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produce externally the resemblance of a coronet—the interior was proceeding towards its finishings, which were to be gaily elegant—the painted glass windows opening to the ground—the ceiling decorated with gilded coronets and armorial bearings, supported by youthful warriors—and the whole furnished with corresponding cheerfulness and splendour, all co-operating to perfect its pleasurable character.

But just when the work was on the eve of completion, the awful moment arrived, in which, with breathless anxiety, the whole nation listened in expectant delight—when, in an instant, the dearly cherished hope was destroyed by that astounding intelligence, that heart-sickening disappointment, which filled the empire with one sorrow—the genuineness and intensity of which had no parallel but in the universal admiration of those excellencies, now—if possible—the more valued by their loss.

November had, at this moment, paralyzed the scenery of Claremont—the leaves had fallen abundantly from the trees, and the ground was gloomy with them—the place lately so cheerful and inviting, and every object by which it was adorned, seemed at once to participate in the dreadful stroke—it was as if death had at one blow laid prostrate all its charms; mocking from thence the public hope, and rioting in desolation.