were the prisoner, the chaplain of the prison, and the executioner. We ought to state, that the van opened behind, so that it was exactly like uncarting a deer, the driver having backed it against the steps of the guillotine. The culprit was a fine muscular man, about thirty; we thought he shuddered for an instant, as he caught the first glance of the scaffold, but it was only for an instant; and then resuming his self-possession, he shook his head two or three times, when his cap was removed, and stared with apparent unconcern at the multitude. The morning was clear and beautiful-too fair, we thought, for a human being to leave the world by so violent a death, but we had little time allowed for moralizing. He ascended the steps unaided, and took his place on the plank, which was directly tipped up, and slid horizontally under the knife. A piece of wood, having a notch to correspond to the neek of the prisoner, was then pushed down, to prevent his drawing back his head; and as he was lying on his face, he was literally looking into the box where his head was to fall. All was now still as death; and on the catch being loosened, the knife fell swiftly and heavily, but we could distinctly hear the momentary stop as it cut through the vertebræ of the neck. An immense jet of blood immediately spouted out from the divided arteries, but in an instant the body was pushed over into the basket, as well as the box containing the head. The scaffold was then washed down with pailsfull of water, and the bloody stream poured down in torrents on the pavement of the road. Next to this, the basket containing the body and head were placed in the cart, which drove quickly off, and then the crowd dispersed by degrees, appearing much gratified with the sight they had witnessed. In the evening we visited the barrier again. All the apparatus was removed, and the evergay population of Paris were passing outside the gates, to enjoy themselves at the guin. guettes, for it was a fete evening. But the stain of blood was still in the road, and we became disgusted with the recollection of the morning's tragedy, and returned home, think ing that a sight like that we had witnessed, inured the people to deeds of cruelty, rather than exerted any beneficial influence over them. [The execution here described took place in July, 1838. The name of the culprit was Jadin, and he had been committed for murdering a servant girl in the Rue Croix des petits Champs, under very aggravated circumstances. Since then there has been but one other execution in Paris, and that was in December last.] KNIPS. A GLIMPSE OF ELIZABETHAN MANNERS. THERE is, perhaps, no work which throws more curious and circumstantial light on the manners of Queen Elizabeth's reign, especially at the concluding portion of it, than a rare volume, by Thomas Decker, called "The Guls Horne Book," which appeared in the year 1609. We shall occasionally lay before state of manners which cannot but be of the our readers a few passages, illustrative of a highest interest to every Englishman. And selecting our example at random, will make our first extract from a chapter, entitled, "How a Gallant should behave himself in an Ordinary." "First, having diligently inquired out an ordinary of the largest reckoning, whither most of your courtly gallants do resort, let it be your use to repair thither some half hour after eleven; for then you shall find most of your fashion-mongers planted in the room waiting for meat. Ride thither upon your Galloway nag, or your Spanish jennet, a swift ambling pace, in your hose and doublet, gilt rapier and poignard bestowed in their places, and your French lackey carrying your cloak, and running before you; or rather in a coach, for that will both hide you from the basilisk eyes of your creditors, and outrun a whole kennel of bitter-mouthed sergeants. Being ar rived in the room, salute not any but those of your acquaintance: walk up and down by the rest as scornfully and as carelessly as a gentleman-usher: select some friend, having first. thrown off your cloak, to walk up and down the room with you; let him be suited, if you can, worse by far than yourself; he will be a foil to you; and this will be a means to publish your clothes better than Paul's, a tenniscourt, or a playhouse: discourse as loud as you can, no matter to what purpose; if you but make a noise, and laugh in fashion, and have a good sour face to promise quarrelling, you shall be much observed. If you be a soldier, talk how often you have been in action; as the Portugal voyage, the Cales voyage, the Island voyage; besides some eight or nine employments in Ireland and the Low Countries: : then you may discourse how honourably your Grave used you, (observe that you call your Grave Maurice "your Grave;") how often you have drunk with count such-a-one, and such a count on your knees to your Grave's health; ; and let it be your virtue to give place neither to S. Kynock, nor to any Dutchman whatsoever in the seventeen provinces, for that soldier's complement of drinking. And, if you perceive that the untravelled company about you take this down well, ply them with more such stuff, as, how you have interpreted between the French king and a great lord of Barbary, when they have been drinking healths together: that will be an excellent occasion to publish your languages, if you have them; if not get TWO NIGHTS IN ROME. (SECOND NIGHT.)' On the last day of the exhibition of 1835, a triple row of equipages was ranged in front of the unfinished Museum of Painting in Paris. The privileged crowd-the artists, their noble patrons, and above all, the ladies, smiling, gay, and happy, thronged the door reserved for the bearers of the blue ticket, the precious favour of the Directors of the Royal Museum. On the steps under the colonade stood two artists engaged in conversation, and observing the carriages file off before them: The elder of the two, whose tall thin figure, high forehead, and mustachios, à la Louis XIII., resembled the Buckingham of Van dyke, bore in his countenance traces of that indescribable expression of suffering, which deep thought and superior genius are apt to leave; when a smile played on his lips, an expression of melancholy sadness was blended with it; and his full dark eye betrayed some secret sorrow, which he was denied the consolation of imparting to his bosom friend. "You deserve our reproaches," said his friend, a young artist, from whose button hole dangled a medal of merit, decorated with a new riband shining in all its freshness. "I deserve your reproaches!" whom was, at the moment, leaning gracefully on the opposite panel, and conversing with some persons she had recognised in the crowd. "Good morning, chere belle," said a pretty, but vain-looking lady, to the female who was leaning over the side of the carriage, "have you seen my portrait ?""Yes, it is very beautiful, indeed: it is not more so than you, madam, it is you." "I beg to recommend you the artist. He' is a charming young man—a little” odd—vécentric." "His name ?" “Raymond. Adieu!-Eh! there he is, that tall man' on the steps of the colonade." As the carriage was driving off, the young lady turned for an instant to survey the object to which her attention had been directed, and Raymond saw, through a profusion of glossy ringlets, the most angelic face that ever met his eyes, or that his glowing imagination had conceived; it realized all of the beautiful, that the divine Raphael, his great model, had embodied in his master-pieces. "Camille," said he, pressing his friend's arm, "I am positive this is the first time in my life that Î have seen this beautiful creature; and yet her glance seemed to convey to me a most strange and undefinable sensation, an electric shock, as it were. And what is most strange, I seem to have experienced all this before. This young girl, her look, the carriage, and myself standing on the stepsall this has surely occurred befote! But, no, it must be one of those moments when the remembrance of some past dream haunts the soul-some idle fancy of the imagination that never existed." About nine o'clock next morning, a carriage drew up before the artist's house, in the Rue de la Rochefoucault. Raymond, in his morning gown, and velvet cap in hand, received, with some embarrassment, the elderly ̈ gentleman whom he had seen with the beautiful girl in the open carriage on the preceding day. The stranger, evidently a man of distinction, appeared to have studied the art of painting; he readily recognised several pictures by the old masters hanging round the walls of the studio; and glancing over some of our artist's unfinished sketches, pointed out ̈ their beauties. "Yes, you, whose first youthful effort promised so much; you, in whose study I have seen such masterly sketches; such great de signs, such exquisite copies, as to deceive the eye of a master, all covered with dust, and neglected. And what have you exhibited? only a portrait, beautiful, indeed, as one of Lawrence's, but still only a portrait; and after all, we are indebted to the vanity of a pretty woman for it. Ah! Raymond, -you have robbed us of our share of your glory:" The painter, observing the impression pro"Glory!" replied the painter, slowly; "I duced on the old man by his works, dusted never cared for glory, I love the art for its own some of the frameless portraits lying about sake; mon Dieu, if I had but seen Italy! if the room in most artist-like confusion; opened it had been my lot to wander among the trea-old portfolios long time forgotten, and, with sures of the Vatican! O Rome! O Rome!" a timid deference, and vanity hitherto a "But if you regret Rome, why did you leave stranger to his mind, anxiously awaited his it ?" I am a native of the cold north," an- visitor's opinion. "As far as I can judge,' swered he, smiling bitterly; "the burning said the old man, in an Italian accent," these sun of Italy would kill me." beautiful sketches appear to be formed more on the model of the old Spanish school, than our great Italian masters. Have you ever been in Rome ?"--" I have never been in Rome or "Italy," was the reply. "Ah! you are still The carriage that was passing at this instant, an open landau, stopped just before them. It was occupied by a man advanced in years, and a young female, the latter of 1 1 young enough to come to see us some day; you must see the Vatican, Florence, Venice. In the meantime I offer you a model, such as our Raphael himself never had. I wish you to take a likeness of my daughter. I reside in the neighbourhood of Paris,-you will find a studio at my house; I shall be in town tomorrow, and if you are disengaged, I will take you with me." After the old man had taken his leave, the artist read on the card which he gave him, "Prince Barberini." The French villa of the Roman prince was situated near the small village of Issy, and with its terraces and white statues, partially seen through the sombre verdure of a grove of linden trees, in which it was embowered, resembled an Italian villa transported to the woody banks of the Seine. The portrait, after a considerable time, was finished-it was a chef d'œuvre. The painter had first admired, and then loved his model; he had exerted all his powers to do justice to the original, and succeeded in producing a master-piece. It was only under the impression of the look-the indescribable glance with which his beautiful model thanked him, upon receiving the portrait, that the bitter conviction of the impotence of art to express that heavenly beam, forced itself upon his mind. He also discovered that another sort of admiration besides that of art had taken possession of his soul-he discovered that he was in love. Raymond loved without even dreaming of love. The prince, whose forehead, shaded by premature grey hairs, and lustreless eyes, exhibited traces of violent passions, became accustomed to the presence of the painter. Sometimes, tormented by a nervous susceptibility-a mental suffering, which was only irritated by attentions, he withdrew entirely from the artist and his model, Thus left to themselves, they spent hours, together-hours of unmixed happiness, when they felt themselves isolated from all the world; and neither thought of, nor cared for aught it contained besides each other. Leontia was, like most young girls who, deprived in early life of the kind protection of, a mother, and unable to find a kindred bosom into which they can pour their young and, timid emotions, fall back upon their own resources, and learn to think and reflect; she, was conscious that she loved Raymond, and she abandoned herself. to the pleasing enchantment. "Leontia," said the prince, after dinner, on the day subsequent to the completion of the portrait, "we must be in Rome, before the end of ten days. I intend giving an entertainment at the palace of Barberini on the 25th; we must therefore depart tomorrow, and travel by easy stages. Raymond," continued he, " you have never been at Rome-you will go with us?" I thank you, prince," replied the painter, turning pale, "but I cannot go--at present.”—“ What ! you an admirer of art! of Raphael! and cannot go to Rome! Let us see,-what can detain you in Paris?"-oh, nothing, you must go with us, that is decided."-" Excuse me, sir, but the thing is impossible." returned Raymond, with firmness. "Raymond," insisted the prince, "your presence is necessary to us. We shall only remain a short time at Rome, and then we shall return to Paris to resume our occupations." A beseeching glance from Leontia decided the artist. He consented to accompany them to Rome. The villa was deserted next morning. * * * ** "It is the Porta del Popolo, God forgive me," exclaimed the artist, as the travelling carriage of the prince Barberini entered Rome. "What! do you know it, then ?” said the prince, in surprise.-"Yes," answered Raymond, with a slight tremor of the voice," thanks to the engravers who send us poor Frenchmen such excellent views of your city." The prince was expected to dinner, and he arrived just in time to receive his noble and princely guests in the galleries and gardens of the palace of Barberini, on this occasion sparkling with lights, and resounding with the most enchanting music. It was an aristocratic fête, worthy of the last representa tive of one of the most high and powerful families of Rome. After the first pressure of the crowd had subsided, and the guests began to circulate more freely through the marblegalleries, and the music had ceased, the artist, intoxicated by the fairy scene with which he was surrounded, found himself before the portrait of Leontia, by the side of the prince, who presented him to his friends as the author of this master-piece of art. The painter, bewildered by a powerful hallucination-a sort of mental intoxication, lost his presence of mind. "Raymond," said the prince, "how is it that an artist should never have come to Rome once in his life? But you recogi nised the Porta del Popolo! did you ever see it before ?" "Yes, prince," replied he, mechanically, " once-only once; and with thatonce is connected a mysterious tale." us hear it," they all exclaimed, eagerly. is.a long time since," replied Raymond, hesitating; "but in case of danger, I should be protected by you. I have been in Rome before." "Ah! I knew it," exclaimed the prince. "I was at that time very young, a mere boy. I arrived in the evening, and was conducted by some fatality to the theatre d'Argentina,-Coronari sung Leontia entered the room at this moment, and observing an expression of intense suffering on her father's countenance, who was leaning against the marble mantel-piece, she turned an imploring look on the painter. The look was the same as that of the pale figure he had seen at the theatre d'Argentino. "Let "It *. * * A Raymond proceeded. to repeat the story, of which the reader is already aware, describing every circumstance with the most minute exactness. "The walls," continued he, "were hung with dark tapestry;" and as he raised his head, his eyes expanded with terror, as he recognised the same drapery;" on the mantelpiece was a clock." It was the same that stood before him. "The eyes of the masked figure flashed fire." He shuddered, as he encountered the prince's fiery glance. "Eh! then," cried the latter. There was a moment of silence, and Leontia, pale and trembling, slightly pushed the gilded frame of the portrait, which falling on the pedestal of a marble column, was torn by a sharp angle. This incident turned the attention of the party from Raymond, and put an end to the embarrassment of all. The unfortunate artist saw that he was lost. As one hour after midnight tolled from the lofty dome of St. Peters, Raymond was standing before the window of his chamber, musing on the events of the evening,when he heard a slight rustling of the tapestry. "Raymond," whispered a low voice." Leontia!" and he clasped her to his bosom for the first time "You must fly, Raymond-come!" and she led him through a narrow corridor, towards a small door opening into the gardens, from which he could ascend the terrace wall, and from thence jump into the street. "Fly,' said she, "there is no time to lose!" "Alone!", whispered Raymond. "I must remain here," continued she, "now I know all :-Oh! I re "For member the last tears of my mother; but he is my father, I must remain." "Then I remain also, there is a fatality attending my visits to Rome, to which I must submit. I was compelled the first time, after a few hours, to bid adieu to my dreams of future fame; and ten years after, am I compelled to leave all I value ou earth! No, I shall not go alone." heaven's sake, not so loud, or you will be lostfarewell!" A light was seen at this moment in the chamber that Raymond had quitted, and Leontia, throwing her arms round his neck, whispered-If you love me, Raymond, go." He precipitated himself into the street; and when he had disappeared, Leontia, uttering a piercing shriek, fell into a swoon. Three days after, at Naples, Raymond read the following, in the "Diario di Roma :" "At the conclusion of a splendid fête given at the villa of Barberini, on the 25th, an entire wing of the palace was burnt to the ground. We regret to add that his excellency the Prince Barberini, and several of his suite, fell a prey to the devouring element." * * * * * Six months after this melancholy accident, Camillo met his friend driving an elegant cabriolet in the Champs Elysées. ** * * "Come to dinner. and you shall see." "Well now! what of Rome, Art, Raphael ?” The cabriolet was rapidly traversing the Champ de Mars Vangirigard, Issy, and stopped at a villa on the road to Fleury. "Art!" exclaimed Raymond, “I have proved faithless to it at Rome. Yes, Camillo, I am no longer a painter, I love the art no * "You love more-I love" this beautiful creature?" interrupted his friend, who observed a young lady of extraordinary beauty running to meet them, as a footman opened the gate. "Yes, my wife!" said Raymond. M. DESTRUCTION OF THE EARLY ENGLISH LIBRARIES. THIS article is inserted to show the vast accumulation of literature which existed at the land, evincing the industry of the monks, the commencement of the Reformation in Enggreat loss sustained, and from the style and orthography of the quotation, the state of the English language at that period. at all conversant in the History of England, It is a circumstance well known to those in the year one thousand five hundred and nasteries took place, by Henry the Eighth. thirty-six, the suppression of the lesser moWhen the abolition was first proposed in the Convention, Bishop Fisher strenuously opposed it, and told his brethren that this was fairly showing the king how he might come at the great monasteries. "And so, my Lords," concluded he, "if you grant the king these smaller monasteries, you do but make him an handle whereby he may cut down all the cedars within your Lebanon.” The bishop's fears were realized by the subsequent acts of Henry; after having quelled a commotion raised on account of the suppression of the lesser monasteries, immediately abolished the remainder, and in the whole, suppressed six hundred and forty-five monasteries, of which twenty-eight had abbots who had seats in Parliament. Ninety colleges were demolished, two thousand five hundred and seventy-five chanteries and freechapels, with an hundred and ten hospitals. The havock that was made among the libraries cannot be better described than in the words of Bayle, Bishop of Ossory, in the preface to Leland's "New Year's Gift to King Henry the Eighth." "A greate nombre of them whiche pur*chased those superslycyouse mansyons reserved of those librarye bookes some to serve theyr jokes, some to scoure theyr candlestyckes, and some to rubbe theyr bootes. Some they sold to the grossers and sopesellers, and some they sent over see to y. booke bynders, not in small numbre, but at "What! in Paris?" cried he. "Yes, I returned eight days since; shall I drive you?" "I have not the least objection-your horse is tymes whole shyppes full, to y⚫ wonderinge of foren nacyons." "Yea, y universytees of thys realme are not alle clere in thys detestable fact. But cursed is that bellye whyche seketh to be fedde with suche ungodlye gaynes, and so depely shameth hys natural conterye. I knowe a merchant manne, whyche shall at thys tyme be namelesse, that boughte y contentes of two noble lybraryes for forty shyllynges pryce, a shame it is to be spoken! Thys stuffe hathe he occupyed in ye stede of greye paper by 3* space of more than these ten yeares, and yet he hathe store ynoughe for as manye yeares to come. A prodygyouse example is thys, and to be abhorred of all men why che love theyr nacyon as they shoulde do. The monkes kepte them undre dust yt ydle-headed prestes regarded them not, their latter owners have most shamefully abused them, and yt covetouse merchantes have solde them awaye into foren macyons for moneye." The historian tell us farther, " That at his introduction to Leo, he not only poured forth verses innumerable, like a torrent, but also sung them with open mouth. Nor was he only once introduced, or on stated days (like our Laureates,) but made a companion to his master, and entertained as one of the instruments of his most elegant pleasures. When the prince was at table, the poet had his place at the window. When the prince had half eaten his meat, he gave with his own hands the rest to the poet. When the poet drank, it was out of the prince's own flagon, insomuch (says the historian) that through so great good eating and drinking he contracted a most ter rible gout." Sorry I am to relate what follows, but that I cannot leave my reader's curiosity unsatisfied in the catastrophe of this extraordinary man. To use my author's words, which are remarkable, mortuo Leone profligatisque poetis, &c. "When Leo died, and poets were no more," (for I would not understand profigatis literally, as if poets then were profligate,) this unhappy Laureate was forthwith reduced to return to his country, where, oppressed with old age and want, he miserably perished in a common hospital. We see from this sad conclusion (which may be of example to the poets of our time,) that it were happier to meet with no encouragement at all, to remain at the plough, or other lawful occupation, than to be elevated above their condition, and taken out of the common means of life, without a surer support than the temporary, or, at best, mortal favours of the great. It was doubtless for this consideration, that when the royal bounty was extended to our Poet Laureates, care was taken to settle it upon him for life. And it was the practice of our princes, never to remove from the station of Poet Laureate any man who had once been chosen, though never so much geniuses might arise in his time. THE FIRST POET LAUREATE. THE father of all Laureates, was named CA MILLO: he was a plain countryman of Apulia, whether a shepherd or thresher is not material. "This man (says Jovius) excited by the fame of the great encouragement given to poets at court, and the high honour in which they were held, came to the city, bringing with him a strange lyre in his hand, and at least some twenty thousand of verses. All the wits and critics of the court flocked about him, delighted to see a clown, with a ruddy, hale complexion, and in his own long hair, so top full of poetry; and at the first sight of him all agreed he was born to be Poet Laureate. He had a most hearty welcome in an island of the river Tiber, (an agreeable place, not unlike our Richmond,) where he was first made to eat and drink plentifully, and to repeat his verses to everybody. John Kaye was the first Poet Laureate in Then they adorned him with a new and ele- England; temp. Edward IV. He has left us gant garland, composed of vine leaves, laurel, none of his poems; but he has given to posand brassica. He was then saluted, by com- terity a translation of the siege of Rhodes, from mon consent, with the title of archipoeta, or the Latin; this he dedicates to the king, and arch-poet, in the style of those days; in ours, calls himself, “hys humble Poete Laureate." Poet Laureate. This honour the poor man re- Mr. Southey is the present Poet Laureate. ceived with the most sensible demonstrations of joy, his eyes drunk with tears and gladness. Next, the public acclamation was expressed in a canticle, which is transmitted to us as fol lows: "Salve, brassicea virens corana, Et lauro, archipoeta, pampinoque! From hence he was conducted in pomp to the CHARACTER OF CHARLES II. THE tall and swarthy grandson of Henry IV. of France, was naturally possessed of a disposition which, had he preserved purity of morals, had made him one of the most amiable of men. It was his misfortune, in very early life, to have become thoroughly debauched in mind and heart; and adversity, usually the rugged nurse of virtue, made the selfish libertine but the more reckless in his profligacy. He did not merely indulge his passions; his neck bowed to the yoke of lewdness. He was attached to women, not from love, for he had |