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stuff. 'Tis true, he thought, as far as regarded peror to himself, 'I see nothing! Am I a simplehimself, there was no risk whatever ; but yet he ion? I not fit to be emperor? Oh,' he cried aloud, preferred sending some one else, to bring him intel- ' charming! The stuff is really charming! I apligence of the iwo weavers, and how they were prove of it highly ;' and he smiled graciously, and getting on, before he went himself; for everybody examined the empty looms minutely. And the in the whole town had heard of the wonderful prop- whole suite strained their eyes and cried · Beautierty that this stuff was said to possess.

ful!' and counselled his majesty to have new robes * • I will send my worthy old minister,' said the made out of this magnificent stuff for the grand proemperor at last, after much consideration; he will cession that was about to take place. And so it be able to say how the stuff looks better than any was ordered. body.'

“ The day on which the procession was to take “So the worthy old minister went to the room place, the two men brought the emperor's new suit where the two swindlers were working away with to the palace; they held up their arms as though all their might and main. Lord help me!' thought they had something in their hands, and said, “Here the old man, opening his eyes as wide as possible, are your majesty's knee-breeches; here is the coat, • Why, I can't see the least thing whatever on the and here the mantle. The whole suit is as light as loom.' But he took care not to say so.

a cobweb; and when one is dressed, one would “The swindlers, pointing to the empty frame, almost fancy one had nothing on; but that is just asked him most politely if the colors were not of the beauty of this stuff!'. great beauty. And the poor old minister looked and "• Of course!' said all the courtiers, although looked, and could see nothing whatever. • Bless not a single one of them could see anything of the me!' thought he to himself, am I, then, really a clothes. simpleton? Well, I never thought so. Nobody " " Will your imperial majesty most graciously knows it. I not fit for office! No, nothing on be pleased to undress? We will then try on the earth shall make me say that I have not seen the new things before the glass.' stuff!'

“The emperor allowed himself to be undressed, "Well, sir,' said one of the swindlers, still and then the two cheats did exactly as if each one working busily at the empty loom, 'you don't say helped him on with an article of dress, while his if the stuff pleases you or not.'

majesty turned himself round on all sides before the "Oh, beautiful beautiful! the work is admi. mirror. rable!' said the old minister, looking hard through “• The canopy which is to be borne above your his spectacles. * This pattern, and these colors! majesty in the procession, is in readiness without,' Well, well, I shall not fail to tell the emperor that announced the chief master of the ceremonies. they are most beautiful!'

“I am quite ready,' replied the emperor, turn• The swindlers then asked for more money, and ing round once more before the looking-glass. silk, and gold thread; but they put as before all “So the emperor walked on, under the high canthat was given them into their own pocket, and opy, through the streets of the metropolis, and all still continued to work with apparent diligence at the people in the streets and at the windows cried the empty loom.

out, 'Oh, how beautiful the emperor's new dress “Some time after, the emperor sent another offi- is!' In short, there was nobody but wished to cheat cer to see how the work was getting on. But he himself into the belief that he saw the emperor's fared like the other; he stared at the loom from new clothes. every side; but as there was nothing there, of course “But he has nothing on!' said a little child. he could see nothing. • Does the stuff not please And then all the people cried out, 'He has you as much as it did the minister ?' asked the men, nothing on!' making the same gestures as before, and talking of “But the emperor and his courtiers—they resplendid colors and patterns, which did not exist. tained their seeming faith, and walked on with great

66 Stupid I certainly am not !' thought the new dignity to the close of the procession." commissioner; "then it must be that I am not fitted for my lucrative office—that were a good joke!

ARCTIC DISCOVERY. However, no one dare even suspect such a thing.' And so he began praising the stuff that he could “ John Rae” must be added to the catalogue of not see, and told the two swindlers how pleased he immortal names, as that of one who shared in the was to behold such beautiful colors, and such charm- intrepid studies of practical geography under an ing patterns. • Indeed, your majesty,' said he to Arctic climate, and helped to define the northern the emperor on his return, the stuff which the boundary of the earth. Few scientific problems weavers are making is extraordinarily fine.' have been watched with more interest than the slow “ It was the talk of the whole town.

growth of that boundary line on the map. The bitThe emperor could no longer restrain his curi- terness with which Sir John Ross was reproached osity to see ihis costly stuff; so, accompanied by a for turning back in the straits between Boothia chosen train of courtiers, among whom were ihe Felix and the main land, showed how much impatwo trusty men who had so admired the work, off tience was felt to place the truth beyond a doubt. he went to the two cunning cheats. As soon as The reproaches even went to the extent of insinuatthey heard of the emperor's approach they began ing cowardice; a defect that could scarcely be posworking with all diligence, although there was still sible in the humblest of the volunteers who braved not a single thread on the loom.

the dangers and hardships of that perilous voyage. “ • Is it not magnificent?' said the two officers of Sir John must have been consoled, however, at the crown, who had been there before. Will your secing the fidelity with which his undaunted friend majesty only look? What a charming pattern! Back stood by him. Dr. Rae has completed the What beautiful colors !' said they, pointing to the vindication : Boothia is a peninsula, and Sir John empty frames, for they thought the others really did see land ahead. could see the stuff.

There is no grander or more ennobling contem6. What's the meaning of this ?' said the em- plation than these expeditions of north-western dis


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The gush of fairy laughter,

Or the tread of tiny feet. Their hand the little shining head

Can never fondly press, They never on the coral lip

Imprint a warm caress ; They never hear a lisping tongue

Pronounce their name in prayer, Or watch beside the cradle

Of a slumberer calm and fair.

covery, whether we regard the patrons who bear the cost or the adventurers who bear the hardships. Nothing is less alloyed by self-interest or any other base motive. England, who has done so much in that quarter, cannot hope for political advancement, territorial aggrandizement, or marine ascendancy, since the notion of a north-west passage available for any

useful purpose was exploded long ago; the territory is not worth having, and there are no subjects to govern except the seal and the wandering Esquimaux. The private patrons of discovery, like Sir Felix Booth or the Hudson's Bay Company, cannot expect any “profit;” for surely these enterprises can never pay.” The sailors, officers and

know that their bloodless glory is to be hardly won by the patient endurance of tedious and pain

Yet the missions are renewed, over and over again, with unabated zeal and alacrity. The real motive is nothing more self-interested than the desire to take a share in promoting that knowledge which is the happiness and power of mankind at large. This passion for discovery is perhaps the least selfish manifestation of human energy that is witnessed in our day-the least attended by tangible profit, the least “utilitarian"'-the most like the active abnegation imputed to ideal chivalry.-Spectator.


ful years:

The Mammoth Sale.—The general depression has caused a gloominess even in the animal market, and elephants, which were firm a twelvemonth ago at a thousand guineas, have given way to a hundred; while camels, which have hitherto maintained a very high position, have fallen to a dreadful discount. The antelope, so buoyant in furmer days, has been stagnant at less than half his proper price ; and the chariot of Muscat's famous Imaum is shakey at an enorinous reduction on its original value. The celebrated elephant known as Jenny Lind was always said to be worth her weight in gold, and the auctioneer, acting upon the impression, was beginning lo offer the sagacious creature to competition at — per ounce, but it was evident that there would have been a general disinclination to bid had such terms been persisted in. A slight attempt was then made to subinit her at per pound, but she was ultimately knocked down at 2s. 6d. the hundred weight.

The parting between the elephant and her owner was one of the most affecting things ever witnessed, for the poor animal tried to hide her trunk, and the experiment having failed, she shed a tear, measuring exactly one pint, and heaved such a sigh as nothing short of a whole regiment of coal-heavers could possibly have heaved. The mammoth dog went for £ 12 10s.; but if everything is worth what it will fetch, it should have commanded a much higher price, for the dog has been known to fetch, aye, and to carry, a pocket-book full of bank notes at its owner's command.-Punch.

Their age is dull and lonely;

In the solemn hour of death
No fond and weeping offspring

Receive their parting breath;
And they feel the hollow nothingness

Of honors, lands, and name, Knowing that those who love them not

The heritage must claim.
Thus I sorrowed for the childless;

But ere long, in happier mood,
I thought how Providence o'errules

Each earthly thing for good.
With the pleasures of the parent

Their lot I had compared, But dwelt not on the trials

And the troubles they were spared.
They know not what it is to stand

An infant sufferer by-
To mark the crimson fevered cheek,

The bright and restless eye;
And feel that in that feeble breast,

That form of fragile make,
Their happiness is garnered up,

Their earthly hopes at stake.
They know not, as the mind unfolds,

How hard it is to win
The little heart to cling to good,

And shun the ways of sin ;
They reck not of the awful charge,

Amid a world of strife,
To train a tenant for the skies,

An heir of endless life.
They see not the small coffin laid

Beneath the heavy sod,
Striving to school their bursting breasts

To bear the stroke of God; Then turning to the dreary homo,

Once gay with childish mirth, To view the silent nursery

The sad, deseried hearih.
Yet, is it not a blessed thought

That we have One above
Who deals to us our varied gifts

With such impartial love?
Let not another's favored lot,

Our anxious minds molest;
God knows alike his need and ours,

And judges for the best.
He wisely with some shadowy cloud

O'erspreads our brightest day;
He kindly cheers our deepest gloom,

With some benignant ray;
And we may safely rest on Him,

Whose loving mercy lies
Not only in the good He sends,

But that which He denies.



When I think upon the childless,

How I sorrow for the gloom That pervades the silent chambers

Of their still and joyous home! They do not hear the gleesome sound

of infant voices sweet,

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From Blackwood's Magazine. taste of the ladies for historical publications, for divTHE TIMES OF GEORGE 11. *

ing into the trunks of family memorials, and giving

us those private correspondences which are to be Female authorship is beginning to flourish in found only by the desperate determination to find England. To this employment no rational objec- something and everything, is a fortunate turn of the tion can be raised. The want of occupation for

wheel. female life in the higher classes has long been a

It is true that England boasts of many distinsubject of complaint, and any honest change which

guished female writers ; that the works of Mrs. removes it will be a change for the better. The Radcliffe opened a new vein of rich description and quantity of time and thread which has been wasted solemn mystery; that the comedies of Inchbald on chainstitch, and roundstitch, and all the other netted her innocent and persevering spirit some mysteries of the needle, in the last three centuries, thousand pounds; and that Joanna Baillie's trageis beyond all calculation. If the fair artists had dies entitle her to an enduring fame. We also been workers at the loom, they might have clothed acknowledge, with equal sincerity and gratification, half the living population in “ fine linen,” if not in the merits of many of our female novelists in the purple. If they had been equally diligent in brick- past half century; their keen insight into character, making, they might have built ten Babels ; or if their close anatomy of the general impulses of the they had devoted similar energies, on lago's hint, human heart, and the mingled delicacy and force " to suckle fools, and chronicle small beer,” they with which they seize on personal peculiarities, bemight have tripled the population, or anticipated long to woman alone. But their day, too, has the colossal vals of Messrs. Truman & Co. What

gone down. They were first rivalled by the “highmyriads of young faces have grown old over worsted life novel,” the most vulgar of all earthly caricatures. parrots and linsey-woolsey maps of the terrestrial They are now extinguished by the low-life novel, globe! What exquisite fingers have been thioned the most intolerable of all realities. The true novel, to the bone, in creating carnations to be sat upon, true in its fidelity io nature, polished without affecand cowslip beds for the repose of favorite poodles ! tation, and vigorous without rudeness, now sleeps What bright eyes have been reduced to spectacles, in the grave, and must sleep, until posterity shall,. in the remorseless fabrication of patchwork, quilts with one voice, demand its revival. and flowery footstools for the feet of gouty gentle

Yet, until another race of genius shall arise, and men! Nay, what thousands and tens of thousands the laurel of Fielding or of Shakspeare shall descend have been flung into the arms of their only bride-on our female authors, we must be grateful for their groom, Consumption, leaving nothing to record their gentle labors in the rather rugged field of history. existence but an accumulation of trifles, which cost

It must be owned that gallantry has a good deal them only their health, their tempers, their time, to do in giving these works the name of history. their charms, and their usefulness !

They want all the vigor, all the philosophy, and all But the age of knitting and tambour passed away. the eloquence of history. Of course no human The spinning-jenny was its mortal enemy. The being will ever apply to them as authorities. Still, most inveterate of fringemakers, the most painstak- they have the merit of giving general statements to ing devotee of patchwork, when she found that Ark- general readers, of supplying facts in their regular wright could make in a minute more than with all order, and probably, of inducing the multitude, her diligence she could make in a month, and that who would shrink from the formalities of Hume old Robert Peel could pour out figured muslins, by or Gibbon in solemn quartos and ponderous octavos, a twist of a screw, sufficient to give gowns to the to dip into pages having all the look and nearly all whole petticoat population of England, had only to the slightness of the modern novel. At all events, give in ; the spinsterhood were forced to feel that if they do nothing else, they employ the time of their " occupation was o'er.”

pens, which might be much worse occupied ; and Even then, however, the female fingers were not that pens are often much worse occupied, we have suffered to “ forget their cunning;" and the age of evidence from hour to hour. parsemaking began. The land was inundated with

The French novels are making rapid way into purses of every shape, size, and substance. Then our circulating libraries. Yet nothing can be more followed another change. The Berlin manufac- unfortunate, for nothing can be more corrupting turers had contrived to bring back the age of worsted than a French novel of the nineteenth century wonders, though, by a happy art, they saved the France, always a profligate country, always had fair artists all the trouble of drawing and design. profligate writers. But they were generally conWe are still under a Gothic invasion of trimmings fined to “ Memoirs,” “Court Anecdotes," and the and tapestry, of needle-work nondescripts, moonlight ridicule of the world of Versailles; their criminality minstrels in canvass, playing under cross-bar balco-was at least partially concealed by their good breednies ; and all the signs of the zodiac brought downing, and their vice was not altogether lowered to to the level of the ivory fingers of womankind.

the grossness of the crowd. To this, we must acknowledge, that the incipient

The revolution created a new school. All there

was hatred to duty, faith, and honor. The deepest * Memoirs of Viscountess Sundon. By Mrs. Thomp2 Vols. Colburn.

profligacy was pictured as scarcely less than the 1





natural right of man; and all the abominations of an amitié eternelle, and defy the world, through the human heart were excited, encouraged, and three volumes. propagated by daring pens, sometimes subtle, some- In reprobating this detestable school, we certimes eloquent, and in all instances appealing to the tainly have no hope that our remarks will reform most tempting abominations of man.

the French novelism of the day ; but we call on But the revolution fell, and with the ascendant the critical press of England to take up the rational of Napoleon another school followed. War, pub- and righteous task of reforming our own. lic business, the general objects of the active facul- Within these few years, the English novels are ties, and strong ambition of a people with Europe rapidly falling into the imitation of the French. at its feet, partially superseded alike the frivolous And we say it with no less regret than surprise, taste of the monarchy, and the rabid ferocities of that the chief imitators are females. The novels revolutionary authorship. The bulletins of the written by men have generally some manliness, “Grande Armée" told a daily tale of romance, to some recollection of the higher impulses which which the brains of a Parisian scribbler could find occasionally act on the minds of men; some relucno rival, and men with the sound of falling thrones tancy in revealing the more infirm movements of echoing in their ears, forgot the whispers of low in the mind; and some doubts as to the absorption of trigue and commonplace corruption.

all human nature in one perpetual whirl of loveThe “ Three Glorious Days” of July, 1830, have making. now produced another change ; and peace has given But with the female pen in general, the whole leisure to think of something else than conquest affair is resolved into one impulse-all is “ pasand the conscription. The power of the national sion.” The winds of heaven have nothing to do pen has turned again to fiction, and the natural wit, but to " waft a sigh from Indus to the pole.” The habitual dexterity, and dashing verbiage of France art of printing is seriously presumed to have been have all been thrown into the novel. Even the invented only for “ some banished lover, or some French drama, once the pride of the nation, has captive maid.". Flirtation is the grand business of perished under this sudden pressure. A French life. The maiden flirts from the nursery, the marmodern tragedy is now only a rhymed melo-drama. ried woman flirts from the altar. The widow adds Even French history attracts popular applause only to the miscellaneous cares of her “ bereaved” life, as it approaches to a three volume romance. Ev- flirtation from the hearse which carries her husband ery man of name in French modern authorship has to his final mansion. She flirts in her weeds more attained it only by the rapid production of novels. glowingly than ever. But she knows too well the But no language can be too contemptuous, or too

" value of her liberty" to submit to be a slave once condemnatory, for the spirit of those works in gen-more; and so flirts on for life, in the most innocent eral. Every tie of society is violated in the pro- manner imaginable, taking all risks, and throwing gress of their pages; and violated with the full herself into situations of which the result would be approval of everybody. Seduction is the habitual obvious anywhere but in the pages of an English office of the hero. Adultery is the regular office novel. of the heroine. In each the vice is simply a matter

The French have no scruples on such subjects, of course. Manly honor is a burlesque every- and their candor leaves nothing to the imagination. where, but where the criminal shoots the injured Our female novelists have not yet arrived at that husband in a duel. Female virtue is only a proof pitch of explicitness, and it is to be hoped will of dulness or decay, a vulgar formality of mind, or pause before they leap the gulf. an unaccountable inaptitude to adopt the customs

We attribute a good deal of this dangerous adopof polished society.

tion to the prevalent habit of yearly running to the The hero is pictured with every quality which continent. The English ear becomes familiarized can charm the eye or ear; he is the handsomest, to language on the other side of the channel, which the most accomplished, and the most high-spirited would have shocked it here. The chief topic of of mankind-all sentiment, and all scoundrelism. foreign life is intrigue, the chief employment o The heroine-always a wife or a widow—in the foreign life is that half idle, half infamous interformer instance is the “ lovely victim of a mar- course, which extinguishes all delicacy even in the riage in which her heart had no share," and in spectators. The young English woman sees the which she is entitled to have all the privileges of foreign woman leading a life which, though in her heart supplied; and in the latter is a creature England it would stamp her with universal shame, full of charms, about twenty-one, resolved to live in France or Germany, and above all, in Italy, for love, but never to be “chained in the iron links never brings more than a sneer, and seldom even of a dull and obsolete ceremonial" again. She the sneer. She sees this wedded or widowed quickly fixes her eyes on some Adolphe, Auguste, profligate received in the highest ranks ; flourishing or Hyppolite, “Officier de la Garde," who has without reproach, if she has the means of keeping performed prodigies of valor in Algiers, taken lions an opera-box, or giving suppers ; every soul round by the beard everywhere, and is the best waltzer her acquainted with every point of her history, yet in all Paris. They meet, flame together, swear none shrinking from her association. If she has




one Cicisbeo, or ten, the whole affair is selon les | nean, her affair is done, if she adds a page a day règles.

to her journal. She gossips along, and scribbles, The young English woman who blushes at this with the indefatigable finger of a maker of bobbin scandalous career, or exhibits any reluctance on lace, or a German knitter of stockings. The most the subject of the companionship or the crime, is slipshod descriptions of everything that has been laughed at as a “novice,” is charged with a want described before ; sketches of peasant character of the “ savoir vivre,” is quietly reproved for “the taken from the beggars at the roadside; national coldness of her English blood,” and is recommend- traits taken from the common-places of the tableed to abandon, as speedily as possible, ideas so un- d'hote, and court secrets copied from the newspasuitable to “ the glow of the warm South.” pers—all are disgorged into the journal. We have,

She soon finds a dangler, or a dozen danglers, unfailingly, whole pages of setting suns, moonlight who, having nothing on earth to do, and in their nights, effulgent stars, and southern breezes. She penury rejoiced to find any spot where they can gloats over pictures of enraptured monks, and sees kill an hour, and get a cup of coffee, are daily at heaven in the eyes of saints, copied from the painther command. All those fellows, too, are counts; er's mistresses. If she goes to Italy, she tells us the title being about as common, and as cheap, as of the ban itti, the gondola, and St. Peter's; gazes chimney-sweepers among us, though not belonging with solemn speculation on the naked beauties of to so valuable a fraternity.

the Belvidere Apollo; and descants in an ultraAfter a month's training of this kind, the poor ecstasy on the proportions of sages and herves desfool is fit for nothing else, to the last hour of her titute of drapery ; winding up by an adventure, in being. She is a flirt and a figurante, as long as which she falls by night into the hands of a marchshe lives. Duty and decorum are things too icy ing regiment, or band of smugglers setting out on for the “ ardor of her soul.” The life of England | a robbery, and leaving the world to guess at the is utterly barbarian to the refinement of the land results of the adventure to herself. of macaroni.

In all this farrago, she never gives the reader an And it is unquestionably much better that the atom of information worth the paper which she whole tribe should remain where they are, and blots. We have no additional lights on character, roam among the lazzaroni, than return to corrupt public life, national feeling, or national advancethe decencies of English life. If this sentimentalist ment. All is as vapid as the “Academy of Comhas money, she is sure to be picked up by some pliments," and as well known as “ Lindley Mur“superb chevalier,” some rambling fortune-hunter, ray's Grammar.” But why object to all this? or known swindler, hunted from the gambling ta- Why not let the scribbler take her way—and the ble; probably beginning his career as a frizeur or world know that vineyards are green, and the sky a footman, and making rapid progress towards the blue, if it desires the knowledge ? Our reason is galleys. If she has none, she returns to England, this : such practices actually destroy all taste for to grumble, for the next fifty years, at the climate, the legitimate narratives of travel. Those trading the country, and the people; to drawl out her tourists talk nonsense, until intelligence itself bemaudlin regrets for olive groves, and pout for the comes wearisome. They strip away the interest Bay of Naples ; to talk of her loves; exhibit a which novelty gives to new countries, and by runcameo or a crucifix, (the parting pledge of some ning their silly speculation into scenes of beauty, inamorato, probably since hanged,) prate papistry, sublimity, or high recollection, would make Tempe and profess liberalism; pronounce the Roman holi- a counterpart to the Thames Tunnel ; Mount Atlas days “charming things," and long to see the car- a fellow to Primrose Hill; and Marathon a faonival, and the worship of the Virgin together, simile of the Zoological Garden or Bartholomew imported to relieve the ennui of London. Fair. The subject is pawed, and dandled, and

The subject is startling; and we recommend any- fondled, until the very name excites nausea ; and thing, and everything, in the shape of employment, a writer of real ability would no more touch upon in preference to the vitiating follies of a life of tour- it, than a great artist would paint St. George and ing.

the Dragon. Another tribe of female authorship ought to be This has been the history of the decline of extinguished without a moment's delay. Those works of imagination in England. No sooner had are the yearly travellers. A woman of this kind Mrs. Radcliffe touched the old monasteries with scampers over the continent, like a queen's mes- her glorious pencil, than a generation of monk. senger, every season ; she rushes along with the describers and ruined-castle-builders sprang up, rapidity and the regularity of the “ Royal Mail.” until the very name of convent or castle became The month of May no sooner appears in the cal. an abhorrence. Sir Walter Scott's “ Lay of the endar, than she packs up her trunk, and crosses to Last Minstrel," rich and romantic as it was, was Boulogne, “to make a book.” One year she nearly buried under an overflow of heavy imitatakes the north, another the south; to her all tions, which drove his genuis to other pursuits, and points of the compass are equal. But whether the which filled the public ear with such enormities of roulage carries her to the Baltic or the Mediterra-) octo-syllabic ennui, that it hates poetry ever since.

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