well remembered the criminal, yet believing him to be innocent on this occasion, they both, most generously and heroically, exerted themselves to save him, and would have succeeded, as the husband was become a man of some influence in the republic, but for the fact announced by a new witness, that the accused had lately arrived from London. This being held sufficient proof of his guilt-his head fell, in almost the same hour, beneath the axe of the guillotine, "the national razor;" and his original guilt having spread - abroad from the intervention of the surgeon, his head was reserved among the numbers which fell, rolled through the streets and kennels of Paris by the poissardes and mob, treated with a thousand indignities, and finally cast to the dogs!

SUNDAY IN PARIS.

"Tis morning-the shops are all open-the cries
And week-day sights meet our ears and our eyes,
As the loaded waggons pass us,
With wheels sticking out a yard at least,
And housings grotesque that make every beast
Look like the London Bonassus.

"Tis church-time, and half of the shops are half shut,
Except in the quarters of trade, where they put
At defiance what Louis enacted;

The streets are as full as before-and I guess
The churches are nearly as empty, unless
Some mummery pageant is acted.

When worship becomes a theatrical show
Parisians of course must religiously go
-for the forwardest places,
Where best they may see a fine puppet for hours
Before a fine altar of tinsel and flowers

To pray

Perform pantomimic grimaces.

Some gaze on his shoes and his gloves of white kid,
Or the jewels with which every finger is hid,
Or his flounces of violet satin :

Other eyes on his laces and mitre are kept,
Attentive to all his performance-except

The prayers that he mumbles in Latin.

The senses give thanks-no responses are made,
And when there's a pause in the form and parade
The orchestra strikes up a chorus;

The women then ask, who is that?-who is this?
While the men slily ogle the singers, and kiss
Their hands to the sweet Signoras.

Is there nothing of fervour ?—O yes, you may mark
Some hobbling old crones in a vestibule dark,

Who dab in the holy lotion

Shrivell'd fingers to cross their forehead and breast,
Then kneel at a chapel with candles dress'd,
And kiss it with blind devotion.

They pour from the church-and each fair one begs,
As she crosses the gutter and shews her legs,
To know what is next intended;

For Sunday's devoted to pleasure and shows,
And the toils of the day of rest never close
Till both day and night are ended.

'One talks of Versailles-or St. Cloud-or a walk,
And a hundred sharp voices that sing-not talk,
Instantly second each mover;

Some stroll to the Bois de Boulogne; others stray
To the Thuilleries, Luxembourg, Champs Elysées,
The Garden of Plants, or the Louvre.

But the dinner hour comes-an important event!
What pondering looks on the cartes* are now bent!
And how various-how endless the fare is,
From the suburb Guinguette, to where epicures choose
Fricandeaus, fricasées, consummés, and ragouts,
At Grignion's, Beauvillier's, or Very's.

Some belles in the Thuilleries' walk now appear,
While loungers take seat round about them-to sneer,
To chat-read the papers, or slumber.

In disposing the chairs there are different whims,
But one for the body, and two for the limbs,
Are reckon'd a moderate number.

The Boulevards next are the grand rendezvous,
Where parties on parties amusement pursue,
A stream of perpetual friskers.

From the pretty Bourgeoise and the trowser'd Commis,
The modern Grisette, and the ancient Marquis,
To the Marshal of France in whiskers.

Crowds sit under trees in defiance of damps;
Th' Italian Boulevard, with its pendulous lamps,

By far is the smartest of any

With bare elbows, slim waists, and fine bonnets dress'd out, Each Parisian beauty may there have a rout

For the price of the chair-a penny.

English women are known by their dresses of white;
The men by superior neatness and height,

They talk of gigs, horses, and ponies;

All look twice as grave as the French-yet their laugh,
When they choose to indulge it, is louder by half,
And they turn in, of course, at Tortoni's.

* Bills of fare.

The theatres open, some thirty or more

All are fill'd, yet the crowd seems as thick as before,
Regardless of mud, or of weather;

You'd swear it were carnival-time-and in sooth
The town is a fair-every house is a booth
And the people all crazy together.

What braying of gongs-what confusion of tongues!
What a compound of noise from drums, trumpets, and lungs!
Each striving his neighbour's to smother;
Mimes, mountebanks, conjurers, each have their rings,
While monkeys and dancing-dogs-roundabouts-swings-
Are so thick, they encroach on each other.
Here's a dwarf, and a monster, both beautiful sights!
And there is the man without fingers, that writes
With his chest, and his grinders after,

Both done so well, you can't say which is worst ;-
There Judy and Punch with a cat is rehearsed,
Which would move a hermit to laughter.
Every mansion as full as the street appears;
By the mirrors up stairs, and the chandeliers,
You may see quadrilling bodies;

Below some smoke in the Estaminets,

While others take ice, Roman punch, and sorbets,
Or chat to the Bar-maid Goddess.

In all, gaming claims indiscriminate love :
The dice-box and billiard-ball rattle above,
If you pass by a palace or stable.
Below, at the corner of every street,
Parties of shoe-blacks at cards you may meet,
The blacking-box serving as table.

The Palais Royal is a separate fair,

With its pick pockets, gamblers, and nymphs debonnaire,
Of character somewhat uncertain :

But as it is late, and these scenes I suspect,

Won't bear a detail too minute and direct,
For the present we drop the curtain.

STANZAS.

New Monthly Magazine.

ON THE PORTUGUESE REVOLUTION.

All hail, Lusitania! no longer bewailing,
Thou sit'st in thy sorrow to gaze on the sea!
The wing of the eagle not higher is sailing,

Than soar from depression the thoughts of the free.
All joy to thy children! the hand of the spoiler,

Is spoil'd of the weapon would do them a wrong; Great Liberty grasps at the sword which might foil her, And reigns in the hearts of the many-the strong! No blood stained thy triumph-the efforts of faction, Were quelled in that union which gives thee to fame;

As the far-spreading wave in its mighty re-action,
Each barrier of error and discord o'ercame.
On thine altar, fair Freedom! with kindred emotion,
The hands and the hearts of the valiant were vowed,
In the one-hallowed league of heroic devotion,
Which ransom'd the hopeless and humbled the proud.
No more the sad watch of anxiety keeping,

The prison'd-the exil'd, thy bondage deplore,
Nor, the fire of his soul in obscurity sleeping,

The friend of his country tread joyless its shore;
And what, if with hosts by dark ignorance banded,
The despots of Europe in vengeance arise;
Yet nerv'd for the contest, thy power single-handed
In Liberty's strength might their menace despise.
Then hail, Lusitania! thy young laurel flourish,

Long, long, on the brows of the free and the brave!
And be far from thy children, the heart which would nourish,
The fear of a tyrant-the curse of the slave !

And spread thy renown, till the record of story,

None nobler than thou, on its annals shall see ;
Till Earth's farthest zone wear the touch of that glory,
Which wraps in its brightness the brave and the free!

EPIGRAM.

On the Emperor Napoleon's Legacy of a Snuff-Box to Lady Holland
FOR France, through life, the hero-monarch toiled,
For her abas'd the proud-subdued the brave,
But, when of friends bereaft, of greatness spoiled-
His legacy in death to Holland gave!

FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGIA.
WITH Simplest fare my cloth is spread,
Nor gold nor silver grace my board
No tapestry round this humble shed
Enthrones in state its purple lord.

My friend, a soul at ease is mine,
I boast to serve a gentle muse;

;

And o'er my roof the clust'ring vine
Pours for that friend its mellowest juice.

FROM THE SAME.

PASSING the tomb where my cold relics lie,
Let no tear fall, nor heave the anxious sigh!
Spare these! You need not, traveller, in me
Weep the sad state of frail mortality.

On one pure altar I still watch'd a flame,
Clear, ardent, unextinguished—and the same.
No second worship, with a mix'd control,
Weaken'd the constant passion of my soul.
My vows were single-to the close of life
I had but one, and she a faithful wife;

And we grew old together: and I led,

With happiest omen, to the genial bed

Three children; whose dear babes, to my fond breast
Close folded, oft I've gently soothed to rest.

And now, each sad funereal duty paid,

Each rite, each offering to a parent's shade,

They've pass'd me hence, in godlike ease to take
Sweet slumbers on the soft Elysian lake.

THERESA,

THE FAVORITE MISTRESS, AND AFTERWARDS THe wife, of

ROUSSEAU.

THE Confidence that Rousseau had in Theresa was unbounded, as was the empire she had obtained over him; but this confidence had for its foundation what was sufficient to destroy it, namely-her excessive simplicity. The talents of Theresa were, perhaps, more bounded than those of women in general; since, though she lived in the most intimate manner with such a man as Rousseau for three-andthirty years, she made no improvement. He fancied she was incapable of deceiving him, and he deceived himself. Long habit imposes that heavy yoke upon us, which becomes stronger in proportion as it is gradual in its establishment, because it comes on us imperceptibly; and Jean Jacques bent his neck to this yoke without the least kind of suspicion. We are well persuaded that to it Rousseau owed the greatest portion of his misfortunes, and all the bitterness of the last years of his life, together with the vexations of his temper, his suspicions, which she awakened and continually kept feeding. We feel persuaded that she contributed to hasten his end, which we believe he voluntarily brought about, when he discovered the inclination Theresa had for one of the men about the stable; and at length when he found that the only support he looked to, failed, he precipitated his own death.

The following letter is striking, and though the threatened separation did not take place, yet it shows how much Rousseau suffered when he made this first complaint against Theresa; and we believe the first time he ever addressed a reproach towards her. The letter is dated August 12th,

1769.

"For six-and-twenty years, I have endeavoured to render you happy; I perceive with pain that my cares are not