place before Madame de Pompadour could be appointed lady of the bed-chamber to the Queen of France, because there could not be found a curé unprincipled enough to administer the sacrament to the mistress of the king—a preliminary of etiquette before Madame de Pompadour could take that place.
Queen Marie is mentioned by Horace Walpole in his first published collection of letters, and while the whole of the French royal family is indiscriminately attacked by his venomous pen, the good old queen, with her frank manners and amiable face, is named with some complacency because, he says, “her large caps put him in mind of Queen Caroline,” the wife of George II.
Marie Leszczynska bore Louis XV. ten children: two princes and eight princesses. Her tenderness for them, which had been of hourly demonstration, never showed itself more lively than when death had carried off several. Attacked herself, with a malady that hurried her to the tomb, whilst the physicians were seeking remedies for her sufferings, she was heard thus to address them:—“Restore me my children, and you will cure me.” Queen Marie Leszczynska died 24th June, 1768, expressing sentiments of pious hope which had proved her best consolation when she had shared the misfortunes of her father, and later in life, when she experienced the unhappiness of losing her husband’s affections.
THE MAGICIAN’S APPRENTICE.
(Imitated from the “Der Zauberlehrling” of Goëthe.)
BY SUTHERLAND MENZIES.
Hath left me sole the house to keep;
I long to see the spirits leap
And dance round his cauldron hand in hand;
To call them forth the spells I know,
Words causing lovers’ hearts to glow;
How with the stalks of young herbs bruised,
Then boiled to bubbling froth,
From the vase’ mouth to make spring forth
A thousand prodigies confused.
Come on! come on!
The fire is gleaming,
The herbs are steaming
In my huge cauldron.
Come on! come on!
More water in pour,
Let it seethe and roar,
And then bubble o’er.
Come on! come on!
In a bath with my sprite I’ll plunge anon.
Damask embroider’d all so grand—
Forth, sage broomstick, hither stand
And play the beau although bemired;
Upon thy two legs deftly toiling,
Pour fresh water on the boiling
From th’ iron pot thy head sustains:
Dispatch—with thy work hasten thee;
I’m sorcerer, and king would be,
Beside my queen who o’er thee reigns.
