is, officers and passengers)
were congregated on the poop deck, in
anticipation of momentarily receiving
an iron summons to round to. This,
however, did not appear to be part of
the unknown’s policy ; and whilst he
was last drawing ahead, Macsawney,
who carried on the duties of theshipas
it she floated unquestioned mistress of
the blue expanse, ordered eight bells
(having taken the sun) to be struck,
and invited his passengers to partake
of their customary meridian. They
were in the act of descending, when
Bosy reported that the brig, having
given a broad yaw to leeward, showed
Spanish colours at her peak. These
were scarcely set ere they were dipped
an indication that it was their wish to
speak us. The atrocities which have
onoe imperial banner,
stranger, and our proximity to the Cape
de Verd Islands, the favorite resort of
the lawless, caused us to survey him
with a curiosity in which apprehension
was not slightly mingled. Our doubts
and fears were in course of speedy so
lution, for the self-styled Spaniard had
now lessened his distance to a couple
of hundred yards. A more exquisite
hull it was impossible to look upon—
long, low, and of exceeding beam —
the bow round as an apple, with a cut
water sharp as a wedge, from which
projected a female-figure head of the
most graceful proportions. Every line
was symmetry itself- —her bottom beau
tifully mouldered, her copper bright as
burnished gold, and her run clean and
fine as the heels of a racer; in short,
the very model of what an English no
bleman’s yacht should be. The capaci
ty might amount to some three hun
dred tons. The beauty of the hull was
fully equalled by the gear aloft, which
was taut, tapering, and well set up; the
lower mast was clean-scraped and
bright varnished, with long heads paint
ed white. lie carried courses, top
sails, with a slab reef to make them
stand better, top-gallant sails, fire-top
mast staysail, jib-boom mainsail, a
thundering ringtail, fore-topmast and
fore-top gallant studding sails; his roy
al yards were sent down, and his flying
jib-boom housed. All his yards were
remarkably square, his canvass well
cut, and it was impossible to surpass
the light airy tracery of his taper masts,
with all their mazy lines of superin
cumbent cordage. As we approxima
ted, we gave our meteor flag to the
breeze —his Spanish ensign still float
ing at his peak. Ilis lovely craft was
in perfect command,and having drawn
a little before our lee beam, he imme
diately hailed.
“Ship, ahoy !” “Hallo!” responded
Macsawney. “What ship’s that?”
“The Saucy Sally. What brig’s that?”
“The Vomito Pietro,” was the answer.
“Where are you from?” “The Cape
of Good Hope.” “Heave to —heave
to ! 1 have intelligence to communi
cate.”
“Ay, ay,” sang out Mac. “Cheeri
ly, my lads; round in the weather
main and top-sail braces. Foretop
there ! down top-gallant st.un-sail ; in
with Big Ben ; clap on the topmast
stun’sail downballo! That’s it—with
a will, men. So—o ! Man royal and
skysail clue-lines!”
In a surprisingly short space the
Saucy Sally was reduced to top and
top-gallant sails, jib and spanker, the
fore and main course hanging in her
brails. The Vomito Pietro was still
under sail, although, while our ship was
obeying her injunctions, she had hauled
up so sharp in the wind as not only to
deaden her w ay, but to drop a short
distance astern. Perceiving our main
topsail to the mast, he once more rang
ed within hailing distance.
“Ship, ahoy ! Send a boat aboard
of me, d’ye hear ?” “ Brig, ahoy !”
shouted Mac. “No boat of mine
leaves this ship. If you have any
thing to communicate, send your own
boat.”
“Send your boat this instant, sir, or,
I’ll fire into you.” “Blaze away,” sang
out the impurturable Scotsman.—
“Down on the deck, lads ; you shal
pepper him by and by.”
A pause ensued ; the vessels gradu
ally separated; the Vomito Pietro hove
to some sixty yards forward of the
Sally’s lee beam, and, without ceremo
ny, exchanged the Spanish ensign for
the skull and marrow-bones. At this
moment both vessels had nearly lost
steerage way, the wind having fallen
dead calm.
“ We must be guided by circum
stances.” said the captain, addressing
us; “but in no case must we allow
them to obtain a footing upon our decks.
Better go to the bottom like men than
be flung into it like dogs. He will no
doubt seek to board under cover of his
long guns. Let him try ; but do not,
1 implore you, throw away a shot un
til each of you is sure ofhis man; eve
ry one they lose adds to our chance of
escape.”
The captain was right in his conjec
ture, for scarcely had he ceased speak
ing, ere the Vomito, apparently satis
fied with reconnoitering, launched both
her quarter-boats full of men. No
sooner had they touched the water,
than they sent forth a wild yell, to
which, as a fitting accompaniment,
the roar of their long eighteen open
ed its deadly throat, happily with
out any material injury resulting. Em
boldened by the non-return of fire, the
boats, after a brief conference under
the Vomito’s stern, commenced pulling
making somewhat of a sweep, appa
rently with the design of assailing the
Saucy Sally on either quarter.
“Divide yourselves,” continued the
watchful and indefatigable Mac ; “but,
above all, be cool—be steady. “Ah!”
he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with
great delight, “it would be a noble
chance. I’ll try it, by George! at the
worst it can but fail. Look alive, a
hand or two ; ease off the weather and
haul in the lee main braces; there’s a
cat’s-paw aloft; the ship already feels
it, and there will be more ere long.—
J urnpaft, O’Donoghue; take the wheel;
run the pirate alongside; and d’ye
mind me, let every mother’s son of ye,
as lie wishes to see kith and kin again,
pay the strictest attention to my com
mands.”
Circumstances had indeed altered
the Scotchman’s plans. At the very
moment he was endeavouring to give
a warm reception to the five-and-twen
ty or thirty wretches, armed to the
teeth, fast approaching in the pirate’s
cutters —at that very moment a light
air swelled the Saucy Sally’s sails.—
Like other Dropical flaws, this air was
extremely partial, and did not yet ex
tend to the Vomito, w. ich lay a mo
tionles log on the water. Freshening
in its course, at length it struck the
guilty brig, but too late to save her
from the grapple of the Saucy Sally,
who was aln uly speeding under its
full influepcp,,,, .Two, iwznvtws
}itier resistless crew upon the
corsair’s decks; and, whilst the main
body battled the astonished ruffians,
one or two secured the helm, and got
the brig before the wind —Saucy Sally
bearing her faithful company, her pas
senger riflemen picking off the banditti
with surprising accuracy. Discomfited
on every hand, the survivors hurried
below, leaving their trophy in the Sal
ly’s power. The boats, meanwhile,
foiled almost in the moment of posses
sion, rowed with all the energy of de
spair ; but the breeze had once more
set in strong and steady, and both the
Saucy Sally and the Voinito were drop
ping them’ fast. Their maniac yells
rent the air—the water flashed under
the lury of their strokes, and the boats
were urged onwards with a strength al
most superhuman. At the moment
when hope must have been all but dead
within them, the Yomito suddenly hove
up in the wind’s eye. Could it be?
Had the merchantman failed, and were
their comrades victors? They paused
upon their oars, joining company,as if to
ponder the course proper to be pursued.
Brief was the space permitted for con
sideration. A flash, a stunning report,
and an iron shower sped its fatal flight,
dashing their splintered oars from their
nerveless grasp —scattering, with one
crash, the dying and the dead, with
the shattered skins that bore them, in
ruined fragments upon the devouring
deep ! One instant, and the welkin
rang with the howl of despairing fiends;
another, and nought was heard save the
faint and passing struggle of mortal ag
ony —fearful but just retribution! Their
own trusted weapons had been turned
upon themselves; and O’Donoghue,
by the mouth of their boasted Long
Tom, had sped them unanealed to their
account.
A WELSH TRADITION.
Mr. Roscoe, in his beautifully em
bellished work, “Wanderings in South
Wales,” thus refers to an inundation of
the sea on the Welsh coast, in the sixth
century, by which a large tract of the
finest land was entirely lost: —“ Aber
ystwith is delightfully situated on the
north bank of the Rheidol, in the cen
tre of Cardigan Bay, commanding a
sea view of great extent, and of that
sublime beauty inseparable from a
marine prospect bounded only by the
horizon. The hills of the North Welsli
coast are distinctly seen on a clear day,
stretching far out in the distance, the
chain ending with Barelsey Island.—
Snowdon and Cader Idris are some
times seen; and, on the south, the coast
may be traced as far as the St. I )avid s
Head. The whole of this ocean-am
phitheatre w’as formerly dry land, and
the greater portion remained so until
the sixth century, when Gwyddno
GavanhGr [pronounced Gweethno Ga
veanheer] was the reigning prince of
the district. It was named Cant rev y
Gwaelod, the Lowland Hundred, and is
mentioned bv the Welsh bards and his
torians as being fertile and beautiful in
the highest degree, and containing six
teen fortified towns, and a large popu
lation. This fine champaign country
extended from Ilarlach to St. David’s
Head, and was wholly destroyed by an
inundation of the sea, the waters of St.
George’s Channel having burst over
their wonted boundaries, and covered
its entire extent. Thus was formed the
present bay of Cardigan, whose deep
blue waves now roll over many a ru
ined city and once mighty fortress, ly
ing in irretrievable desolation beneath
them.
ffilmpts of Mm 38noks.
DIV()RCE OF JOSEPHINE.
From a forthcoming work by Rev. John S. C. Abbott.
Napoleon had become very strongly
attached to his little grandchild, the son
of Hortense, and of his brother. Louis,
the King of Holland. The boy was
extremely beautiful, and developed all
those noble and spirited traits of char
acter which delighted the emperor.
Napoleon had apparently determined
to make this young prince his heir.—
This was so generally the understand
ing, both in France and in Holland,
that Josephine was quite at her ease,
and serene days again dawned upon her
heart.
Early in the spring of 1807, this
child, upon whom such destinies were
depending, then five years of age, was
seized suddenly and violently with the
croup, and in a few hours died. The
blow fell upon the heart of Josephine
with most apalling power. Deep as
was her grief at the loss of this child,
she was overwhelmed with uncontrol
lable anguish, in view of those fearful
consequences, which she shuddered to
contemplate. She knew that Napole
on loved her fondly. But she also
knew the strength ofhis ambition, and
that he would make any sacrifice of his
affections, which, in his view, would
subserve the interests ofhis power and
lis glory. For three days she shut
lerself up in her room, and was contin
ually bathed in tears.
The sad intelligence was conveyed
to Napoleon when he was far from home,
in the midst of the Prussian campaign,
le had been victorious—almost mira
culously victorious—over his enemies,
le had gained accessions of power,
such as in the wildest dreams of youth
le had hardly imagined. All opposi
tion to his sway was now apparently
crushed. Napoleon had become the
Creator ot Kings, and the proudest
monarehs of Europe were constrained
to do his bidding. It was in an hour
of exultation that the mournful tidings
reached him. He sat down in silence,
buried his lace in his hands, and for a
long time seemed lost in the most pain
tnl mu sings. lie was heard mournful
ly n d anxiously to repeat to himself,
again and again, “To whom shall I leave
all this? ’ The struggle in his mind
between his love for Josephine and his
ambitious desire to found anew dy nas
ty, and to transmit his name and fame
to all posterity, was fearful. It was
m Ixut >iqll!tv 1> 4.
sleep. But the stern will of Bonaparte
was unrelenting in its purposes. With
an energy, which the world has never
seen surpassed, he had chosen his part.
It was the purpose of his soul—the
lofty purpose before which everything
had to bend—to acquire the glory of
making France the most illustrious,
powerful, and happy nation earth had
ever seen. For this he was ready to
sacrifice comfort, ease, and his sense of
right. For this he was ready to sunder
the strongest ties of affection.
Josephine knew Napoleon. She
knew the power of his ambition. With
almost insupportable anguish she wept
over the death of this child, upon
whose destinies her own seemed to be
so fearfully blended, and, with a trem
bling heart, she awaited her husband’s
return. Mysterious hints began to fill
the journals of the contemplated di
vorce, and of the alliance of Napoleon
with various princesses of foreign courts.
In October, 1809, Napoleon returned
from Vienna. lie greeted Josephine
with the greatest kindness, but she
soon perceived that his mind was ill at
ease, and that he was pondering the
dreadful question. He appeared sad
and embarrassed. He had frequent
private interviews with his ministers.
A general feeling of constraint perva
ded the court. Napoleon scarcely ven
tured to look upon his wife, as if ap
prehensive that the very sight of one
lie had loved so well might cause him
to waver in his firm purpose. Jose
phine was in a state of the most fever
ish solicitude, and yet was compelled
to appear calm and unconstrained. As
yet she had only some forebodings of
her impending doom. She watched,
with most excited apprehensions, every
movement of the emperor’s eye, every
intonation of his voice, every sentiment
he uttered. Each day some new and
trivial indication confirmed her fears.
Her husband became more reserved ;
absented himself from her society ; the
private access between their apart
ments was closed ; he now seldom en
tered her room,and whenever he did so
he invariably knocked. And yet not one
word had passed between him and Jo
sephine upon the fearful subject. \V hen
ever Josephine heard the sound of his
approaching footsteps, the fear that he
was coining with the terrible announce
ment of separation immediately causec
such violent palpitation ot the heart,
that it was with the utmost difficulty
that she could totter across the Hour,
even when supporting herself by lean
ing against the walls and catching at the
articles of furniture.
The months of October and Novem
ber passed away, and whib the empe
ror was discussing with his cabinet the
alliance into which he should enter, he
had not summoned courage to break
the subject to Josephine. The evidence
is indubitable that he experienced in
tense anguish in view of the separa
tion ; but this did not influence his iron
will to swerve from its purpose, lhe
grandeur of his fame and the magni
tude cf his power were now such, that
there was not a royal family in Europe
which would not have felt honoured in
conferring upon him a bride. It was
at first contemplated that he should
THIRD VOLUME—NO. 35 WHOLE NO 135.
marry some princess of the Bourbon
family, and thus add to the stability of
his throne by conciliating the royalists
of France. A princess of Saxony was
proposed. Some weighty considera
tions urged an alliance with the majes
tic empire of Russia, and some ad
vances were made to the court of St.
Petersburg, having in Hew a sister of
the Emperor Alexancrer. It was at
length decided that proposals shook
be made to the court of Vienna, for
Maria Louise, daughter of the Emperor
of Austria.
At last the fatal day arrived for the
announcement to Josephine. It was
the last day of November, 1809. The
emperor and empress dined at Fontain
bleau alone. She seems to have had
a presentiment that her doom was seal
ed, for all that dey she had been in her
retired apartment weeping bitterly.—
As the dinner hour approached, she
bathed her swollen eyes and tried to
regain composure. They sat down at
the table iri silence. Napoleon did not
speak. Josephine could not trust her
voice to utter a word. Neither of them
even feigned to eat. Course after
course was brought in and removed un
touched. A mortal paleness revealed
the anguish of each heart. Napoleon,
in hi embarrassment, mechanically,
and apparently unconsciously, kept
striking the edge of his glass with his
knife, while lost in thought. A more
melancholy meal was probably never
witnessed. The attendants around the
table caught the infection, and gazed in
motionless silence. At last the cere
mony of dinner was over, the attend
ants were dismissed, and Napoleon and
Josephine were alone. Another mo
ment of most painful silence ensued,
when the emperor, pale as death, and
trembling in every nerve, arose and
approached Josephine. He took her
hand, and, placing it upon his heart,
said:
“Josephine! my own good Jose
phine ! you know how I have loved
you. It is to you alone that I owe the
few moments of happiness I have
known in this world. Josephine! my
destiny is stronger than my will. Mv
dearest affections must yield to the in
terests of France.”
Josephine’s brain reeled ; her blood
ceased to circulate ; she fainted and fell
lifeless upon the floor. Napoleon,
alarmed, threw open the door of the
saloon and called for help. Attend
ants from the ante-room immediately
entered. Napoleon took a taper from
the mantle,and, uttering not a word, but
pale and trembling, motioned to the
Count de Beaumont to take the em
press in his arms. She was still un
conscious of everything, but began to
murmur in tones of anguish, “Oh, no!
}ou cannot surely do it. You would
not kill me !”
The emperor led the way through a
dark passage to the private staircase
which eniirhict.ad to tlm
Icon seemed now to increase. lie ut
tered some incoherent sentences about
a violent nervous attack, and finding
the stairs t >o steep and narrow for the
Count de Beaumont to bear the body
of the helpless Josephine unassisted,
le gave the light to an attendant, and,
supporting her limbs himself, they
reached the door of her bed-room.—
Napoleon, then dismissing his male at
attendants, and, laying Josephine upon
icr bed, rang for her waiting women,
lie hung over her with an expression
of the most intense affection, and anx
iety until she began to revive. But
the moment consciousness seined re
turning he left the room. Napoleon
did not even throw himself upon his
bed that night. He paced the floor un
til the dawn of the morning. The
royal surgeon, Corvisart, passed the
night at the bedside of the empress.—
Every hour the restless yet unrelent
ing emperor called at her door to in
quire concerning her situation.
“On recovering from my swoon,”
says Josephine, “1 perceived that Cor
visart was in attendance, and my poor
daughter Hortense weeping over me.
No! no! I cannot describe the horror
of my situation during that night. Even
the interest he affected to take in my
sufferings seemed to me additional cru
elty. How much reason had I to dread
becoming an empress !”
A fornight now passed away, during
which Napoleon and Josephine saw but
little of each other. During this time
there occurred the anniversary of the
coronation and of the victory of Auster
litz. Paris was filled with rejoicing.
The bells rang their merriest peals.—
The metropolis was refulgent with illu
mination. In these festivities Jose
phine was compelled to appear. She
knew that the sovereigns and princes
then assembled in Paris were informed
of her approaching disgrace. In all
these sounds of triumph she heard but
the knell of her own doom. And
though a careful observer, in her moist
ened eye and her pallid check, w r ould
have observed indications of the secret
woe which was consuming her heart,
her habitual affability and grace never
in public for one moment forsook her.
Hortense, languid and sorrow-stricken,
was with her mother. Eugene was
also summoned from Italy by the mel-
ancholy duty attending the divorce. —
His first interview was with his mother.
From the saloon he went directly to
the cabinet of Napoleon, and inquired
of the emperor if he had decided the
question of a divorce from his mother.
Napoleon, who was most strongly at
tached to Eugene, made no reply, but
pressed his hand as an expression that
it was so. Eugene withdrew his hand
and said :
“Sire! in that case, permit me to
withdraw from your service.”
“llow !” exclaimed NapoleonsatLy,
“ will you, Eugene, my adopted son,
leave me ?”
“ Yes, sire,” Eugene firmly replied.
“ The son of her who is no longer em
press cannot remain viceroy. I will
follow iny mother into her retreat. She
must now find her consolation in her
children.”
Napoleon was not without feelings.
Tears filled his eyes. In a mournful
voice, tremulous with emotion, he re
plied.
“ Eugene, you know the stern neces
sity which compels this measure. And
will you forsake me? Who then—
should I have a son, the object of my
desires and preserver of my interests
—who would watch over the child when
1 am absent ? If I die, who will prove
to him a father? Who will bring him
up ? Who is to make a man of him?”
Eugene was deeply affected, and
taking Napoleon’s arm, they retired
and conversed a long time together.—
The noble Josephine, ever sacrificing
her own feelings to promote the ha|>-
.piness of others, urged her son to re
main the friend of Napoleon. “ The
emperor,” she said, “is your benefactor,
your more than father, to whom you
are indebted for everything, and to
whom, therefore, you owe a boundless
obedience.”
The fatal day for the consummation
of the divorce at length arrived. It was
the fifteenth day of December, eighteen
hundred and nine. Napoleon had as
sembled all the kings, princes, and
princesses, who were members of the
imperial family, and also the most il
lustrious officers of the empire, in the
grand saloon of the Tuileries. Every
individual present was oppressed with
the melancholy grandeur of the occa
sion. Napoleon thus addressed them:
“ The political interests of my mon
archy, the wishes of my people, which
have constantly guided my actions, re
quire that 1 should transmit to an heir,
inheriting my love for the people, the
throne on which Providence lias placed
me. For many years I have lost all
hopes of having children by my beloved
spouse, the empress Josephine. It is
this consideration which induces me to
sacrifice the sw r eetest affections of my
heart, to consult only the good of inv
subjects, and desire the dissolution of
our marriage. Arrived at the age of
forty years, I may indulge a reasonable
hope of living long enough to rear, in
the spirit of my own thoughts and dispo
sition, the children with which it may
please Providence to bless me. God
knows what such a determination lu.s
cost my heart; but there is no -".crilice
which is above my courage w! it s
proved to be for the interest of F■;
Far from havinganv cause of <• : :
I have nothing to say, but in f
the attachment and tend” rue
beloved wife. She has embellished fif
teen years of mv iif an - i
brance of them wl, . u
on my heart. -he
my hand. She shall ret; ‘ !w r. .e
rank and title of enu-re . Above ail,
let her never doubt my feelings, or re
gard me but as her best and dearest
friend.”
Josephine, her eyes filled with tears,
with a faltering voice, replied :
“1 respond to all the sentiments of
If ii-i /kumuuf i.. *l •-* 1
is an obstacle to the happiness of France,
by depriving it of the blessing of lining
one day governed by the descendants
of that great man, evidently raised up
by Providence to efface the evils of a
terrible revolution, and to restore the
altar, the throne, and social order. —
But his marriage will, in no respect,
change the sentiments of my heart.—
The emperor will ever find in me his
best friend. I know what this act, com
manded by policy and exalted interests
has cost his heart; but we both glory
in the sacrifices we make for the good
of our country. I feel elevated in
giving the greatest proof of attach
ment and devotion that was ever given
upon earth.”
Such were the sentiments which were
expressed in public. But in private
Josephine surrendered herself to the
unrestrained dominion of her anguish.
No language can depict the intensity
of her woe. For six months she wept
so incessantly that her eyes were near
ly blinded with grief. Upon the en
suing day the counsel was again as
sembled in the grand saloon to witness
the legal consummation of the divorce.
The emperor entered the room dressed
in the imposing robes of state, but pal
lid, careworn and wretched. Low
tones of voice, harmonizing with the
mournfuTscene, filled the room. Na
poleon, apart by himself, leaned against
a pillar,folded his arms upon his breast
and, in perfect silence, apparently lost
in gloomy thought, remained motion
less as a statue. A circular table was
placed in the centre of the apartment,
and upon this there was a writing ap
paratus of gold. A vacant arm-chair
stood before the table. Never did a
multitude gaze upon the scaffold, the
block, or the guillotine, with more awe
than the assembled lords and ladies in
this gorgeous saloon contemplated
these instruments of a more dreadful
execution.
At length the mournful silence was
interrupted by the opening of a side
door, and the entrance of Josephine.—
The pallor of death was upon her brow,
and the submission of despair nerved
her into a temporary calmness. She
was leaning upon the arm of llortense,
who, not possessing the fortitude of her
mother, was entirely unable t> control
her feelings, but, immediately .i; en
tering the room burst into t ; and
continued sobbing most; <■
The whole assembly ro, • \-
trance of Josephine; a! i w
to tears. With that t: ;
distinguished her niovcmc ■ •
vanced, silently to the
for her. Sitting down,an- -icr
forehead upon her hand, she b-t< : Ito
the reading of the act of s ati i.—
Nothing disturbed the silence, of the
scene but the sobbings of llortense,
blended with the mournful tones of the
reader’s voice. Eugene in the mean
time, had taken a position by his mo
ther’s side. Silent tears were trickling
down the cheeks of the empress.
As soon as the reading of the act of
separation was finished, Josephine for
a moment pressed her handkerchief to
her weeping eyes, and then rising, in
clear and musical, but tremulous tones,
pronounced the oath of acceptance. —