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the sorrowful sigh of those who encircled the bier while this ceremony was performing. "Pax vobiscum," said the priest; and Monsieur de B. made an effort to perform his part too, in this last portion of the funeral service.

However uncongenial the ceremonials of the Romish church may be to those who have made choice of a less splendid ritual, there is something in death that speaks a solemn lesson to every individual, and the man must certainly be destitute of the sympathies and sensibilities of his nature, who can stand unmoved at the bier of a human being, be it encircled with the emblems of superstitious reverence under the ancient roof of Notre Dame, or by the simplicities of a Protestant creed beneath the gothic arches of York or Westminster.

While I stood gazing at this picture of sorrow and death, which the merest accident in the world made me a witness of a picture which could scarcely fail to melt the most callous heart to pity, and the boldest eye to tears-while "imagination bodied forth" the form of her who would have been the solace of her sire's old age; and while I thought of that parent's grief-of his fairest hopes all blasted-of his fondest prayer unanswered—of the deep despair which must for ever cloud his future life, the priest's voice became silent-the music ceased -and the bier was again borne slowly down the church.

The sacristan told me the cemetery was at hand; had it been even distant, my curiosity would have urged me to follow the mournful procession, so interested had I become in this simple picture of family affliction.

We entered the cineral depot, and soon reached what was about to receive all that remained of youth and loveliness. The friends took their stations round the simple grave; and when the father reluctantly quitted the cord which had lowered down his daughter to her resting-place, I was near enough to hear the heart-piercing words-" Now, darling Annette, we are separated for

ever!" faulter from his lips. I gave a shudder as the first shovelful of earth struck the coffin,-the hollow sound which ascended from the grave was more eloquent than a sermon of Bosuet-it reached the heart of the afflicted father-for he wept.

I waited to see Monsieur de B. torn from the grave of his child, and then hurried towards the inn, where I found the diligence almost ready to start for Paris. I threw myself into the cabriolet; but it was long before I could chase from my mind what I had just witnessed in the Cathedral of Amiens.

THE DEATH OF MURAT.

[THE following verses are almost nothing more than a versification of some passages in a touching narrative of the last moments of the ci-devant king of Naples, contained in the 116th Number of Blackwood's Magazine.]

"My hour is come!-Forget me not!-My blessing is with you;
"With you my last, my fondest thought; with you my heart's adieu.
"Farewell-farewell, my Caroline! my children's doating mother;
"I made thee wife, and fate a queen-an hour and thou art neither!
"Farewell, my fair Letitia, my love is with thee still:
"Louise and Lucien, adieu; and thou, my own Achille !"
With quivering lip, but with no tear, or tear that gazers saw,
These words, to all his heart held dear, thus wrote the brave Murat.

Then of the locks which, dark and large, o'er his broad shoulders hung;
That streamed war-pennons in the charge, yet like caressings clung
In peace around his forehead high, which, more than diadem,
Beseemed the curls that lovingly replaced the hard cold gem;
He cut him one for wife-for child-'twas all he had to will;
But, with the regal wealth and state, he lost its heartless chill!
The iciness of alien power, what gushing love may thaw?
-Its agony in such an hour as this-thy last-Murat!

"Comrade-though foe!-a soldier asks from thee a soldier's aid,-
"They're not a warrior's only tasks that need his blood and blade-
"That upon which I latest gaze-that which I fondest clasp,
"When death my eye-balls wraps in haze, and stiffens my hands' grasp!
"With these love-locks around it twined, say, wilt thou see them sent-
"Need I say where?-Enough!-'tis kind!-to death, then, I'm content.
"O! to have found it in the field, not as a chained outlaw!
"No more!-to Destiny I yield-with mightier than Murat!"
They led him forth-'twas but a stride between his prison room
And where, with yet a monarch's pride, he met a felon's doom.
"Soldiers!-your muzzles to my breast will leave brief space for pain.
"Strike to the heart!"-His last behest was uttered not in vain.
He turned him to the levelled tubes that held the wished-for boon;
He gazed upon some love-clasped pledge,-then vollied the platoon!
And when their hold the hands gave up, the pitying gazers saw,
In the dear image of a wife, thy heart's best trait, Murat!

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES.

BY A BOOKSELLER.

Classics ad usum Delphini.

THE Delphin, or Dauphin editions of the classics, 4to. forming a collection of between sixty and seventy volumes, were planned by the Duke of Montausier, encouraged by Mons. Colbert, and carried on by Huet, bishop of Avranches; it was the latter who chose the commentators that were employed, and who complains of not being able to find a sufficient number of persons equal to such a task.

Errata.

BENEATH the word "Finis," at the end of some very stupid book, a wit added the following pointed couplet :"Finis! an error, or a lie, my friend! In writing foolish books there is no end!"

Buonaparte a Friend to Literature.

A CELEBRATED living poet* being requested, at a literary dinner, to name a friend to literature, toasted "Buonaparte." On being asked how he ranked him among her supporters, he replied, "he had shot a bookseller." +

Goldsmith had a higher opinion of booksellers than our modern poet appears to have. The Earl of Northumberland, previous to his departure as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, hearing that Goldsmith was a native of that country, expressed his willingness to do him a kindness; his answer to the gracious offer was, that he "could say nothing but that he had a brother there, a clergyman, who stood in need of help. As for myself," he adds, “I have no dependence on the promises of great men; I look to the booksellers for support; they are my best friends, and I am not inclined to forsake them for others."

* Thomas Campbell, it is said.

+ Palm.

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Robinson Crusoe.

THE fascination of this extraordinary work is not limited to the juvenile reader. Mr. Tawney, a respectable alderman of Oxford, used to read Robinson Crusoe through every year with great delight, and thought every part of it as much matter of fact as his Bible. A friend at last asked him, how he could be such a child as to credit a story so marvellous. "The original Crusoe," added he, was Alexander Selkirk; and Daniel Defoe, an ingenious author, embellished the plain story of his shipwreck upon the island of Juan Fernandez, with almost all the adventures and remarks you so much admire." "Your information," said the alderman, with a sigh, may be correct, but I had rather you had withheld it, for by thus undeceiving me, you have deprived me of one of the greatest pleasures of my old age."

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Advice to Authors on facility of Composition.

LOPE FELIX de VEGA CARPIO wrote five times the number of leaves that he lived days, and if any one has the curiosity to know in what manner such facility of composition is attained, let him listen to the advice that Ringelbergius (Sterck) gives to an author under his tuition. "Tell the printers," says he, "to make preparations for a work you intend writing, and never alarm yourself about it because it is not even begun; for, after having announced it, you may, without difficulty, trace out in your own head the whole plan of the work, and its divisions; after which, compose the arguments of the chapters, and I can assure you that, in this manner, you may furnish the printer daily with more copy than they want. But remember, when you have once begun, there must be no flagging till the work is finished."

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THE NECROMANCER'S NOVICIATE.

JACOBUS ALDROVANDUS was an alchemist of the fifteenth century, and spent his days, and part of his nights, over the furnace, with a degree of ardour which no disappointments were able to quench. Being subject to many annoyances from the bad temper of his wife, he sought, in his laboratory, that enjoyment which was denied him everywhere else. It was, indeed, an unfortunate circumstance for his peace, that his wife had brought him a considerable dowry, and that this dowry had ere long been devoured by the crucible. She now frequently lamented that so much had gone to the making of a philosopher's stone which gave her no returns; and finding that remonstrances were entirely thrown away upon her infatuated husband, she betook herself to devotional habits, and was closeted for a long time every day with a pious confessor.

Under these trials, Jacobus did not fail to exhibit a becoming forbearance of temper. Enthusiasm, when it is sufficiently strong, supplies consolations and antidotes against all the evils of life; and, it cannot be denied, that the progress of philosophy, at the same time that it has undeceived us in many respects, has also diminished the number of mental opiates which enabled mankind to forget their sufferings.

One day, while examining a dusty shelf of his library, Jacobus stumbled upon a book of magic, which by some accident had crept in among the rest. The mysteries of its pages had an irresistible charm for his imagination. He rose and shut the door; for his wife's confessor was then descending from a morning visit, and the flapping of the holy man's garments put our alchemist in mind, that there was such a thing as a bundle of faggots reserved for those who dealt in forbidden lore. After this precaution, he once more drew forth the volume, and became so

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