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April 1st.—Mirabeau died this day. I tell the Bishop d'Autun, that he should step into the vacancy he has made, and, to that effect, should pronounce his funeral oration, in which he should make a summary of his life, and dwell particularly on the last weeks in which he laboured to establish order. Then dwell on the necessity of order, and introduce properly the King. He says, that his thoughts have run much upon that subject this day. I tell him, that he has not a moment to lose, and that such occaisons rarely present themselves. I spoke to the Count de Montmorin about a successor to Mirabeau this day, but he tells me, that he cannot easily see who shall be put in his place. He owns that Mirabeau was determined to ruin Lafayette, and says, that he had held him back for some time. He thinks that there is no chance now left but to convoke the next Assembly, as soon as may be, excluding the members of the present. And that the meeting should be far from Paris.

April 4th.-The funeral of Mirabeau, attended, it is said, by more than 100,000 persons in solemn silence, has been an imposing spectacle. It is a vast tribute paid to superior talents, but no great incitement to virtuous deeds. Vices, both degrading and detestable, marked this extraordinary being. Completely prostitute, he sacrificed every thing to the whim of the moment, Cupidus alieni, prodigus sui. Venal, shameless, and yet greatly virtuous, when pushed by a prevailing impulse, but never truly virtuous, because never under the steady control of reason, nor the firm authority of principle. I have seen this man, in the short space of two years, hissed, honoured, hated, mourned. Enthusiasm has just now presented him gigantic. Time and reflection will shrink that stature. The busy idleness of the hour will find some other object to execrate or to exalt. Such is man, and particularly the Frenchman.

July 14th. While sitting here, a person comes and announces the taking of the Bastile, the Governor of which is beheaded, and the Prévôt des Marchands is killed, and also beheaded. They are carrying the heads in triumph through the city. The carrying of this citadel is among the most extraordinary things, that I have met with. It cost the assailants sixty men, it is said. The Hotel Royal des Invalides was forced this morning, and cannon, small arms, &c. brought off. The citizens are by these means well armed; at least there are the materials for about thirty thousand to be equipped with, and that is a sufficient army. I find that the information received last night, as to the arrêté of the Assemblée Nationale, is not just. They have only declared that the last administration carry with them the regret of the chamber; that they will persist in insisting on the removal of the troops; and that his Majesty's advisers, whatever their rank and station, are guilty of all the consequences which may ensue. Yesterday it was the fashion at Versailles, not to believe that there were any disturbances at Paris. I presume that this day's transactions will induce a conviction, that all is not perfectly quiet.

July 22d.-After dinner, walk a little under the arcade of the Palais Royal, waiting for my carriage. In this period the head and body of M. de Toulon are introduced in triumph. The head on a pike, the body dragged naked on the earth. Afterwards, this horrible exhibition is carried through the different streets. His crime is, to have accepted a place in the Ministry. This mutilated form of an old man of seventy-five is shown to his son-inlaw, Bertier, the Intendant of Paris; and, afterwards, he also is put to death and cut to pieces, the populace carrying about the mangled fragments with a savage joy. Gracious God, what a people!

It will be seen from these few extracts, that the work is highly interesting, and illustrates the history of the period to which it relates.

The Archer's Guide. T. Hurst.

Now that archery is becoming fashionable in almost every part of the kingdom, the publication before us is likely to be popular, for it is an amusing history of the science, we suppose we may call it, and gives an excellent notion of all that is necessary to make a complete archer. The rudiments are laid down in a clear and satisfactory manner; and it will doubtless prove a very useful assistant to those who desire to become acquainted with the use of the bow.

The Repealers. By the Countess of Blessington.

A fashionable, political, Anglo-Irish novel, full of intense interest and fine sketches of the Irish character. We could select many passages of peculiar beauty, but must content ourselves with two or three. The comparative merits of the Catholic and Protestant religions are thus discussed.

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"Och! Grace honey, it would do your heart good to hear the fine discourse I hard from Tim Fogarty, the schoolmaster at Abbey side, whin he was converting Dick Nowlan. Dick, like a poor ignorant creathure as he is, said that the Protestant religion was the best, for says he, Isn't it the reformed religion, and a'n't ye all crying out for reform from morning till night, and here's a reformed religion ready made to your hand?'Why then bad luck to you, ye spalpeen,' says Tim, sure the Roman is the only thrue faith; didn't you see or hear of Paul's Epistle (which manes a letther) to the Romans?' - Yis, I did, sure enough,' says Dick.-Well, then,' says Tim, did ye ever see or hear of Paul, or any other of the saints, writing a letther to the Protestants? Now, Dick, what have you got to say?'-Faith, Grace honey, that foolish fellow, Dick Nowlan, was dumb founded, and could not say ho to a goose; and who, afther that, could doubt the Roman Catholic religion being the only thrue one; and who could help wishing to convart the good masther and Parson Disney, and the rest of the good people to it?'"

The following exhibits in their true colours the designing plans of the repealers, and their influence over their poor fellow-countrymen.

"When I heard the repalers, I thought there was not a word to be said against 'em ; but now I hear you, I forget what it was they said that made the heart jump in my breast, and the angry thoughts come into my head. When I heard 'em, I felt as if a thrumpet was sounding in my ears, and that I could kill hundreds for the parliament and the ould religion; and when they dhrove us all mad with the burning words they spoke, and then thried to throw could water on us, be telling us to be quiet, to disperse, and go home decently, be my soul I thought it was like lighting a great fire, and covering it over with ever so much wet slack, and telling it not to burn up, when you know, Grace, it would be sure to blaze ont soon after, and difficult would it be for the same hands that lighted it to quench it. Now, when you talk to me, asthore, with your own quiet, downright earnest words, it seems to me as if I was listening to the fife made out of a reed, that Thedy Mulvany used to play upon when he was tending the masther's sheep on the hills : and that same fife used to often make a fool of me, bekase somehow or other, when it came on me from the distance, it was so soft and pleasant, that it made me look around me on the beautiful heavens, the quiet river, stealing along like time, making small noise, but still always going away from us; the green trees, looking so proud, and yet returning the salutes of the wind by gentle bows, just as the masther and the family do of a Sunday to the poor people. The bleating of the sheep, and the moans of the cows, all seemed to me more pleasant, though the tears came into my eyes, I couldn't tell for what; and you were in my mind all the while; and now, when I hear your own sweet voice raisoning with me, the fife and all them things comes back to me, and I feel as if I couldn't kill a fly, but would save all the world if I could.”

But for a portrait exquisitely finished and touching, poor Mary Mahoney's is the best. Her husband is in prison, and she suffering almost beyond endurance; yet her anxiety to keep her troubles from her partner in misery is uppermost in her thoughts.

Grace found poor Mary Mahoney laid on the bed of sickness; her body exhausted by suffering, but her mind still more afflicted. Her pale face was contrasted by her straight raven brows, and the long black eyelashes, that threw a shadow over the cheeks. A dead infant was placed in a cradle near her bed, and her poor sick, child was lying by her side, his heavy eyes and flushed cheek denoting the ravages that fever was making in his constitution. His poor mother was continually moistening his lips with some syrup, and the glance of mute, meek, subdued anguish with which she looked from the sick boy to the dead infant, and then at Grace, spoke more powerfully than words could have done, all that was passing in her mind.

Grace attempted not to comfort the bereaved mother, for she felt that the attempt would be unavailing but she actively bestirred herself to have the sick boy put into a small bed, and kept as cool as possible, and made the necessary preparations to have the dead infant removed for interment.

Mary Mahoney submitted to all Grace's arrangements, merely saying, "Let me kiss my poor baby before you hide it from me for ever. It never had a father's kiss; but promise me, Grace, that you will go to the prison to my husband, and try to comfort him. Poor Patrick wants it more than I do, and tell him, dear Grace, what a sweet baby it was ; but no-don't tell him, for he would only regret it the more, and he has had too much trouble already. Tell him, Grace avourueen, that I am better, and doing finely quite reconciled to the will of God, and always praying for him. Tell him that our poor boy is aisier, and to have no care about us. Oh! Grace asthore, spake kindly to him, with your own sweet, mild, sensible voice, and 'twill do him good, and take the bitterness out of his heart, just as honey cures the wound that is made by the sting of wasps; and ochone! he has been stung, and to the quick too. Mind, avourneen, you tell him how well I am, and give him this kiss for me," pressing her pale, cold lips on the forehead of Grace.

The coffin, which a kind neighbour had ordered for the dead infant before Grace had arrived, was now brought in, and a tremulous movement about the lips, and still more marble paleness, proved the renewed anguish of the mother. "Grace ma-vourneen,”

murmured she, "don't raison with me, for I'm beyond raison, my heart and my poor head are so tired; but do, for mercy-sake, what I ask you. Sprinkle the coffin with holy water. Now bring it here, and lay it on the bed, and fetch me the flannels you'll find in the corner cupboard. There, that will do; help me to sit up, that I may make my baby's last bed."

She folded the flannels smoothly, one over the other, making a little elevation like a pillow, and then pointed for Grace to bring her the dead infant. When it was brought to her she kissed its little face and hands several times, pressed it to her bosom, and then placed it gently in the coffin.

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I had hoped, my precious babe," said she, "to have placed you in a softer bed, and to have made my breast your pillow; but the Almighty has thought fit to take you from me, and I submit without murmuring to his holy will. The thoughts of you, child of my heart, shall make me still more desirous so to do my duty in this life, that I may meet you in heaven.”

She bowed her head to kiss, once more, the infant, and then said to Grace, “Now, dear friend, close the coffin, I have looked my last on that sweet face; and lift the curtain of the little bed where my boy lies, that I may see I have still a child left me. Och! Grace, it is a blessed thing to be a mother; but to see the babe, for which one has suffered so much, carried away from one for ever, is a bitter thing. Then it seems, too, as if a child lost, was a link lost of the blessed chain of love between man and wife; but no, I won't think this, for grief draws hearts together."

Grace had the little bed of the sick boy brought nearer to his poor mother, and the dead infant removed for interment; and having made everything round the sick woman as comfortable as circumstances would admit, poor Mary became so anxious that Grace should proceed to Dungarvon, to visit Patrick in his prison, that she left her to return to her own home, to demand the company of Jim on the expedition.

When she was quitting the room poor Mary called her once more, to beg she would be sure to tell Patrick how finely she was going on, and not to be uneasy about her.

The Mother's Manual; or, Illustrations of Matrimonial Economy. An Essay

in Verse.

"The Way to get Married" would be no bad title for this light trifle,—not that in our younger days we should have been caught by lady rhymsters, for the faculty of stringing a few couplets together seems, with the majority of the most notorious nonsense-writers, to unfit them for all the social, and half the moral duties of a woman. Stupid fathers and mothers and false friends feed their vanity by the most fulsome eulogiums on their jingling performances; and there is no approaching the snarling little animals until you have offered up the incense they delight in, and to all appearance fairly admire their poetic talent: nay, even those who

have talent require that it should be overrated in precisely the same degree that the lesser poetasters demand; and if you venture to find a fault, or suggest an improvement, you are marked, and sought only while they can get something by you, or use you for some purpose or other.

The exceptions are but few. Mrs. Trollope has brought us into company with a mamma who has married half-a-dozen daughters, and her sister who has three in a state of "single blessedness," but for whom she is anxious to get husbands; and it is the province of her fortunate sister to show how many of her half-dozen got husbands by writing verses, and to teach the three unmarried ladies poetry. Whether the parties are real and it is a hit at some of the jingling young ladies of the day, or a mere general quiz upon the rage, for seeing young ladies make fools of themselves, we are not enough in the secret to know; but it is an offhand trifle that will amuse; and the illustrations, of which there are twenty, are admirable and expressive sketches.

The Library of Romance. Vol. VI. The Slave King. From the Bug-Jargal of Victor Hugo.

PERHAPS it is not saying too much if we assert that this volume is the most valuable of the series, which, after six months trial, is well established in public estimation, and not without deserving it. The Slave King is a spirited translation of a very powerful and original romance. The liberty which the translator has taken has improved the tale; and the notes on St. Domingo, at the end of the work, are particularly interesting. The "Library," we observe, is to be published every two months: this will give the public breathing time.

Mr. Weedon's Book on Cucumbers.

"The proof of the pudding is in the eating," says a very homely proverb; and so of Mr. Weedon's advice we may say, the proof of its value is in the practice. The volume is remarkably thin, as if it were in the last stage of a decline, but it is nevertheless to the purpose-there is no "about and about it," but straightforward directions, without many words to spare, how to make sure of growing cucumbers with certainty at all seasons; and we are enabled to say, the plan fully answers; for taking the book for a guide, it has undergone a fair trial, and the result is satisfactory. To any nobleman or gentleman who would have cucumbers in January, the book, thin as it is, would be a treasure. His hints for the cure of mildew are worth all the money charged for the volume.

BIRTHS.

On the 30th March, at his Lordship's residence in Grosvenor Street, the Countess of Kinnoull, of a son.

On the 2d April, in Cadogan Place, the Lady of Major-General Sir Lionel Smith,K .C.B. Governor of Barbadoes. &c., of a son.

At Canonteign, on the 18th the Right Hon. Viscountess Exmouth, of a son.

On the 23d, in Green Street, the Hon. Mrs. Edward Hobhouse, of a son.

On the 12th May, at Rotterdam, Lady Turing, of a daughter.

On the 17th, at Vernon House, Lady Suffield was safely delivered of a son.

On the 18th at Walmer, Kent, the Lady of Sir James Urmston, of a son.

On the 20th in Arlington Street, the Lady of Sir Richard Williams Bulkeley, of a son

and heir.

On the 20th, at Paris, the Lady of the Hon. Charles Ashburnham, of a daughter, stillborn.

On the 27th, at King's Bromley, the Hon. Mrs. Newton Lane, of a son.

On the 29th, at Connamore, county of Cork, Viscountess Ennismore, of a son and heir. On the 3d June, at Blount's Court, Henley-on-Thames, the Viscountess Dungarvan, of a daughter.

On the 4th, the Lady Elizabeth Drummond, of a son.

MARRIAGES.

On the 27th March, at Duncrub, Perthshire, Capt. Robert Knox Trotter. 17th Lancers, younger of Ballindean, to Mary, eldest daughter of the Right Hon. Lord Rolls.

At Lewisham church, E. Ross, Esq., son of the late Rev. T. Ross, of Ross Trevor, county Down, to Ann Mayon, daughter of the Right Hon. T. P. Courtenay.

On the 9th May, at Florence, at the residence of the English Minister, Mr. Seymour, Lady Augusta Coventry, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Coventry, to the Hon. Henry Fox, eldest son of Lord Holland.

On the 20th, at Paris, the Baron Louis de Maricour, of Vienx Maisons en Champagne, to Frederica, daughter of the late Captain Frederic Leicester, of the Royal Staff Corps. On the 28th, at St. George's Hanover Square, the Rev. Henry Walpole Nevill, son of the Hon. George Nevill, and nephew to the Earl of Abergavenny, to Frances, youngest daughter of Sir Edmund Bacon, Premier Baronet, of Raseningham Hall, Norfolk.

On the 4th June, at St. George's Hanover Square, the Rev. George Frederick John Marsham, Rector of Allington, Kent, and youngest son of the Hon. and Rev. Dr. Marsham, to Elizabeth Maria, third daughter of Walter Jones, Esq., of Ballinamore, in the county of Leitrim, in Ireland, and Hayle Place, in the county of Kent.

DEATHS.

On the 11th of January last, at Bermuda, in his 70th year, Vice-Admiral Sir William Charles Fahie, Knight Commander of the Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath, and of St. Ferdinand and of Merit.

On the 23d March, at St. Omer's, John Thomas Fane, Esq., late M.P. for Lyme Regis, and nephew to the Earl of Westmoreland.

On the 24th, at her house in Upper Seymour Street, Portman Square, the Dowager Lady Strachan, in her 87th year.

On the 9th April, at Marchmont House Berwickshire, Sir William Purves Hume Campbell, of Marchmont, Bart., in his 67th year.

On the 18th, in Grosvenor Street, Harriet Marchioness Dowager of Lothian, in her 53d year.

On the 19th, at Iver Grove, the Right Hon. Lord Gambier, G.C.B., Admiral of the Fleet.

On the 21st, at his house in Wimpole Street, the Right Hon. Sir Christopher Robinson, Judge of the High Court of Admiralty, in his 67th year.

On the 24th, at Wycombe Lodge, Kensington, the Marchioness Dowager of Lansdowne. On the 25th, in Portman Street, the Dowager Lady Sommers.

On the 10th May, at Corsygedol, Merioneth, Frances, second daughter of Bell Loyd, Esq., and niece to the Right Hon. Lord Mostyn, and the late Lord Viscount Anson.

C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.

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