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wlfmeim iMMii mam. ,'ERIIS, 52.00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. 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. —