Maria with great applause in several cities of Germany, affirmed that a cross which she wore on her neck was the very same that once belonged to the unfortunate Queen. Relics of this description have never yet been subjected to the proof of their authenticity. But if there is any thing which may be reasonably believed to have been once the property of the Queen, it is the veil with which she covered her head on the scaffold, after the executioner, whether from awkwardness or confusion is uncertain, had wounded the unfortunate victim in the shoulder by a false blow. This Veil still exists, and is in the possession of Sir J. C. Hippisley, who claims to be descended from the Stuarts by the mother's side. He had an engraving made from it by Matteo Diottavi, in Rome, 1818, and gives copies to his friends. We have obtained a sight of one of them, and give the following as the result of our examination.

The Veil is embroidered with gold spangles by (as is said) the Queen's own hand, in regular rows crossing each other, so as to

VARIETIES.

CHRISTIAN PRACTICE.

A

In the most flourishing period of the reign of Louis XIV. two negro youths, the sons of a prince, being brought to the court of France, the king ap pointed a jesuit to instruct them in letters, and in the Christian religion, and gave to each of them a commission in his guards. The elder, who was remarkable for bis candour and ingenuity, made great improvement, more particularly in the doctrines of religion. A brutal fellow, upon some dispute, insulted him with a blow. The gallant youth never so much as offered to resent it. person who was his friend, took an opportunity to talk with him that evening, alone, upon his behaviour, which he told him was too tame, especially in a soldier. "Is there then," said the young African, one revelation for soldiers, and another for merchants and gownmen? The good father to whom I owe all my knowledge, has earnestly inculcated forgiveness of injuries done me, assuring me that a Christian was by no means to retaliate abuses of any kind." "The good father,” replied his friend, " may fit you for a monastery by his lessons, but never for the army and rules of a court.

In a word," continued

Attainder. When the gallant Count de Montgomery was condemned to death by Catharine de Medicis, his children were also deprived of the title of nobles. When Montgomery heard this part of the sentence read, he exclaimed, "If my children have not the virtue of nobles to retrieve this : loss, I consent to their degradation."

INTERVIEWS WITH A SHADE.

No. I.

As I stood musing over the foundations of our intended Town Hall, I fell into a train of ideas toe

melancholy to be interesting to your readers-the chasm which a short period of time had made in our once most esteemed neighbourhood. The promenade of the retired and elegant-of the chaste patroness and benevolent donor, whose chief enjoyment in the alleviate distress, and mitigate the sufferings of the calm decline of life, lay in projecting schemes to The mansion had fled, to unfortunate, led me on. venerable inhabitant; what followed in my mind may which I had often looked up with respect for its be left to the imagination of your readers. On leaving the ground, where I had stood long enough to

sequently joined, in which the following words are embroidered in letters of gold :

، Velam Serenis-imae Mariae, Scotia et Callin Regina Martyris, quo induebatur dum ab Heretica

ad mortem iniustissimam condemnata fuit. Anno Sal.

MDLXXXVI. a nobilissima matrona Anglicana diu conservatum et tandem, donationis ergo Deo, et Societati Jesu eonsecratum

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On the plate there is an inscription, with a double certificate of its authenticity, which states, that this Veil, a family treasure of the expelled house of Stuart, was finally in possession of the last branch of that family, the Cardinal of York, who preserved it for many years in his private chapel, among the most precious relics, and at his death bequeathed it to Sir J. Hippisley, together with a valuable Plutarch, and a Codex with painted (illuminated) letters, and a gold coin struck in Scotland in the reign of Queen Mary; and it was specially consecrated by Pope Pius VII. in his palace on the Quirinal, April 29, 1818. Sir John Hippisley, during a former residence at Rome, had been very intimate with the Cardinal of York, and was instrumental in obtaining for him, when he with the other cardinals emigrated to Venice in 1798, a pension of £4000 a year from the Prince of Wales, now King George IV. but for which, the fugitive | cardinal, all whose revenues were seized by the French, would have been exposed to the greatest distress. The cardinal desired to requite this service by the bequest of what he considered so valuable. According to a note on the plate, the Veil is eighty-nine English inches long and forty-three broad, so that it seems to have been rather a kind of shawl or scarf than a veil. If we remember rightly, Melville in his Memoirs, which Schiller had read, speaks of a handkerchief belonging to the Queen, which she gave away before her death, and Schiller found upon this anecdote the well-known words of the farewell scene, addressed to Margaret Curl.

Nimm dieses Tuch! Ich habs mit eigner Hand
Für Dich gestickt in meines Kummers Stunden,
Und meine heissen Thränen eingewo' en.
Mit diesem Tuch wirst Du die Augen mir verbinden."
"Accept this handkerchief! with my own hand
For thee I've worked it in my hours of sadness,
And interwoven with my scalding tears:
With this thou'lt bind my eyes.'

"I

and have your commission taken from you." would fain," answerell the young man, "act consistently in every thing; but since you press me with that regard to my honour, which you have always shown, I will wipe off so foul a stain, though I must own I gloried in it before." Immediately upon this, he desired his friend to go from him, and appoint the aggressor to meet him early in the morning. Acord ingly they met and fought, and the brave youth disarmed his adversary, and forced him to ask his pardon publicly. This done, the next day he threw up his commission, and desired the king's leave to return to his father. At parting, he embraced his brother and bis friend with tears in his eyes, saying,

"He did not imagine the Christians had been such unaccountable people, and that he could not comprehend how their faith was of any use to them, if it did not influence their practice. In my country, we think it no dishonour to act up to the principles of our religion."

a

Chambers have terminated their session with New Parliamentary Practice.-The Bavarian dinner; an example which, if any thing had been predicated concerning it, we would have expected to be set by the Parliament of Great Britain. The entertainment at Munich was enlivened with songs, and the patriotic legislators renounced Champagne and Burgundy to drink their native Rhenish wines. Happily (says a French Journalist, mentioning the circumstance,) we have cause to hope that the national spirit of the English will not carry them to such a length in favour of porter. "

"

Harvey Aston-The late Harvey Aston associated much with the royal family; and when he was going to India, where he lost his life, the king enjoined In the fatal meeting with Colonel Allen, Mr. Aston him most affectionately never more to fight a duel. the greatest firmness continued standing, his arm was shot through the body and back hone, but with extended, and pistol presented, for about a couple of minutes. Sensible that he had received his death, wound, he exclaimed, " It never shall be said, that the last act of my life was an act of revenge" and gradually lowering his arm to his side, he sunk down for ever.

Parliamentary Etiquette.-In France, under the old regime, there was an honourable distinction paid to the Tiers Etat, or Commons, by the other two orders, very different from what takes place in Britain. When a Royal Session occurred, the Commons were received by the nobles and clergy standing and uncovered. In our parliament, when the King meets the Lords and Commons, the Commons are not permitted to sit down, but must stand below the bar. The French assume to themselves the credit of being the politest nation in the world, and this anecdote alone may suffice to vindicate their title to the distinction.

quite familiar to me, but there was a semblance and character in them, that were strongly witten upon my mind, and in such a manner, that they could never be effaced from the soul that is capable of friendship. The eyes had lost their vivacity, and an immovable seriousness pervaded the once sprightly features of Volatile.-"I am but a shadow" said he. "I was barmless in my life, and above all iden you have nothing to fear from me now." A gentleman of dignified appearance was walking up the street; "do you know him asked V- not allowing me to enquire why he had "burst the cerements" of visit this scene of vicissitude. I answered, "no." his humble grave, and left his "narrow cell" to re

“I do," said Vibe is an eminent trades

man"-I observed that he did not move as he passed-he replied, "that his most intimate friends had undergone a change that could not exist in the when on earth could not recognize him, now that he traces of mortality. Were it otherwise," continued he, "there is an invincible reserve about that genand those exchanges of civility so necessary and intleman, which makes him accessible only to a few; dispensable to society, are sometimes noticed in a inferior in fortune, and the proud of heart cannot manner not congenial to the respect offered by an repeat the ceremony. However, his integrity is of that high character, that commands the respect of all orders of men." I observed, "that his excessive reserve might arise from the consciousness of so virtuous and lofty a reputation." V assented in part-I enquired if he were "still in trade”—be replied, "yes, and had considerable property in this neighbourhood, and was much esteemed by his servants"-" such a man,' said I, "must be very humanity can admit of, he is familiar with few, but happy"-" as much so, "rejoined Vhis friends are many; when such men," continued he," are appointed to offices of trust, and to conduct public business, envy is silent, and foul suspicion shrinks into its darkest recesses. Nevertheless, in a free country, democracy is never satisfied -we were now interrupted by some carts that were passing at the bottom of King-street, which occasioned a little inconvenience to a portly lady and her two daughters." Volatile," I exclaimed, "where is thy gallantry now? à fairer opportunity never offered even to 'Raleigh himself" but he was motionless, and with the best grace I could, I picked up her parasol, which was in danger of being crushed by the wheel-"That was tolerably done," said V, after I had restored it, and received the blushing compliments of the ladies-"I must now leave you," said he, "but shall be with you again ere long."-My eye followed the unassuming form up Ridgefield, where it disappeared, as if entering one of the offices there.

À. A.

WANDERINGS IN JUNE.

The season now is all delight,
Sweet smile the passing hours,

And Summer's pleasures, at their height,
Are sweet as are her flowers;
The purple morning waken'd soon,
The mid-day's gleaming din,
Grey evening with her silver moon,-
Are sweet to mingle in.

While waking doves betake to flight
From off each roosting bough,

While Nature's locks are wet with night,—
How sweet to wander now!

Fast fade the vapours cool and grey;

The red sun waxes strong,
And streaks on labour's early way
His shadows lank and long.
Serenely sweet the Morning comes
O'er the horizon's sweep,
And calmly breaks the waking hums
Of Nature's nightly sleep.
What rapture swells with every sound
Of Morning's maiden hours!
What healthful feelings breathe around!
What freshness opes the flowers!
Each tree and flower, in every hue
And varied green, are spread,
As fair and frail as drops the dew
From off each blooming head!
Like to that beauty which beguiles
The eyes of wondering men,
Led blushing to perfection's smiles,`
And left to wither then.

How strange a scene has come to pass
Since Summer 'gan its reign,
Spring flowers are buried in the grass,
To sleep till Spring again :
Her dew-drops Evening still receives
To gild the morning hours;

But dew-drops fall on open'd leaves
And moisten stranger flowers.

The artless daisies' smiling face

My wanderings fiud no more;

The king-cups that supplied their place,
Their golden race is o'er ;
And clover heads, with ruddy bloom,
That blossom where they fell,
Ere Autumn's fading mornings come
Shall meet their grave as well.
Life's every beauty fades away,
And short its worldly race;
Change leads us round its varied day,
And strangers take our place :
On Summers past, how many eyes
Have waken'd into bliss,
That Death's eclipsing hand denies
To view the charms of this!

The open flower, the loaded bough,
The fields of spindling grain,
Were blooming then the same as now,
And so will bloom again :
When with the past my being dies,
Still summer suns shall shine,
And other eyes shall see them rise
When death has darken'd mine.
Reflection, with thy mortal shrouds
When thou dost interfere,
Though all is gay, what gloomy clouds
Thy musings shadow here!

To think of summers yet to come,
That I am not to see!

To think a weed is yet to bloom
From dust that I shall be !

The misty clouds of purple hue

Are fading from the
eye;

And ruddy streaks, which morning drew,
Have left a dappled sky;

The sun has call'd the bees abroad,

Wet with the early hour,

By toiling for the honey'd load

Ere dews forsake the flower.

O'er yonder hill, a dusty rout

Wakes solitude from sleep; Shepherds have wattled pens about, To shear their bleating sheep : Less pleasing is the public way,

Traced with awaken'd toil;

And sweet are woods shut out from day,
Where sunbeams never smile.

The woodbines, fresh with morning hours,
Are what I love to see;

The ivy spreading darksome bowers,
Is where I love to be;

Left there, as when a boy, to lie
And talk to flower and tree,
And fancy, in my ecstacy,

Their silence answers me.

While pride desires tumultuous joys,
And shuns what nature wears ;
Give me the choice which they despise,
And I'll not sigh for theirs ;-
The shady wilds, the summer dreams,
Enjoying there at will,

The whispering voice of woods and streams
That breathe of Eden still.

How sweet the fanning breeze is felt,
Breathed through the dancing boughs!
How sweet the rural noises melt

From distant sheep and cows!
The lovely green of wood and hill,
The hummings in the air,
Serenely in my breast instil

The rapture reigning there.

To me how sweet the whispering winds,
The woods again how sweet,-

To find the peace which freedom finds,
And from the world retreat;
To stretch beneath a spreading tree,
That far its shadow shoots,
While by its side the water free
Curls through the twisted roots.
Such silence oft be mine to meet
In leisure's musing hours;
Oft be a fountain's brink my seat-
My partners-birds and flowers:
No tumult here creates alarm,
No pains our follies find;
Peace visits us in every calm,

Health breathes in every wind.

Now cool, the wood my wanderings shrouds, 'Neath arbours Nature weaves,

Shut up from viewing fields and clouds,
And buried deep in leaves;
The sounds without amuse me still,
Mixt with the sounds within,—
The scythe with sharpening tinkles shrill,
The cuckoo's soothing din.

The eye, no longer left to range,
Is pent in narrowest bound,

Yet Nature's works nonamed and strange,
My every step surround;

Things small as dust, of every dye,
That scarce the sight perceives,
Come clad with wings fly droning by,
Some climb the grass and leaves.

And flowers these darksome woodlands rear,
Whose shades they yearly claim,
That Nature's wond'rous mystery wear
And bloom without a name :
What different shapes in leaves are seen
That o'er my head embower,
Clad in as many shades of green
As colours in the flower!

My path now gleams with fairer light,
The side approaches near,

A heath now bolts upon the sight,
And rabbit-tracts appear:

I love the heath, though 'mid the brakes
Fear shudders, trampling through,
Oft check'd at things she fancies snakes
Quick nestling from the view.

Yet where the ground is nibbled bare
By rabbits and by sheep,

I often fearless loiter there,
And think myself to sleep;
Dear are the scenes which Nature loves,
Where she untamed retires,

Far from the stretch of planted groves,
Which polish'd taste admires.
Here oft, though grass and moss are seen
Tann'd brown for want of showers,
Still keeps the ling its darksome green,
Thick set with little flowers;
And here, thick mingling o'er the heath,
The furze delights to dwell,

Whose blossoms steal the summer's breath,
And shed a sultry smell.

Here threat'ning ploughs have tried in vain
To till the sandy soil;

Yon slope, already sown with grain,
Shows Nature mocks the toil;

The wild weeds choak the straggling ears,
And motley gardens spread ;

The blue-cap there in bloom appears,

And poppies, lively red.

And now my footsteps sidle round

The gently sloping hill,.

And faulter now o'er marsby ground;
Yet Nature charms me still:
Here moss, and grass, and flowers appear
Of different forms and hues ;
And insects too inhabit here
Which still my wonder views.
Here horsetail, round the water's edge,
In bushy tufts is spread,
With rush, and cutting leaves of sedge
That children learn to dread,
Whose leaves like razors mingling there
Oft make the youngster turn,
Leaving his rushes in despair,

A wounded hand to mourn.

What wonders strike my idle gaze,

As near the pond I stand!
What life its stagnant depth displays,
As varied as the land:

All forms and sizes swimming there,
Some, sheath'd in silvery den,
Oft siling up as if for air,
And nimbling down agen.

Now rising ground attempts again
To change the restless view,
The pathways leading down the lane
My pleasures still renew.
The osier's slender shade is by,
And bushes thickly spread;
Again the ground is firm and dry,

Nor trembles 'neath the tread.

On this side, ash or oak embowers;
There, hawthorns humbler grow,
With goatsbeard wreath'd, and woodbine flower's
That shade a brook below,

Which feebly purls its rippling moans

With summer draining dry;

And struttles, as I step the stones,

Can scarcely struggle by.

Now soon shall end these musing dreams
In solitude's retreat;

The eye that dwelt on woods and streams
The village soon shall meet :
Nigh on the sight the steeple towers ;
The clock, with mellow hum,
Counts out the days declining hours,
And calls my ramblings home.

I love to visit Spring's young blooms
When wet with April show'rs;
Nor feel less joy, when summer comes,
To trace her darker bowers;

I love to meet the Autumn winds
Till they have mourn'd their last;
Nor less delight my journey finds
In Winter's howling blast.

JOHN CLARE.

VOLATILE'S PORT-FOLIO.

CHAPTER I.

I have two reasons why I will not tell you how I came by this Port-folio.

First-because you would not believe me, and
Secondly-there is no occasion for you to know.
Pray Sir, will you tell me who you are?
NO, Miss!

Then you are a provoking fellow :-how do I know that the Port-folio's genuine :-I dare say it's not :I've no proof that it is :— I can't tell whether I should, like it.

To be sure, you should.

But perhaps it's not Volatile's :-it may be all a take-in: you are anonymous, and all about it is mystery.

True, Miss!

As I said this, I pressed gently together the palms of my extended hands; slowly elevated myself to the tip-toe-and quietly dropping my eye-lids in the most beautiful correspondence with the rest of my expression-I stood-such a sweet picture of confounded innocence.-True, Miss, said I, calmly recovering my former position, and opening wide my large black eyes-the rays of light darting suddenly upon her's,-shot into her heart the fullest conviction of my sincerity

Did I say my eyes were large and black?
Humph-it was more than I intended.

I could see that she was convinced-but a woman will never acknowledge herself satisfied while any thing like a secret remains.

Your's is a silk un; it wont do at all.
What do you want it for? eh!

What does one want a white pocket ankercher for at a tragedy-play! why, what for but to hold up to one's eyes like every body else, to be sure. Joseph looked round again, and winked. there's a good lad.

Come go,

Not I; said the obedient son, venturing a peremp tory refusal.

But I insists on your going, said the mother: how dares you dispute what I says; go this instant.

A muttering wrangle now took place between authority and resistance, which was terminated by the drawing up of the curtain, and a proposal on the part of the son, that his mother and sister should have for the evening a common convenience in the handkerchief of the latter.

O, ay! Riar, I never thought of that-we can use your's in kales: and when I've the ankercher you shall have the spy-glass; that shall be it :--and then we shall both be genteel,

Good lorjus! what's that? said the matron, as the ghost stalked over the scene, Sir, what's that?' The ghost, madam.

What is the play-house awnted? said she.
Very often, madam.

I never heard of it before, and I've been here many a time.

It only happens on particular occasions, said I, and very likely you were never present at one before. 'I hope it won't come again,' groaned she. The ghost however, contrary to the hopes of the Trust me, chary one,—said I, pressing my hand lady, shortly reappeared on the stage, and it was with some difficulty that I succeeded in convincing her that she need not apprehend any injury from the spectre, as, though it had often appeared on the stage, it had never been known to commit any mischief, and was, indeed, perfectly harmless.

against my coat, just over the place where my heart might be supposed to reside-a large quantity of wadding which the tailor had crammed into the lapelle, intercepted the pulsation

[What a load of this sort Macbeth must have carried-it is one among innumerable proofs how fashions come round again—when he cried out to the Apothecary

"Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart." It is not so bad now a days. Perhaps Macbeth wore the dove-breast as a disguise.] and with a solemn inclination of my headwhich bent my well starched cloth right across the

middle and totally discomposed its propriety-as

much as to say

But how frightened all those people is: argued she, and one of 'em's drawn bis sword too; I wish it was gone again.

Who's that gentleman in black-will you lend me your bill, Sir, a minute.

handed her the bill. That is Hamlet, said I, pointing to his name as I

Hamlet! dear o' me, how sorrowful he looks; what's the matter with him, Sir.

Aye my mother, said the daughter, I see how it is now: Joe! you know that about Hamlet and the

I could not resist so much polite importunity. Take two or three more, Sir, you need not be afraid of robbing us, we've more than we shall suck to-night.

Here, Joe: said she, taking three, fast together, from the paper, and offering them to her son-who looked rather suspiciously at the coherent mass.I've not had 'em in my mouth, it's only with getting warm on my knees that they stick together i thissy. O Lord, here's the ghost again; see how that gentleman's hair stands up: is'nt he afraid, Sir.. He appears so, madam, but without any real occasion.

I should not like to be so near a ghost, should you, Sir.

'Not much, madam;' and again the old lady's attention was earnestly directed to the play: the daughter had scarcely ever withdrawn her eyes from the stage, and seemed wonderfully engrossed in observing its action through the glass. The young gentleman was reclining with the point of his left elbow on the higher bench of the box, and with the right-hand turning about an ash-plant, the head of which he held in his mouth.

Good lauk, Sir, Hamlet's gone mad: what'll be done think you; can they cure him: dear o' me, how wild the poor gentleman talks: Hearken, Riar, that's what I was telling you yesterday, no longer since, not to walk in the sun; I said it would spoil your skin, and so you hear. Oh dear! it's quite pitiful to see. that poor gentleman, how mad he is-I can hardly tell any thing that he's talking about.

all

Why ar'nt these the players; I thought they was

the time-what is these, Sir, that we've been looking at, they seemed like as players.

The players are coming now, madam.

What them, why, how shabby; they are just like those we saw at th' Minur wonst, arn't they Riar? Did you ever go to the Minur Theaytre, Sir; Riar and that was of her being killed, only it was an oaxme went to see Madam Sackwi; what a hawfull thing but I said I'd never go no more, they were such a poor set of players, and there was so many low lived people went.

My polished neighbour once more turned to the performance, and telling Riar that she would have 'a reluctant fingers, and began to manœuvre it herself. kale with the spy-glass,' took it from the daughter's Hamlet now entered with the celebrated soliloquy commencing To be, or not to be'-and the young began to exhibit her powers of recitation and memory by repeating it along with the performer, in a very audible whisper.

Which in fact was exactly what I meant.You tell me so; said she, quizzingly, turning up the corner of her eye at the inconvenience I had sustained, and with a smile of the most unutterable mer

riment at the attempt I was making to restore it-by compression of the extreme points of the line of incurvity, so as to bring back the centre within the power of the elastic action-but in vain.

You tell me so ;———

My pretty fellow!

Oh dear! that's very paythetick, said the old lady, at the recital of the first soliloquy: Riar, do lend me the ankercher: no, never mind, 1 don't see any body else with one. O! yes, there's a lady there, give it me:

O, it's a sublime piece, said she, when she had finished; I once got it off by heart for a task to say off. at the breaking up-that pangs of despised love, is ing to her mother, but looking sidelong at me. very tender don't you think so,said she, speak

The play, Madam, is ‘HAMLET.'
Is it a tragedy-play, Sir?
It is a tragedy, Madam!

Only to think, Riar, it's a tragedy-play, and my pocket ankercher's as dirty:-Joe, my love, go run home, the man'll perhaps let you out again, and fetch me a clean white ankercher; ask Susan to find it you; they're in one of the top-drawers in the little set, in the right hand side corner; tell her to mind and not disturb the lace-cap, and them there flowers that lies at the top make haste.

The young gentleman, who was despatched with these specific directions, seemed not exactly to relish the commission he was employed in-he looked round at me, conscious that I had overheard what had passed, and with a titter of most refined contempt for his mother's vulgarity, proceeded to expostulate on her command.

O! that'll do very well; nobody'll see it, or if they do what matter-here I'll lend you mine-it's quite

clean.

The girl was about sixteen, and seemed to bave just sufficient knowledge of propriety to tell her that an introduction: and yet it was evident that she wanted to fall into conversation. I was not in the humour to encourage her by entering into the discussion, or I have no doubt that I should have found her critically conversant with all the pieces in the Speaker, and wonderfully alive to their beauties.

O dear! here's the berring, said the old lady, who had for a long while ceased her remarks, excepting an occasional exclamation when any thing particularly excited her attention: such as the murder of Polonius -Ophelia's madness, and the Grave-digging. Here's the berring, do Riar, give me the ankercher; I suppose, Sir, it's the end now isn't it-it's a handsomish coffin: oh dear! that mad fellow's jumping into the hole: he'll break it—a pause, Aye! there's that funny chap, Browne;-how queer he acts awlis, does'nt he, Sir:another pause.

Aye, that is nice; what are they going to do now, Sir-those swords is'nt sharp, is they, Sir:- Bless me; what's matter with that lady! its like a stroke : -Oh! dear that mad Hamlet's killed the King-player;

aye dear, they're all dying-but it's only sham, Sir, is it;-I hope none of um's been hurt. I'm always fearful of swords:-are you going, Sir:well, I wish you good bye!

June, 1819.

MM. V.