for the brilliant balls of Versailles, the rural assemblies of Trianon, which were ever producing some new mark of her goodness; from which time it was every day more and more evident, how her attention was taken up with the cares and duties of a mother. Sometimes unaccompanied by her attendants, she would walk with her children in her gardens, the decorations of which she had converted into mediums of charity*; sometimes, in her own apartments, either mingling in their infant sports, or busily employing herself in needle-work. And, as the mind of Madame Royale gradually expanded, I have beheld her royal mother indefatigable in her efforts to implant and cultivate in her tender breast, all those eminently good qualities which graced her own; and especially enforcing, with all her influence, a regard

* As appears from those twelve rustic habitations which were built at Trianon by the Queen's orders, and in which she settled twelve poor families, taking upon herself to provide them with constant maintenance. Here misfortune found a refuge, and charity chose her seat; here, in those very gardens, which base and ignorant calumny to this day dares to represent as the theatre of the most licentious scenes! such indeed as are to be read of in loose romances, and which the infamous plagiary has obtruded upon the world as facts of history. We will not so outrage the memory of Marie Antoinette, as to enter into farther vindication of her from such offensive falshoods, while the publications that propagate them can reflect disgrace on none but him who writes, him who reads, and on the government that connives at such miserable productions.

for every virtuous qualification, recollection of services performed, love of human nature, compassion for the unfortunate, moderation in high estate, charity, kindness, and forbearance. Truth is the guide of my words, and many a proof exists to corroborate the faithfulness of this description; but the fruits which this day grace the world, are of themselves sufficient to mark the excellence of the culture: and truly one would almost suppose, that the august and suffering mother of the duchess of Angouleme was led, by a secret dictate of Providence, to store the breast of her daughter with every peculiar virtue that her future situation might require.

THE POET'S GARRET.

COME, sportive Fancy! come with me, and trace
The poet's attic house! the lofty seat

Of the heav'n-tutor'd Nine! the airy throne
Of bold imagination, rapture fraught
Above the herd of mortals. All around

A solemn stillness seems to guard the scene,
Nursing the brood of thought-a thriving brood
In the rich mazes of the cultur'd brain.

Upon thy altar, an old worm-eat board,
The pannel of a broken door, or lid

Of a strong coffer, placed on three-legg'd stool,
Stand quires of paper, white and beautiful!
Paper, by destiny ordain'd to be

Scrawl'd o'er and blotted, dash'd, and scratch'd,

and torn;

Or mark'd with lines severe, or scatter'd wide
In rage impetuous! Sonnet, song, and ode,
Satire, and epigram, and smart charade;
Neat paragraph, or legendary tale
Of short and simple metre, each by turns
Will there delight the reader.

On the bed

Lies an old rusty suit of "solemn black;"
Brush'd thread-bare, and, with brown, unglossy hue,
Grown somewhat ancient. On the floor is seen

A pair of silken hose, whose footing bad
Shews they are trav'llers, but who still bear
Marks somewhat holy. At the scanty fire
A chop turns round, by packthread strongly held;
And on the backen'd bar a vessel shines
Of batter'd pewter, just half-fill'd and warm,
With Whitbread's bev'rage pure. The kitten purs,
Anticipating dinner; while the winds,

Whistling through broken panes, and drifted snows,
Carpet the parapet with spotless garb

Of vestal coldness. Now the sullen hour

(The fifth hour after noon) with dusky hand Closes the lids of day. The farthing light

Gleams through the cobwebb'd chamber, and the

bard

Concludes his pen's hard labour.

Now he eats

With appetite voracious! nothing sad

That he with costly plate, and napkins fine,

Nor china rich, nor fork of silver, greets
His eye or palate. On his lyric board
A sheet of paper serves for table-cloth ;
An heap of salt is serv'd,-O heav'nly treat!
On odes Pindaric! while his tuneful puss
Scratches his slipper for her fragment sweet,
And sings her love-song soft, yet mournfully.
Mocking the pillar Doric, or the roof

Of architecture Gothic, all around

The well known ballads flit, of Grub-street fame!
The casement, broke, gives breath celestial
To the long dying-speech, or gently fans
The love-inflaming sonnet. All around
Small scraps of paper lie, torn vestiges
Of an unquiet fancy. Here a page
Of flights poetic-there a dedication-
A list of dramatis persona, bold,
Of heroes yet unborn, and lofty dames
Of perishable compound, light as fair,
But sentenc'd to oblivion !

On a shelf,

(Yclept a mantle-piece) a phial stands,
Half fill'd with potent spirits!-spirits strong,
Which sometimes haunt the poet's restless brain,
And fill his mind with fancies whimsical.

Poor poet! happy art thou, thus remov'd
From pride and folly! for in thy domain
Thou can'st command thy subjects; fill thy lines;
Wield th' all conqu'ring weapon heav'n bestows
On the grey goose's wing! which, tow' ang high,
Bears the sick fancy to immortal fame!

STATE OF PAINTING IN ENGLAND.

Or all the countries that have yet been blessed with civilization, England is that in which the arts, in latter times, have most tardily disclosed their growth: and if the remark of Lord Kaimes be true, that "had the art of painting made a slower progress in Italy, it might have continued in vigour to this day," its abode, when it shall be once established among us, may fairly be supposed to promise a duration little short of eternity. The walls of our palaces have been, from the period of the reformation, successively covered with the works of foreign artists.. Holbein, Rubens, Vandyck, Lely, Kneller, nay Varrio, Gemari, and La Guerre, have by turns enjoyed the numerous favours of our sovereigns, adorned the halls and filled the cabinets of the nobles; while scarcely a few portraits by the pencils of our own painters, of Dobson, Jameson, Cooper, Greenhill, and Riley, were thought worthy of notice; and some even of these have been thrown aside to furnish moments of surprise to future virtuosi, or some futile topics to pedantic research.

In the present day our country has begun to emerge from this state of insensibility to the merit of her native artists, who, if they have not yet ascertained their superiority in the highest provinces of painting, have at least in portraiture claimed the laurel for their brows, approved their native force, and, with the magnanimous spirit of a Chatham,