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are then placed. A lady (in succession) is seated between two bearers, who importunately solicit her reluctant regard, till at length she gives herself to one, and the waltzing is resumed. A gentleman is then seated in the centre chair, hoodwinked, and a lady takes the place on each side. In this perplexity of choice the Tantalus of the minute remains, till by a sudden resolution he decides for right or left, uncovers his eyes, and waltzes away with the chancedirected partner; followed as before by the rest. The chairs are next placed triangularly dos a dos, and three ladies are thus seated. The youths pace round then in a circle, till each of the fair ones throws her handkerchief, and away they again whirl. The men then appear to deliver to each, but to one alone is given, a ring; and the dance concludes by the ladies passing hand in hand through arches made by the extended arms of the gentlemen, till each seizes his partner, and once more swings round the circle.

JOHN WESLEY-In his seventy-eighth year he wrote thus: "By the blessing of God, I am just the same as when I was in my twenty-eighth; in 1769, I weighed a hundred and twenty-two pounds; in 1781, I weigh not a pound more or less." When eighty, he declared that he was no more infirm, than during the vigour of manhood. Four years afterwards, he says, "I am not so agile as I was; I neither run nor walk so fast as I did; my sight is a little impaired; I find also some decay in my memory; yet I feel nothing like weariness, either in travelling or preaching."' On his eighty-sixth birth day, he observes, "1 am now an old man:" and, in 1790, he says, "I am decayed from head to foot. However, blessed be God! I do not slack in my labours: I can preach and write still." About the middle of the same year, he finally closed his cash book with the following remark, written so unsteadily as to be almost illegible: "For upwards of eighty-six years I have kept my accounts exactly: I will not attempt it any longer, being satisfied with the continual conviction, that I save all I can, and give all I can,-that is, all I have." In a letter, which he wrote to his friends in America, early in 1791, he expressed his conviction in the language of his father, when under similar circumstances, that his end was approaching: "Time," said he, " has shaken me by the hand, and Death is not far behind." He shortly afterwards preached his

last sermon, and died on the 2nd of March, in the same year. He had said, during his illness," Let me be buried in nothing but what is woollen; and let my corpse be carried in my coffin, into the chapel, without any pomp.' "" Notwithstanding this request, on the day before its interment, his body was absurdly exhibited, at his chapel in the City-road, clad in his gown, cassock, band, and clerical cap, and having a Bible in one hand, and a white handkerchief in the other!

CHARLES EDWARD STUART. - His wife, by whom he had no children, according to Dutens, whose narrative we shall abridge, soon became disgusted with his conduct. He often beat her; and at length, driven to extremities by many revolting scenes, she determined to free herself from his tyranny. But to escape was difficult, for he rarely permitted her to quit his presence, and when compelled to lose sight of her, he invariably locked her up. A scheme for procuring her freedom, was, however, eventually devised by Alfieri, the poet, who had long been attached to her, which was executed by two of her friends, the Signor Orlandini and his wife. The latter, who, as well as her husband and Alfieri, were intimate with Charles Edward, persuaded him one morning to take her and the princess to see the works of the nuns in a neighbouring convent. Orlandini met them, apparently by accident, and escorted them up a flight of steps to the entrance door, which, by a preconcerted arrangement, they were permitted immediately to enter. Orlandini then returned to meet Charles Edward, who came panting up the steps after his wife. "These nuns," said the signor, "are very unmannerly: they shut the door in my face, and would not let me enter with the ladies." "Oh! I will soon make them open it," replied the prince. But he was mistaken. On reaching the door, he knocked for a long time without effect. At length the abbess came to the grate, and told him that his wife had chosen that place for her asylum, and could not be disturbed. His rage at this intimation was boundless: but his clamours were of no avail, and he was soon compelled to withdraw.

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GEORGE THE SECOND.-The king felt very indignant at being opposed, as he frequently was, by his ministers, and sometimes obstinately persisted having his own way Perceiving that the name of a general, whom he admired, was omitted in a list of promo

tions, his majesty inquired for what reason that particular person's name had been so unaccountably passed over. "The man is mad," replied the minis. "Oh! is he?" said the king, "then let him be advanced and employed, so that he may have an opportunity of biting a few of my other generals.

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CHARLES JAMES FOX.-Lord Holland having resolved to take down the wall before Holland-house, and to have an iron railing put up in its stead, it was necessary to use gunpowder to facilitate the work. He had promised Charles James that he should be present when ever the explosion took place. Finding that the labourers had blasted the brickwork in his absence, he ordered the wall to be rebuilt; and, when it was thoroughly cemented, had it blown up again, for the gratification of his favourite boy; at the same time advising those about him, never, on any account, to break a promise with children.

EXTRAORDINARY CURIOSITY.--Thenét, a man of learning in France, was one morning taken out of his bed and carried off to the Bastile. The lieutenant of police went next day to examine him. "Sir," said Thenêt to him when he entered," will you have the goodness to tell me why they have shut me up here?" "You have a great deal of curiosity indeed!" exclaimed the lieutenant of police, and retired.

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J.D.N.

AVARICE. All the strong passions abandon men at their death, except avarice, says Mad. de P. The governor had a long sickness. On the point of dying, he said to his physician, who had assiduously attended him for six months, that he was desirous to recompense him for his good services, at the same time drawing from under his pillow a sack, from which he took three pounds, and gave them to him. The physician, surprised at the smallness of the sum, asked him if it was on account? "On account, sir!" exclaimed the dying man-" no, sir, the sum appears to me reasonable enough for your attendance." The physician remonstrated, upon which the governor answered: "I see clearly you are not contented, there's a shilling more." The physician could no longer refrain from laughter, but refused to accept it.When we have read the "Miser" of Plautus and that of Moliere, we are tempted to think that the traits which characterise him are exhausted; yet here is one which, though less energetic, is not less true than many which have been employed by those great masters.

The conversation turned upon the subject of a grateful man: some one present who owed him an obligation, said— "Yes, he, is a very good kind of man: he is poor, but that does not prevent him from doing a good office. I have known him forty years, and he has never asked a halfpenny of me!"

PRINCESS AMELIA SOPHIA.. Her manners and dress were exceedingly masculine. It was her custom to pass much time in her stables, particularly when any of the horses were, ill. She wore a round hat, and a riding habit in the German fashion; and if any credit may be attached to the following anecdote, her appearance, at one period of her life, must have been extraordinary for a person of her sex and rank:George the Fourth, when Prince of Wales, in order to illustrate an observation which he had made, that men frequently obtain credit for good deeds which they had never even thought of performing, stated, that one day he was accompanied, in a drive to Bagshot, by Lord Clermont; who, as it was rather cold, wore a white great coat and a kind of flannel hood, to protect his ears and neck; and that, thus arrayed, several persons on the road, mistaking his lordship for the Princess Amelia, exclaimed, "What a good young man the prince is, thus to be the companion of his father's deaf old aunt, during her morning drives!" It appears that she was extremely short-sighted, as well as very deaf; but her conception was so quick, that she appeared to see and hear even better than other people.

CIVILITY. A young gentleman being found asleep in the streets at an unseasonable hour, was brought before a magistrate, when he confessed he had been tipsy. "Young man," said the magistrate, "you should be very sorry.' "I am sorry."-"You must be fined." Handing over the money, "I am fined."

LIFE.

Cling not to earth-there's nothing there,
However loved, however fair,
But on its features still must wear

The impress of mortality.
Cling not to earth-as well we may
Trust Asia's serpent's wanton play,
That glitters only to betray

To death-or else to misery.
Dream not of friendship-there may be
A word, a smile, a grasp for thee;
But wait the hour of need, and see,
But wonder not-their fallacy.
Think not of beauty-like the rest,
It bears a lustre on its crest;
But short the time ere stands confess'd
Its falsehood-or its frailty.

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F.E.

To Correspondents.-The following have been received:- Lost Daughter" by C. J. Junior; “The a Tale by Zmio. Flask of Schedam," by T. F.; Poetry, from J. D. Newman, and " Winti. Froyd,' NEW WORKS intended for immediate notice, and articles from Correspondents, are requested to be forwarded in the early part of the week.

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Ellustrated Article.

THE LOST DAUGHTER.

A TALE OF NORFOLK.
For the Olio.

On a clear frosty night in January, a man, on a sturdy brown horse, was leisurely jogging on the road leading from the city of Norwich, where he had been transacting business, to Caston, his resident village. The traveller appeared past the meridian of life, but his limbs were evidently still hale, and his figure stalwart and somewhat bulky. This latter characteristic was, doubtless, exaggerated by the ample and many-caped surtout in which he was encased, and by the thick warm shawl which folded once and again" round his neck, enveloped his mouth and chin, rendering the turning of his head (without a corresponding movement of his body) a matter of difficulty.

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The sharp north-east wind blew gently, yet keenly, across the open country, through which Mr. Filmore was proceeding; and the bright beams VOL. X.

emanating from a full-orbed moon clothed with a mild and chaste radiance the face of nature, causing the leafless and rime-covered branches of the trees, which were here and there straggled along the road, to stand out with a bold relief from the indistinct scenery beyond. But the almost impenetrable clothing of our traveller prevented him from feeling in any great degree the frosty air; while the deep reverie into which he had fallen rendered him indifferent to the imposing prospect around. His imagination was roaming to the bye-gone days of his adversity, in which he had endured much affliction and many privations; for fortune had not always smiled on him: times were when, thro' ruinous losses, and the harsh conduct of his landlord, he had been reduced to a state of almost utter destitution; and had been compelled to remove from a neat and pleasant little farm to a miserable hovel; and to submit to the veriest drudgery, and the most servile employment, in order to procure the merest necessaries of life for himself and family. It was during this period

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of misfortune that his dear and only daughter, who ought to have been the comforter and helpmate of her parents in those times of perplexity, had eloped with a young man of low condition, and in poor circumstances, to whom she had become obstinately attached. Every possible search and enquiry was made after her by the afflicted parents, but all in vain-no tidings of their beloved Mary could be gained, and at length all hopes of recovering her were banished. The conduct of his daughter evidently preyed more upon Mr. Filmore's mind than did all his pecuniary troubles; for hitherto, even in his lowest state of poverty, he had preserved somewhat of that urbanity and cheerfulness for which he had ever been remarkable; but this domestic affliction seemed at once to envelope his mind in an impenetrable gloom, and to plunge him into the deepest despair: he became reserved and melancholy, never hearing mention of his Mary without shedding tears. "Rather than this should have happened," he would say, "how willingly would I have followed her to the grave!" Some time subsequent to the above affair, the worldly prospects of Mr. F. suddenly and unexpectedly brightened. A distant and rich relative, whom he had not seen for years, and to whom he had thought it useless to apply for relief in his pecuniary difficulties, had died, and bequeathed him a legacy sufficient to secure his future ease and independence. Great was the joy and gratitude of that family when informed of this event. Once more they prepared to change their place of abodebut, oh! with what different feelings did they quit the hut they had occupied to those with which they had entered it! Then they were exchanging the comforts of life for destitution and poverty-now poverty was, in its turn, to be displaced by comparative affluence. Their benefactress had resided at Caston, in Norfolk, at a delightful little seat called Ivy Cottage, and having no wish to remain in the county of Suffolk, where he had seen so much trouble, Mr. Filmore purchased his late relative's cottage, and settled there with his family.

Nothing now seemed wanting to complete their happiness but the society of the long lost, but unforgotten Mary; for often, when seated with his wife and son at the well supplied table, Mr. Filmore would exclaim

"Oh! that my Mary were but here to share our comforts!-then would my happiness be complete! But, alas!

perhaps she is even now living in infamy, or dying in misery."

For several years no material change took place in Ivy Cottage. Mr. Filmore amused himself by turns in his parlour, his garden, and in occasional rides to the city of Norwich, in order to collect the rents of some houses which he had purchased there. It was from one of these trips that he was returning at the opening of our tale.

The sudden gloom occasioned by the high hedges of a rural lane, which the faithful horse (who needed no guide in the homeward road) had just entered, aroused our traveller from the reverie into which he had fallen. Starting as if from a dream, he beat his hands together (for the cold had penetrated to them, spite of his thick gloves), stroked his horse's neck, looked upward at the star-spangled sky, and was about to relapse into his meditations, when a rustling in the hedge to his left arrested his attention. Fixing his eye intently on the spot, he almost mechanically grasped one of the well-loaded pistols, of which a pair were always in his belt when he travelled that lonely road at night. All was again silent, and he had almost relinquished his grasp of the weapon, when the rustling was repeated, and instantly a man sprang from the hedge towards him, seized the horse's rein, and presenting a pistol to Mr. Filmore's breast, demanded, in a trembling voice, his money or his life. Our traveller, however, had no great inclination to resign either, but instantly withdrawing his hand from under his capes, the robber saw the lock of a pistol gleaming in the moon-light. Dreading lest instant death to himself should be the result of his firing, the villain hesitated, when Mr. Filmore thus addressed him

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Young man, our lives are at this moment in each other's power, and though to take thine would only, on my part, be an act of self-defence, yet I have no desire to do so, but am willing to let you depart in peace, provided you cease to molest me."

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the commission of a deed, from which, under ordinary circumstances, he would shrink with horror."

Mr. Filmore had known what destitution was, and his heart and hand were ever ready to relieve the wretched. "Where is your family?" he enquired, thrusting his left hand into his Focket, but keeping his pistol arm still extended, naturally suspicious of his companion.

"A few fields from hence," answered the robber," is a shed, which, I suppose, was formerly occupied by cattle, but now abandoned as not affording them sufficient shelter. 'Tis there my wife and children lie at present."

Had not the high hedges enveloped in partial gloom the spot where they stood, the robber would have seen a tear of sympathy steal down the manly cheek of Mr. Filmore; but although he observed it not, he saw what pleased him better-the left hand of the traveller extended towards him, containing several silver coins.

"Take that for the present," said Mr. F., "and to-morrow I will bring over some necessaries for your family."

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the softened man, "how can I sufficiently thank you for your present and promised kindness! May Heaven's blessing rest on you and yours, for you will probably be the means of preserving the lives of four perishing creatures!"

Our traveller was too much affected to speak-he waved his hand to the robber, put up his weapon, and proceeded home ward.

The well-known sound of her husband's horse was heard with pleasure by Mrs. Filmore, who had become very uneasy respecting his rider, seeing that his usual time of arrival had long been past. He had scarcely reached the gate when the door opened, and the feeble rays of a candle darted into the frosty air.

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'My dear, how late you be !-Ar'nt you very cold?-George, lad, go and put the horse up," were the rapid exclamations of the good woman, as her husband dismounted and ascended the steps.

Having thrown off his travelling garments, warmed his hands at the fire, and sat down to the supper-table, Mr. Filmore related to his wife his adventure with the robber. She shuddered to think of the peril in which his life and property had been placed, but entirely sympathised with the sufferers, and cordially promised to "look up" some

articles for them on the following day. Having given a tolerable good specimen of supper-eating, and deposited in a place of safety the property he had brought home with him, Mr. Filmore retired to rest, with almost tearful gratitude to Heaven, that he was not then as he had once been, and as thousands then

were.

The morrow's sun had not attained its meridian altitude, when the master of Ivy Cottage was seen to issue therefrom, unattended, with a large bundle, and to direct his steps towards the lane in which the night before he had been stopped by a robber. On reaching the spot where the rencontre took place he hesitated, and was looking round, uncertain which way to proceed, when he saw a man approaching, and as he drew near, our hero recognized the wan, downcast features of the highwayman, for they had been indelibly impressed on his mind. The unhappy man remembered his benefactor again, and touching his hat, was requested by Mr. F. to lead the way to his family.

"Heaven reward you for your kindness, sir," said the robber, as they walked along" but it comes too late to benefit my little girl, who died last night of cold and hunger."

"How many children have you?" enquired Mr. F., endeavouring to stifle a sigh.

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Only two boys now, sir, who are wan and sickly."

By this time they had reached a ruinous something, that might once have been a shed.

"This is our dwelling place, sir,” said the man, smiling bitterly.

Mr Filmore inwardly shuddered as he entered the miserable hovel. In one corner lay the lifeless girl, and in the other the mother and boys, huddled together for warmth. But when his gaze fell on the mother, his eye became as it were death-locked-an ashy paleness pervaded his healthy countenance, and his lips became deadly white and quivering; for there, exposed to every wind that blew, and every storm that descended-there, in the most heartrending state of wretchedness, with scarcely a rag to cover her emaciated person-there, with one child dead by her side, and two others starving in her bosom, lay the daughter of his lovethe long lost Mary! She did not at first recognise her father; but as she saw him stand before her motionless as the sculptured marble, she fixed her gaze intently on him-her dull eye be

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