THE DIRECTION OF A LÉTTER.

Anecdote of the unfortunate Louis XVI.

WHEN LOUIS XVI. ascended the throne, he was only twenty years of age; and had, at first, no other council, than the written advice left him by his father, the late dauphin. This precious paternal bequest was ordered to remain sealed, till his son should succeed to the throne. Immediately on his accession, he hastens to open it, with a pious design to obey its every injunction. It advises him, by all means, to engage for his Minister, M. De Machault, as the most able person to direct his steps, if the weight of royalty should descend on him at a period so premature, that he could only be supposed to possess rectitude of intention for the performance of his duties. Faithful to the wishes of a beloved father, he immediately writes the following letter to M. De Machault.

"In the just grief which overwhelms me, and which I participate with the whole nation, I have great duties to fulfil: I am king, and this name includes innumerable obligations. But I am only twenty, and have not acquired the knowledge which is requisite for my situation. In the mean time, I must not see any of the ministers, who have all been with the king during his contagious distemper. From the confidence I repose in your probity, and the profound knowledge which you are known to possess, I am induced to desire that you would assist me with your advice. Come, then, the first moment possible, and you will afford me a great pleasure. "LOUIS."

The confidence of the young monarch was well merited by M. De Machault, who had long been the minister of the finances of the law, under Louis XV. He had, however, been for some time dismissed from his employment, through the intrigues of the ecclesiastical cabal, because he was desirous of obliging the clergy to pay taxes like other subjects; and he had ever since lived on his estates, in the deepest retirement, universally esteemed, except by those who had so successfully conspired against him.

Nothing now was wanting to this letter, but the direction; which, either from a native timidity, or a desire to have the excellence of his choice confirmed, Louis XVI went to his aunt Mademoiselle Adelaide, communicated the desire of his father, and shewed her the yet unaddressed letter which he had himself written. The princess highly approves his conduct, and even requests him to send off a courier with the letter. The king unfortunately keeps it back several hours! Mademoiselle Adelaide, in the mean time, as most ladies would naturally do, informs her female suite who was to be the Prime Minister. The news flies with the rapidity of lightning, and alarm spreads among the courtiers. Every individual of this sycophantic swarm dreaded the integrity and the austere virtues of him, who was now to be appointed state pilot. Intrigue is put in motion; corruption of course follows. A hundred thousand crowns are offered to a lady, who is well known to have great influence over the Princess, if she can so far succeed

as to change the choice of a Minister in favour of M. De Maurepas. This nobleman had been minister at the early age of fifteen; and at thirty he had been dismissed. Though now far advanced in years, he was known to have lived a life of dissipation, and to possess a large fund of cunning, gaiety, frivolity, and pliability. He had written epigrams; he was a voluptuary, and in short, he was the person best adapted to the views of the dissolute courtiers of Versailles, who was desirous of prolonging the abuses of the late reign.

The lady of honour, tempted by the hundred thousand crowns, now adroitly insinuated to the Princess, that the choice of M. De Machault would not fail to offend the clergy; and that in consequence, there was reason to fear, the commencement of the new reign would be stormy. Having contrived to alarm Mademoiselle Adelaide, that Princess hastens to disclose her anxiety to the king; and the unfortunate Louis, naturally timid, and dreading the consequences of his first legal act, finished the business by directing the same letter to the Count De Maurepas!

Thus at the first step towards the throne, this unfortunaté Monarch fell into a net; and this error was the fertile source of innumerable others. M. De Maurepas, tottering with age and infirmities, on the brink of the grave, thought it necessary to secure friends, who might, by every where extolling his abilities, fix him firmly in the office of Grand Vizier.-To augment their number he purchased them by all possible methods. To some he gave pensions, for others created new offices; and by these means, soon completed the ruin of the finances, and paved the way to the ruin of Louis XVI. and all the irretrievable mischief with which France was overwhelmed during the murderous Revolution. Never, surely, did such fatal consequences arise, from altering the direction of a letter!

C. H. S.

TWENTY SECOND ODE OF HORACE IMITATED.

Tuscus, the man who innocent of heart is,

Fearless may walk, though danger lurks around him,
Nor need he carry weapons to defend him,

When he is passing.

Through pathless wastes of ever burning quick-sands,
Or over Caucasus' wild, frozen summit,

Or where Hydaspes, fabled afar off,

Murmuringly runs through.

For 'twas but lately, as I wandered, heedless
Of aught, save my love, in the grove of Sabina,
That a wolf, (and a fiercer was never nurs'd in Africa,)
Fled from my presence.

Place me where winter holds eternal reign, or
In the torrid zone underneath the meridian,

Wherever the sunshine of beauty and of love falls

All is delightful!

D. URBIS.

CORREGIO AND HIS WORKS.

ALLEGRI ANTONIO-called CORREGIO, from the place of his birth, was descended of poor parents, and educated in an obscure village: he enjoyed none of those advantages which contributed to form the other great painters of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; he saw none of the statues of ancient Greece or Rome: nor any of the masterpieces of the established schools of Rome and Venice. But nature, the best preceptress of art, was his guide; and such was the wonderful facility with which he painted, that he used to say, his conceptions were always ready at the end of his pencil. The agreeable smile the heavenly expression-and the profusion of graces, which he gave to his Madonas, Saints, and Children, have by some been considered unnatural: still they are beautiful and interesting. An easy, flowing outline, an union and harmony of colours, and a skilful management of light and shade, give a relief and effectiveness to all his pictures; and have been the admiration both of his contemporaries and successors. Annibal Carracci studied and adopted his manner, in preference to that of any other master. The favourable impression he received on the first sight of Corregio's pictures may be conceived from a passage in a letter to his cousin Louis; "Every thing which I see here," he writes, "astonishes me; particularly the colouring and beauty of the children. They live-they breath-they smile, with so much grace, and so much reality, that it is impossible to refrain from smiling and partaking of their enjoyment. My heart is ready to break with grief, when I think on the 'unhappy fate of poor Corregio-that so wonderful a man (if he ought not rather to be called an angel), should finish his days so miserably, in a country where his talents were never known."

The history of poor Corregio, is melancholy indeed from want, either of curiosity or resolution, or more probably of patronage, he never visited Rome, but remained during his whole life at Parma, where the liberal arts were not much esteemed, and of course, not duly rewarded. He was employed to paint the cupola of the Cathedral there; the subject of which is an assumption of the Virgin Mary and having executed it in a style that has long been the admiration of every person of taste who has seen it, he went to receive his payment. The Canons of the Church, either through ignorance or baseness, disapproved of the work; and although the price originally agreed upon, had been very moderate, they alleged that it far exceeded the desert of the Artist, and forced him to accept the paltry sum of two hundred livres; which, to add to the indignity, they paid him in copper money. From Parma, to the abode of Corregio's wife and children, was a distance of nearly eight miles; and this transaction took place in a warm season of the year. In carrying home the unworthy load, what with its pressure, the length of the way, the heat of the weather, and his chagrin at such villainous treatment, the unfortunate Corregio was seized with a pleurisy, which, in three days, put an end to his life and his misfortunes, at the premature age of forty, in the year 1534.

The magnificent work, which was attended with such fatal consqeuences to its author, was remarkable for grandeur of design, and in particular, for the boldness of the fore-shortenings (an art which he first and at once brought to the utmost perfection). It would, however, in all probability, soon have perished, had it not been for the timely interference of Titian. As he passed

through Parma, in the suite of Charles the Fifth, he ran instantly to see the chef d'œuvre of Corregio. While he was attentively viewing it, one of the principal dignitaries of the Church told him, that such a grotesque performance did not merit his notice, and they intended soon to have the whole defaced. "Have a care of what you do," replied the other; "for if I were not Titian, I should certainly desire to be Corregio."

Corregio's exclamation upon viewing a picture by Raphael, is perhaps well known to the reader. Nevertheless, there is something in it so characteristic of a true genius, that it will bear to be repeated. Having long been accustomed to hear the most unbounded applause bestowed on the works of that divine painter, he at first longed to see them, but by degrees he became less desirous than afraid, of gratifying his curiosity. One, however, he at length had occasion to inspect: he looked at it for some minutes, in profound silence; and then with an air of satisfaction exclaimed, "I am still a painter!"

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The Notte, or Night, of Corregio, was one of his most famous productions; the original was sold for a great sum to one of the Kings of Poland; a copy of it, which was kept in the Duke's Palace at Modena, is thus described in a letter written some years since, by a lady, from Italy. "The subject," she says, "is a nativity; and the extraordinary beauty of this picture proceeds from the clair obscure: there are two different lights introduced, by means of which the personages are visible; namely, the light proceeding from the body of the child, and the moon-light. These two are preserved distinct, and produce a most wonderful effect. The child's body is so luminous, that the superfices is nearly transparent; and the rays of light emitted by it are verified, in the effect they produce upon the surrounding objects. They are not rays distinct and separate, like those round the face of a sun that indicates an Insurance Office; nor linear, like those proceeding from the man in the Almanack; but of a dazzling brightness: by their light, you see clearly the face, neck, and hands of the Virgin (the rest of the person being in strong shadow), the faces of the pastori who crowd round the child, and particularly one woman, who holds her hand before her face, lest her eyes should be so dazzled as to prevent her from seeing the infant. This is a beautiful natural action, and is most ingeniously introduced. The straw on which the child is laid appears gilt, from the light of his body shining on it. The moon lights up the background of the picture, which represents a landscape. Every object is distinct, as in a bright moon-light night; and there cannot be two lights in nature more different than those which appear in the same picture. The virgin and the child are of the most perfect beauty. There is a great variety of character in the different persons present; yet that uniformity common to all herdsmen and peasants. In short, this copy is so admirable, that I was quite sorry to lose sight of it soon; but I shall never forget it. The Duke of Modena, for whom Corregio did the original picture, gave him only 600 livres of France for it; a great sum in those days; but at present what ought it to cost!"

THE REMINISCENCES OF MISOSTREOS.

Quid hoc veneni savit in præcordiis ?
Num viperinus his cruor

Icnoctus, herbis me fefellit.*-HOR.

SINCE all men are subject to various whims and caprices, to their several likes and dislikes, would not a natural supposition arise, that they would readily enter into a contract, if not to humour, at least to bear with one another's trifling prejudices? Sad experience has, however, taught me the contrary: for I, like all other sublunary beings, am haunted by an imp of darkness, a spectre dire' in the shape of an antipathy; of the reasonableness of which though I am myself am perfectly convinced, I find it no easy matter to persuade others into the same opinion. It seems, indeed, to be an imp, above all others, peculiarly monstrous and mis-shapen. Do I make mention of it? immoderate laughter is the immediate consequence: do I exhibit any symptoms of it? I detect a grin lurking upon every countenance. All my acquaintance seem to be possessed with that demoniac delight,

Malis ridenti alienis ;

Of" laughing as if their cheeks were not their own."

My readers are, no doubt, perplexed in conjecturing what can be this unaccountable, this monstrous antipathy. "Oh! I've hit it," exclaims one, a woman-hater; eh?" Truly, no! "Or a detester of roast-beef and plumpudding?" gruffly exclaims John Bull, with a contemptuous curl of the nose. No no, indeed! my taste is not so depraved and Frenchified: the object of my aversion is merely an oyster !' 'An oyster,' exclaim they all, oh! delicious morsel! rich and ambrosial! fit accompaniment for the nectar of the Gods. Oh! noctes cœnæque Deum!'-HOR.

Let me, however, to the best of my ability, trace the origin of this antipathy. As far back as I can remember, the word 'oyster,' even in my boyish days, possessed in my eyes a peculiarly uncouth ap pearance: it was a stumbling-block in my way at school, where unwit tingly disregarding the gender of its Greek representative orpo, I lost my place, and received rebukes and castigations; the report of which "should be powled out in the desert air." My imagination pictured the possessor of such a name as a monster, frightful and venomous. These ideas grew up with me; I thought they were rendered less terrific by an actual sight of the diminutive object of my fear, yet could I never divest myself of them entirely.

One day,-to the latest hour of my life I shall never forget it,-for the first time I went to a dinner party, little anticipating the miseries that awaited me. My appetite was keen, and I contemplated with no small degree of satisfaction, a beautiful piece of salmon extended on my plate.

* O there is poison raging sore

In all all my veins! The slimy fish
(With pepper red as viper's gore)
Has spoilt for me the much-loved dish.