alone had called her "darling" before; but it simple trustfulness of a child, came to Mrs. Burwas all to be put to the account of the unknown tonshaw's footstool, and sat down there. "Will Mary, this burst of affection for the girl who you tell me about Mary?" said Zaidee, looking might be her companion. Her wistful dark eyes up with all her old eagerness for a story. She began to smile upon the old lady; it was almost did not hear that Mrs. Lancaster suggested the first time they had been moved with this gen- "Miss Cumberland." Zaidee knew nothing of tle relaxation since she came from home. Invol- Miss Cumberland; she wanted to hear of this untarily Zaidee, who had learned the lessons of unknown girl, who was held in so much love. respect and humility becoming a dependant only very slightly, and who underneath had all the

And thus it was that Zaidee's heart awoke to

the clear light of common life again.

From the Examiner.

This is a true chapter of memoirs. But many chapters of history succeed, in which there is little that is new and less that is just. Ac counts of the Congress of Vienna, its intrigues, its panics, its resolves, its doings and its sayings, have been better given by other pens. GREAT as are the elegance and the charm of M. Villemain, in this following Lamartine, atM. Villerain's style, both in thought and writ- tributes far too much influence to Talleyrand. ing, the second volume of his Souvenirs is not Both attribute to the veteran statesman, and so interesting as the first. It suffers by having his subtle management, the unanimous resolve more of history in it and less of memoir. of the sovereigns to make no peace with NaThere is more of the sober quotation of vol-poleon, but to war with him to the last. But umes than of the livelier description of men circumstances had far more influence than and things described; and instead of seeing Napoleon face to face, through the generous if melancholy optics of M. De Narbonne, we are favored with an elaborate history of the Hundred Days by one who frankly avows his hatred of Napoleon and of his memory.

Souvenirs Contemporains d'Histoire et de Litterature (Contemporary Recollections of History and Literature.) Par M. Villemain. Seconde Partie. Paris, 1855.

Talleyrand over this resolve. The allied potentates had divided Europe amongst them, and they could only hope to keep their spoil, or maintain their tyranny, by putting down the rival tyrant and spoliator. Still there are happy touches in Villemain. Talleyrand's mockery of Napoleon's pacific declarations, and his application of the fable of the wolf turned shepherd, is very good.

Yet of all the periods of that celebrated man's career, the one in which we are most inclined to look on him and his destiny with a strong personal interest apart from political Among the themes which Madame de Stael principles or tendencies, is precisely that of is represented as expatiating upon is the génie the Hundred Days. We know from the first collectif et partant inépuisable de l'Angleterrethat he cannot conquer, that he cannot pre-"the collective and therefore inexhaustible vail, and the fear of him which animated his genius of England, which does not need a contemporaries scarcely reaches us. All we great man in order to achieve great things." see is a man of great intellect and fortunes, not merely deserted but pursued by fate, and finally triumphed over by men who were certainly no better, not more liberal and not more philanthropic, than himself. In 1815 one might with some reason perhaps rejoice in the declension of the Bonaparte, and the rise of the Bourbon; but the forty years that have since clapsed have not tended to maintain that preference. Nor did Napoleon more disappoint his admirers than Louis the Eighteenth and Charles the Tenth disappointed M. Villemain himself.

Unhappily, however, this is our sorest need in present emergencies, and we much fear that the remark only betrays its origin. With all their joint acumen Madame de Stael and M. Villemain were both at fault in refusing to acknowledge that the Duke of Wellington was a great man. Indeed the most defective part in M. Villemain's volume always occurs where he speaks of England and Englishmen. And the reason is obvious; he knows them but from books, and from sources even less veracious than books, whereas his sketches and description of his own countrymen are from the life and from facts. He attributes the mediocrity of Lord Castlereagh to his being born in Ireland, "far from the sources of good Britannic taste!"

The first chapter of the present volume is in M. Villemain's best style. It is a picture of his impressions on the eve of Napoleon's return. He passed that evening in the salon of Made. de Romfort, where all the notabilities The latter part of M. Villemain's volume of the day, including Made. de Stael herself, describes the efforts of the deputies to drive successively appeared, conversed, and ex- Napoleon to a second abdication, as the prechanged thought and feeling with each other.lude to obtaining terms from the allied gener

als; and we must confess that notwithstanding Fouché as their representative and their diplothe passion and eloquence displayed, notwith- matist. It was this accomplished ruffian who standing the courage and high principle of La- pursued Napoleon with his myrmidons and fayette, these squabbles do not appear to us pushed him to surrender, even while at the either dignified or profitable. It was not La- same time he was betraying every liberal infayette or his brother deputies who saved stitution to the Bourbons. It was Fouché who France from military despotism or territorial introduced Prussian bayonets into the Tuilepartition. This was due to the good sense of ries, and who, under the pretence of treating the Duke of Wellington, and what would seem with Louis the Eighteenth for a Provisional to have been the really good feeling of Alex- Government, was merely stipulating for his ander, who together overcame the rude and own continuance as Police Minister. selfish desires of Prussians and Austrians. England and Russia joined in 1815 to save France from German vindictiveness.

Perhaps what most tends now to render the efforts of the French parliamentarians in 1815 ridiculous is the fact that they trusted to

It would have been more just in M. Villemain, in the character of bistorian of the Hundred Days, to have stigmatized the profligacy of Fouché than to dwell as he does upon the weaknesses and inconsistencies of Benjamin Constant.

Sir Henry Bishop, Professor of Music in the University of Oxford, and the only composer upon whom the dignity of Knighthood was ever conferred by the English Crown, died in London on the 30th of April, in the 75th year of his age, as some papers say, and according to the London Illustrated News, in this 69th. He became known as a composer so early as the year 1806, by a ballet called 6. Tamerlan et Bajazet," produced at the Italian Opera-house. His first English opera, "The Circassian Bride," was produced at Drury-lane, in February, 1809; but on the night after its first performance the theatre was burnt to the ground, and Bishop's score perished in the flames. From a few fragments of it still extant, particularly the fine duet, "I'll love thee," it must have been a work of great merit. "The Maniac," produced the following year at the Lyceum, has always been regarded as one of his best works. In 1810 he was engaged as composer and director of the music at Covent-garden; and then THE name of Currer Bell's (Miss Bronte's) began that long and brilliant series of operas father was Patrick Prunty, from County Down, which he produced for that theatre, in rapid and Ireland. His parents were of humble origin, but uninterrupted succession down to the year 1824, their large family were remarkable for their phywhen his connection with it terminated. That sical strength and personal beauty. The natural series, commencing with "The Knight of Snow-quickness and intelligence of Patrick Prunty atdon," and ending with "Native Land," includes no less than fifty-eight pieces.

This was the termination of Bishop's splendid career as a composer for the stage. But he did not sink into inaction. He continued to write many beautiful songs, duets, glees and other vo cal pieces for the concert-room and the chamber, which obtained general popularity, and contributed to preserve among us that wholesome relish for sound English melody which is too much impaired by the constantly increasing importation of works of the foreign schools. The later volumes of Moore's Irish Melodies were also committed to his care; and his masterly arrangements were found immeasurably superior to those of his predecessor, Sir John Stevenson.

Bishop's last dramatic work of magnitude was "Aladdin," which was produced at Drury-lane under unfavorable circumstances. In 1826 Weber's Oberon was brought out at Covent-garden; and, to increase the public interest the famous German musician appeared, as a lion, to direct the performance. The managers of the rival theatre, wishing for something to counterbalance the attraction at the other house, prevailed on Bishop to write an opera for them. He imprudently complied, and produced " Aladdin," a work on which he exerted all his powers; but, as might have been expected, its great and numerous beauties were overlooked, and it entirely failed of success.

Bishop died in great destitution, and subscription concerts had been set on foot in London for his relief.

tracted the attention of the Rev. Mr. Tighe, rector of Drumgooland parish, who gave him a good education in England, and finally procured him a curacy in Wales. In his new sphere he was not unmindful of his family claims, for he settled £20 per annum on his mother. The patron of Mr. Patrick Prunty, disliking the name, requested him to take that of Bronte, from the fanciful idea that the Greek word Bronte would appositely signify the singular quickness and intelligence of his intellect. After Mr. Bronte had assumed the duties of the clerical office he married, and the issue of that marriage were the three talented women who delighted the reading world under the titles of Currer, Acton and Ellis Bell.

From the Keepsake.
THE SHOOTING STAR.

BY LORD NUGENT.

Well, and I grew up to be a clean proper fellow, and it was my own birthday, and there was a wedding in the town, and I wished greatly to be there, and my poor mother knew it right well; and, the why I didn't know, but she was more than ever eager with me that night to stay with her, though I told her I'd pass my birthday night with her until she'd be going to bed; but that the boys would be wanting me at the town, and that there'd be grand doings long after that. And true for me it was: the bridegroom had been, many's the day, my fishing companion, and, besides, the bride's mother was her own gossip, and the piper was her own foster-brother; and why wouldn't she let me go? And there was Anty Dooley too-and I knew she'd be there, the creature-and I'd be making sweet eyes at Anty. But it was all one! my poor mother, besides a wish expressed faintly and mildly enough, when she went to bed left her command and her blessing on me that I wouldn't go. But how could my going hurt my poor mother? So I sees her to bed, and the light well out, and off I slinks out of the window, not to be heard, like a bold undutiful blackguard, and across the bog by the sweet moon, meaning to be back before my mother was up. Well, all this was very well, and though the rains had made the water lie high in places on the turf, and over some parts of the causeway too, I knew the track, and the sky was bright altogether; and I spent my hour or two just as I'd wish, and no much harm neither only I was disobeying and deceiving my poor mother.

and she was a widow! Oh, my poor mother! and I loved you too!-and I believe at times you knew it !-And, oh that I had you with me now, old as you would be, and helpless, but for me, and all the dearer too for that, and I would tell you It was my meaning to return, late as it was, that indeed I loved you all along, and that your across the bog, over by "Phelim's Rest," and care of me should never make a sore heart beso reach home before my mother should wake.tween us again; and I'd never cause you uneasiAnd what was "Phelim's Rest," and who was ness, but sit by you, and comfort and cherish you. I, and my mother at home and alone, and I out But that is past and gone now! still, and it so late? And is there another bog in the whole south, be it where it may, from Wexford and the golden vale of Kilkenny, to the westernmost extremity of Ireland and of Europe entirely, that it wouldn't be better crossing on a dark November's night, than exactly that which lay convenient to my poor mother's bit of a farm? And "Phelim's Rest," in the middle of it, had been, many's the long day since, the strong place of some old chieftain, (or worse may be,) where he used to hold himself secure from all comers, save and except them he 'd like, by reason there was only one path, none of the widest, and not much of a path neither, leading from the "Rest" both ways out to the edge of the bog. The path was crooked and broke, with big stones here and there, a sort of causeway like; and you'd sometimes seem to yourself to be rather going backward than forward, seeing the turns of it, and each side brown shaking bog, and big holes of water; and worse luck's his own who would get into them. It's my opinion that, in his day, and before the stone causeway was there, it was all brown together, only patches of green or of water, and that none but he and his men would know the firm ground at all to go across. And the "Rest" is but a small little place, on which once stood a grand tower, or such as that, the old stone wall of which still is in parts five or six feet above the heap, and on one side a little gable for his bell; and the stones of the upper part of the tower, such as hadn't gone to make the causeway, had tumbled round the foot, and made it almost a sort of island of natural rock to look at it, standing up gray in the dark and It was a good two in the morning when I put watery flat. And there it was, as a boy, I'd be forward to come back. Alone I was: for nobomightily given to sit of a morning, and through dy's way but mine lay over the bog. The mornthe day too, and a good bit of the evening, bying had set in cloudy and dark, and not a blink reason it was the shortest way to the town, when in the whole heavens, but a small rain in my I'd go for my mother of an errand. And there face; and I was thinking more of Anty than I'd lie in the sun on the stones and soft moss, or should be, seeing the danger was all before me, sit dabbling my heels in the square pools that the and nothing to be discerned at the nose's length turf-cutters make, with my bit of whatever it was of me, any more than if I had been stark natural that I'd cat; and I'd glory in a throw at the wild blind. I missed the track that led to the causefowl, who'd come (bold birds as they were) to way. Young I was, and because nothing could quarrel with me for my seat and my bit and it hurt the like of me, I pushed on over the quakwas by my staying out so late, (and because, ing scraw-lugger, thinking, sure enough, I should when the water lay high on the bog, and the eve-by and by, come to the hard. Every step took nings were dark and dirty, and seeing it was not me deeper into the mischief; and out of my always a sure thing to find the path rightly), knowledge, and among appearances new and that my poor mother would be uncasy; and strange to me.-I was bothered among bog holes, sometimes when I'd come home, wet and cold, I tumbled over turf-clumps, till at last all grew she'd be very mad with me, poor soul! God rest soft, and it was enough for me to keep this side her! for she loved me greatly. And often, when smothering depth, by reason, I was fairly bogged. she'd fault me for leaving her to go sit alone I sunk if I stood still; I was more lost if I tried among the stones and the wild birds, she'd talk to get on: I knew no more than the dead where of my father, who had left her alone with me in I was, or how to return. My limbs ached with the world, and she'd cry over me, graceless as I the labor, and I cried piteously-the wind bluswas. For I was the only son of my mother,-tered and howled mournfully round me-the

me.

we

green plovers, blown from the roost, were borne fers from a commercial house in Cork to which before it off their wings, gibbering and squeaking my father had been well known; and before the across my very face-and the black clouds were year came round it was determined to send me driving, as it seemed to me, close over my head. out on business to their correspondents at Lisbon. A few moments more, and I was throat-deep in I took my passage in a small merchant brig that water. I thought of my mother!-of her strong had been built for privateering on the Spanish love for me-and a mischief on me-and the Main, going out in ballast, ill appointed enough, many proofs I'd be daily receiving of it; I knew and mighty shorthanded-the captain, three men, her agony if I'd never return, or be again heard and a boy, over and above myself. But what of of-and, oh! I hated myself, and was in despair. that? Fresh to the world, and moreover proud, I looked wildly up to heaven, and prayed: "Oh to be sure, and thinking greatly of what I'd got Lord, I am a sinner! But my mother, my poor on hand, and I so young, what could a wild Irish mother!" I paused, holding on by my hands to boy feel but a bounding heart, on the bold wide the edge of the hole where I was, and my heart ocean for the first time? I set to work to take beat quick and strong, for it seemed a small spot my place in the ship-I took my watch, and grew suddenly light in the vast black heavens, went aloft, and kept a dead reckoning, and took and a shooting star darted across; and, oh! its daily a bit of an observation too for my own self. ever blessed gleam lighted up for a moment one Well, all went mighty well, and we made the big white stone, which I could not mistake; it Rock, and were well off the Tagus before sunwas not above twenty good paces from me-I down on the fourteenth day. The wind being struggled towards it-the ground grew firmer, fair, and plenty of it, the captain was anxious to long life to it, it was one of the causeway, and save his tide up that night but not knowing the I reached "Phelim's Rest." But the clouds were river, and wanting a pilot in, we bore up to a sail as dark again as ever! and here I could but sit that was coming closehauled from the southward, till first day-dawn, two, three, cold wretched and apparently standing in. The stranger, a hours, giving God thanks; but my heart break- Portuguese ship, heavy laden, seemed not to like ing to think if my mother would wake and call our cut, and went about, carrying on, and putting herself before the wind. Well, we knew I reached home, oh! strongly hoping that she could go two to her one; and it was taking us had been spared all. But I was soon sensible mighty little out of our course, and we could not the house-door was open, and the light in the bit get in without a pilot at any rate, and so we only of a kitchen. I saw through the window my luffed a point or two, not to fall to leeward of mother up and drest, sure enough, and boiling our chase, and hand over hand we were coming the milk, at that unreasonable hour, and a suit up with her. In less than two hours we were of my clothes warming at the fire. She was very within hail, and so near into the land too, and it pale. Her eye was often turned towards the being a shoal coast, and the wind coming strong door, and then upwards; and then she'd droop from the north-west, and it growing very dark, it her head again, and turn my clothes; and then was only having her—and a large ship she was bend her eyes to the fire, and clasp her hands for too-within us, that gave us confidence to stand me. Hard enough it was to bear to see that! I on. Suddenly she luffed up, nearly across our was soon with my arms round her neck: "My bows, as if going about; but she merely braced child-my pet-my darling-" she paused, her head-yards round, then took in top-gallant "be comforted, all's right now-I've been very sails, and, keeping her main topsail back to anxious-I guessed where you were, and how it the mast, lay at our mercy. We hailed her as would be; it was very dark for you, and, helpless we passed, but no answer we got but a dead sias I am, I had once the thought to go out to lence. So, bringing the brig up in the wind as you; but I did a better part-I prayed; for with- soon as we could, to heave her to, convenient to out Him there is no help, and with him there is the Portuguee, we held a council what was to be no danger. I watched at the door till near three, done. We had but one boat, and she was on and the wind blew cold upon my heart, and I deck, and a nasty, little, round, short, crazy jollycould see nothing, and hear nothing, but the boat she was as you'd wish to see. So we lowblast and dashing rain; and it was that night, ered her, and, by reason we were short-handed, sixteen years ago, you first drew breath, and God and it blowing strong, the captain wouldn't spare knows how it might then be with you. I knelt only a man, and the small boy, and me that was on the ground with my agony, and said, "Lord,n't good for much. So, shoving off, I steered for who gaved'st him life, spare him, and he will be thy servant!" Oh, my boy, I am not presumptuous! but just then a bright shooting star streamed across, and it almost seemed to tell me that there was hope, and that heaven was not shut to my prayers, or to my child!"

I'll not take it on me to say whether myself grew better or wiser for that, but I am sure I ought to or whether I was more dutiful to my mother; alas! I hope so, for a sadder night it was mine to see within three years after. But that night her son never can describe-no, nor think of-except to my own self.

Shortly after my poor mother's death I had of

the Portuguee, whom we could now see but mighty little of, for the distance had increased greatly between the two vessels since we first hove to. Well, we had got a musket in the bottom of the boat for a signal in case of accident, and then the brig was to hoist a light. By the time we had pulled fairly out of sight of her; and the night now pitch dark, it was our opinion we could not catch a wink of the other, and it was a bare chance where she might be. Then, for the first time, spoke the small boy. "And may be." said he, "the Portuguee guessed we were lowering away our boat, and thinking, after we had shoved off, that the captain with his boat adrift

66

we cheered to keep our hearts up, and got something like steerage-way on the boat once more. But seeing it was all one which way we put her head, I steered her a straight course for where the star had shot into the wave—I don't know why-and baled double tides. And, poor comfort though this was, I thought I'd see what would come of it, and hurrahed them to give way stoutly, for we might at least be pulling in towards shore.

edge.

could hardly do less than wait to pick her up, may be the Portuguee has made sail again." And faith this sounded reasonable too. And, furthermore, and besides that, it being at best beyond our knowledge where the Portuguee was, we thought we might as well pull back. At this time, I felt the cold greatly about the legs of me, and, putting my hand down, oh murder! if the boat wasn't half way up to the thwarts in water. Why, what on earth is this?" cried I. "May be," says the small boy, "your honor, and the Two dreary hours more, and still working captain, and Pat, and Flinn, and myself, and Ben | hard, when a streak of gray morning light began that's here, forgot to ship the plug, and may be to dawn narrow and cheerless on the horizon. it's out." And sure enough it was. And, be- Was it cheerless, I said? Oh no, blessings on cause I was sensible of a hole as big as my it! for as the dark curtain drew up which for thumb through the boat's bottom, it stood to rea- hours had been closed on the very souls of us, I son that she should be filling. "Short times for thought I could see a sail on the black heaving thinking,” said I; "it's my opinion it's a good horizon, against the opening sky, right_a-head. season for making a bit of a signal. But, worse My eyes ached, being fixed so long; I closed and worse, there was the musket where we'd put them for a wink, and then, clear and plain, there it, over head and cars, lock and all, poor thing, in was the brig, hove to as we had left her, and not a good blue water on the boat's floor. Nothing re- lantern had the thief shown all the time. Well, mained but to pull for the bare life; and what if we cheered again, loud and lustily. And now it I'd bale with my hat, and may be they'll be think- was indeed I wept amain; and the poor boy ing on board something's wrong, and they will shrieked like a young thing catching a sight of show a light, and then," says I, "I'll see them." life again. Even Ben, the creature, dropped his Well, by the very reason of the boat's pulling head as if he felt more than he'd be speaking of. heavy, and a swell, and Ben catching a crab too, It was long, long before we could be seen pulcrack goes the grummet his oar pulled against, ling over the swell, though often I'd wave my short off in the mortise! and there we were, one handkerchief high. But, at last, oh glory! we oar, and we spinning round, and filling, and noth-saw her fill her sails and come right down ing else! Now, to be sure, all seemed as good to us. And she picked us up just as the jolas over with us at any rate. And is there any ly-boat's ugly gunnel was down to the water's one, with only nineteen years upon him, with death, inevitable, imminent death, staring him in And here I am, five years after. I have led the face, every moment nearer and more grim, a rough life since, and am like to do,-for I'm but would feel it hard to have lived to be thus captain's clerk to a West-Indiaman. But never, lost in his youth, with all his hopes before him? never from that hour have I seen a shooting-star So thought the poor small boy in the bows, for but I'm the better for it, for then I bless heaven he wept aloud, and called on his mother. Poor for my life, and my poor mother for her prayboy! she was far away. But had nobody aer when I was struggling in the bog hole near mother but he! Oh yes! Though mine was "Phelim's Rest."-Am I superstitious ?-I bedead and gone, she'd be with me still often in lieve not.-my joy, when I'd wish for her to share it ; and always in pain and sorrow, for they were a-kin to the thoughts of having lost her. And oh! that night, when I was alone on the wide, tumbling, unrelenting swell, in a round, short, crazy jollyboat, with one oar, and no plug to bless our- Ir was on board the Alphonse that I learned selves, and two poor wretches whose company the history of this unfortunate man. He was first would be no comfort in drowning, and the more mate there; and, though exceedingly unpopular I baled the more I couldn't keep her from filling, among his messmates, there was something about -it was just that night twelve-month-but why him which excited my interest. He was a short, did I remember that it was just a year ago that thickset man, about the middle age, with a singu night that I lost her, when I thought to be sure larly grave countenance, which circumstance had we were so soon to meet again? Oh, it was that probably obtained him among his companions I was thankful she was dead and gone, not to the name of "gloomy Walter," by which he was con mourn for me! But I said nothing, for I would stantly designated. There was, however, nothing n't have considered that handsome by any means harsh or forbidding in his general expression; to the rest of us; but I looked once round before on the contrary, when a faint gleam of something I'd give all up. Was that the brig's light? Oh like gladness stole over his features, they were no! it was a shooting star!-and I don't know decidedly pleasing; and melancholy, rather than what it was, or why, but I felt something glance gloom, appeared to me to be their habitual warm across my heart. It was but a foolish cast. I always piqued myself on being a good shooting-star, after all; but I set the spot where judge of physiognomy; and, as I walked up and it fell. And hurrah! if Ben, who had been work-down the deck of the Alphonse, 1 repeated so ing all along with his knife, like a heathen who often to myself," That man has a history," that, never thought of death, hadn't got the mortise- at last, during all the dull, monotonous voyage, I hole clear, and new shipped the grummet! Sol came to have but one pervading wish, which

WALTER ERRICK.

From the Gem.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.