story of her being enceinte is a fabrication, to injure the cause of Henry V.; and the letter, in which she declares ber marriage, a forgery. Others say, that she really is married, and different persons are named as the supposed objects of her choice. A few, but very few, of the Jacobin party villify her outrageously; but, by far the greater number seize the opportunity to vent their spleen on the present reigning family, the female branches of which have been in all times remarkable for mes alliances. The sister of the present king. Mademoiselle Adelaide, is supposed to be married to General Athalin, but the union is not avowed, and as it certainly might be under a citizen king, the lady's character is rather roughly handled. As to the stories told of the Duchess being likely to become a mother without being a wife, they are re garded as merely calumny. The last version of the historie is, that previous to the Duchess' attempt to raise the royal standard in la Vendee, the Viscount went to confer upon the subject with her in Italy, and drew so discouraging a picture of the state of the province, that she was about to give up the attempt in despair. "There is still a means Madame," said the viscount, "to recover the throne for your son. "Name it," said she eagerly. The viscount hesitated, but at length, pressed to speak, he told her that the Vendeans had hoped on the restoration of the Bourbons, to see France restored to her ancient constitution and laws, with their abuses rectified; instead of which new institutions had been introduced, to which they were entirely opposed. The Duchess replied that her first act on recovering the throne for the king would be to convoke the states general, and take the sense of the nation respecting its institutions. "The Vendeans desire nothing more, and did this step depend solely on the will of your royal highness they would rest satisfied with your word, but it does not, and therefore they demand a pledge," And what do you think that pledge was? that the Duchess should make choice of one of the Vendean chiefs, whose principles were known to the people. Whether there is or is not any truth in this story, time will shew, I can only give it you as I have it. Adieu! Let me hear from you soon, and believe me always

The Hon. Mrs. Sutherland,
Fairlaun, &c. &c.

Yours,

CHARLOTTE B

A PICTURE OF IRISH LIFE.-BY THOMAS FURLONG.

I left my friends their game to play,
I left them their last glass to take;
I loved them, but I could not stay
Still drinking for their sake:
The sun was bright, the sky was fair,
I longed to breathe the evening air.

I longed to feel the gentle breeze

Play softly o'er my wearied brow;
I longed to walk beneath the trees,
And gaze at ease on bud and bough:
A book was in my pocket thrown,
And forth, at once, I went alone.

Two walls (of heavy yellowish mud,
Mixed thick with rotten straw)
Rose from within the open dyke-

Up high against the ditch they stood;
And sticks, half-broken and half-grown,
Across, with careless hand, were thrown;
And over these lay many a scraw;
In all my walks I never saw

Before, or since, the like.

Some withered leaves were thrown aboutTM
Upon the damp and chilly floor;
And, in the clear warm sun without,"
Stocd a large flag-it was the door:

The only door this den of clay
Had got, to keep the wind away!

Forth from this hut, on bended knee,
There crawled a woman, weak and old;
And of grief and pain, and poverty,
A moving tale she told.

A

For two long days, or more, she said,
She had but one small taste of bread;
She sat for hours in the cold air,
And got but one poor penny there:
The meal was scarce, potatoes high,
And she might soon lie down and die.
"Oh! God," she cried, there was a time
When I have thought it was a crime
To let the helpless, or the poor,
Pass without something from my door.
Heaven knows I had not much to share,
But still I was not close or hard;

I gave whatever I could spare,

And where, oh! where, is my reward?
Oh! in such times I never thought-
I had but little notion then-
That to the road I should be brought,
Or left to rot within this den:
Ay, or of asking charity

From brutes who only laugh at me.
But let God's name be ever blest,
It is his will-He knows the best."

"But how," said I, "came you to be In this sad state of poverty ?"",

U

Sir, I once held the cozy farm

That lies upon that green hill's side;
It was not large, but snug and warm;
Indeed it was my pride.

I and my boys, as all can tell,
Did till it, and we tilled it well.
We let no corner go astray,

We picked and planted here and there;
And every one who went the way
Praised and admired us for our care..
I paid my way, from year to year,
And kept from debts and trouble clear,
Till Boney far away was sent;
And then, when corn was not so dear,
I found it hard to make the rent:
I fell behind a year or two,

And didn't well know what to do.

My two poor boys worked day and night; They worked, God knows, with all their might And thought their labour sweet;

They took no sport, no fun had they,
They laboured first our debts to pay,

Their shirts were worn, their coats were bad-
In truth, good sir, they hardly had
A stitch upon their feet;

They wanted all demands to meet;
They wished the little farm to clear,
And would have done it in a year.

"Just then that Rock began his trade
Of murdering, burning, and of riot;
And acts on acts, you know, were made
To keep the people quiet.

For me, I felt quite easy then,
For my two boys, though nearly men,
Were never known to rake or roam
At night-they always stayed at home
And, when our little meal was done,
Talked until sleeping-time came on.

"One night they left me all alone;
They went but half a mile away,
To see a man they long had known,
That on his death bed lay.

I knew that there they wouldn't wait,
To keep their mother sitting late;
Still, for the time, some care I had,
Though wondering what could make me sad.

"And how, indeed, could I be gay,
Upon that weary woeful night?
My boys were back upon their way,
The house was in their sight;

When on their rounds the night-guard came,
And asked their business and their name.
They stayed from home beyond the time,
And this was then a heavy crime.

"For one long month they drooped in gaol
At last the day of trial came;
And my poor boys stood sad and pale
Within the dock-the dock of shame.

I little, little dreaint that they

Should ever stand in such a way:

I thought I'd never rear a son

That should be placed a moment there; But Heaven's good will must still be done 'Tis ours to suffer and to bear.

I searched the Court in doubt and fear,
I looked around with heavy heart,
To see if any friend was near

To take my children's part;
Oh no, each friend, it was decreed,
Should leave me in the day of need.
One that a character could give
Had lately gone to France to live;
Sick in his bed another lay-
The third to town was called away.
Our lawyer spoke with right intent,

He spoke as well as lawyer could;
But through the place a whisper went
That all he said had done no good.