of her ladies, set out to join the Russian Emperor at breakfast, at Saint Leu. Josephine did not appear so much fatigued, on her arrival, as might have been expected, but as she was then following a strict regimen, she declined partaking of the breakfast so that, with the exception of an infusion of Tilleul* and orange flowers, she took nothing whatever that morning. The consequence was, that on her return from a drive in the park, whither she had accompanied the royal visitor, she found herself so ill, that she was forced to lie down. In about three hours, afterwards, she arose, and returned to the saloon, where she remained, until dinner was announced, when, retiring for the second time to her chamber, she persisted, notwithstanding the earnest entreaties of her atttendants, in going through the duties of the toilet. Once more, she made her appearance in the saloon, where, although she felt really ill at the time, she exerted herself to the utmost to do the honors, and make the visit pass agreeably to the monarch. This exertion did not then seem to injure the empress, but on the contrary to restore in some measure her wonted animation. Upon the departure of the illustrious stranger, her majesty retired to bed, and passed an excellent night. After breakfast on the following morning, Josephine, who appeared infinitely better, returned to Malmaison, and, for several days, although suffering more or less, she would not succumb. On the 10th of May the emperor Alexander dined with her, and, in the evening, having walked a short time with her in the gardens, she was taken so ill that she was obliged to be carried back to the house; she rallied again, however, until about the 20th, when she became seriously ill, at the same time that hopes were entertained of her recovery. The first bad symptom was an eruption, like that of a miliary fever, which appeared and disappeared again, as suddenly, in the course of twenty-four hours. Shivering fits and nausea accompanied by violent pain in the chest, next came on, and, on the night of the 26th, the empress first complained of sore throat. On the following day, the emperor of Russia, together with the king of Prussia and his sons, dined at Malmaison. It was on this occasion, it appears, that M. Horare, the empress' medical attendant endeavored to dissuade her majesty from quitting her bed, and, it is said, that for the first time in her life, the amiable Josephine answered, him, sharply: "you should know M. Horare," said the empress, "that I cannot possibly do otherwise." The suffering Josephine persevered, but no sooner was she dressed than, overcome by her excessive weakness, she fainted, and was obliged to be conveyed to her bed again. The queen of Holland, who had been at Malmaison since the first symptoms of her mother's disease, undertook to receive their majesties. On the 27th and 28th, the sore throat that the empress complained of began to assume an alarming appearance, and, on the evening of the 28th, mortification had commenced. The sufferings of Josephine, on this night, were most acute, on account of her difficulty in breathing, which encreased to such an extent, that her majesty narrowly escaped suffocation more than once. On the morning of the 29th of May, at twelve o'clock, death put a period, at once to the life and trials of the beloved and deeply lamented empress Josephine the disease that proved fatal being a putrid sore throat, or quinsy. : Six days after her decease, her body was interred in a vault, beneath one of the altars in the church of Ruel.+ Her son and daughter applied for permission to erect a tomb to the memory of their deceased mother, which permission was not granted until the year 1825. This simple and elegant tribute to the memory of the best of mothers, and most devoted of wives, bears no pompous inscription. The renowned name of Josephine lives in the hearts of her subjects, and succeeding generations will be taught to bless her memory; for her virtues will be handed to posterity as forming the brightest contrast to that imperious glory by which Napoleon astonished the world.— The words on the tomb are simply these To JOSEPHINE. The blossoms of the lime tree. + Contiguous to Malmaison. STANZAS TO THE OLD YEAR. Farewell, old year! with thee I fain would linger, Old year! thy spring tide was a time of joy, Then banners waved, and all was revelry- To grace the pageant as it journeyed on. And, hark! the solemn organ loudly pealing, While with the people's shouts the air is riven, And then Victoria, at the altar kneeling, With "humble voice" lifts up her heart to heaven. A few short months, and then, thou changeful year! Of warriors, bending o'er a hero's bier, And proudly bearing it across the main. Vale of the Tomb! no more dost thou enclose His dust, whose warlike spirit awed the world- A few fair flowers, placed by affection's hand, t Genius of war! how did thy spirit burn To plant thy eagles on proud Acre's brow; Marengo, Hohenlinden, Austerlitz, Have stamped thee hero; but o'er Acre's shore And moans responsive to the billows roar. Thou fleeting year! once more to notes of gladness November! though thy clouds were dark and frowning, A bud of promise, all our wishes crowning, Long may it grace our land, unscathed by time! May He, that clothes the lily of the field, May He, through life's rude storms, be still thy shield, E. E. E. The valley where the ashes of Napoleon reposed is called "the Valley of the Tomb." + Madame Bertrand planted flowers at the grave of Napoleon. THE MARINER AND THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER. A Tale of the Sea Coast. AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF POOR JACK. In the autumn of 1798, a farmer, named Barham, had a dispute with his laborers on his farm. He had offered a reduced rate of wages which they had refused to accept, and as he could not keep up to the terms they required, they simultaneously quitted their work: far from being of a sordid disposition, he had no desire of encreasing his private gains, but was compelled to act in this manner, in consequence of the depression of farming business in general. He did not, however, feel it necessary to state the real cause, consequently many of the men were led to attribute it to a different motive, and the present autumn did not promise to be sufficiently profitable to make up for the past years' losses. Collecting some poor people out of employ to do the work on terms which his usual laborers had refused, every thing appeared at first to go on smoothly, till a few evenings after the harvest had been got in, when he was suddenly aroused from his bed by a cry of fire, and, to his dismay, beheld his barn and stacks in a blaze: spite of all his exertions they were in a few hours utterly destroyed. This was indeed a night of woe to him: he was reduced to beggary. The morning broke upon the scene of devastation :-Barham stood in the midst, pale and motionless as a statue, his eyes bent on the ground, and his heart torn with anguish frantically he exclaimed, "Ruined! ruined past redemption." His little daughter Esther seeing her father's agonized looks ran towards him, and taking his hand, and looking in his face, ejaculated, "Father, dear father, are you not well?" Barham started from his reverie, raised the child in his arms, and imprinted a kiss on her forehead, as the burning tear of agony burst forth to relieve his aching heart. "Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed he, "what will become of you ?" "Dear father," replied she, "you will take care of me, now that my mother is dead." "Aye, my child, but if I am unable to do so." "Then I will take care of you," replied she, "when I am old enough to work in the field." "Bless thee, bless thee girl!" responded the father. Several of the neighbouring farmers now came to condole with Barham, because they had always considered him to be an opulent man, and readily proffered every assistance, as taking the charge of Esther, while he was enabled to arrange his affairs, and learn the extent of his losses. Too soon, however, these mercenary hollow friends discovered that his circumstances were but indifferent, and that this catastrophe was such as he could not surmount. The tide changed with the flood of evil news, their friendly promises of future aid were all forgotten, and poor Esther turned adrift, to seek protection how and where she could. Barham was so overcome at this cruel treatment, that he became thoughtful and abstracted, he would wander alone through the most unfrequented paths just as chance might direct him, and without the least regard to distance. Having strayed further than usual, the shades of evening fell quickly around him, and it was completely dark ere he observed to what a bye spot he had wandered. The sky was veiled by impenetrable clouds, and the rising wind gave token of a coming storm: he felt completely bewildered, he could distinctly hear the dash of waters; big drops of rain began to fall, the distant thunder pealed and gradually approached; a vivid flash of lightning revealed to him that he was close to an inlet of the sea; a second flash displayed to him a small vessel close in shore. This called him to himself, and he recollected that he was full five miles from the miserable habitation in which he had resided since his farm had been destroyed. He therefore determined to return without loss of time, finding that the storm was increasing. He had not proceeded far, when a rough voice sounded close to him. "What ship, ho!" Barham paused. "You mistake-I am not a sailor," replied he. "That voice!" exclaimed the stranger, "surely we have met before." "Perhaps so," replied Barham. "I thought I was right," continued the stranger; you are the person; it would be hard indeed if I could forget you." What would you have from me?" enquired Barham. "Alas! I have nought to give. I am now but a houseless beggar." "Don't say that," continued the stranger; "don't tell me that you have fallen into distress.' "Alas, it is too true," replied Barham, "I am completely ruined." "I'm glad to hear it," replied the stranger.-Barham started in anger. "That is to say, I am glad, because I shall have the satisfaction of rendering assistance, and partially repaying the obligation which I owe you." "I am at a loss to understand you," ejaculated Barham. "You shall soon understand me better," continued the stranger.-If you have forgotten me, I still remember you, and tho' its too dark to see your countenance, I know you by your speech. Your name is Barham, the kind, the humane farmer of West Point Creek.' "You know me then!" exclaimed Barham surprised. "Yes," rejoined the stranger," and I have good reason to do so." Have you forgotten the poor fellow that you discovered concealed in your barn about two years since whom you suspected to be a thief: but who told you he was only pursued by revenue officers, who wished to seize and prosecute him as a smuggler; have you forgotten also-when the myrmidons came and asked if they might search your premises, you allowed them to do so, but disguised me and set me to work amongst your labourers, by which means I escaped discovery ;-have you forgotten when one of the labourers suspected me as the pursued person, and was about to give information, you prevented him, and bought his secrecy with gold;-if you have forgotten all this, I have not. At that time I had a heavy venture afloat, but my ship escaped, for my cunning mate suspected there was something amiss, so he weighed and got out to sea, before the officers could get on board; they attempted to pursue him; but he got the weather-gage of them and shook his mizen at them by way of a farewell. I was left on shore surrounded by enemies, hunted down by harpies of the law, but saved by your humane interference. You gave me ten pounds at parting, because I was pennyless, and I have now come to repay it. Yonder lies my trim little vessel the Wasp, come on board and you shall have your money with good interest, and a hearty welcome into the bargain. Barham was astounded. "What!" exclaimed he, "are you the fugitive Brian Gilbert?" "The same," replied the stranger: 66 come, come, time wastes quickly-I don't altogether feel so safe on land, as on board my own little bark: leave this place, you have now no ties to bind you here." "You mistake, I have one, but only one," exclaimed Barham, "and such an one that death alone shall snatch from me." "Indeed," said Gilbert, "and what sort of a tie is that?" "A daughter, an only daughter!" ejaculated Barham, "the only tie which binds me to this world. She was protected by some of my former friends, but when distress entered my door, their friendship soon vanished into air, and she, poor child, has now no other being to look up to but myself." "Aye, that's the very way of the world," rejoined Gilbert. "When poverty comes in at the door, friendship flies out at the window. But it is too late to return to-night, and the rain is pouring fast-come on board and wait till the storm is over, and, then, either myself or one of my men shall help you to bring your daughter on board; take my advice, quit this spot altogether, and try your fortunes elsewhere; it's of no use striving to get through the world with a yoke round your neck. Your late misfortune has plunged you into debt and difficulty, you are not safe here, of course you know that." "Not safe!" exclaimed Barham. "Explain yourself, I do not understand you. What have I to fear? I am guilty of no crime." 66 Yes," interrupted Gilbert, "poverty !-That is considered a crime among you landsmen." "And what have I to fear?" exclaimed Barham. "The bailiffs," replied Gilbert "Dont you know that there is a writ out against you for money due to your ground landlord ?" "Balliffs, I could not suppose it possible," exclaimed Barham. "It is not only possible, but true. So come away, every moment is unsafe," said Gilbert, as he seized his hand to draw him forward: " your child will be safe till you return; surely no one would have the heart to turn the poor girl out of doors such a night as this." Gilbert conveyed him to the beach and hurried him into his boat, which soon after reached the vessel. Poor Esther who was left in the care of a neighbour, had been accustomed to be treated with marked kindness; but, as soon as it became known that Barham was a broken man, she quickly experienced a change; she became a burthen' to the family, and they did not refrain from openly declaring that they wished Mr. Barham would fetch his daughter away as they had not sufficient room to accommodate her. Barham, however, not appearing, it was resolved upon, to send her home to him on the following day. Accordingly, Bennet the carrier, was commissioned to take charge of her, and convey her to her father's residence. When he arrived, he found the place vacant, the house closed and Barham absent. In this dilemma he knew not what was best to be done, and considered it a wiser plan to take her back again : but Esther would not hear of it, and begged the carrier to let her remain: she would wait, she said, at the door, until her father's return. Any thing she declared was preferable to going back again." The carrier seemed puzzled "Really girl,' said he "to hear you talk, one would suppose you had met with ill usage.' "I do not say that," replied the girl. "I was treated well at first, and was always looked upon as a welcome companion for their children, I was treated as one of the family. But when they found that my father was not the rich man they had supposed; their conduct underwent a complete change. I could do nothing to please them; my former companions appeared to shun me, rather than receive me with their usually good humored smile; in short, I suddenly appeared to be a burthen on the family, and they seemed to be anxious to get rid of me. "Umph," said the carrier," that's rather awkward to be sure; and since you seem resolved not to return, why, I suppose I must leave you behind, so good by, my good girl." With these words, the carrier mounted his little van, and drove off. Esther paused;-she looked up at the mean dwelling which was now her father's only home: young, as she was, she had sensibility enough to feel the reverse of fortune which had fallen upon them. The memory of her departed mother now flashed across her mind. It was still day light, the church yard was not far distant; hither, she bent her steps. An humble stone marked her mother's grave; here she knelt and prayed sad recollections filled her mind, the tears rolled down her youthful cheeks at length, overcome with grief, she threw herself on the hallowed turf, weeping, bitterly. A man having the appearance of a mariner at length passed across the church yard, and being attracted by the girl's cries, approached, and raised her in his arms, and having partially recovered her, asked a few questions. She briefly related the events of the last hour: the mariner was moved by her forlorn situation. "Well, my poor child," said he, " since you have no home, I will find you one; the world is wide, and Providence is good. Cheer up my good girl, cheer up: what, though you've run close under a lee-shore, you haven't foundered yet. Come with me, then,girl, dry up your tears: I will be your father until you find your own. "Twould be hard indeed to see a trim little bark swamped by the breaking waters, |