Awhile after dinner, it was discovered to the no small surprise and delight of Symonds, that the yet unseen and unknown object of his matrimonial speculations was at that very time in the town, in company with the Lady Bingham, her mother. Upon hearing this, Mr. Littlebury immediately went out in quest of them. They were found at the house of a Mr. Bowman-perhaps Beaumont-one of the numerous refugees of the Low Countries, with whom Colchester at that time abounded. And after he had arranged the preliminaries, Mr. Littlebury returned to the inn for his young friend. The suitor was presented in due form. It had been expressly stipulated, however, by the mother, that no allusion should yet be made to the object of our hero's journey, so that the conversation was confined to "things political and economical;" and after a pretty long chat, Symonds "bade them courteously farewell," and withdrew. In spite of the cruel erasures which are frequent at this place, it is evident that an impression had been made upon Symonds, and that he was impatient to know whether it was reciprocal. Scarcely allowing them time to arrange their thoughts, Mr. Littlebury shortly after went back to the ladies, to learn what they had to say respecting his young friend; and he returned with the negative report that there was "no dislike," but that the mother did not quite approve his "youthful years." She did not object, however, to his pursuing his journey to Lawford Hall the next day, where he might have an opportunity to "discourse with the young gentlewoman more fully." The two friends had now leisure to "discourse upon certain state business," and other news of the day. The progress of the Spanish match, the prospects of the French Protestants, the indulgence granted at home to the Papists, were discussed in their turn; and it was stated by Littlebury that Mr. Ward, the celebrated preacher of Ipswich, "is still in prison, though some of the chief persons in the town have been with Secretary Calvert for his deliverance." The house in which this conversation took place is still in existence; but it is no longer an inn, and its ancient title of the King's Head is known only by tradition. When the garrison of the Royalists in the town of Colchester surrendered to Fairfax, after the blockade of eleven weeks, in the year 1648, it was stipulated in the articles that the officers should surrender themselves up to the mercy of the Lord General Fairfax in this house; and the door is still pointed out through which the unfortunate Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle were conducted to the council of war sitting at the Moot Hall, by whose mercy they were sentenced to be shot forthwith. After their discourse was ended, Symonds accompanied his friend Littlebury to his residence at Langham, a village about six miles to the north of Colchester, overlooking the valley of the Stour, and fronting the green slopes of Suffolk beyond it. Betimes in the morning of the next day, which was Saturday, Littlebury went over to his neighbors' at Lawford Hall, and had a long conversation with them, after which he returned to fetch his friend. The thoughts of Symonds were so fully occupied with the business he had in hand that he felt little inclination to admire the beauties of the Vale of Dedham, as they passed along it; and when they had surmounted the steep ascent which brought them upon the table land, he cared not so much for the prospect of the estuary of the Stour, and the distant glimpse of the shipping at Harwich beyond it, as for the ancient chimneys which his companion pointed out to him through the foliage of the oaks which they were approaching. After they had alighted, he saw that the house was "both good and convenient." The good old Mr. Walgrave received them, and when they conversed with him awhile, "down came my lady," accompanied by her two daughtersnamely, Mistress Jemima and her half-sister, who was married to a gentleman in Suffolk. After they had discoursed together a while within doors, they walked out into the garden; and here, whether by design or by accident, Symonds "had the opportunity to go aside with the gentlewoman into a private walk, and to discourse with her about an hour." At first "she was unwilling," he says, "for the general to try the married life; but at the end of our discourse, for I did not desire to prove tedious, I took a parting salutation of her for that time." Very much that followed is erased; but he seems to have returned to Langham "between five and six of the clock," well satisfied with the progress he had made, and with an invitation which he had received to return and pay a longer visit on the ensuing Monday. On the Sunday, Symonds "was partaker of two sermons" at Langham church. In one of them, "it was honestly discoursed how subject even religious men are to slip many times, though God will never suffer them to fall finally:" and in the other, "how the Sabbath ought duly and strictly to be kept:" two very favorite subjects with the popular divines of the day. As Symonds and his friend walked home from church, they fell into conversation with some of the "parishioners who had lately heard from London," and they were told that Mr. Gouge, of Blackfriars, Symonds' favorite preacher, who "had been clapt up in prison for speak ing faithfully against the Papists"-most ing the health of the emperor." Such topics probably for meddling with the Spanish of conversation were believed by Symonds match-was now set at liberty. They were and his friends to be "not altogether disalso informed of a judgment which had be- pleasing to our good God, forasmuch as they fallen two noblemen of the Palatinate, "who tended to a religious end." In the evening, were drowned in returning home from a con- after supper, they "discoursed upon the relivivial meeting, where they had been drink-gious government of a family." [To be concluded in our next Number.] PLAYING on the carpet near me And her presence, much I fear me, There my thoughts to hold; BY C. S. PERCIVAL. With her hair so long and flaxen, Is a joy untold; To my heart with rapture swelling, With a new delight I'm hearing Sweeter far than any birds; Than the charm so rich and glowing Now her ripe and honied kisses (Honied, ripe for me alone,) Venus never yet has known. O! there is not, this side of Adenn, [From a forthcoming work by Rev. John S. C. Abbott.] DIVORCE OF JOSEPHINE. 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 character which delighted the emperor. Napoleon had apparently determined to make this young prince his heir. This was so generally the understanding, 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 appalling power. Deep as was her grief at the loss of the child, she was overwhelmed with uncontrollable anguish, in view of those fearful consequences, which she shuddered to contemplate. She knew that Napoleon loved her fondly. But she also knew the strength of his ambition, and that he would make any sacrifice of his affections, which, in his view, would sub-erve the interests of his power and his glory. For three days she shut herself up in her room, and was continually bathed in tears. This sad intelligence was conveyed to Napoleon when he was far from home, in the midst of the Prussian campaign. He had been victorious-almost miraculously victorious-over his enimies. He had gained accessions of power, such as in the wildest dreams of youth he had hardly imagined. All opposition to his sway was now apparently crushed. Napoleon had become the creator of Kings, and the proudest monarchs of Europe were constrained to do his bidding. It was in an hour of exultation that the mourn ful tidings reached him. He sat down in silence, buried his face in his hands, and for a long time seemed lost in the most painful musings. He was heard mournfully and 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 a new dynasty, and to transmit his name and fame to all posterity, was fearful. It was manifest in his pallid cheek, in his restless eye, in the loss of appetite and of 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 VOL. I.-NO. 3.-C2 ous, powerful, and happy nation earth had the glory of making France the most illustriever 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 trembling heart, she awaited her husband's return. Mysterious hints began to fill the journals of the contemplated divorce, and of the alliance of Napoleon with various princesses of foreign courts. In October, 1809, Napoleon returned from Vienna. He 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 pervaded the court. Napoleon scarcely ventured to look upon his wife, as if apprehensive that the very sight of one he had loved so well might cause him to waver in his firm purpose. Josephine was in a state of the most feverish solicitude, and yet was compelled to appear calm, and unconstrained. As yet she had only some forebodings of her impending door. 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 apartments was closed; he now seldom entered her room, and whenever he did so he invariably knocked. And yet not one word had passed between him and Josephine upon the fearful subject. Whenever Josephine heard the sound of his approaching footsteps, the fear that he was coming with the terrible announcement of separation immediately caused such violent palpitation of the heart, that it was with the utmost difficulty that she could totter across the floor, even when supporting herself by leaning against the walls and catching at the articles of furniture. The months of October and November passed away, and while the emperor was discussing with his cabinent the alliance into which he should enter, he had not summoned courage to break the subject to Josephine. The evidence is indupitable that he experienced intense anguish in view of the separation; but this did not influence his iron will to swerve from its purpose. The grandeur of his fame and the magnitude of his power were now such, that there was not a royal family in Europe which would not have felt honored in conferring upon him a bride. It was at first contemplated that he should 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 considerations urged an alliance with the majestic empire of Russia, and some advances were made to the court of St. Petersburg, having in view a sister of the Emperor Alexander. It was at length decided that proposals should 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 Fontainbleau alone. She seems to have had a presentiment that her doom was sealed, for all that day 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 in 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 untouched. A mortal paleness revealed the anguish of each heart. Napoleon, in his 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 ceremony of dinner was over, the attendants were dismissed, and Napoleon and Josephine were alone. Another moment 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 Josephine! 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. My dearest affections must yield to the interests 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. Attendants from the ante-room immediately entered. Nopoleon took a taper from the mantle, and, uttering not a word, but pale and trembling, motioned to the Count de Beaumont to take the empress in his arms. She was still unconscious of everything, but began to murmur in tones of anguish, "Oh, no! you cannot surely do it. You would not kill me!" The emperor led the way through a dark passage to the private staircase which conducted to the apartment of the empress. The agitation of Napoleon seemed now to increase. He uttered some incoherent sentences about a violent nervous attack, and finding the stairs too steep and narrow for the Count de Beaumont to bear the body of the helpless Josephine unassisted, he gave the light to an attendant, and, supporting her limbs himself, they reached the door of her bed-room. Napoleon, then dismissing his male attendants, and laying Josephine upon her bed, rang for her waiting women. hung over her with an expression of the most intense affection and anxiety until she began to revive. But the moment consciousness seemed returning he left the room. Napoleon did not even throw himself upon his bed that night. He paced the floor until the dawn of the morning. The royal surgeon, Corvisart, passed the night at the bedside of the empress. Every hour the restless yet unrelenting emperor called at her door to inquire concerning her situation. Hé "On recovering from my swoon, says Josephine, "I perceived that Corvisart 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 cruelty. How much reason had I to dread becoming an empress!" A fortnight 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 Austerlitz. Paris was filled with rejoicing. The bells rang their merriest peals. The metropolis was refulgent with illumination. In these festivities Josephine 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 doom. And though a careful observer, in her moistened eye and her pallid cheek, would 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 melancholy 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 attached 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." "How!" exclaimed Napoleon sadly, "will you, Eugene, my adopted son, leave me!" "Yes, sire," Eugene firmly replied. "The son of her who is no longer empress cannot remain viceroy. I will follow my mother into her retreat. She must now find her consolation in her children." Napoleon was not without feeling. Tears filled his eyes. In a mournful voice, tremulous with emotion, he replied: "Eugene, you know the stern necessity 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 I 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 happiness of others, urged her son to remain 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." courage when it is proved to be for the interests of France. Far from having any cause of complaint, I have nothing to say, but in praise of the attachment and tenderness of my beloved wife. She has embellished fifteen years of my life, and the remembrance of them will be forever engraven on my heart. She was crowned by my hand. She shall retain always the rank and title of empress. Above all, let her never doubt my feelings, or regard me but as her best and dearest friend." Josephine, her eyes filled with tears, with a faltering voice, replied: "I respond to all the sentiments of the emperor, in consenting to the dissolution of a marriage which henceforth is an obstacle to the happiness of France, by depriving it of the blessing of being 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, commanded by policy and exalted interterests, 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 attachment and devotion that was ever given upon earth." Such were the sentiments which were expressed in public. But in private Josephine The fatal day for the consummation of the divorce at length arrived. It was the fif-surrendered herself to the unrestrained doteenth day of December, eighteen hundred and nine. Napoleon had assembled all the kings, princes, and princesses, who were members of the imperial family, and also the most illustrious officers of the empire, in the grand saloon of the Tuileries. Every individual present was oppressed with the melancholy grandeur of the occasion. Napoleon thus addressed them: "The political interests of my monarchy, the wishes of my people, which have constantly guided my actions, require that I should transmit to an heir, inheriting my love for the people, the throne on which Providence has placed me. For many years 1 have lost all hopes of having children by my beloved spouse, the Empress Josephine. It is this consideration which induces me to sacrifice the sweetest affections of my heart, to consult only the good of my 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 disposition, the children with which it may please Providence to bless me. God knows what such a determination has cost my heart; but there is no sacrifice which is above my minion of her anguish. No language can depict the intensity of her woe. For six months she wept so incessantly that her eyes were nearly blinded with grief. Upon the ensuing day the counsel were again assembled 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 palid, careworn and wretched. Low tones of voice, harmonizing with the mournful scene, filled the room. Napoleon, apart by himself, leaned against a pillar, folded his arms upon his breast, and, in perfect silence, apparently lost in gloomy thought, remained motionless as a statue. A circular table was placed in the centre of the apartment, and upon this there was a writing apparatus of gold. A vacant armchair 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 |