and amid such a triumph, purchased by him with his heart's blood-the dying request of such a man ought to have been held sacred by his country. For five years Lady Hamilton struggled on at Merton; she made application to every source, but she applied in vain. The recompense justly due to her for services rendered was withheld or denied under the most shabby and futile pretences. The worst of all, perhaps, was the pretence, or the plea, of the length of time that had expired since the service itself was rendered!

In a codicil annexed to his will, and made by Nelson as he was about to enter into action at

Trafalgar, the admiral, with a strong feeling that death was near him, asked two favors of his king and country, in whose defence he was about to offer up his own life-one was, protection and provision for Lady Hamilton, whose late husband was the king's foster-brother; the other, good-will for his "adopted daughter." He solemnly bequeathed both to his sovereign and his fellow-countrymen. When the will was proved, this codicil was held back by the Rev. William Nelson, although he and his family had been partaking of Lady Hamilton's hospitality for months. Indeed, during six years, she was a second mother to his children, to whom he recommended Lady Hamilton as an example, and enjoined obedience to her as an instructress. "The

earl, (says Dr. Pettigrew-for the reverend gentleman was created an earl)-fearful that Lady Hamilton should be provided for in the sum Parliament was expected to grant to uphold the hero's name and family, kept the codicil in his pocket until the day 120,000l. was voted for that purpose. On that day he dined with Lady Hamilton in Clarges street, and, hearing at table what had been done, he brought forward the codicil, and, throwing it to Lady Hamilton, coarsely said she might now do with it as she pleased. She had it registered the next day at Doctor's Commons, where it is now to be seen."

With insufficient means to live in her old dignity at Merton, and with little knowledge of how to make the best of those means, accustomed to find others her stewards, and unused to provide for hours of necessity, she at length found herself compelled to make an assignment of the home which Nelson had established for her and their child. She removed to Richmond, and, subsequently, had lodgings in Bond street. Pursued by creditors, without her child, for whom she had no homeand for whom such protection as she could give

was not that which a child most needed-she led a miserable life, which was hardly rendered more miserable by her incarceration, in 1813, in the King's Bench. She passed ten months in this captivity, and was only relieved at last by the humanity of Alderman Smith. With freedom came no measure of happiness; utterly destitute, and

her, however, by a Monsieur de Rheims. That it was only shelter, and nothing else, may be inferred from the following account handed to Dr. Pettigrew by the lady who enacts in it so graceful a part:

Mrs. Hunter was in the habit of ordering meat daily at a butcher's for a little dog, and on one of these occasions was met by Monsieur de Rheims, who followed her, exclaiming, "Ah, madam!-ah, madam! I know you to be good to the English. There is a lady here who would be glad of the worst bit of meat you provide for your dog." When questioned as to who the lady was, and promising that she should not want for anything, he declined telling, saying that she was too proud to see any one, and that besides he had promised her secrecy. Mrs. Hunter begged him to provide her with everything she required, &c., as if coming from himself, and she would pay for it. This he did for some time, until she became very ill, when he pressed her to see the lady who had been so kind to her; and, upon hearing that her benefactress was not a person of title, she consented, saw her, thanked her, and blessed her.

Shortly after this her infirmities increased, and ultimately she died at Calais of water on the chest, on the 15th of January, 1815. Dr. Pettigrew gives no credence to the report of an anonymous foreign writer that she had been converted to the Romish faith, and had received the sacrament from a Romish priest as long before as during her confinement in the King's Bench. That she died, as the same anonymous author reported, in the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church, and received its sacraments on her death-bed, can be as little confirmed. The, Romish Church would have buried a convert with willing ceremony; as it was, the method of the sad solemnity was thus ordered for one who, even in death, remained, as described by Mrs. Hunter, exceedingly beautiful :

Mrs. Hunter was anxious to have her interred according to English custom, for which, however, she was only laughed at; and poor Emma was put into a deal-box without any inscription. All that this good lady states that she was permitted to do was to make a kind of pall out of her black silk petticoat stitched on a white curtain. Not an English Protestant clergyman was to be found in all Calais or its vicinity; and, so distressed was this lady to find some one to read the burial service over her remains, that she went to an Irish half-pay officer in the Rue du Havre, whose wife was a wellinformed Irish lady. He was absent at the time; but, being sent for, most kindly went and read the service over the body. Lady Hamilton was buried in a piece of ground in a spot just outside the town, formerly called the gardens of the Duchess of Kingston, which had been consecrated and was used as a public cemetery till 1816. The ground, which had neither wall nor fence to protect it, was some years since converted into a timber-yard, and no traces of the graves now remain. Mrs. Hunter wished to have placed a head or foot-stone, but was there, and was existing in 1833.

To the latter assertion we may remark that no tomb-stone was existing there in the month of August of the latter year. We searched the field very narrowly for the purpose, and found but one record of the decease of an English sojourner.

should have led her heavenward; she was early

pushed from the path thither tending; nor amid all her royal, her noble, and, alas! her clerical companions, was there one who persuaded her that she was erring-nay, but the contrary. whole correspondence, now for the first time divulged in these volumes, shows the wickedness

The

panion and friend of queens. Little as it was, the reverend Earl Nelson hastened to Calais to claim it. He expected more, and in his cupidity wished to take the pledged trinkets without paying the necessary expenses for getting them out of pawn; he would not even discharge the few debts incurred by her death. These were discharged by Mr. Cadogan, to whom Horatia was entrusted, (Mrs. Matcham, Nelson's sister, receiving her after Lady Hamilton's decease,) and to whom, as to Alderman Smith, the forlorn creature was indebted for much aid, ere death placed her beyond the need of requiring it.

This tale bears with it its own moral: retribution followed offence; the commission of sin reaped its usual reward; the wanderer from virtue was visited with terrible affliction; and the penalty awaited not its commencement till the knell of the offender had summoned her to judgment. Thus much man knows, but with thus much he has not condescended to rest satisfied; and the sons of the seducers have been eager to cast stones at her whom their fathers enticed to sin. In the remembrance of her faults they make no account of her services, of her suffering, or of her sorrows; they have no idea that, if there was guilt, there might have been reconciliation, and that the dark season of her long last agony might have been passed in

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour.

No; man, who bore part in the offence, constituted himself the judge of this poor daughter of frailty, and she met with such mercy at his hands as man is accustomed to give.

Do not let it be supposed that we are advocates or even apologists in this case; our only anxiety is that, in the sacrifice of one, impunity may not be gained by, perhaps, greater offenders. Let not the man who flung her beauty and her virtue into ruin be allowed to escape. Her sins were of man's making: if these are to be remembered, let his share in them form part of the example we are taught to avoid. By man she was ruined in body and perilled in soul. Throughout the course of

double weight the penalty of a crime which they had, in the days of her greatness, held to be none. Let us, indeed, learn wisdom from a tale, the heroine of which does not afford the sole example that is to be avoided; but be it also ours to remember her services rather than her sins. The latter, with those of the first seducer who made of her very charity a means to destroy her forever, may be left to Him who will render an unerring sentence, when seducer and victim are in presence together at the tribunal of truth. At all events, let not the hardest blows of humanity fall on the weakest offender. She would have been better but for man-that she was not much worse, was for no lack of energy on his part to make her so:

Who made the heart, 't is He alone
Decidedly can try us;

He knows each chord, its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias.
Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it.
What's done we partly can compute,
But know not what's resisted.

AMONG the many serious consequences entailed upon Europe by the perfidy of the Austrian cabinet, not one of the least is that all regard for law and precedent, for the binding force of covenants, for the sanctity of oaths, will henceforth be weakened in the popular feeling. Contending parties will henceforth only appeal to considerations of abstract right or of policy, of which each party will naturally constitute itself the sole arbiter. The inevitable tendency of such breaches of royal faith is to render impossible the existence of any moderate party, and to encourage the adherence to extreme opinions. The constitutionalists, the friends

of rational liberty, unless they are content to submit for the sake of momentary quiet to the rule of military despotism, or of no less paralyzing bureaucratic centralization, will be driven to make common cause with the ultra democrat and the republican theorist. Those who, with us, believe a constitutional monarchy to be the form of government best adapted for the preservation of order and for the security of true liberty in the great empires of Europe in the present phase of civilization, must re luctantly confess that the Archduchess Sophia and Prince Schwarzenberg have done more to bring royalty into disrepute than all the republicans of this or the last century. Examiner, 29 Sept.

THE night is dark and dreary,
The grass extremely damp;
My ear, it is aweary
Of yon policeman's stamp;
I'd call him, but I fear he
Would seize me for a tramp.
Alone within the railings,
And it groweth late and lone;
Vain my repeated hailings-
The porters must have gone;
I may not climb the palings,
For I am sixteen stone.

I passed the gate a quarter
Before the clock tolled seven;
And now it's ten or arter-
By jingo that's eleven !
And here I sit a martyr,
Beneath the cope of 'eaven.
While getting mild and mellow
At Dobbs' pleasant board,
I little thought my pillow
Would be the swampy sward,
With nought but an umbrella
My wretched 'ead to guard!

Cuss on the fatal liquor,

Cuss on the pleasant talk,
That sent the bottle quicker,
And good intents did baulk;
Till I felt that I talked thicker,
And resolved to take a walk.

For in general over drinking 's
An 'abit I abhor,
And I felt an 'usband's shrinkings
From knocking at my door,
To tell my MisSIS JENKINS,
That I'd do so no more.

Therefore I passed the gateway,
To go across the park;
Thinking to save a great way,
And not provoke remark,
By not walking in a straight way,
Which I didn't, 'cause 't was dark.

CCLXXXVII. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXIII.

What man, whate'er the season,
Could reasonably doubt

That all let in, by reason,

Must also be let out;

Not left to perch the trees on,

Or bivouac about?

What man of business habits,

I ask, could e'er suppose, That the Regent's Park would nab its Walkers at evening's close, And passengers, like rabbits, Within its toils enclose? My wife will scarce be apt to Believe me if I say That the Park gates are clapt to, At the same hour each day; That their times they don't adapt to Let people get away.

The dews fall chill and steady,
And damp me to the skin;
I was cold without already,
And now I'm wet within :
If the porter is in bed, he
Is where I should have been!

And MISSIS JENKINS fretteth
Beside her flaring dip :
And oft her brow she knitteth,
And pulls an injured lip,
While her wretched husband sitteth

In a dreary state of drip.
I'll write the Times to-morrow,
About these vile park-keepers,
And teach them to their sorrow
That men ain't railway-sleepers,
To camp out thus or borrow
Trees to stick on like creepers.
High is the fence and frowning,
And there are spikes a-top,
With a ditch outside for drowning
Poor creatures when they drop.
No! here damp and done brown, in
The Regent's Park I'll stop! - Punch

CHAPTER VI.

THE following morning, as Casimir was driving his mother and his betrothed along the bank of the river, where several peasants were at work breaking up the bridge for the winter, descrying Pavel among them, he drew up, and beckoned him to approach.

"What do you want of that dangerous-looking man?" said the young lady, in some surprise.

"You will see," said Casimir, his eyes flashing with a peculiar delight.

"Remember, Casimir, your father's commands," said the countess. "Do not, I beg, quarrel with

that peasant."

"Never fear," replied Casimir. "I must teach the dog proper respect. Come here, Pavel Jakubska. Yesterday I was about to give you a lesson; you escaped it then. To-day you shall not." So saying, he raised his whip; the lash cut right across Pavel's glowing countenance, immediately raising a weal from which the blood freely spouted; and, before Pavel could recover from the shock, the sledge had borne his enemy far away.

It must not be supposed that Casimir's heart was thoroughly bad, though certainly hardened by the consciousness of much power, and by his education having been neglected. He considered Pavel as an obstinate, ill-natured fellow, whose spirit wanted the curb, and whose temper deserved chastisement; but he left him in a state bordering on frenzy.

Not many hours after this infliction, whilst yet smarting, both physically and mentally, under the sting of the insult, he received a summons from the Countess Stanoiki to repair to her presence. Enraged as he was, even against the innocent witnesses of his disgrace, he dared not disobey; accordingly, with bosom full of vengeful thoughts, he took his way to the chateau. He now crossed that threshold for the first time since he had bounded

into the apartment. But there was one low stool, embroidered by Vanda's own hand, of which few of the household knew the origin; but he remembered how those flowers had grown under the fingers of that hand now cold in death. As he gazed on these familiar objects, remembrances crowded thick upon him; nor did he seem even aware of the presence of the countess so deep was his absorption.

She sat, quite alone, embedded in a chauffeuse near the window. This was the day generally consecrated by her to the remembrance of her brother; she was, accordingly, dressed in a black robe, and had a solemn air about her, which subdued, if it did not altogether destroy, that insolence of expression which made her a universal object of dislike to those who were not so fortunate as to be her equals. Had the countess at that hour been inspired by the genius of mildness, not only would she have obtained at once the intelligence she wished to extract from Pavel, but she might have turned away many a dark thought from his stubborn breast. But that good angel had never visited her. Many an influential member whom her husband had sought to gain over to the Polish cause, the countess, in spite of herself, had cooled; incapable as she was of conquering her pride to the degree of yielding herself up to the tide of conversation with that forgetfulness of her own claims to social distinction, with that sincere acknowledgment of the mental or moral qualifications of others, which wins golden opinions from all sorts of men. She never remembered, or, perhaps, scorned to believe-what is, nevertheless, true that the great, when they seek to attach those whom they deem their inferiors, should be lenient and forgiving, having also some thing for which they need forgiveness-namely, those very advantages they are so proud of, and which excite enough of malignant feeling in the less-favored of mankind, without any gratuitous effort of their own to augment it. But the count

which was never absent from his mind. He paused there for a moment, overcome with the notion of profaning that dwelling with such feelings as now agitated him. His knees trembled; he could with difficulty support himself as he entered that saloon where he had so often played in the unconscious glee of childhood. He stared around in bewilderment. On yon couch once sat she whose memory had never faded from his thoughts; whom he venerated more than any

herself the value, in the eyes of others, of those advantages she really possessed. She fancied she had yielded much, where people perceived no concession; that people were flattered by advances which they, on their side, took as a matter of course. With those completely beneath her, the distance seemed so great that they never troubled her thoughts, nor occupied her attention in any way; they were as if they existed not. Like the trees and rocks in the landscape, they were part

Through that door used to slip noiselessly in, the meek Seraphinka; through the other, the knightly figure of the count-whose countenance, now averted, was then turned to him full of benevolent tenderness-would present itself. Some few additional things, not many, had found their way

CCLXXXVII. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXIII. 20

laborers in the hive to feed and tend the queen-bee -beyond that, her philosophy of life went not.. Such a woinan as Vanda would, with one look, one word, nave melted the ice at Pavel's heart. Such a woman as the Countess Sophie was likely to turn it to stone. In this room, so fraught with

past into the young man's soul; to touch there the easily-vibrating chord of emotion which lies hidden in every breast. One kind word would have sufficed; but of kind words or soft looks the Countess Sophie had not the gift. Her sterile nature was reflected from her eyes, as, from her reclining position, looking carelessly on the opposite wall, she said, in her habitual hauteur,

"I understand, young man, you have spread about the village a report that you have a clue to the fate of the count, my brother. Is this true?" "It is not," said Pavel, firmly. "I never spread such a report."

"But you do know something," said the countess; you have a clue." Pavel remained silent.

"Come, young man," resumed the countess, her eyes wandering from the wall to the window, "no trifling. If you have any knowledge of the count's fate, tell quickly what you do know, for your own sake."

Still Pavel spoke not; nor did the countess turn her eyes towards him.

" I will force her to look at me," thought Pavel; "her eyes shall be contaminated by the consciousness of my individual existence."

After a slight pause, the countess said-" І might resort to severity, but I prefer trying mild means first. Here is money." She threw a few silver coins on the floor. "If your intelligence be worth more, you shall have it."

"I am no beggar," said Pavel, coldly; "and I know nothing."

The countess now turned full upon him, to see the man who could refuse her money. "I perceive what I have heard of your temper is true," said she.

"Ring that bell."

Both parties were silent until the servant entered.

"Take this man below," she said; "and look to it that he do not leave the house until you have the count's further orders."

A short time subsequently, Casimir reëntering, the countess, in a few brief words, informed him of what had passed between herself and Pavel.

"We must have him before the justice," said the young count, "and get this obstinacy drubbed out of him; he is the most incorrigible man on the whole estate."

The general, coming in at that moment, overheard these words, and demanded an explanation. "Again, Jakubska!" he exclaimed. "That unfortunate young man is never out of trouble!"

A domestic presented a paper to the count, whose cheek flushed, and whose brow became dark, as he cast his eyes over the few hasty lines, scrawled under the impulse of violent passion. They ran thus:

I know my crime is, that I am not humble enough, where humility is the only road to favor. Let not that weigh against me. Let mercy inspire you! Permit me to leave the estate-nay, furnish me with he means of doing so. You owe me a protection

me wretched; and, because I looked my wretchedness, I have been made a butt to persecution. That was not enough; your son struck me!-and I understand the countess means to have me fustigated! This I cannot, and will not, forgive! For your own sake, as well as mine, I entreat you to let me go. But I cannot go unassisted, to be everywhere beaten and imprisoned as a vagabond! This much, under our peculiar circumstances, I have a right to demand; and this I do now demand for the last time. I await your answer.

Had the unfortunate young man sincerely wished for the boon he asked, it is probable that he would have couched his demand in another tone-in a tone more calculated, according to the manners of his country, to make a favorable impression; but crime, which had been hovering for years around his heart, had now a firm gripe of him. He felt Satan busy within his breast, and made one last desperate effort to save the count and himself; but without any hope, and, certainly, at that moment, without any sincere desire of success.

"Wretched boy!" exclaimed the general, pacing up and down the apartment, in great agitation; "wretched boy!" The count saw nought in this letter beyond the insolence of a boor who knows he has his master's secret in his own keeping. "He dares to threaten me! However, this spirit might extend among the serfs; it must be checked in the bud. Had he been good and resigned, I might These are not times, with the French propaganda in our villages, to overlook such things. This letter is a serious grievance." And the general left the room.

But it does not matter.

The infliction of corporal chastisement on Pavel he did not deem sufficient; the additional punishment of close confinement seemed to him necessary, in order to bring the young man to a sense of his grave offence; and he gave orders accordingly. That the matter weighed on his mind, however, was clear, from the earnestness with which he defended his principles, some hours later, at dinner. A young Frenchman, just arrived from Paris with letters from the committee of Polish emigrants, dined that day with the family; and, after making assiduous inquiries into the state of Galicia, passed judgment with the usual French rapidity. "You are far too feudal here," he said.

"Do you think so?" said the countess, with an ineffable sneer; since, as the Frenchman bore no title, for the Countess Sophie, he was "not born;" and his opinions had such an utter want of all value in her eyes, that she was surprised at his giving himself the trouble to emit them. Not so the general.

"We and our people," he replied, gravely, "are content with this state of things, to which centuries have inured all parties."

"Are you quite certain that they have inured your peasantry?"

"Our peasantry, sir, like most people, are happiest when submitted to wise restrictions. Come, there has been a great deal said of our bar barities hereabouts by the liberty-mongers of other