The painter sat alone in his apartment-which was filled with costly furniture and pictures The goblet that stood upon the marble table where he leaned his elbow was of solid gold, and the curtains that tempered the light of the lofty windows were of the richest velvet, covered with embroidery and heavy with silver fringes. A letter hung from his left hand.

"And this is fame!" said the painter; "the praises of the self-conceited, the ignorant critics, the roaring rabble, and the gold of the nobles, who bestow it as a gift and not for an equivalent. And Nina is no more! Heavens! when I thought to return to Naples with my temper softened, my coffers full of gold, my heart exalted with the universal praise, to offer heart and hand to Nina, to learn that she is laid in the cold grave-and at Rome-when I should have been by her to close her dying eyes! Ah! this calamity! 'Sdeath here comes a reverend fool to interrupt me!"

Enter Cardinal Ambrosio, he to whom Salvator had conveyed a timely warning in the carnival. The painter kneeled reluctantly and said, in an indifferent tone-" Father, thy blessing."

"My son, thou hast it. I owe thee something, my son-Salvator-I may say, Salvatoriello mio! I would repay it by having one of thy pictures. But I would dictate the conceit and the design.'

66 Thou, father!" exclaimed the painter, while the colour mounted to his cheeks, and a smile of scorn curled his lip. "Can I dictate a homily for your Eminence, or officiate in the sacred college with the scarlet hat?"

'Cheap! my son!-its weight in gold almost! Think again. Two hundred scudi! Tell me the lowest price?"

Indignant at the chaffering spirit of the cardinal-indignant at the interruption of his solitude-smarting at the recollection of Nina's loss, Salvator answered, "Four hundred scudi! reverend sir."

"You are jesting, Salvator. Seriously, name the lowest sum for which I can have the picture."

66

Eight hundred scudi !" cried the painter, fiercely. "No! thou shouldst not have it at any rate!" and snatching the painted panel from the frame, he stamped his foot upon it, and crushed it to pieces. "Behold! how I estimate the daub !''

It is needless to remark that his Eminence soon took his leave. Left to himself, Salvator soon forgot his irritation in his grief at the intelligence he had recently received. "Nina dead!" he murmured, as the tears coursed down his cheeks "Nina dead! then shall I never revisit Naples !"'

But he did revisit Naples, with arms in his hands, when, in 1647, Masaniello rushed from obscurity, and called upon his countrymen to do or to die. Enrolled in the Compagna della Morte, he found in the vortex of a revolution the excitement his adventurous spirit craved. With the fall of Masaniello, the energy of the Neapolitans departed, and Salvator left their city of bondage, bearing with him the portrait of one of the most extraordinary revolutionary leaders that history records. That portrait is yet extant. To disappoint the lovers of romance, Salvator Rosa died in his bed in the act of receiving the last consolation of the church.

THE EMPRESS OF FRANCE.

"She, in the working of whose destiny

The man of blood and victory at-
tained

His more than kingly height."-
The Conqueror.

WHEN a few centuries shall have thrown their shadows upon the strange fortunes of Napoleon, and given to everything about him the tinge of romance, the story of his first wife will seem to the student rather a fable than a fact; he will look upon her as we look upon Mary of Scotland, but with a deeper interest; for she, far more truly than her lord, was from first to last" the child of Destiny."

Told, while yet unmarried, that she would be a wife, a widow, and the queen of France-the entire fulfilment of the first part of the prophecy gave her courage to believe in the last part also when under sentence of death. When her bed was taken from her, because she was to die in the morning, she told her weeping friends that it was not so, that she should yet sit upon that throne on the ruins of which Robespierre then stood triumphant; and when asked in mockery to choose her maids of honour, since she was to be queen, she did choose them, and they were her maids of honour, when half of Europe looked up to her. that night which was to have been her last on earth, Robespierre fell. Had he fallen a few days earlier, her first husband would have lived; had his fall been but one day later, Josephine herself would have been among the ten thousand victims, whose names we have never heard.—But he fell on that night, and her destiny was accomplished.

On

She married Napoleon, and through her and as her husband, he was appointed to the army of Italy; step by step they rose, till at last the crown rested upon her head:-the second part of the prophecy was proved true, and she began to look forward to that loss of power and rank, which had also been foretold, and which was to close the strange drama of her life.

And he that had wedded the child of Destiny grew every day more strong,

and more grasping. In vain did Josephine attempt to rule his ambition, and chasten his aims; he was an emperor, he wished to found an empire, and by slow degrees he made himself familiar with the thoughts of putting her away.

When the campaign of 1809 was at an end, hardened and narrowed, the general came back to his wife; his former kindness was gone, his playfulness was checked, he consulted her but seldom, and seldom stole upon her private hours with that familiar love that had so often made her heart leap. She saw that her hour drew nigh.

It was the evening of the twentieth of November; the court were at Paris in honour of the king of Saxony. Josephine sat at her window, looking down upon the river, and musing on the dark fate before her, when she heard Napoleon's step at her door. She sprang to open it, using her usual exclamation, "mon ame!" He embraced her affectionately, that for an instant her fears and woes seemed vain. She led him to a chair, placed herself at his feet, and looking up into his face, smiled through her tears.

"You are unhappy, Josephine," said the emperor.

"Not with you, sire."

"Bah!" said he quickly, "why call me sire? these shows of state steal all true joy from us."

"Then why seek them?" answered Josephine.

The emperor made no reply. "You are now the first of men," she continued, "why not quit war, turn ambition out of your counsels, bend your thoughts on the good of France, and live at home among those that love you?"

"Josephine," said he, turning his face from her, "it is not I, it is France demands the sacrifice."

"Are you sure of that, my lord?" said his wife; "have you probed your heart to the bottom? Is it not ambition that prompts you to seek reasons for repudiating me? for think not, Napoleon, I misunderstand you; are you sure it is the love of France ?"

Every word she spoke touched him to the quick; and rising hastily, he replied, "Madam, I have my reasons; good evening."

"Stay, sire," said she, taking hold of his arm, 66 we must not part in anger. I submit. Since you wish it, I submit cheerfully. It is not in my nature to oppose your will: I love you too deeply. Nor shall I cease to love you, Napoleon, because I am to leave your throne and your side. If you still go on victorious, I shall rejoice with you: if reverse comes, I will lay down my life to comfort you. I will pray for you morning and night, and in the hope that sometimes you will think of me."

Hardened as he was, Napoleon had loved his wife deeply and long: her submission to his stern resolve-her calm but mournful dignity-her unshaken love moved even him; and for a moment affection struggled with ambition. He turned to embrace her again. But in that moment, her face and form had changed. Her eye and her whole person seemed inspired. He felt himself in the presence of a superior being. She led him to the window, and threw it open. A thin mist rested upon the Seine, and over the gardens of the palace: all around was silent; among the stars, then before them, one was far brighter than the rest she pointed to it.

"Sire!" she said, "that star is mine; to that and not to yours was promised empire; through me, and through my destinies, you have risen ; part from me and you fall. The spirit of her that foresaw my rise to royalty even now communes with my spirit, and tells me that your fate hangs on mine. Believe me or not, if we henceforth walk asunder, you will leave no empire behind you, and will die yourself in shame, and sorrow, and with a broken spirit."

He turned away sick at heart, and overawed by the words of one, whose destiny had been so strangely accomplished. Ten days were passed in resolves and counter-resolves - and then the link that bound him to fortune was broken. Josephine was divorced -and, as he said himself at St. Helena, from that hour his fall began.

Josephine was divorced-but her love did not cease; in her retirement, she joyed in all his successes, and prayed that he might be saved from the fruits of his foul ambition. When

his son was born, she only regretted that she was not near him in his happiness; and when he went a prisoner to Elba, she begged that she might share his prison and relieve his woes. Every article that he had used at her residence, remained as he left it; she would not let a chair be removed. The book in which he had been last reading was there with the page doubled down, and the pen that he had last used was by it, with the ink dried on its point. When her death drew nigh, she wished to sell all her jewels, to send the fallen emperor money; and her will was submitted to his correction. She died before his return from Elba; but her last thoughts were of him and France; and her last words expressed the hope and belief "that she had never caused a

single tear to flow." She was buried in the village church of Ruel, and her body was followed to the grave, not only by princes and generals, but by two thousand poor, whose hearts had been made glad by her bounty.

Her marble monument bears only this inscription :

"Eugene and Hortense to Josephine."

What a fund for future writers in her character and fate; and what a lesson to all of us, whether in prosperity or adversity.

CONJUGALITIES.

"Now cometh how that a man shuld bere him with his wif, and namely in two thinges, that is to say, in suffrance and in reverence, and this shewed Crist whan he firste made woman. For he ne made hire of the hed of Adam, for she shuld not claime to gret lordshippe; for ther as the woman hath the maistrie, she maketh to moche disarray; there nede non ensamples of this, the experience that we have day by day ought ynough suffice. Also, certes, God ne made not woman of the foot of Adam, for she shuld not be holden to lowe; but God made woman of the rib of Adam, for woman shuld be felaw unto man. Man should bere him to his wif in faith, in trouth, and in love; as sayth Seinte Poule, that

a man shuld love his wif as Crist loved holy chirche, that loved it so well that he died for it; so shuld a man for his wif if it were nede."-Chaucer.

Now how much have we improved on this piece of Chaucerian advice, with all our real and pretended advances in civilisation and refinement? Here is good, sound, wholesome doctrine, about five centuries old, equally free from the outrageous extravagances and fopperies of chivalry, and the domineering brutality of superior force. Women are here neither set up as goddesses nor peerless creatures, for iron-handed, soft-headed knights, to go a-tilting and breaking each other's heads and ribs for; nor yet degraded into mere necessary domestic animals. Their rightful station is distinctly assigned to them" to be felaw unto man." They have not to be "holden to lowe," because they "cannot patiently suffer;" nor yet to have "gret lordshippe," that is, too much of their own way, because, in such cases, when "woman hath the maistrie she maketh to moche disarray," which, it is to be presumed, means turning the house upside down, being an adept at curtain-lectures, and playing the very mischief when her unhappy helpmate incautiously asks any one to dinner without her leave. That the ladies contrived, however, in a great many instances, to have what is commonly termed "the upper hand," even among the rude barons and bluff yeomen of the time of "old John of Gaunt-time-honoured Lancaster "-appears quite evident from what the poet says about the "moche disarray," as he very quietly and quaintly adds-"ther nede non ensamples of this; the experience that we have day by day ought ynough suffice!"

home to the "bosoms and business" of all men. It would rivet the attention of the most careless and unlearned; while the very curious anomalies and strange contradictions, which a fair and philosophical investigation of the subject could not fail to elicit, would stimulate the studious and reflective to search still deeper into the mysteries of the human mind, for the more hidden springs and workings of henpeckism. Physical power has not to do with it; for, generally speaking, your tall, stout fellows, are more subject to governance than the lesser portions of the species, among whom self-consequence more predominates ; while, on the other hand, small wives, of a thin, sharp aspect, without question rule more imperatively than those of larger dimensions. Wisdom is no protection-look at Socrates. No more is courage. In fact, heroes appear to have been rather more subject to this disorder than your ordinary people. One example among many, and it is certainly a most astounding one. There was John Sobieski, king of Poland, as valiant a man as ever lived-the greatest general of his time

were as nothing to John, in comparison with a small, pointed instrument, which his lady carried about with her. Had John or her only had a copy of Chaucer, it might have saved" moche disarray," for not only the palace, but the country, was distracted by her "maistrie." And yet now, many a little, warped, shrivelled, shrunken, bilious, diminutive, forked radish sort of creature, will govern a goodsized woman with a rod of iron! Schiller, too, (as rendered by Coleridge,) makes the great Wallenstein very candidly own that it does not signify talking; the only way is to beat

"Set not this tongue upon me, I entreat you;

You know it is the weapon that destroys me;

I am routed if a woman but attack me; I cannot traffic in the war of words With that unreasoning sex."

This speech, however, it is but fair to say, is not addressed, or refers not, to Wallenstein's wife; and is, in itself, pretty fair evidence that that illustrious general, at least, was not henpecked, or he would not have been so free in its admissions. Your genuine, well-drilled husband is, for the most part, exceedingly boisterous in the uncalled-for assertion of his independence, in order the better to conIceal his piteous case. He affects a jolly, roystering carriage, and knits his brows, and looks fierce, when he is spoken to. He cares not for all the women in the world, not he-" who's afraid?"—but he shaketh his friend tenderly by the hand as he approaches his own dwelling, and wishes him a good-night, and is sorry his wife is ill of a cold she caught on Wednesday last. He assumeth a swaggering air in public, and bullieth the world in revenge for his domestic discipline; but there is a troublous expression in his eye when any shrill, feminine note is suddenly heard. It brings the wife of his bosom vividly to his remembrance reminding him of things past, and hinting of what is to

come.

There are many different species of the same animal. There is your meek, quiet henpeck, who has been so long and thoroughly subjected to the supremacy of the petticoat, that he has come at last to regard its predominance as the natural state of things, or else as "a destiny unshunnable, like death." This is your man that puts on his hat precisely as the clock strikes ten, and sigheth and shaketh his head with a look of melancholy dissent, if his neighbour proposes another glass. In politics he is a thorough believer in the doctrine of non-resistance; in religion, he altogether rejects the freedom of the will. There are many seemingly impossible things in the world that can be overcome by perseverance; but to get this sort of man to pledge himself

to a party of pleasure, or any inde pendent act, without first going home, is one of the things that can not be done.

Then there is your half-subdued personage, who is for ever making valiant small resistances-hoisting the standard of rebellion about whether the meat shall be roasted or boiled, and, in either case, getting it spoiled for his pains. He is for ever rushing into difficulties and sneaking out of them, and is generally a person of little temper and less nerve. Sometimes he ventures to get drunk, and then he is valorous exceedingly, and damages the furniture; but in the morning, when his head aches and his wife's tongue is a-going, he rather surmises there are worse evils than transportation. This is altogether a most unhappy wretch.

Again there is your unconscious henpeck, who actually fancies he has a will of his own, and flounces about his house, as a salmon flounces at the end of an experienced angler's line; only, in the salmon's case, the line may break-in his, it wont. There is mostly a pompous, all-sufficient gentleman, who is "led by the nose as easily as asses are," by some shrewd, sensible dame, who is anxious for the substance, rather than the show, of power. He talks about what he will do, and what he will not do, and affords his friends much amusement by his ludicrous unconsciousness of his situation.

Then there is your affectionate henpeck. He is generally some worthy individual of small property, who has married, rather late in life, a lady much troubled with the vapours. They have no children, and she lies on a sofa half the day, with a smellingbottle at her nose, to preserve her from fainting; and he sits, with book in hand, sympathisingly by her side, and ever and anon inquires, in the most dulcet and affectionate of tones, how she feels? and sometimes she answers, and sometimes she is unable, but sighs, and takes another smell at the bottle. She is afflicted with innumerable disorders, but they are all of a very intangible and indescribable character. She informs her physician she is very ill, and he con