kitchen to look for a knife; he was followed, and everything that could inflict a mortal wound was put away. I armed myself with one of the fire-irons."

The arrival of the commissary of police put an end to this domestic duel. The Duke was led away, and Beaumarchais retired to get his wounds dressed.

A short time afterwards, still composing songs, comedies and operas, and always having two or three lawsuits on hand, Beaumarchais trades in the four quarters of the globe; he has forty vessels of his own on the sea; his navy fights side by side with that of the State; at the battle of Grenada his officers are decorated; he discusses the expenses of the war with the king, and treats with the United States as one power would do with another. "Treated," says M. de Loménie, "as a democrat, under the Royalty, he was persecuted under the Republic as an aristocrat. Proscribed in his old age, he barely contrived to exist in a garret at Hamburgh; and when he returned to his native land, ruined in body but still vigorous in mind, he again mixed himself up in all the affairs of the day-superintended the production of the Guilty Mother; and, with one foot in the grave, recommenced all the labours of his life, and defended himself against a legion of creditors, prosecuted a legion of debtors, and died with lawsuits pending, both against the French Republic and the Republic of the United States."

The Language of Flowers.

IN Eastern lands they talk in flowers,

And they tell in a garland their love and cares;
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers,
On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The rose is the sign of joy and love,

Young blushing love in its earliest dawn;
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove,
From the myrtle snowy flower is drawn.

Innocence dwells in the lily's bell,

Pure as the heart in its native heaven;
Fame's bright star, and glory's swell,
By the glossy leaf of the bay are given.
The silent, soft, and humble heart,

In the violet's hidden sweetness breathes;
And the tender soul that cannot part,

A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes.

The cypress that darkly shades the grave,
The sorrow that mourns its bitter lot;
And faith that a thousand ills can brave,
Speaks in thy blue leaves-Forget-me-not.
Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers,
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers.

The Good Genius of Antwerp.

A RHINE LEGEND.-BY FREDERICK KNIGHT HUNT.

IN the Year of Grace one thousand five hundred and eighty-eight, the gossips of the Place de Meir were amused by a group of persons, who slowly made their way along its uneven surface. They were strangers, and from the baggage carried by two boatmen, and the point from whence they came, it was clear that the canal had been their route from Malines. Their dress was a compound of German and Flemish, with but slight trace of the gayer and more elegant costume of Spain, which at that time was patronised in Antwerp with much real satisfaction by the younger and richer portion of the citizens, but was regarded by the bulk of the people as a caged tiger might look on the spangled habiliments of its keeper. It was evident that the inquisitive looks directed towards the new comers gleaned, from the outward aspect of the party, but slight information calculated to arouse more than a passing interest. It was a widow and her family: she a portly dame, but much dejected in her manner, and they, five sturdy-looking youths and two daughters-the latter more remarkable for neatness than for beauty. All but the mother looked round about them inquiringly, as though to see how the aspect of their new home chimed with the idea they had foreshadowed of it, and one of them,-a boy about ten years old,-showed more than Flemish feeling, by shouting with glee as he pointed out to his sisters the beautiful spire of the cathedral, the decorated gables of some new Spanish-built houses, and the rich trappings of a passing cavalier. Suddenly the carillons broke forth with their music, and the shouts were doubled.

"Peter, Peter!” cried his mother, as the boy ran across the broad handsome street to gaze into a court yard, where a large basket of flowers had been placed: "you must be more staid, or you will never be a lawyer."

In a moment he was at his mother's side, and taking one of her hands in both of his, he walked obediently with her, as she led the way down a small street on the left hand, and entered a house. The boy looked round about him, and turning to the youngest girl, said, "I am sure you will like this place, sister. Do not be sorry we have left Cologne-we shall soon learn to love Antwerp as dearly as you loved your old home on the Rhine."

In a week, the widow and her children were leading the quiet life of a quiet Flemish family. Peter was busily engaged in learning languages, which he did with great facility, and talking about his intended study of the law,-the profession of his father. But its dry details and subtle niceties were not adap ted to his warm imagination. His spirit yearned for things more bright and glowing. When the attire of his brethren and sisters was discussed, he always gave his voice and vote in favour of gay silks and rich velvets, beyond the mother's means. When a fête day called forth the holiday attire, it was Peter who arranged the disposition of the family wardrobe, and criticised the garments of the multitude of citizens who thronged the cathedral at high mass; and when the mass was done, and the host of worshippers had departed, Peter would still linger before the picture of some saint, or stand by the hour watching the forms of the solitary penitents who knelt in prayer on the floor of the cathedral, or in some one of its many chapels. The flood of

rich light that then streamed through the lofty painted windows of the nave was another source of joy to him, an object almost of his adoration, and he would gaze upon the gold and jewels and rich carvings of the grand altar, until its gorgeousness became almost a part of his mental self. With a thirsty mind, he drank in all that his eye could discover of the majestic and the gorgeous; and when his thoughts were forced by duty from their favourite theme, to the petty quirks, the mean evasions, the unworthy subterfuges, and the cold, hard, worldly realities of the law, the inner rebellion was cruel. The memory of his father's wishes, the desires of his mother, and the persuasion of his friends, weighed heavily in the scale; but a strong nature was too much for them, and Peter at length abandoned with exultation his legal studies to become a page in the house of a noble Spanish family.

*

Two and fifty years passed away, and the gossips of the Place de Meir were again listening to the same carillons that had sounded a welcome to the widow's family more than half a century before. The beautiful spire was there, and the music was the same, and there was a group wending their way towards the widow's house. But where is the boy?

Youth, long ago, had given place to manhood, and even more disgusted with the servile duties of his post than with the formalities of the law, the page became a painter. With the devotion of a spirit engaged in its proper sphere, he wrought late and early at his easel, and soon there came forth from it bold vigorous forms grouped in luxuriant profusion, and glowing with a richness of colour such as never before was produced by the painters of Flanders. Soon on all hands he was greeted as a master, and fame, and honours, and riches poured in rapidly upon him. Journeying to Italy to study the pictures of that country, his polished manners, and the news of his ability, procured him a warm reception at the Court of Mantua-whose duke he consented to serve as envoy to the Court of Spain. The stately hidalgos and lofty beauties of that sunny land were charmed with the handsome person, the finished address, and ready pencil of the young Fleming, and Philip the Third and the proudest of his grandees were anxious sitters before his easel. But the ambassador was not forgotten in the artist, nor was the object of his mission left unfulfilled. Returning to Mantua he reaped an abundant harvest of thanks and gold, and rich in the world's goods he went to Rome, to Bologna, to Venice, to Milan, to Genoa;-noting in each their treasures of art, and painting late and early with a noble desire to emulate the greatness of the Italian masters. Whilst thus engaged he got news of the mortal sickness of his mother-and the son hurried with all the impatience of filial love to Antwerp, but arrived too late to receive her latest breath.

Honours at home awaited him, but could not for a long time heal his grief. He was named a Councillor of State, and the Archduke Albert loaded him with favours, and gave him a pension, that he might have leisure if he chose it. They tempted him to live at Brussels; but Antwerp was his home, he said, and there he still with unabated ardour worked on, painting altar-pieces, and other such pictures, for most of the chief churches of Belgium. Going to Paris to take a commission for twenty-one large paintings, the King, who ordered them, would have them completed in that city; but no!-Antwerp was his home, and there he finished them. Some time before this he had married a native of the city, and this bound him in affection still closer to the place; but at length his wife died, and to amuse his grief he travelled through Holland, and afterwards accepted

missions for Madrid, and subsequently for England. In Spain he again made friends, and painted some magnificent pictures;-in England he succeeded in procuring for Flanders a treaty of commerce; and surprised King Charles the First by the variety of his accomplishments, the soundness of his judgment, the richness of his fancy, and the power and never-ceasing industry of his pencil. From London he went again to Spain, and thence once more returned with softened feelings to his much-loved Antwerp. There, in the house near the Place de Meir, the painter received visits from scions of royal houses; there Ferdinand, the brother of Philip the Fourth, of Spain, and there Maria de Medici, on her way into exile, visited him; and thus the painter diplomatist and courtier brought honour to the city, whilst he was enriching it by the immortal products of his pencil.

But hark! the carillons are playing merrily, and the group we saw have entered the house, and three of them ascend its stair. There is a notary, a physician, and a noble-looking youth, and they come to see the painter die. There he lies, surrounded by his family;-noble-looking sons and comely daughters, and his young, second wife. The physician says there is no hope, and the news affects the least the man it concerns most nearly. He is calmly resigned, and with a heart overflowing with love for those around him, amid the prayers and tears of his family, and the sorrow of his townsmen, he closes his earthly career.

Yet though long since dead in body, his name lives after him, and the works of Peter Paul Rubens attest their author's claim to the title of "The Good Genius of Antwerp."

April.

By the Author of "Spartacus," "The Cathedral Bell," and other Poems.

THE equinoctial gales are lull'd to rest;

The early singing-birds unite their strains;

And timid April, by the sun caress'd,

Now, with her breath of violets, walks the plains;
And, when her lord, like some enamour'd youth,
Dwells on the changeful colours of her brow,
She, like some maid, heart-certain of his truth,
Smiles through her tears for bliss to share his vow.

The days extend-in many-tinted green

The buds unfurl their foliage; and the trees
Which, promptest, bloom along the rural scene,
Show, like some dress'd regatta, in the breeze.

The swallows re-appear-and, hour by hour,

Both still and moving life mark Spring's engendering power.

Rough Notes of the Cotton Metropolis.

BY W. F. PEACOCK.

AUTHOR OF " OVER WELSH MOUNTAINS," &c.

A WALK THROUGH A MANCHESTER WAREHOUSE.

"Labour is life! "Tis the still water faileth;

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth:

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.

Labour is glory!-the flying cloud lightens ;

Only the waving wing changes and brightens ;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens :

Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep them in tune."

"Labour is Life!" and the truth cannot be better evidenced than in a Manchester warehouse. A world itself, each animated atom has its particular place and use, 'tending to the unity of the whole. And as a "strike" amongst the feeders in a cotton mill is potent enough to stop all the work, so the slightest dereliction from duty, on the part of a warehouseman, is fraught with consequences undreamt of.

"If from the chain, whatever link you strike,

Tenth or tenth thousand, breaks that chain alike."

And thus it is readily understood why every member of a Manchester house, however important or seemingly-trivial be the part assigned to him, should execute his business with precision, with punctuality, and with vigour. He must not be like the whining schoolboy; it won't do for him to creep like a snail, unwillingly. His heart and hand should go in unison; he must feel an interest in what he does, even though he be (as it were) the lowest step in the commercial ladder. Good masters make good men; and the best proof that the principals in our Manchester warehouses are what they should be, is the perfect concord which exists between them and their subordinates. I have known a case where a firm was temporarily restricted for cash, and the fact being bruited somehow, the warehousemen, high and low, down to the very porters, packers, and errand-lads, contributed (in the most unpretending and deferential manner) their savings; and a round sum was collected and timidly presented to those in power! The sum was not small; it amounted to several hundreds of pounds; and it was sufficient to avert the impending danger. The employers never forgot this. I have also known many young fellows who earnestly opposed the early closing movement; harum-scarums many of 'em were, out of hours, but as punctilious of their employer's time as Sancho of the rights of Don Quixote. They would be at their posts considerably before the appointed time, and remain until they were ordered off. Do you believe this? Pon my honour I don't care a doit whether you do or not; just because it's true. When it

was proposed to close at five instead of seven, one of these hearty youths (who was rather fond of pleasure IN HIS OWN TIME) said, "Now, look here!— it's too bad, now! I'm quite content to go at it until seven, but, by Jove!

W