gave the deputation a gracious reception. This subsidy added much to his comforts, and he was at last freed from prison by an act of insolvency, in consequence of which he made over his kingdom of Corsica to his creditors! There was an actual registration made of this consignment, which, with the great seal of Corsica, fell into Horace Walpole's cabinet of curiosities. Theodore did not long survive his liberation. He was buried in the church-yard of St Anne's, Soho, and a plain monument placed over his remains, with the following inscription: Near this place is interred Theodore, king of Corsica, who died in this parish, December 11, 1756, immediately after leaving the King's Bench Prison, by the benefit of the act of insolvency; in consequence of which, he registered his kingdom of Corsica for behoof of his creditors. 'The grave, great teacher! to a level brings Bestowed a kingdom, and denied him bread.' This monumental inscription came, we believe, from the pen of Walpole, and it saves the necessity of any further moralising upon the story of poor Theodore, king of Corsica. A STEAM-BOAT ROMANCE. THE signal-bell at the end of the Chain Pier of Newhaven was tolling its final peal, announcing the arrival of the hour for the departure of the good steam-boat the Morning Star for Stirling, when a young lady hurried forward just in time to be received into the number of the vessel's passengers. The ding-dong ceased, the pure white vapour issuing from the chimney of the steamer was exchanged for a stream of sooty smoke, and in a few moments the prow of the Morning Star was briskly pushing its way through the waves of the firth. The morning being a beautiful one of June, crowds of passengers filled the deck, presenting a most promiscuous assemblage, and one that afforded much curious food for a contemplative eye and mind. Here sat a merry group, gay and smiling, laughing ever and anon 'the heart's laugh.' There stood a sorrowing widow, her eye fixed upon the bright waves, but all unobservant of their beauty; for her thoughts were wandering at the moment through the long vista of departed years, and conjuring up hours of bliss-fled for ever! Hard by sat a gray-haired countryman, stroking with affectionate hand the shaggy coat of his faithful dog, beloved the more at that instant because affording a memorial of herds and flocks far, far away. By the countryman's side sat his daughter, bending with looks of unutterable love over the rosy face of the infant that slumbered on her knee. This pair looked as if returning from a visit-perhaps their first to the capital; and, judging from the pleased yet arch smile which played upon the old man's countenance, we might imagine him musing upon the looks of wonder which would attend his fireside descriptions of all the grand things he had seen. To describe, however, all the individuals and groups assembled on the deck of the Morning Star on this sunny day of June, would be tiresome, and, moreover, unnecessary, since it is with two personages only that we have at present to do. One of these was a young man dressed ambitiously and elaborately, and who made himself conspicuous by walking up and down the deck, humming a little French air, which seemed to please himself remarkably. At times he would stop and examine his boots, pointing his toes, and turning the foot outwards and inwards, as if the contour of the whole appeared to his eye a fine exemplification of those lines of beauty' spoken of by artists. At other moments the points of his fingers, and the buttons of his surtout, became the objects of equally satisfactory examination. By way of varying these processes, he would occasionally switch his fishing-rod in the air, or raise his pendent eyeglass, and examine, with a smile of patronising condescension, the faces of all on board. Such was one of the two individuals already alluded to. The other was a young lady-the same whose entrance into the steamboat had taken place immediately before the final tinkle of the Chain Pier bell. Mary Græme-for such was her name—had just reached the interesting age of seventeen. She was now returning home, after having spent a winter in Edinburgh, whither she had gone for the purpose of receiving her educational finish, or getting finished, as the more common phrase is. Unfortunately for herself, Mary, who was naturally warm-hearted, sensitive, and generous, had been left an orphan in infancy, and had fallen under the care of a maiden aunt, a person who had long survived the sentimental period of life, yet who had accustomed herself to depend for daily food and excitement upon the pages of romance. This lady most injudiciously permitted her niece to resort from childhood to the same quarter for mental occupation. Naturally fond of reading, Mary devoured all the marvels of fiction that came before her; and hence it was, that, as she grew up to womanhood, her little brain became a most extraordinary labyrinth, where ideas of crossed affections,' ill-fated love,' and 'broken hearts,' were mixed and mingled in most admired disorder. The winter which Mary had spent in Edinburgh had given her a taste of somewhat better training, but the period was too short to eradicate the ideas which had been planted in her mind for years. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that one of the principal causes of regret to Mary Græme at this very time, while she was on her way homewards in the Morning Star, was, that all her days had hitherto passed away without her ever having been once in love, or having met with a single adventure. Mary Græme had not been long on board the steamboat, until the gentleman with the fishing-rod, surtout, and boots, became the object of her especial observation. She at once traced a resemblance between him and the hero of the last novel she had read-a tale, by the by, which had particularly delighted her, from the circumstance of its ending with the deaths of no less than four unhappy couples, who were immediately followed to the grave, according to rule, by their sorrowing parents; thus creating a mortality of some twenty-four persons in all, not to mention a few grandfathers and grandmothers, who were extinguished on the same lamentable occasion. The leading character of this tale of wo was just such a person, Mary was sure, as the gentleman with the fishingrod. Perhaps this disciple of Walton had seen the young lady's glance of interest, for, ere the vessel had gone far, he came near her, and, opening a volume of engravings, offered them for her inspection. How could she refuse a piece of civility accompanied by a bow so graceful, so respectful, and so insinuating? The plates were looked at. Remarks on the scenery they depicted were unavoidable. Then followed some converse on the weather, on the scenery of the Forth; and in less than an hour, Mary and the stranger were discoursing with the animation and intimacy of old friends. He of the fishing-rod spoke, with the taste of an amateur, of the effects of light and shade, and the harmony of colours; he related many anecdotes of adventure, and told how often he used to wander alone in the lonely Highland glens, where no living being was within miles of him, though he often longed, he confessed, for the company of some one to sweeten solitude-for the society, in short (and here he looked tenderly upon Mary), of a kindred spirit.' The pair talked of music, and on this subject the stranger delivered himself in terms of rapture, dilating on the beauty of foreign music, and speaking of 'amor mio' and 'di tanti palpiti' in a way that proved to Mary his complete familiarity with the arcana of this elegant art. When the young lady gave her preference to the Scottish music, the stranger only looked an interesting negation. He is good-tempered, as well as intelligent and accomplished. And then so elegant in appearance he is! So pale-so interestingly pale! Such dark locks! And eyes so expressive!' Such were Mary's thoughts of this casual companion of the steam-boat. The subject of novels served the pair to talk about till Stirling Castle came in view, and found Mary more impressed than ever, for she had discovered her new acquaintance to be as well read as herself in works of fiction. When the vessel neared the castle, the stranger's looks became overcast with sadness. Nor was the cause left in doubt or mystery. He would fix his eyes on the young lady, repeat emphatically some line upon separations and farewells, openly express the hope that they would meet again, and repeatedly declare the passing day to have been the happiest of his life. All this was new, as it was pleasing, to the girl of seventeen. Her timidity kept her silent; but the stranger read her feelings in her looks. He told her again and again how severe a pang it gave him to part from her. The unsophisticated and romantic Mary dropped a tear-and this was all her reply. At length the vessel reached the shore, and Mary saw happy faces smiling and nodding to her from the old phaeton which waited her arrival. They were the family of her elder sister, who now inhabited with her husband the house in which Mary had been born. The stranger turned to her and bade her adieu, and in a few moments Mary had landed and found herself whirling along the road towards the home of her infancy, which she had not visited for some years, and then only for a short time along with the aunt formerly mentioned. It was with some difficulty that Mary could rouse herself from thoughts of her late adventure so far as to reply with attention to the numerous questions which were put to her by her present companions. The sight of her ancient home, which they came in sight of after a drive of considerable length, was effectual for a time in withdrawing Mary from all thoughts of the stranger of the fishingrod. She could not look on the ivy clustering around the window of the room-the nursery where a deceased mother had hung over her cradle-without feelings of |