of Wales, and the father of George III, to reside occasionally at Hampton Court. George III. was more partial to Windsor; and, though he visited Hampton, never slept in it. It has never since been honoured by the residence of the Kings of England. William IV, when Duke of Clarence, was appointed ranger of Bushy Park adjoining, in 1797, and steward of the honour; and the former office is still held by his widow, the Dowager Queen Adelaide, who has a pretty residence in the Park.

Thanks to the liberality and kind feeling of the Government, the palace, with its pictorial treasures, is open five days in the week, for the inspection of the public. Three pleasant hours were those which we passed in the state apartments, looking first at the portrait of one departed King or hero, and then at another; or viewing the resemblances of the fair and the witty, who captivated the heart, or pleased the vanity of the susceptible Charles, or at the more unfortunate Jane Shore, who enslaved the affections of a truer lover, King Edward IV.

At last we came away without seeing the one-fiftieth part of what was to be seen. One hour, at least, of that time we spent in the gallery built by Sir Christopher Wren, for the reception of the seven cartoons of Raphael; and, had not hunger and thirst, and all the necessities of the world and the flesh, interfered with us, and with our faculty of admiration, we might have remained there to this day. As we walked leisurely through the various apartments, we noticed that of the royal beds, which are still preserved there in the same state as when their occupants were alive, those of William III, Queen Anne, and George II, attracted much more attention from many people than the pictures. One couple especially we noticed, apparently servant-girls, who stopped before each bed for several minutes. They took no notice whatever of the pictures; and we were curious to hear what remarks they made. We kept as close to them as possible, for that purpose; and, when they stopped opposite the state-bed of Queen Anne, we listened to their conversation, and heard a piece of very common, but very true and valuable philosophy, which we certainly did not expect.

"Oh! a very fine bed, to be sure!" said one; "and must have cost a thousand guineas, all complete."

66

I shouldn't wonder," replied the other; "but, Lord! what does it matter? A hundred years hence, and you and I will sleep in as good a bed as Queen Anne. Queens and poor cooks all sleep in the grave at last."

If there is one thing more than another which we hate as impertinent and ungentlemanly, it is to turn round after passing a woman, and look her in the face; but we could not repress our curiosity to have a glance at the face of this one. We expected to find some pensive pretty countenance, cheeks pale with thought, and a bright intelligent eye; but we were disappointed. The speaker was a vulgar little woman, with a snub-nose almost hidden between a pair of such fat red cheeks as we have seldom seen, and her little grey eyes looked dull and sleepy. "Tis a pity we looked," was our first thought; but we discouraged it with the reflection that beauty and philosophy were not necessarily companions, and that this ugly cook-maid was, perhaps, as kind as she was sensible.

Having lingered so long in the interior, we took a stroll into the gardens, that we might glance at all the curiosities of the place.

Passing the tennis-court, the finest in England, we entered by a small gate into a place called the " Wilderness," laid out originally under the direction of King William III. to hide the somewhat unseemly and irregular brick walls at this side of the palace. This part of the gardens is arranged into the most natural wildness; and, during a hot summer's day is a delightful retreat, cool as water, and all alive with the music of a thousand birds.

While here, we could not, of course, refrain from visiting the famous Maze, also formed by King William III. We tried our skill to discover the secret of the labyrinth, and saw many boys and girls, and not a few children of larger growth, and of both sexes, busily engaged in the same attempt, shouting and laughing each at the failure of the other, and panting with the unusual exertion. We were not more successful than the rest, until we took the little guidebook usually sold in the palace, out of our pocket, when, after some little difficulty, we unravelled the mystery by the aid of the map and a pencil. It is full of " passages which lead to nothing," and a pleasant spot, we should, think for frolicsome lovers, either just before, or in the first fortnight of the honeymoon. For our part we saw no fun in it, more especially as we were growing hungry, and had visions of roast-fowl and flasks of claret dancing before our eyes. We therefore took a hasty farewell of the Maze and the Palace, and proceeded to the Toy Inn, where our dinner awaited us.

LONDON BY MOONLIGHT.

THE midnight hour has pass'd away, and yet
The Queen of Night still holds her starry court;
The tangled clouds sail swiftly by,
and now
She bathes the city in a flood of light.
Far other, than the proud and garish day,
Like Charity, her mild and gentle beams
Soften, or hide, each rude and broken line;
Prisons and palaces! And stately domes,
And hovels mean!

The dreaming poet loves
To muse 'mid shady groves, and by the side
Of clear and murmuring streams; but, surely here
May Contemplation find enough to dwell
On man,-God's latest, and most wondrous work.
And thou, proud river! I can scarcely heed
That on thy shores, where thou dost wander 'mid
The green and smiling field, the shepherd lays
His crook, and slumbers in the noon-day heat:
For, on the stream which flows, like molten lead
Beneath the moonbeams, I behold a grove
Of masts against the starry sky. The wealth,
The argosies of princely merchants here,
That to the ear of fancy whisper tales

Of far-off climes, and England's power and pride.
Yon stately vessel only waits the dawn
To raise aloft her snowy sails, that then
Shall bear her, "like a thing of life" away,
Though now she rests like a fond child-upon
A doting mother's breast. And all is still,
Save the soft ripple of the rising tide.
Thou gorgeous city of our pride and love!

But yonder abbey wakens other thoughts,-
The hearts of kings and statesmen, warriors, bards,
Lie there entomb'd — the mighty of the earth,
The dust for rolling centuries revered,
And they the honour'd of a recent age:
He of the rude, untaught, unletter'd mind,
Innately great, beside the darling child

Of arts advanced, and years more wonderful!
In this alike the lesson which they teach,
That Death shall level all. And yet, methinks,
It is a soul-inspiring thought to lure
The adventurous spirit on to noble deeds,
The thought, that all which ever did belong
To earth, perchance shall rest beside the good
And great; while faithful records shall enshrine
The subtler part within the grateful hearts
Of future unborn ages.

Turn we now
To yon large gloomy pile- the abode of guilt
And wretchedness. Yet Virtue stays to weep;
For she is all too wise and pure to fear
That tears, e'en for the guilty, e'er can stain
One dazzling fold in which herself is wrapt.
Oh! Virtue stern and cold were liker far
A statue, than the warm and breathing form
Which mortals long to clasp. Alas! she knows
The tempter's power, which comes in equal trength,
Though vary'd guise, unto the silken couch
And pallet rude,-and, though she dares not touch
The scale of Justice, turns aside to weep.

Mark you the faint and glimmering light which falls
From yonder casement dim ;-is it the watch
Untiring love still keeps beside the bed

Of death or sickness?or doth there the young
Aspiring student seek to hive the store,

The golden priceless store, from wisdom's page?-
Or doth an aching heart forbid the eye
To close? Imagination quickly weaves
A thousand unsubstantial webs, and now
The sleeping city, in its hush'd repose,
Looks like the phantom of its waking self!
There is a burst of revelry that breaks
Upon the solemn stillness of the hour;

But near the boisterous crew which homeward wends
Gaunt Famine stalks, and holds the shrivell'd hand.
Ah, yes! they turn, the homeless wretch relieve.-

I cannot hear her low and broken words;

But they, the young and gay, are silent now,-
The chord of sympathy, by pity waked,

Has dull'd their selfish mirth!

But morning breaks

In all its glory. See! the silver moon

Has doff'd her shining crown, and all the stars,
That made the sky a jewell'd mirror, melt
In the pale azure of the early dawn.

Man wakes again to joy, and peace, and hope,
Day-dreams, and bright reality,—to toil,
Or ease and luxury-alas! as well
To pain and sin, to care and suffering!

CAMILLA TOULMIN.

CHARACTER AND CONDUCT OF

LOUIS THE SIXTEENT H.

BY GEORGE HOGARTH.

"THE Life and Times of Louis the Sixteenth" is a work which yet remains to be written. The biography of the unhappy monarch, in whose person was accomplished the destruction of a dynasty which had existed for a thousand years, and the private history of his reign, are full of interest in themselves, and afford many a key to the momentous public events which have changed the destinies of the world. The materials for such a work, as widely scattered as they are abundant, furnish the means, in competent hands, of one of the most valuable contributions which could be made to modern literature.

We have lately observed a curious addition to these materials, consisting of a private diary kept by Louis for many years, lately discovered in an obscure old book-shop in Paris. An account of this discovery is given in a French publication; and, considering the respectability of the medium through which this information is given to the world, we see no reason to doubt its authenticity.

M. Alby gives the following account of this discovery :-After a graphic description of the innumerable shops and stalls for old books in several quarters of Paris, particularly along the Quais, and in the oldest parts of the Cité, the multitudes of which are so surprising to strangers, and furnish such inexhaustible food to bookcollectors, he says,

"At the corner of the Rue du Marché-aux-Fleurs and the Rue Gervais-Laurent, one of these old book-shops attracts the eyes of the book-hunter. About five years ago, a friend of mine, strolling one day along the Quai aux Fleurs, happened to go into this shop. The shopkeeper the day before had bought several hundreds weight of old paper at a private sale, and my friend set about exploring their contents. After a long search, which produced nothing of any consequence, he was about to give it up, when he came upon a number of paper books, the appearance and preservation of which excited his curiosity. He began to examine them, and was not a little surprised to find a regular journal, drawn up year by year, month by month, day by day, the contents of which, apparently, could relate only to Louis the Sixteenth. He bought the manuscripts; and when he went home, compared the hand-writing with autographs of this sovereign. His satisfaction may be imagined when he ascertained that these papers, of which chance had made him the possessor, were all written by the hand of Louis the Sixteenth, and that he had in his custody a most precious manuscript, the perusal of which must necessarily afford curious information respecting the habits, tastes, and dispositions of a prince whose tragical fate has not yet silenced his enemies, or expiated the faults laid to his charge,faults which should be ascribed to a state of social organisation antiquated and worn out by his predecessors. The question occurred to my friend, how these memoirs had found their way into this old • La Presse, one of the best of the Parisian daily journals; by one of its contributors, M. Ernest.

book-shop; and his inquiries afforded an answer. When the populace, in 1792, broke open and ransacked the iron cabinets in which papers were kept in the palace of the Tuileries, several members of the Convention took possession of the papers which were carried off. These memoirs fell into the hands of a member of the Convention, who kept them concealed during his life. His family, ignorant of their value and importance, got rid of them at his death, as useless rubbish, no doubt, and they found their way into the hands of the old book-vender."

M. Alby goes on to say, that on hearing of this adventure, he entreated his friend to give him a perusal of these manuscripts; but his friend had already shown them to more prudent people, by whom he had permitted them to be torn up (lacérés). M. Alby, however, was able to make notes and extracts from them, which he has given to the world through the medium of the newspaper already mentioned. By presenting our readers a few of these passages, and exhibiting them in connection with the passing occurrences and circumstances in which Louis was placed at the moments when he wrote them, we may afford some curious glimpses of his character.

The diary began on the 1st of January 1766 (when Louis was yet Dauphin), and was continued down to the 31st of July 1792,-only ten days before the fatal 10th of August, which consummated his fall.

In phrenological language, he seems to have possessed, in a very remarkable degree, the organ of order. He put down his petty receipts and disbursements with extreme minuteness, and the smallest mistake in his entries annoyed him excessively. Many instances are mentioned of his exactness in regard to accounts and figures. One day, in particular (we are told by Soulavie), an account was laid before him by one of the ministers, in which there appeared among the disbursements an item which had been inserted in the preceding year's account. "There is a double charge here," said the King; bring me last year's account, and I will show

it

you there."

66

Louis thus begins his diary for the year 1779:

"I have in my cash-box on 1st January

42 rouleaus of 1200 livres,

In my purse,

17 24-sous pieces,

46 12-sous pieces,

99 6-sous pieces,

88 2-sous pieces,

liv.

S. d.

50,400 0 0

549 0 0

20 8 0

27 12 0

29 14 0

8 16 0 10 4 0

136 6-farthing pieces,

51,045 14 0"

The following are some of his disbursements:

-

'July 1772.-A watch-glass, 12 sous.

August.-To Testard, for postage of a letter, 6 sous. "September.-To L'Epinay, for a wash-hand basin, 6 sous. January 1773-For a quire of paper, 4 sous.

"February.-For cotton, 6 sous.

May. To L'Epinay for disbursement, 4 sous 3 deniers."