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Louisa, without being disconcerted at this apostrophe, looked at him steadily, and said jocularly, "To hear you speak thus, Sir, would not one think that you never made a false step in your life?" This reproach was made in that tone, mixed with sweetness and dignity, which can only be acquired by an union of the favours of nature and the benefits of superio education. Bonaparte felt how much he was in the wrong, a'd although little accustomed to such remonstrances, he replid very submissively, "I beg, Madam, you will excuse my abruptness, and only attribute it to the fear occasioned by the idea of the harm å fall might do you."" Since that is the case," said the Empress, still smiling, "I forgive you; give me your arm." So much good nature forced the Corsican bear to smoothen his countenance, so far as to show his yellow teeth, a thing which very seldom happened to him at Boulogne since his nomination as Emperor. A painter might have made a very interesting picture in catching at that moment the features of those two perSonages. Bonaparte is very ugly; but to form a just idea of him, one must have seen him by the side of Maria Louisa, of whom we cannot give a truer description, than by observing that she is in beauty and graces what Bonaparte is in brutality of tone and coarse manners. The anecdote I have just cited happened at Boulogne, on the 25th of May 1810. Although without guards, Bonaparte and the Empress passed through an immense crowd, who cried out with enthusiasm, Long live the Empress, but they farely heard the cry of Long live the Emperor. If he had been alone, he would have taken care not to have gone out without being preceded and followed by a crowd of generals and officers. He sufficiently knows the gallant character of the French, to be well convinced that Maria Louisa is a better safeguard to him than all his Cuirassiers and Polish lancers; which serves to prove that the assassination of Lewis the Sixteenth and Maria Antoinette ought alone to be attributed to a few villanous and venal souls, and that the French nation is innocent of it; the experience of several ages proves, that no people surpass the French in their love for their sovereigns.

THE ORIGINAL BLUE BEARD.

As this extraordinary personage has long been the theme, not only of children's early study and terror, and as no afterpiece had ever a greater run than that splendid and popular musical entertainment which bears the title of Blue Beard, our readers will, no doubt, be gratified in perusing the character of VOL. I. New Series.

that being, who really existed, and who was distinguished, in horror and derision, by that appellation.

He was the famous Gilles, Marquis de Laval, a Marshal of France, and a General of uncommon intrepidity, and greatly distinguished himself in the reigns of Charles the VI. and VII. by his courage; particularly against the English, when they invaded France. He rendered those services to his country which were sufficient to immortalize his name, had he not for ever tarnished his glory by the most horrible and cruel murders, blasphemies, and licentiousness of every kind. His revenues were princely, but his prodigality was sufficient to render an Emperor a bankrupt. Wherever he went he had in his suite a seraglio, a company of players, a band of musicians, a society of sorcerers, an almost incredible number of cooks, packs of dogs of various kinds, and above two hundred led horses. Mezeray, an author of the highest repute, says, that he encouraged and maintained men, who called themselves sorcerers, to discover hidden treasures, and corrupted young persons of both sexes to attach themselves to him, and afterwards killed them for the sake of their blood, which was requisite to form his charms and incantations. These horrid excesses may be believed, when we reflect on the age of ignorance and barbarity in which they were, certainly, but too often practised. He was, at length, for a state crime against the Duke of Brittany, sentenced to be burnt alive in a field at Nantes, 1440; but the Duke of Brittany, who was present at his execution, so far mitigated the sentence, that he was first strangled, then burnt, and his ashes buried. Though he was descended from one of the most illustrious families in France, he declared, previous to his death, that all his horrible excesses were owing to his wretched education.

Fashionable Magazine.

HOSPITALITY OF THE ELAUTS.
[From the Sporting Magazine, for September, 1812.]

To the Editor,

SIR,-The following account of the hospitality of the Elauts, as related in Mr. MORIER's entertaining and interesting" Journey through Persia, Armenia, and Asia Minor, to Constantinople," reminds us so much of those delightful sketches of the primitive manners so beautifully and so frequently delineated in Sacred History, that it cannot but prove highly gratifying to the generality of your readers.-I am, Sir, &c.

AN EASTERN TRAVELLER.

HOSPITALITY OF THE ELAUTS.

"We travelled an hour and a half, in one of the clearest and most beautiful mornings that the heavens ever produced; and passing on our left the two villages of Dizzeh and KizzilDizzeh, we came to an opening of a small plain, covered with the black tents and cattle of the Elauts. Here also we had a view of Mount Ararat; the clouds no longer rested on its summit, but circled round it below. We went to the largest tent in the plain, and there enjoyed an opportunity of learning that the hospitality of these people is not exaggerated. As soon as it was announced at the tent that strangers were coming, every thing was in motion: some carried their horses to the best pastures, others spread carpets for us; one was dispatched to the flock to bring a fat lamb; the women immediately made a preparation for cooking, and we had not sat long before two large dishes of stewed lamb, with several basins of Yaourt, were placed before us. The senior of the tribe, an old man (by his own account, indeed, more than eighty five years of age), dressed in his best clothes, came out to us, and welcomed us to his tent, with such kindness, yet with such respect, that his sincerity could not be mistaken. He was still full of activity and fire, although he had lost all his teeth, and his beard was as white as the snow on the venerable mountain near his tent. The simplicity of his manners, and the interesting scenery around, reminded me, in the strongest colours, of the life of the Patriarchs, and more immediately of Him, whose history is inseparable from the mountains of Ararat. Nothing indeed could accord better with the spot, than the figure of our ancient host. His people were a part of the tribe of Jelalee, and their principal seat was Brivan, but ranged through the country:

"And pastur'd on from verdant stage to stage,

Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage.
Toil was not then: of nothing took they heed;
But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage,
And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed:
Blest sons of nature they! true golden age indeed."

[graphic]

POETRY.

ADDRESS BY LORD BYRON.

Spoken by Mr. Elliston, at the Opening of the New Theatre Royal, Drury Lane,
IN one dread night our city saw, and sighed,-
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride,
In one short hour,-beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, O sight, admired and mourned,
Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned!
Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven,
Saw the long column of revolving flames

Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,
While thousands, thronged around the burning dome,
Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their home;
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own;
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall;
Say-shall this new nor less aspiring pile,
Reared, where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you?
Yes-it shall be-The magic of that name
Defies the sithe of time, the torch of flame,
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama be where she hath been:-
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell,
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!
As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitious to our prayers, may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art

}

O'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormed the sternest heart;
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew,
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu.
But still for living wit the wreathes may bloom
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claimed and claims, nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse,
With garlands deck your own Menander's head!
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write,
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry, as they of theirs.

While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass,
To claim the sceptered shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazoned on our line:
Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the Stage-to whom both Players and Plays
Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject,
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbear to blame,
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To sooth the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause—
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And Reason's voice be echo'd back by ours!
This greeting o'er,-the ancient rule obey'd,
The Drama's homage by her herald paid,
Receive our welcome too,-whose every tone
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.
The curtain rises-may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!-
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,

Still may we please, long-long may you preside.

SCOTT'S ROKEBY.

[It is with pleasure we learn, that Messrs. Bradford and Inskeep, with their characteristic diligence and enterprise, have procured a copy of ROKEBY, the new poem by Walter Scott, previous to its publication in England. They have put it to press, and it will be soon before the public.

The following description of the Heroine is from the fourth canto, and presents an exquisite picture of feminine loveliness.]

Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair
Half hid Matilda's forehead fair,
Half hid and half revealed to view
Her full dark eye of hazel hue.
The rose, with faint and feeble streak,
So lightly tinged the maiden's cheek,
That you had said her hue was pale;—
But if she faced the summer gale,
Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved,
Or heard the praise of those she loved,
Or when of interest was expressed
Aught that waked feeling in her breast,
The mantling blood in ready play
Rivalled the blush of rising day.
There was a soft and pensive grace,
A cast of thought upon her face,
That suited well the forehead high
The eye-lash dark and downcast eye;
The mild expression spoke a mind,
In duty firm, composed, resign'd;-
'Tis that which Roman art has given
To mark their maiden Queen of heaven.
In hours of sport, that mood gave way
To fancy's light and frolic play,

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