d-1 she married him?" and she replies "she cannot tell;" and sobs, and sighs, and putteth her handkerchief to her eyes to intimate the presence, or hide the absence of tears, as it may happen. Now this wounds Brown's self-love; he taketh the pet with his dinner, and Mrs. Brown neglecteth to press him to eat, but continueth to wipe her nose, and rub her eyes, and look mournfully and tenderly at Smith. Then up jumps Brown from the table, wroth exceedingly; and he seizes his hat, and hies him forth, and proceeds to the tavern and calls for strong drink and the newspapers; and lo! when the clock strikes twelve, his nightcap remaineth unoccupied, and his head resteth not on its own proper conjugal pillow.

This episode about second marriages recalls the Widow Wilkins to my mind. Never shall I forget her. She was the greatest patroness of matrimony and portrait painting I ever met with. Her virgin designation was Higginbottom, but she had exchanged it as she went through life for that of Thompson, Johnson, Bradshaw, Mugs, Morris, and Wilkins, to which rather formidable list of gentlemen she had successively resigned her heart and hand, so that latterly she scarcely knew what her real name was, and used, in consequence, to make sad confusion at times in her mournful recollections.

Lest any venerable spinster should be overpowered with surprise and astonishment at the marvellous good fortune of the Widow Wilkins, I may just be allowed to mention that she possessed a handsome annuity, as well as seven hundred pounds a-year in her own right.

Besides this, she was, by nature, of a most loveable temperament; and if her face and person were not of the first quality, she made up in quantity, being fully the size of any two of her husbands put together. No one could say that the Widow Wilkins was "nothing to look at❞—it would have been mighty difficult to have taken a miniature of her! Her progeny was almost as unlimited as herself-ranging somewhere between twelve and twenty, of all ages, sizes, and denominations. I mention these seemingly trivial particulars because of their intimate con

nexion with the fine arts, the Widow Wilkins having made an affectionate rule through life never to suffer a husband to go out of the world, or a child to come into it, without having their portrait taken, and a room, of which she alone kept the key, was set apart for the reception thereof. Now Mrs. Wilkins having gone through so much, and having suffered so many bereavements and worn such a succession of widow's caps, had naturally accumulated a large quantity of grief-more than she could bear, so that when she felt herself rather low, she was wont to have recourse now and then to artificial stimulants in order to prevent her sinking altogether. Taken in moderation, they had operated very well, but when applied too copiously, they used to open the flood-gates of affliction, and then away came her pent-up sorrows, trials, and tribulations, like a river bursting its banks, and sweeping everything before it. In these moods she used to proceed to her beloved portrait gallery-her great store-house of buried affections and deceased sympathies-and there indulge in all the "luxury of grief." One day-one never-to-be-forgotten day-she seduced me to accompany her, attended by a brace of her pledges of past happiness, answering to the names of Mugs and Morris. As we proceeded toward the room fearful forebodings stole upon me which were, alas! too soon realised.

The Widow Wilkins turned the key and threw open the door. Heavens ! what a sight met my view! Not Fatima when she entered Bluebeard's blue chamber, could have been more electrified. There hung the semblances of the deceased Thompson, Johnson, Bradshaw, Mugs, Morris, and Wilkins, with all the little Thompsons, Johnsons, Bradshaws, Mugses, Morrises, and Wilkinses ranged in order due under their respective progenitors. Gracious powers! what a crowd of recollections must have rushed upon the widow's memory at such a sight! It was too much for her, and she sunk overpowered into an easy-chair, and began to heave and shake (so did the house) most fearfully. She was a bad figure for the pathetic, it must be admitted; but let that pass. Meanwhile her two young

hopefuls had stationed themselves in the centre of the room, and, regardless of their mother's grief, commenced amusing themselves by puffing dry peas through a tin tube at the eyes and noses of the several objects of the widow's regards and regrets, in great style, accompanying every successful shot at a prominent feature, with an exulting shout. I attempted to rebuke them, but the widow recovered herself sufficiently to explain to me that "the poor, dear boys were always best when they had exactly their own way." Her tongue once loosened-went, and went, and went! I soon ceased to wonder at the excessive mortality of her husbands; such an instrument, in continual operation, was quite sufficient to be the death of any man. In the present case there was no lack of argument. Every glance of her eye brought upa recollection and suggested a theme. She described the persons, vouched for the accuracy of the likeness, and enlarged upon the virtues of the very extensive range of subjects before her, interspersing her narrative with copious details of all their friends, families, relatives, and connexions, direct and contingent, with a fulness and fluency that must in a very little time longer have proved fatal to the hardest and most patient of listeners.

It wanted a quarter to four as I entered that room. It struck seven as she turned the key, and expressed a hope that I had been gratified.

My nervous system had been for some time previous to this in rather a shattered state. Ten days elapsed before I again left my chamber. Ever since I have entertained a very natural, and, I trust, excusable horror of everyday portraits.

THE MAID OF MARTINIQUE.

A TRUE STORY.

A LOVELY morning in October, 17—, was rendered a gloomy one to the inhabitants of Martinique. Repeated injuries inflicted by the ruling powers, coupled with a burning desire among many ambitious and perhaps patriotic men, to crush foreign influence upon their beautiful isle, and to

govern themselves as a free and independent people, had long rendered a residence there precarious. On the morning in question, the banner of revolt was seen floating in proud defiance upon the walls of the castle of Fort Royal, and in the far distance the smoke of villages showed the track of the merciless demon of insurrection. Every vessel in the harbour of Fort Royal was crowded with refugees, who, having hastily collected their most valuable effects, had fled before the tide of destruction which was rolling fearfully over that ill-starred island. Among them was a merchant of high repute, who, with his wife and daughter, a beautiful girl of about fifteen, took passage for France, whither on the following day the vessel salted. Fair winds gave them a quick passage to the Cape de Verd, and after a tarry of a day or two, they weighed anchor for Havre. At dawn on the second morning after their departure, they espied a dark-looking brig bearing down upon them, and as the sun rose above the horizon, it portrayed to them the truth, that an Algerine corsair was their early visiter. So much were the high seas infested at that time with pirates, that every vessel went prepared for an encounter. Immediate preparation was made for a contest, should the corsair overtake them, and all sails were spread to the breeze.

The pirate came up-the contest was fearful-the father and mother were murdered-and the beautiful orphan was made the prize of a band of ruffians. In a few days they neared the Barbary coast, and she was sold to the bey of Tunis for ten thousand sequins. The prediction of a fortuneteller, years before, that she would one day wear the coronet of a queen, impressed on her mind with a conviction of its truth, which spread a halo of light round her amid the darkness of the worst of slavery. Her beauty made her a favourite, and about two years afterward, Sultan Mustapha carried her in triumph to Constantinople. Her beauty, her virtues, her ample powers to please, made her the exalted favourite of the imperial seraglio, and she became the honoured Sultana. Then indeed were the predictions of her destiny verified,

and she wore the crown as queen of the Ottoman empire. Mahmoud II., the presant Sultan of Turkey, is her son; and to her influence upon his early character may be attributed his taste for European customs, and the frequent innovations which his will has made among the customs of his people. The last act of importance, and which seems like a great stride toward the elevation of Turkish women to the same station which females hold throughout Christendom, is the opening of the doors of the seraglio, and permitting the women to go in and out at their pleasure, and enjoy themselves by rambles upon the lovely plains which stretch along the banks of the beautiful Bosphorus. The number who were confined in his seraglio were about six hundred.

The fate of that young girl was similar to that of Josephine, wife of Napoleon. She, too, was the subject of a similar prediction, and even when confined by prison bars, and upon the eve of conveyance to the guillotine, that prediction stood up before her with all the brightness and sacredness of truth; and when the downfall of Robespierre caused her prison to be "There," exclaimed she to Madame Fonteany, a fellow pri"I told you I should yet be queen of France." And she was indeed queen, not only of France, but of the heart that beat in the bosom of that proud Corsican who swayed its destinies.

thrown open,

soner,

I WAS amusing myself one morning with looking out from my window upon the varied scene in the Plaza de Campillo, when Pedro, an honest Gallician, who filled at the inn the indefinite place of valet-de-chambre, valet-de-place, cleaner of shoes, and actor of all work, stopped in the midst of brushing a coat, and assumed a very sorrowful and contemplative air, as if he had some very bad news to impart to me. ،، What is the matter, Pedro?" said I, curious to know what distressed him. "Ah! Senor," said he, "this is a sad day in all Granada,

for they are going to have work again for the executioner in the great square of Elvira; and she is such a handsome lady too, and so young, that all the world is heart-sick about it." "Will you take me to the place, Pedro ?" "Senor," said he, "you had better not go, for it may be badly looked upon by the police. Besides, people say in whispers that there will be a tumult, though nobody dares to speak out about it; and how then will they dare to lift a hand for poor Donna Maria? So you had better stay within doors this morning. But if your worship must go," said he, seeing that my curiosity was getting the better of his admonitions, "you have only to cross the Daro, and so follow along with the crowd you will see moving that way." The interest which the fact of a young and beautiful woman falling a victim to the executioner would necessarily excite, even in the heart of a stranger, made me curious to gather the particulars of a story, which I obtained partly from Pedro and partly from other sources.

Donna Maria de Pineda was a native of Spain, and, I believe, of the gay land of Andalusia. Her parentage was respectable, with a tinge of noble blood; and nature had endowed her with personal beauty and mental powers above the common standard. She had been married at an early age to an officer in the Spanish army, by whose death she was left a widow, but, as I believe, without children. At the time of his death she numbered but little more than twenty-five years, and was still in the possession of all those graces of spirit and person, which, as found in the native of Andalusia, are irresistible. She was living quietly in Granada, under the circumstances I have mentioned, when one ill-omened day the justicia, that terror of the oppressed Spaniard, appeared at the door; and having demanded admittance in the name of the absolute king proceeded to search the house in which she lived, and with peculiar jealousy the appartments with the unfortunate Donna Maria occupied. The scrutiny of these detestable commissioners of despotism

for in Spain what character is so utterly despised and so utterly de

spicable as that of the Alguazil and the Escribano?-was at first unsuccessful; but at length they discovered in a closet, in a corner obscurely lighted and well suited to the purposes of concealment, an unfinished piece of embroidery, in the form of a pennon or standard, and bearing those three odious colours under which freedom had so recently triumphed in France. This emblem of emancipation was greedily dragged from its hiding-place by the eager justicia. Its being found in her apartment was sufficient to stamp her as a traitor to her king and country; and the helpless Donna Maria was hurried to prison, and there placed in rigorous confinement.

Convinced of the hopelessness of pardon, she is said to have looked forward to death with quiet fortitude. On the evening before the fatal day which was to conduct her to an ignominious execution, she wrote letters to her dearest relatives and friends, exhorting them to bear the misfortune which assailed them with the same energy which she herself felt. This duty occupied her till a late hour of the night, when she laid down and slept tranquilly till the morning. When she rose, she made her toilette with more than usual care, arranging her hair with her own hands, and adjusting her attire as deliberately as if she were not going forth to death, but to some scene of holiday enjoyment. I do not know how she received the exhortations of the priesthood, who in Spain are always at hand to console the last moments of the criminal; but as religion is deeply implanted in the heart of the Spanish woman, and, in forms, at least, exerts a strange influence over the most profligate of her sex, it is probable some of the last hours of one whose reputation was so spotless were devoted to holy exercise. When the fatal hour of mid-day was tolled from the tower of the cathedral, she was taken out of the prison, placed upon an ass, as is the custom of the country, and being surrounded by a strong force of foot soldiers and cavalry, was slowly conducted through the silent and awe-stricken crowd to the fatal place, the great square of Elvira.

All eyes were directed to the centre of the square, where a wooden plat

form had been raised, upon which Donna Maria was seated; her dark brown hair was smoothly divided over her pale forehead, and I fancied I could discern, even at the long distance which separated us, the traces of that beauty which I had heard so much praised. A friar of the order of mercy, in white flannel robes, with a girdle of rope, a long rosary, and having the crown of his head shaven, was seen holding up a cross before her, upon which was nailed the image of the suffering Saviour. Disposed in a hollow square round the platform, to cut off the hope of rescue or escape, a company of foot soldiers were posted with fixed bayonets; without them was a troop of cavalry, their drawn sabres and steel caps glittering in the sun. I had scarcely passed some two or three minutes in looking round, upon this gloomy scene, when a man vulgarly dressed was seen to ascend the platform. It was undoubtedly the executioner. A sensation of heartsick misery came over me; for an instant, indeed, the thought flashed upon me that if a thousand, nay, but a hundred, resolute arms could be raised for the rescue, that unfortunate woman might live. But where were they? She had but a few fast fleeting moments left, and her death was as certain as the course of yonder sun towards the mountains of Loxa. I turned sadly away, and left the square of Elvira without daring to look back. Very soon after Donna Maria expired, adding another name to the bloody record of the victims of absolutism.

COMMON-PLACES.

EDUCATION has upon the natural mind the same transforming effect that culture has upon the wild rose. In the latter case, nothing new is added, but the leaves are so multiplied and the colour so deepened that the improvement looks like a new creation.

It is not well to have many enemies, but it is worse, far worse to have many friends. A useless friend is a millstone about one's neck. Next to one's self, one's worst enemy is an intimate friend.