unmistakably from those features, and his air of distraction and indifference told plainly how alien were his lofty musings from the vanity of the surrounding scene. As yet his success had been confined to celebrity in literary articles, and he was chiefly known as the friend of such men as Lamb and Jeffrey; but soon, like some young giant bursting his thralls, the golden gates of fame yielded before him, and not only his own circle, but all the world, joined in celebrating the unrivalled beauties of Ion-a poem chaste, classical, and beautiful in so pre-eminent a degree, as at once and for ever to crown its author with perennial laurels. As yet he appeared in the modest dress of a barrister; but his talents soon wrung from the state (ever slow in distinguishing literary merit) a right to the more dignified ermine of a Judge.

As I was observing what I have endeavoured to describe, we were gradually advancing towards the door of exit, and reached at last a long corridor lined with seats, next to the hall. As I was sitting, a man of strikingly elegant address, neither young nor old, advanced towards me and began talking of my house and my county, with a knowledge of the localities that showed he must be well acquainted with them. I was sure I knew him too, but could not at the moment recall his name. As he stood talking, I saw the eyes of all the surrounding ladies bent inquiringly on me. Lady Mtoo, glanced at me somewhat jealously, as, after bowing to this gentleman-an honour he scarcely deigned to notice-he turned. almost rudely from her to continue his conversation with me. was lively and agreeable, and we conversed for some time. "Who," said I, to Lady M, after he had left me, "was that gentleman? I cannot recall his name, yet his features seem familiar to me, and he appears to know me well."

He

"What," said she, " you simpleton, you don't know him. Why you have for the last ten minutes been the envy of every woman in the room-and of mine into the bargain-for didn't you notice how coldly he returned my bow? He-why-he is the beau par excellence the observed of all observers. The man whose admiration makes or unmakes beauty-whose applause is fashionwhose censure is utter annihilation-whose attention is more coveted than any other earthy dictinction. He is, in a word, the Marquis of

"Indeed," exclaimed I, "no wonder he knew all about me, then, being so near a neighbour, and often at our house-well I never thought it was he. Why he has engaged me to dance with him to-night, at Almack's."

M

"Has he," replied Lady M," then all I can say is, that you are a lucky girl, and will be the envy of the entire room."

We had reached our carriages and I was once more at home, having survived the fashionable christening I so much dreaded. After many, many hours I unclasped the hand that had so faithfully held the fan, the flowers, and the handkerchief. The flowers were faded, and the fan-a valuable Indian one-was broken; the thin ivory had cracked beneath my agitated grasp.

With the evening came fresh anticipations of pleasure--for

VOL. XXXV.

Q Q

when was a girl of eighteen ever found tired of enjoyment? My mother yawned and complained, but I was as fresh as if I had just risen, and could not conceive the possibility of fatigue. As the clock struck twelve we started for Almack's-dressed precisely, feathers and all, excepting the train, as we had appeared at Court. Nothing can be more brilliant than the coup d'œil these rooms present on similar occasions. Spacious in size, and well lighted up, here is assembled all the élite of London society. The top of the room was occupied by the Lady Patronesses-high and mighty dames, of awful rank, and swaying with a rod of iron, within those walls, who sat blazing with jewels, surveying the company, as each couple passed before them. Each particular lady a pile of silks, feathers, lace, and ribbons.

I no longer dreaded a London ball, so I gazed unmoved at those exalted personages, and eagerly looked out for the Marquis of ——, in fear lest he should have forgotten his engagement. Other partners, in the meantime, solicited my hand, and as I glided along in the rapid gallop or the giddy waltz, my feathers fluttering in my face, making me almost fancy I was flying, I felt an exhilaration and an enjoyment I can never forget. But ere long other thoughts arose to damp this full flow of happiness. I recalled one dear face that was not there to welcome me. I felt I would have given all I possessed, to have seen him appear and smile on me as if he loved me. What cared I for the crowd around, their admiration or their blame? I only thought of him-of his indifferencehis impenetrable incomprehensible coldness. I would have given more to please his eye than to become the most admired belle ever beheld at Almack's. Yet he alone I could not charm, and he had left me. Saddened and melancholy I retired to my seat; but I was not long allowed to chew the cud of bitter thoughts, for advancing from the top of the room came Lord D——, leading his reluctant son towards me. I knew my fate, and resolved to meet it.

"If," said Lord D—, "our brilliant little débutante is not engaged, will she dance with my son?”

I thought the son might have spoken for himself? but bowing, I instantly accepted him as my partner, which obliged him, per force, to offer me his arm.

"Why do you dance so little," said I," to-night? are you afraid of being considered too young by the ladies?"

He reddened to the forehead.

"I am not fond of dancing," replied he. "Too young for an available flirt!"

"But," continued I (as if not hearing him), "you have left Eton, too, and though not yet entered at Oxford-well, when you are at Oxford, then you will surely consider yourself a man, and have a little more confidence."

"I was not aware," said he, distantly, "of being troubled with timidity."

"I think," said I, "you are so very shy. I saw you just now standing by Lady C, whom, you know, you would give the world to dance with, and she looks lovely to-night, with those

white lilies in her long ringlets; and after watching her for at least an hour, you had not the courage to ask her to dance, because you expected to be refused, and so you walked away. Am I not right

now?"

He looked furious-and I was delighted. It was my turn now. I had become a woman, he still remained a boy. I never was more maliciously happy-the gravel-pit-my grief-my chagrin were being revenged-it was glorious.

"You see," said I, "that I am more merciful; thinking you wanted a partner, I took compassion on you-give me credit for my kindness, I beg."

"O! extremely kind," muttered he, "very obliging; but I did not want to dance."

"Then did your father force you to dance?" exclaimed, I in mock astonishment. "Has he that power over you? How very disagreeable to be treated so like a boy-how glad you will be when you grow older, and are emancipated. For my part, I could not endure it."

I saw he writhed under my remarks, and I rejoiced in being able to pay off the long score of contempt he had shown me, by a little bitter raillery. "What does it matter?" thought I," we hate each other already as much as it is possible." I do not know the precise degree of torture that would have satisfied my great revenge, had not the Marquis of appeared, and bowing, claimed me as his partner. Now this was doubly good to be surrendered up by Lord to him-the most desirable partner in London. The fates had combined to humiliate Lord that night. I, the despised, the contemned rustic, to be singled out by the Marquis of I left Lord with a look of triumph, and took my place in the dance, conscious that every young woman in the room longed to be in my place. The conversation of the morning was resumed with redoubled spirit. The belles and the beaux were named and discussed: my simple notions amused the Marquis of

exceedingly, and he laughed heartily at my sallies. We sat down the best of friends, he declaring apart to my mother that he liked me of all things, and should call, with her permission, next day.

After this I cared not to stay. I was getting woefully sleepy. I had revenged myself on Lord and I had danced with the Marquis of -. I was content, and laid my head on my pillow that night with only one regret-for when, even at merry eighteen, is perfect happiness found in this lower hemisphere?

Thus ended my presentation at Court.

NOTRE DAME DE BROU AND ITS MARGUERITES.

BY LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

MARGUERITE of Austria, the daughter of the Emperor Maximilian and Mary of Burgundy, is well known, and holds a high place in history, in consequence of her excellent government of the Netherlands in troublous times. Her life was as chequered and romantic as that of her mother, and the happy years granted to her scarcely more in number.

The memory long cherished by the subjects of her eccentric father, is still, even at the present day, preserved in a far-off corner of France, at a little town, which, but for the occasional passing of travellers on their way to Switzerland, would be unknown. It is that of Bourg en Bresse, not famous for anything in itself, but that, just without its walls, rises one of the most beautiful churches to be found anywhere called Notre Dame de Brou, with its fine tombs, unrivalled in magnificence, the chief of which is that of Marguerite of Austria. The story attached to this church is curious.

Nine centuries have elapsed since a devout Bishop of Mâcon, Gerard by name, disgusted with the pomps and vanities of the world, and his office, fled from the dangers which beset his simplicity and humility, and building himself a hut on the confines of a forest which at that time existed, commenced a hermit's life. It was not long before the fame of his sanctity drew pilgrims to the secluded spot, and its reputation increased from year to year till a small monastery sprung up on the site of the modest cell of the self-denying Gerard.

In the middle of the fifteenth century, a protector of sufficient power to ensure its well-being appeared in the person of Philip the Second, Duke of Savoy and Count of Bresse. It happened that the Duke was hunting in the neighbourhood, was thrown from his horse, and broke his arm; his Duchess, the fair and pious Marguerite of Bourbon, alarmed at the dangerous consequence of his accident, made a vow during his illness, that, should he recover, she would reward the blessed St. Benedict for his intercession in his favour with the powers of Heaven, by erecting a church and adding greatly to the monastery, all in honour of the saint who had stood her friend in emergency. Her husband recovered, but Marguerite was unable to accomplish her pious design; remorseless death released her from her engagement and carried her off before she had had time to begin the building she meditated. Philip himself, although he invested a large sum of money for the purpose of fulfilling the promise of his lamented spouse, also died before the first stone of the sacred edifice was laid; in his last testament he thus expressed his unfulfilled

desire. The command he gives is somewhat singular, considering that the church did not then exist:

"We will and decree that our body shall be buried in the church of Brou, in the chapel which, by the grace of God, we propose to erect in honour of our Creator and his glorious Mother, under the domination of St. Mark the Evangelist, there to found a religion of the observance of Saint Benedict. In case of quitting the world before the projected foundation, we will and ordain that our intention shall be executed by our successors."

The next Duke his son Philibert the Second, surnamed the Handsome, was probably too much occupied with the pleasures belonging to his age to consider it absolutely necessary that he should immediately set about occupying himself with the debt of gratitude due to St. Benedict; it was reserved to his interesting and devoted widow to accomplish this duty, although the saint was, after all, cheated out of his dues; and but for her conscientious zeal, I should never have had cause to congratulate myself on having resisted fatigue, and gone in search of the magnificent pile of Notre Dame de Brou.

If saints are subject in their blissful abodes to human resentments, Saint Benedict must have felt extremely hurt and offended, and he and the apostle Saint Mark must have condoled with each other on the neglect shown them, when this beautiful structure at length rose under the patronage of Saint Nicolas de Tolentin and Saint Augustin of Lombardy!

It thus fell out. Marguerite of Austria, the daughter of the beautiful and ill-fated Mary, heiress of Burgundy, and her chosen, Maximilian, had become, after various vicissitudes, the wife of Philibert of Savoy. Her hymeneal star did not shine propitiously, for after having passed her infancy in France, as the betrothed bride of Charles the Eighth, she had been rejected for the greater and more powerful heiress, Anne of Brittany, and sent back to her offended father; she had been nearly wrecked on her voyage to obtain a widowhood in Spain-for her young husband, the Infant Juan, died almost as soon as he was a bridegroom-and not many months had passed in sunshine with her and her third partner, when fate blighted the flower of her dawning happiness once more. Marguerite had accompanied her handsome Philibert on a party of pleasure-forgetful that such excursions were fatal in her family; the married lovers had sought a delicious spot at the foot of the Jura, where a clear fountain, leaping from its glittering bed in the centre of a shady wood, invited them to repose and refresh themselves. Their attendants had spread their rural repast on the greensward by the side of the fountain, when the young prince, heated and tired, for they had been all day enjoying the chase, imprudently drank of the inviting and icy spring, within whose waves a cruel water-sprite lurked for his destruction. Scarcely had poor Philibert drunk the draught he coveted, than a sudden chill took possession of him, and he fell to the ground like one pierced with a mortal wound.

His terrified bride had him carefully conveyed to their castle at