no longer king; kind Charley, kind. Yes, better to-day, Charlotte-the pleasant sun makes me feel young again, after so many days of rain and storm. How? what say, Charley, what? The boys not well? Bad news, bad news,-send for the doctor, Charlotte. Sit down, Charley, sit down, for I hear Pitt's voice at the door good morning, Pitt. What good news to-day? What, what, another victory? Spain, France, America-no, no, Pitt, that can never be. I was the last to yield, but now that we have yielded, Pitt, we must keep our word-keep our word, Pitt. Fight against Bonaparte, Pitt, till we conquer or are conquered, but no more war with America. All over now, all over, Pitt. Our queen-come to see her poor old husband, Pitt." The chain of his ideas here seemed to break suddenly: his head fell upon his breast, an air of sadness succeeded to the animated look with which he had carried on the imaginary dialogue with his trusted minister of days long past, and he waved his hand gently to and fro, with a sort of deprecating movement, shaking his head slowly, as if refusing some request which it was painful not to grant. He stood thus for nearly a minute, with his eyes bent upon the floor, and a look of the deepest sorrow; then he sighed deeply, and crossing the room, with slow uncertain steps, and both hands extended before him, as if feeling his way, advanced with remarkable directness to the organ, and seated himself before it. A signal was given to some person without by one of the silent attendants, and the poor old king played, with much taste and feeling, a solemn air from one of Handel's oratorios. The music evidently had a soothing effect upon his mind, for his look soon became bright and cheerful, and when he rose from the instrument, his manner and movement were those of one whose memory or fancy was teeming with pleasant images. What those images were was soon disclosed by his animated but rambling and sometimes incoherent soliloquy, if soliloquy that may be called, which to the utterer seemed conversation, his own imagination fur nishing the questions and remarks of all the other parties to the colloquy. It seemed that he imagined himself surrounded by his queen and children, as they were twenty years before, and in the full enjoyment of that domestic felicity which, until clouded by the misconduct of his sons, no monarch perhaps ever shared more largely. He talked gaily and even playfully with his daughters, exhibiting in his eclipse of mind the wonderful power of memory for which he had been distinguished, by frequent and minute allusions to persons and circumstances of that distant time on which his distempered fancy was employed; and by his almost perpetual smiles and occasional laughter, was apparently amused by the repetition of anecdotes current at the time. But a change soon came over the train of his imaginings, although without producing a revulsion of the pleasant feeling which had attended them. He seemed to have a glimmering of consciousness as to his situation-so far, at least, as to know that he was secluded from the world, although unsuspicious of the cause. He still imagined some person to be present with him, for he continued to ask questions, and reply to fancied observations by another, frequently alluding to events and feelings and individuals, that had been "while he was in the world." spoke of his family, as though they were all living, and he himself translated to another sphere; declared himself to be perfectly happy, and longed for the time when they should join him; expressing the hope that they were happy also, and frequently repeating that he was much attached to them "while in the world." Then he would stop at one of the instruments and play a few notes, always from Handel, of whose compositions he had been exceedingly fond in his better days; and again the effect of the music was evidently to calm and quiet the wanderings of his mind. He Another change took place in the current of his hallucinations. He stopped abruptly in his walk, and turning suddenly round made a few quick steps, crying, in hasty but tremulous tones-the haste of anxiety, and the the pinnacle of human grandeur. The attendants, who had hitherto observed his movements in silence and without leaving their stations, now hastened to his assistance; and raising him from his knees, conducted him to one of the piles of cushions, and tenderly placed him upon it, in a reclining posture as before. tremulousness of age and decrepitude to which he had been cast down from "back, back-don't come in, Charlotte; they have been firing squibs, and you may be frightened, for perhaps they will fire more." He then returned more deliberately to the spot where he had so abruptly halted, and folding his arms and drawing up his broken and enfeebled frame to its full height, with a momentary but inexpressibly fine assumption of dignity, stood square and erect, as if defying the vengeance of an enemy, or the malice of an assassin. He was apparently acting over again the scene at Drury Lane theatre, in 1800, when he was fired at by the maniac Hatfield. The recollection of this event appeared to disturb him, and excite painful feelings. He walked up and down the room for some time, feebly wringing his hands and muttering inaudibly; and at length had recourse again to his beloved music. Making his way to the organ, the position of which he seemed to have no difficulty in determining from any part of the room, he sang a hymn, accompanying himself upon it. His voice in singing was weak and thin and wavering, but he sang correctly and with taste; and although very deaf, played with a more than ordinary knowledge and perception of the wonderfully varied powers of the noble instrument. Criticism might have detected faults, perhaps, but feeling left it no room for the exercise of its acuteness, in the sad and pitying emotions called up by the sight of that time-worn and shattered frame and ruined mind, feebly attempting, even in their extreme of helplessness and misery, the praise and worship of the Almighty being, of whose power and inscrutable will they were a touching and impressive monument. And more tender and sorrowful yet was the feeling with which the poor old king was looked upon, when at the close of his hymn he knelt down and prayed aloud for himself, his people, and the loved ones around his hearth, of whom some had long been removed beyond the troubles of this life, and then burst into a passion of tears, as if dimly sensible for a moment, of the depth At The poor old man was apparently exhausted by the violence of his emotions, for he lay more than an hour without moving; they who beheld him could not but hope that his sorrows were forgotten in sleep. length he arose suddenly, impelled, it would seem, by a new train of remembrances which to him bore the aspect of a present reality. Gathering his robe closely around him, he advanced a few steps, and then assuming an oratorical attitude, with his right hand stretched forth, he appeared to imagine himself addressing the parliament, and vindicating his conduct or that of his ministers. His discourse was vehement but unconnected, mingling in sad confusion the incidents of a long series of years, both public and private; and it was some. what remarkable that he referred, more than once, to the famous letter of Junius, addressed to himself half a century previously, the first reading of which is known to have affected him very deeply-even to tears. There were allusions, also, to the attempts on his life at various times, and to the insults he had received from the populace, toward the close of the war in America, the details of which he seemed to retain in perfect remembrance; but these allusions were confusedly blended with battles, and victories, and appeals to the patriotism of the nation, and childish complaints of neglect, and indignant reproaches and all uttered so rapidly, and with so little connexion, that it was almost impossible to pursue the erratic course in which his thoughts were wandering. He continued speaking for perhaps ten or twelve minutes, with much gesticulation, and then stepping backward, resumed his seat with a dignified air, such as he might have worn in years long passed away, when tak ing his place on the throne of his fathers, before the assembled counsellors of his empire. But it soon gave way to a look of feebleness and dejection, and burying his face in his hands, he relapsed once more into a protracted term of inaction and silence. The next phase of his malady was of a more cheerful character. He was again a happy father, enjoying the presence and conversation of loved and affectionate children. He addressed them by name, turning his face from one point to another, as though they were present and visible to his darkened eyes, and questioned them of what they had read or seen, as he had probably done when they were indeed blooming around him in youth, and filling his heart with the joy of a father. Much of his conversation was addressed to his youngest daughter, Amelia, whom he had loved more than all the rest, and whom he appeared to imagine still with him, a little child, happy and loving, and as yet free from the long and cruel sufferings by which her spirit of resignation and christian fortitude was so sorely tried for several years preceding her early death. The poor old king spoke to her in the fondest tones and language, and smiled again and again as if amused by her childish prattle; and at times he would kiss the ring which encircled his wasted finger, although nothing escaped himto indicate a consciousness that it was on her death-bed she had placed it there. This sunshine of his mind was not of long continuance. The shadow of a conscious grief began to settle on his countenance, and his unseeing eyes to wander around the room, as though they perceived the absence of those loved beings with whose forms imagination had peopled his solitude; and after a time, he arose feebly and began to feel about the room, with outstretched hands, exclaiming the while, in piteous accents, "Amy, Amy, don't go away: don't leave your poor old blind father." And when his search was still unsuccessful, and there was no answer to his despairing cry, tears gushed from the eyes of the unhappy old man, and his grief found utterance in sobs, and casting himself down upon the floor, he seemed to abandon himself to the sense of present wretchedness, and to realize that he had long outlived every tie and every hope that could make life endurable. PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT. THE Court of Baharam, the fifth king of Persia, was one of the gayest companies that ever encircled the Sassanian throne. The understanding of the monarch might be rated considerably above the average of kingly intellect; yet a candid and impartial observer would probably have characterized him as ingenious rather than wise. He was yet young when he ascended the throne, and that ambition which belonged to his nature having never been directed by prudent counsellors, to objects worthy of its possessor's talents and station, led him to seek the distinction accorded to feats of bodily strength and skill, rather than to bend his energies to those pursuits of which the scene was the cabinet and not the field, of which the reward was the approbation of the wise, and the result the happiness of the country. In all the undertakings of the king, the chief object which he sought was the applause of those around him. Whenever he went into the field the ladies of his court accompanied him and the wonder and delight which they testified at any extraordinary feat of skill, constituted abundant recompense for the trouble which he had taken. Among the females attached to his court was one who, though less personally attractive, perhaps, than any other in the circle, possessed, by the commanding vigour of her intellect, and the winning gentleness of her temper, a greater influence than any over the heart of the monarch. Notwithstanding all the efforts to gain the smiles of this lady, the king never found that she responded to his hopes with all the gratification he could have wished to inspire. Her smile was always mingled with a shade either of regret or contempt. In truth, she loved Baharam, and was grieved to see his powers applied to ends so little worthy of his dignity. Surely," she would sometimes say to him, throwing the advice in an impersonal form, "surely, sire, those persons who are eminent for mental or political greatness, command a larger portion of esteem than those who have become distinguished for physical dexterity, in which, in truth, any one could attain the same proficiency who would abandon himself to them in the same degree." To suggestions like these the monarch lent an unwilling ear, and generally managed to forget them as soon as they were concluded. After many an unsuccessful trial, the king had at length become able to execute a feat which he had long laboured for, and was now anxious that his courtiers and ladies should be spectators of the display. He carried them, therefore, to the plain, and an antelope was found, asleep. The monarch discharged an arrow with such precision as to graze his ear. The animal awoke, and put his hind hoof to the ear, to brush off the fly by which he conceived himself annoyed. As the hoof was passing above his head, another arrow from the royal bow fastened it to his horn. The exulting Baharam turned from the congratulations of the throng to his favourite lady, expecting to receive her warmest praises. Vexed to see that toil squandered upon an unworthy trick which, properly applied, might have enlarged empire and consummated mighty revolutions, the lady coolly replied, "Practice makes perfect." Enraged at this uncourtly observation, the king instantly ordered her to be carried to the mountains, and there exposed to perish. The order was promptly obeyed; the lady was left alone in the middle of a mountain forest, and the train returned to the palace. About four years after the events described above, Baharam was walking with his minister near the plain where he had pierced the hoof of the antelope. "It was here," said the king in a musing mood, "that my rashness destroyed a lady for a thoughtless speech; and I was deprived of the only person whom I ever loved. The place which she occupied within my heart has never been supplied. 'Why was an order dictated by passing passion executed with such fatal precision ? It is the curse of royalty, that while the resolution of kingly plans is controlled by the weakness of humanity, the irrevocable decision of divinity presides over their execution." While the king thus soliloquised, his walk brought him within sight of a small cottage almost hidden among the trees, at the door of which he beheld with amazement, a young and delicate female carrying a cow upon her shoulder up a flight of twenty steps. Astonished at a circumstance so extraordinary, he immediately sent his minister to inquire by what means such unusual strength was brought to reside in a form so frail. The minister returned with the information that the lady said her secret should be revealed to none but Baharam, and to him only on his condescending to visit her alone. The king instantly went, and when he had ascended to her room, desired her to explain the remarkable sight. "Four years ago," she replied, “I took possession of this upper room. Soon after my arrival I bought a small calf, which I regularly carried up and down the steps, once every day. This exercise I have never intermitted, and the improvement of my strength has kept pace with the increasing weight of the animal." The monarch began to repeat his admiration of what he had seen, but she bade him not to lavish praise where praise was not due. ،، Practice makes perfect," said the lady in her natural voice, and at the same time lifting her veil, displayed the features of her whom he had mourned as dead. The king recognised and embraced his favourite. Struck, by the visible logic of so conducive an example, he perceived that of those bodily feats which he valued so highly, the most extraordinary were easily possible to time and perseverance; and he resolved to abandon so poor an ambition, and to consecrate the remainder of his life to acts that should command the respect of Virtue, and win the regard of Fame. The subject of last week's illustration will be found at page 265, in " ALCESTIS." OONDER-HOOFDEN, OR, THE they had followed in admiring aston UNDERCLIFF. A TALE OF THE VOYAGE OF HENDRICK HUDSON. "It is but an arm of the sea, as I told thee, skipper," said John Fleming, the mate of the "Halve-Mane," standing ready to jam down the tiller and bring-to, if his master should agree with him in opinion. Hudson stood by his steersman, with folded arms, now looking at the high-water mark on the rocks, which betrayed a falling tide, now turning his ear slightly forward to catch the cry of the man who stood heaving the lead from the larboard bow. The wind drew lightly across the starboard quarter, and with a counter-tide, the little vessel stole on scarce perceptibly, though her mainsail was kept fullthe slowly passing forest trees on the shore giving the lie to the merry and gurgling ripple at the prow. The noble river, or creek, which ishment for fifty miles, had hitherto opened fairly and broadly before them, though, once or twice, its widening and mountain-girt bosom had deceived the bold navigator into the belief that he was entering upon some inland lake. The wind still blew kindly and steadily from the south-east, and the sunset of the second day-a spectacle of tumultuous and gorgeous glory which Hudson attributed justly to the more violent atmospheric laws of an unsettled continent-had found them apparently closed in by impenetrable mountains, and running immediately on the head shore of an extended arm of the sea. "She'll strike before she can follow her helm," cried the young sailor in an impatient tone, yet still with habitual obedience keeping her duly on her course. "Port a little!" answered the skipper, a moment after, as if he had not heard the querulous comment of his mate. |