ernment, that would have ruined Church and State, I was obliged to oppose him. But I willingly pardon whatever he undertook against me personally; but he ought to have asked me without an 'if'-for he has done his best to render the troops faithless to the oath they swore me as their commander-in-chief. Two things have grieved me sensibly: firstly, his assertion that I aimed at the sovereignty, and secondly, that he exposed me to so much danger at Utrecht. But I leave it to your discretion to tell him so or not; for I am desirous of naught but his salvation. I have, too, begged the judges not to impute to him any thing he may have done to me as a crime. With regard to his children, I will be kind to them as long as they deserve it."

As Walaeus was about to leave him with this reply, the Prince recalled him and said, “Did he not speak of a pardon?" The minister returned, "that he had not understood any thing to that effect." He then carefully reported the Prince's words to the advocate, who observed, "that he desired nothing more for his children, and the Prince must be greatly mistaken to imagine he asked a pardon for himself. Besides, he had always, since the year 1600, firmly believed that his Grace aimed at the sovereignty, or an increase of authority. All he (the advocate) had done at Utrecht, was in order to prevent a revolt." After this conversation the advocate prepared for death, though the divines could not bring him to confess he had deserved to die. The discourse then turned on Divine providence, and from what the advocate said, Walaeus was inclined to believe him an adherent of the anti-Arminian party; but others affirm him to have been more moderate in his expressions. On one occasion he evinced the interest he took in the other prisoners, and asked, "Is my Grotius to die, too? and Hoogerbeets?" But Beyerus replied he knew nothing about it. "I should be very sorry for them," answered the advocate; "they are still young, and might do the state good service." He likewise endeavored, at a late hour of the night, to take some rest, but was not able to do so. Then he lay reading a long time in his French Book of Psalms. He likewise requested Beyerus to read something to him.

About five o'clock in the morning, the clergy. men were sent for by the judges, who assembled at that early hour. The advocate then rose from his couch, had his shirt collar cut open in front by his servant, and gave him his nightcap, to take care of, until he wanted it. All the while he remained perfectly calm. As soon as the clergymen returned to him, morning service was performed by Walaeus. The advocate's wife and children, who had received his sad farewell letter the previous evening, applied, before four o'clock in the morning, for admittance to him, on which the judges sent to inquire if the old man wished to see his spouse and children and grandchildren for the last time. But as he did not know this to be at their own request, he declined the meeting. The judges had this answer appended to the petition of his relations, who desisted from any further attempts at seeing him. The Princess-Dowager, hearing the advocate was condemned to death, endeavored to save him by her intercession, but

could not obtain an audience of Prince Maurice. The French ambassador, Maurier, requested to be received by the States-General at five o'clock in the morning, but was refused. Upon this he immediately presented a memorial to the States, requesting the capital sentence might be commuted into banishment. But his application was not listened to. At seven o'clock, the advocate wrote a note to his wife and children, chiefly recommending his servant, Jan Franken, to their care, and to advise them of what he had begged the Prince to do.

By daybreak, the inner and outer courts were lined with troops. At four o'clock they began to erect the scaffold in the inner court, before the window of the staircase leading to the great hall -on the right-hand side. A few minutes before eight, Walaeus warned the advocate to prepare. He immediately left his room and went towards the judges' chamber, but there he heard it was a mistake, and a little too early. Thereupon he retired again to his own room, and read, for half an hour or more, in his French Psalms. Between eight and nine o'clock he was summoned to the Rolls Court, where the four-and-twenty judges, the three fiscals, and the clerk, Post, were assembled. There his sentence was read to him. Meanwhile the advocate appeared restless and uneasy, as if he wanted to say something. But he contained himself until the lecture was concluded. He then affirmed that he was accused of more than could be inferred from what he had confessed. He also opposed the confiscation of his estates. But De Voogd, one of the judges, interrupted him, crying out-" "Sentence has been passed, away! away!" The old man then walked very steadily, leaning on his stick, from the chamber, through the hall, to the scaffold. There he raised his eyes to heaven, saying, "O Lord, to what is man exposed!" and he knelt down on the bare planks, as there was no cushion at hand. Meanwhile, Lamotius repeated the prayer, which lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. After this he seemed more cheerful than before, undressed himself with his servant's aid, and said then, or before undressing, to the spectators: "Good people, do not believe me to be a traitor; I have acted honestly and worthily, like a good patrict, and as such I die." Upon this he asked for his velvet cap, which he drew over his eyes. He spoke a few words of extemporary prayer on his way to the heap of sand. If he even at this moment still entertained hopes of escaping death is uncertain, but he asked his servant if nobody were coming. It was just before halfpast nine when he knelt down, saying to the executioner, "Be quick, be quick!" He then raised his hands in prayer, so close to his neck that with his head the tops of his fingers were severed. Many of the spectators dipped their handkerchiefs in his blood; others carried off some of the bloody sand, or sold it to their friends. They even cut off some bloody chips from the scaffold, incited by various emotions of love, hatred, and revenge. De Groot wrote some years after, very plainly, that Oldenbarneveldt's enemy-meaning, probably, the Prince-witnessed his death. The body was buried quietly the same night. The papers concealed in his prison were afterwards discovered

by the judges. It is not known if they are still in existence, or if they were destroyed. The advocate died at the age of seventy-one years, seven months, and eighteen days.

Wagenaar was greatly surpassed in elegance of style and universal knowledge by Simon Stijl, a learned physician, whose history of the "Rise and Prosperity of the United Netherlands," besides ten volumes of biographies of distinguished men, still holds an honorable place in the list of Dutch classics; and the Pensionary Spiegel, Meerman, Bondam, and others, all contributed about this time to a fund of historical works, mostly very valuable as to their contents, but awfully dry and wearisome for the general reader, however great their importance may be to the historian.

But all the merits of these writers and all they undertook to prevent the further spread of French taste and French language, (even Hemsterhuis, an honor to the times and Dutch nation, chose that tongue for his writings,) were vain endeavors to stem the torrent

which not only invaded the Netherlands, but rendered the whole Continent, as it were, for a period subservient to France. We have, in our first paper, pointed out the political events at the beginning of the present century, which for a time threatened the utter annihilation of the Dutch nation. That literature should be one of the first victims, was a necessary consequence. Even satire and irony were unavailing weapons in the hands of the patriots, and Feitema and his school of imitators reigned triumphant at the end of the eighteenth century in the litera y reput lic The last and worthiest of the champions of better taste and better times was Arend

Fokke Simonsz, a citizen of Amsterdam, who began life as a bookseller and ended it as a bookmaker. He had plenty of ready wit, but, like a great many other wits, was father too fond of displaying it. He was the author of a Comic History of France and England, in his "Comic Tour through Europe," of numerous essays of all sorts, of a Comic Dictionary, &c., and he attacked the poetasters of the day in his "Modern Helicon," with an extract from which we shall conclude our present paper.

We must premise that the author (in a dream) fancies himself to be taking a walk through Amsterdam, seeking a shop and signboard, displaying in large characters the words:

Magasin de Poésie et de Versification, de Monsieur Phoebus Apollon de Delos;

Tears came into the old fellow's eyes when he heard me thunder out these words, but he could not refrain from smiling at the same time, which gave have burst out laughing if I had dared. "Oh, my such a curious twist to his features, that I should dear sir," said he at length, "who and what are you? That is a language I have not heard for a long time; it reminds me of my blind old friend, Homer, and is really quite affecting. But I must smile at the queer contrast it offers with my present circumstances. Do I look like a powerful god? No, no, I may well exclaim with Virgil, of glorious memory, Fuit Ilium!"

The god further proves himself a laudator temporis acti of the true stamp, and offers, at length, to show his visitor his wares, which he lets out by the month or day, or selfs, to suit his customers' convenience. Before going through his magazines, which are filled up with all the loci communes of the day, so extravagantly used by the poets, such as Cupid's darts, scalding tears, smouldering ashes, broken hearts, shepherds' pipes, tuneful lyres, &c., all most systematically arranged in the pomp, pride and circumstance of glorious "trade,' the visitor inquires after the Muses, to whom he is desirous of paying his respects.

"Muses!" was the reply, "Oh, they are much melting away like snow in summer. as you must expect to find them. Old and feeble, The life they lead is none of the happiest-wear and tear more than enough." "But Thalia," observed I, "was always cheerful. I hope she is well." "Oh! do not mention Thalia; she is the worst and most troublesome of the set; she has grown so peevish that she worries me to death; she is composing pamphlets and satires all day long. Between ourselves, she is fond of a drop; but the really comic vein is exhausted! She was an odd creature from her childhood; even in the days of Aristophanes she gave me a deal of trouble. She never behaved better than in the times of Plautus, Menander and Terence, and once after, (about

four hundred years ago.) she was on her good behavior with Molière and Holberg; but now-a-days she is scarcely decent company. She is a great deal too fond of the penny-a-liners and street poets, who come to buy or hire their trumpery here, and I can't prevent her goings-on. Their money is as good as anybody else's, I suppose." " But," I replied, "I hope her sister Melpomene is not altered;

she was always a staid and sober personage." "Well, she is changed, nevertheless, my good sir; she has got rid of any thing like steadiness; she has grown fanatic and fractious, and, in one word, sentimental. Whatever she does is sure to be tinged with sentimentality. She is the plague of my life, too! But if you want to know who really gets on well, it is Terpsichore; she composes operas as fast as she can, and dresses like a lady of fashion."

in a similar manner, and the conversation runs by turns on all the different sorts of literary composition of the sentimental school, which is severely and deservedly castigated. But we have reached or, perhaps, even exceeded, the limits of the space granted us this month; we leave the Dutch Muses in their graceless state till our next paper, when we shall endeavor to trace their revival under Feith and Bilderdijk, and their fortunes down

THAT the Duke of Orleans, for the time being, was always a pretender to the throne, and the enemy of its occupant, appears ever to have been considered an incontrovertible fact. It is one that can hardly be disputed; and the antagonism between Orleans and the sceptre commenced with the first little Prince on the roll of these royal Dukes.

The young gentleman in question was the second son of Philip VI. (de Valois). He was born at Vincennes, in 1336; and the good city whose name was borrowed, in order to furnish him with a ducal title, fell, or rose, into a state of delightful enthusiasm at the honor. It was to this Prince that Humbert, Dauphin of Vienne, made gift of his territory; but the father of Philip of Orleans compelled him to resign gift and title, which were transferred to his elder brother John. From that period the heir to the French throne was called "the Dauphin ;" and it is historically clear that the Dukes of Orleans not only desired to recover the title, but the inheritance. The career of the first Duke, Philip, was not very long, nor yet particularly brilliant. He was a good soldier and a sorry Christian. At Poictiers, when scarcely twenty years of

age, he led six-and-thirty banners and a couple of hundred pennons into the field. When he had brought his followers within sight of the English ranks, he remarked, Now, Sirs, you talked right valiantly at your hearths of how you would eat these pestilent English knaves, if you could but get your hands upon their throats. There they are before you! Charge! and may St. Denis give you power both to eat and to digest!" But the broad-cloth arrows and spears of England were too much for even the eager followers of Orleans. Few of them got back to the hearths around which they had so lately boasted.

Duke Philip led a gay life in England during the period he remained here as hostage for his brother the King, John, who had been allowed to return to France to raise a ransom. He had been married, when only in his ninth year, to Blanche, daughter of Charles the Fair; and his profligacy was of a quality to break the heart of sterner wives than gentle Blanche. He survived till the reign of Charles V., the son of John, who cut down his appanages, and had much to do in guarding against his uncle's designs in return. But the King had not to keep guard long; for Philip of Orleans, worn out with his excesses, died in 1375, in the thirty-ninth year of his age, and was buried with as much pomp, in the church of the Celestines in Paris, as though there were men who had honored him when living, or who mourned at his departure.