were some persons close at hand, distributing arms, ammunition, and brandy.

"Ho there! citizen," cried one of the group, "what business have you here unarmed? take this sabre, and musket, and en avant."

Another man gave him a brace of pistols and a poniard, and thus, in an instant, he was armed to the teeth.

"Vive Napoleon II." vociferated the insurgents.

"Ah!" exclaimed Pierre, "they are fighting for the young King of Rome, then! Well then, here goes for Napoleon II."

"Vive la Republique !" roared another band of patriots.

66 Napoleon II. and the Republic are two different things!" replied the young man, "I don't understand this."

"Vive la Charte!" was the rejoinder. "Another change!" cried Pierre, "la Charte signifies the government of Charles X."

"No, no, la Charte is liberty."

"Yes," added a man in a smockfrock, "and liberty is the Republic."

"And the Republic is the son of Napoleon," said an old ex-Garde Imperiale. A cry of "Vive le duc d'Orleans!" was now heard.

In the midst of this turmoil, Pierre entered the city, and was soon in the hottest of the fight. He was still in the dark as to the real cause of the horrid strife, but he drank-swore-loaded and fired again and again,-cut and slashed in every direction, shouting Vive la Charte!-to which the groans of the dying responded mournfully.

He thus reached the boulevard, and took his post behind a barricade, formed of magnificent trees which had been cut down in full leaf, blood-stained pavingstones, and broken carriages. A lad about twelve years old was amusing himself in the midst of this sanguinary drama, by playing the horn of an omnibus which had been overturned:-the child of disorder laughed at this strange music, which formed a warlike accompaniment to the rolling of the drums, and the shouts of the combatants. Pierre looked at him, and laughed also:-both made a sport of the work of destruction!

At length the shades of night overspread the horizon-the roaring of the cannon ceased, the tocsin's awful tones no longer vibrated on the ear: there were no more shouts-no more murders. The barricaded streets were deserted, and the silence of the grave had succeeded to the war-cry.

Pierre was not in a condition to avail himself of this favourable moment to repair to his mother's dwelling ::-at dawn of day, he lay stretched upon the unpaved ground, in a state of complete intoxication. Suddenly a man shook him rudely

"To arms, comrade, to arms!"

Pierre, thus violently aroused, started up, rubbed his eyes, and cast a heavy, stupid look around.

"Yes, yes, I understand, we must fight, eh!-very well, I am ready. What are we to fight for to-day?"

"For the same thing as yesterday

Vive le Charte!"

"And the Republic?"

"'Tis the same thing." "And the King of Rome?" "The same the same; you have been told so twenty times over.'

"I can't, for the life of me, comprehend them," muttered Pierre; "what do they want? c'ést legal — let us fight away."

An individual named Jacques had followed Pierre closely during the whole of the preceding day. This man was the very personification of a firebrand, for he kept up the flame of rebellion wherever he passed. He was one of those stubby, brawny men, whose frames denote great bodily strength, whilst their hard features announce doggedness of character. Jacques continued to excite his comrades, and Pierre admired his valour. The former now led the way to a large building, the abode of luxury and opulence. "Let us go in here," said Jacques, in an under tone.

"What for?" demanded the astonished Pierre.

"To be paid for our day's work."
"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are a blockhead if you suppose that all this uproar is the effect of mere chance. This scene has been a long time in preparation. Do you imagine that I would be such an idiot as to help to overthrow Charles X. without gaining something by his ruin? I am paid for it, man, by two rich houses."

The struggle continued. Pierre (again dragged on by the force of example) was at the taking of the Hotel de Ville; he afterwards entered the Louvre in triumph, and soon found himself in the Tuileries.

Having visited the cellars of the royal palace, he ascended to the grand apartments-traversed the splendid galleries (which a few minutes before had been the theatre of bloodshed), overturning,

breaking, and destroying every thing that presented itself to his view. His brain was in a ferment from the effect of the wine he had drunk, and he was seconded in the work of devastation by a horde of armed ruffians; he stopped short in front of the throne-a dead body, covered with black crape, was placed upon it! "Have they, then, assassinated Charles the Tenth?"

"That is not the old king," replied one of his companions.

"Has there been a new one then; and have they killed him already?"

"Not at all,-what you see there was a young student."

"Why is the corpse placed on the throne?"

"He represents a dead king."
"Is all this a farce then?"
"Far from it."

"Is the youth really dead?"

"Certainly; and well did the brave lad deserve to be seated where he is. He was a noble little fellow- a thorough Buonaparte. He stood fire for all the world like a vieille moustache, and died for the salvation of the Charter."

"And have we saved it?' cried Pierre. "Down with all kings," responded the crowd.

*

- in

The work of destruction went on. Pierre, completely beside himself, played his part in these scenes of carnage and confusion with savage delight. He was foremost in every attack, and his intemperance was boundless. He was a bold combatant-a bloody enthusiast short, Pierre was a hero of July!!! Having been slightly wounded in the leg, he sat down under a parapet of one of the quays. Whilst he was stanching the blood, Jacques ran up to him with an air of triumph.

"All's right-Vive la revolte !" "La revolte!" cried Pierre, "and the Charter in the name of which we have conquered?"

Jacques burst into a fit of laughter.

"We have destroyed the old musty parchment," said he; "'t is only fit for wadding, and they are getting up a new one."

"But hundreds fell in defence of the other !"

"Very true, 't is the same thing, they will be buried with military honours." "And young Napoleon?"

"None of us ever thought of him."
"Bah! for whom then have I been

had possession of our hearts, though his name was never uttered by our lips." "But we shouted-Vive la Republique!”

"Our thoughts," replied Jacques, “are better known to others than to ourselves : -the people are proclaimed sovereign.”

"The people what becomes, then, of the sovereignty of the Duke of Orleans?"

"The people have decided in his favour."

"Already!-where?-when?-how?" "No matter:-Vive la libertè !" "The more I hear, the less I understand," said Pierre.

"Comrade, thou art a fool," replied Jacques.

We ought to have mentioned that Pierre had a small bag of money concealed in the red woollen sash that encircled his loins; and that the contents of this bag-the product of the savings he had made in the south of Francewere destined for his mother. It was to see that afflicted parent, and to lay his little offering at her feet, that he had undertaken the weary journey, the termination of which was marked by such unlooked-for and such maddening events. -Just as Jacques pronounced the word fool, Pierre discovered that his precious sash was gone!-He uttered a piercing cry-then, turning abruptly away, he bent his steps towards the dark, narrow street where his family formerly resided: -disappointment and self-reproach - sat on his brow.

He knocked loudly at the door-it flew open, and the portier thrust his head out of the window of his lodge. He was an old man and nearly blind; he did not recognize Pierre, but put the usual question to him :

"Qui demandez vous ?"
"My mother!"

"Ah! Pierre," cried the portier, recollecting the young man's voice, “when did you return?"

"Yesterday; does my mother still live on the fifth floor?"

"No; she occupies the entresol."

"By whom?"

"By Charles the Tenth."

"Charles the Tenth!" exclaimed Pierre, and the blood forsook his cheeks.

"Certainly, and your mother's rent

was regularly paid by Madame la Dauphine; your brother (poor fellow!) was admitted into the Garde Royale, and your sisters were provided for by the Duchess of Berri."

Pierre staggered: the old portier seized his arm, and, dragging him across the obscure porte cochére, brought him into a small yard which was tolerably light, though surrounded by high buildings. "Ha! friend Pierre, you are armed," said the portier; "what! a sabre, a musket, and, by heavens, the tri-coloured cockade!"

"Pierre," she cried, in a tone of maternal joy, which even the horrible spectacle before her could not restrain, "my own Pierre!" and she was on the point of casting herself into his arms. But, a cry, very different from the former, now escaped her: Pierre's clothing was stained with blood! his hands the same—a sword— a musket-the COCKADE had met her eye! "Oh! God," she exclaimed, in a hollow voice, "Pierre! no-no-I mistake, this ruffian cannot be my son! Nay, it is not he. I ask, are you Pierre? Speak -answer. Oh! my brain turns." Pierre's head fell upon his breast-he could not reply-he wept.

At this juncture the old woman rose

His aged grandmother was reclining in a large arm-chair, counting, mechanically, with her lean and withered fingers, the worn beads of a rosary. She was evidently praying, yet her lips moved not; big tears rolled down her furrowed cheeks, but her brow was unclouded; the grief which was visible in her countenance appeared to arise from sympathy, or instinct thought or reflection had no share therein.

The mother of the hero of July was upon her knees, dressing the wounds of a royal guardsman, who seemed to be at the point of death. Two young girls stood, pale and trembling, by the side of their afflicted parent, whose sobs almost suffocated her. Despair was stamped upon her features, and her eye was constantly fixed upon the soldier, for whose last gasp she seemed to be wildly watching all her faculties appeared to be concentrated in one immovable gaze! her eyelids were red and swollen.

"Give me your hand, my son-your hand! But, he no longer hears me! And he has been massacred by Frenchmen! the murderers are not far off; if they should enter our home perhaps they would tear my poor boy in pieces, even on the brink of the grave! Do not insult a mother's feelings, girls, by offering me consolation; I want none-leave me -leave me."

Pierre was still on the threshold, for he had not dared to enter this chamber of affliction and death; his hair stood on end-his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth-the musket fell from his hand! Roused by the heavy ring of the gun, the wretched mother, turning her eyes towards the door, perceived her child.

ear; it seemed to awaken her torpid faculties. She tottered towards him-a strange, unearthly smile played upon her thin and trembling lips.

"Pierre!" she cried; "somebody said Pierre, I believe-the dear boy I loved so well; where is he?"

She now recognised her grandson, and her shrivelled arms were extended towards him; but the hero of July did not respond to the movement-he turned away his head—and shed bitter tears!

"My poor Pierre," said the old dame, "hast thou forgotten me? I am thy old grandmother — delighted to see thee! thou art come to protect us-yes, I knew thou wouldst be with us in the hour of danger!"

The mother of the royal guardsman led her aged parent back to her seat.

"Whether he be Pierre or not," she said, in a mysterious and agonized tone, "do not interrogate him-oh! let him be silent!-let him be silent!

Then she thus addressed the conqueror of July:

"You understand me-and yet you remain in my presence!-Pierre, THE CURSE IS UPON MY LIPS-it has not yet escaped them; but, do not remain-this is no place for you-begone, Pierrebegone!"

A deep groan now proceeded from the further end of the room; the royal guardsman gave signs of life; he opened his eyes for an instant-they appeared to seek his brother.

"Look! your brother is dying," continued the distracted mother; "and from whom did he receive his deathwound? From you, perhaps; yes, you or your companions--the guilt is the same; the blood with which you are stained is French blood: Cain, thou hast slain thy brother!"

66

"Pardon! pity him! he repents," exclaimed the poor sisters, both at once. Repents!" replied the distracted mother, "to what purpose? Can he recal the past?"

The guardsman raised himself upon his elbow: "Forgive him, mother,forgive him!" he said, in a voice of agony; "Pierre, my poor brother, God bless you!"

The hero of July darted towards the soldier-caught him in his arms—looked on his face-but met only the glazed stare of a corpse! Weak was the living!heavy the dead!—the brothers fell down upon the bed together!-Monthly Mag.

ANECDOTE OF DR. JOHNSON. WHEN Dr. Johnson first conceived the design of compiling a Dictionary of the English language, he drew up a plan, in a letter to the Earl of Chesterfield. This very letter exhibits a beautiful proof to what a degree of grammatical perfection, and classical elegance, our language is capable of being brought. The execution of this plan cost him the labour of many years: but when it was published in 1755, the sanguine expectations of the public were amply justified, and several foreign academies, particularly Della Crusca, honoured the author with their approbation. "Such are its merits," says the learned Mr. Harris, "that our language does not possess a more copious, learned, and valuable work." But the excellency of this great work, will rise in the estimation of all who are informed that it was written, as the author declares, “with little assistance of the learned, and without any patronage of the great; not in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academic bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and sorrow." Lord Chesterfield, at that time, was universally esteemed the Mæcenas of the age; and it was in that character, no doubt, that Dr. Johnson addressed to him the letter before mentioned. His Lordship endeavoured to

be grateful, by recommending the valuable work in two Essays, which, among others, he published in a paper entitled "The World,' conducted by Edward Moore, and his literary friends. Some time after, however, the Doctor took great offence at being refused admittance to Lord Chesterfield; a circumstance which had been imputed to the mistake of the porter. Just before the Dictionary was published, Moore expressed his surprise to the great Lexicographer, that he did not intend to dedicate the work to his Lordship. Dr. Johnson answered, "That he was under no obligation to any great man whatever, and therefore he should not make him his patron.” "Pardon me sir," said Moore," you are certainly obliged to his Lordship for two elegant papers, he has written in favour of your performance." "You quite mistake the thing, replied the other," I confess no obligation; I feel my own dignity, sir. I have made a Commodore Anson's voyage round the world of the English language, and while I am coming into port, with a fair wind, on a fine sun-shining day, my Lord Chesterfield sends out two little cock-boats to tow me in. I am very sensible of the favour, Moore, and should be sorry to say an ill-natured thing of that nobleman; but I cannot help thinking he is a Lord amongst wits, and a wit amongst Lords." The severity of this remark seems never to have been forgotten by the Earl, who, in one of his Letters to his son, thus delineates the Doctor:- "There is a man, whose moral character, deep learning, and superior parts, I acknowledge, admire, and respect; but whom it is so impossible for me to love, that I am almost in a fever whenever I am in his company. His figure, without being deformed, seems made to disgrace or ridicule the common structure of the human body. His legs and arms are never in the position, which, according to the situation of his body they ought to be in, but constantly employed in committing acts of hostility upon the Graces. He throws anywhere but down his throat, whatever he means to carve. Inattentive to all regards of social life, he mistimes or misplaces every thing. He disputes with heat, and indiscriminately; heedless of the rank, character, and situation of those with whom he disputes. Absolutely ignorant of the social gradations of familiarity or respect, he is exactly the same to his superiors, his equals, and his inferiors, and therefore by a necessary consequence, absurd to

two of the three. Is it possible to love such a man? No; the utmost I can do for him, is to consider him a respectable HOTTENTOT."

ENRAGED CONTRIBUTOR.

SCENE.-EDITOR'S CHAMBERS.

[Enter an outrageous Author. Author. (In a suppressed tone, and with an unnatural smile). Will you have the goodness, Mr. Editor, to inform me why (bursting into a fury)-Zounds! I can't be calm!-Why the Devil has dared to abuse the two very best lines (yes, the very best, sir!) of my poem? Tell me that, Sir, thou unhappiest of editors tell me that!

Editor. (Evidently caught in the manner). Lines, sir! the best lines! I-I-I-allow me to look

Author. Look?-ay!-and like the Princess Tourandocte, in the Persian Tales, that look ought to drive you mad. Look here! Look here! Read those two lines.

Editor. (With evident reluctance.) "Bids the bleak wind his healing watchbell"

Author. " Healing" watchbell!! Why healing? Mister Editor, why healing? Thou

Editor. Bless me, sir-really-why, it is a sad mistake!

Author. Mistake! it's murder! At least, unjustifiable homicide! I shouldn't have cared if it had been any other lines! but those two! the concluding two! those two that I used to repeat so fondly, long before I thought of dignifying your twopenny halfpenny

Editor. (Firing in turn, glad to get on the defensive, and with much dignity,) threepenny, sir, if you please!

Author. (Not heeding.) Publication! it is enough to

Editor. (With a soft, subacid smile). To make you turn editor yourself! Oh! my good sir, if you did but know those tiresome Devils

Author. I know 'em well enough, thanks to you! You complain of 'em, and then, begging for a few of my poor offspring, protest you will protect them from all harm; and then, leaving them in the hands of those Molochs, if they do not make them pass through the fire, they come out of their hands in such a plight as leaves them fit for nothing else. Editor. "Tantæne animis cœlestibus Iræ?"

Author. I answer in your own jargon,

"Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo;" that is as much as to say, if I cannot get redress from you, I will take the very Devils themselves by the nose. Editor. Oh! sir, you shall have ample redress.

Author. What redress? thou most

un

Editor. Why, the whole of this conversation shall be published in our next, and it shall be-" pealing watchbell."

Author. Well, then, I have no hesitation in saying, that PARTERRE, No. 1, is the prettiest, the very best written, best printed, best papered production in the world.

[Exit, much mollified.

[We insert the above at the request of our much abused, but much respected, correspondent. The blunder is provoking in the extreme; but we have very great doubt, notwithstanding what our friend says, whether he is aware of the care necessary to the production of a number of the PARTERRE. Upon the discovery of the error, we summoned the compositor before us, our editorial eye flashing fire on the caitiff. He received the attack with the coolness of an experienced hand, and respectfully though firmly assured us, that the gentleman's p was very like an h; intimating, also, that there was something soothing in the distant sound of a bell, and that Dante himself had said so. We were obliged to dismiss the rogue, for fear we should laugh in his face; not, however, without resolving to be more careful ourself for the future. Occasional errors of the press are almost unavoidable in weekly publications; and it cannot be wondered at, since they have so often crept into works of much higher pretensions. Erasmus tells us, that he would have given a purse of gold crowns to have avoided a sad misprint in a work which he had dedicated to a princess. We shall some day write a chapter on these plagues to authors; and in the meantime beg our kind readers and correspondents, from whom we have received numerous assurances of support, to correct any typographical errors with their pens, assuring them that a list of errata shall be given at the end of the volume. To give this at the end of each number would be to deface the work.-ED.]

MISCELLANIES.

PEDIGREES OF OUR BISHOPS.

THE present Primate of all England is the son of a poor country clergyman. The Bishop of London derives his de