it would so quickly have come back to me after I had parted from it. But I shall regard it as a happy omen, a harbinger of peace and comfort to my heart." Gentle reader, if ever you should meet with this piece of money, with the figure of a dove engraven upon the face of it, consider it as the habitation of the spirit who now addresses you. There is no deed performed by the person into whose possession I may come, about which I feel indifferent. Let it, therefore, be a part of your solicitude to employ me aright, lest I hereafter publish some circumstances that will not redound to your honour. In my frequent and rapid passage from the hands of one person into those of another, it has been my lot to note the greedy gaze of the miser, fixed upon me with an earnestness which has made me shudder, lest I should have been seized and immured for ages in bis coffers. When the gloating eye of the libidinous has been rivetted upon me, I have felt a sense of disgust lest even his touch should have contaminated the purity of my nature, and left a vicious tarnish behind. With grief I have observed the careless glance of the giddy and thoughtless, as it passed quickly over my surface: I have pitied them, and trembled lest I might unwillingly become one of the excitements or instruments of leading them into error. I have also seen the gladdened eye of benevolence beaming full of joy upon me, while I was bestowed for the relief of the wretched. I have seen the mild and gentle eye of Christian charity, "moistened with pity's dew," as I was silently given to the unfortunate; and as the withered hand of the poor suppliant has been tremblingly extended to accept me, the receiver has almost fainted with ecstacy on beholding me as a stranger, yet not unwelcome; and I rejoiced in spirit at being the medium of such exquisite gratification between donor and receiver.

This digression being finished, I now proceed with the narrative. When the honest creature had presented me to Mr. Gizzard, and he had recognized his own handy work upon me, he said:

Indeed, my good woman, you shall not go unrewarded, for your honesty surprises me."

"Gude guide us! Is there ony thing surprising in honesty? I want naething but the shelling; sae if you'll please to gie it me, Sir, I'll be weel enough rewarded."

"Sit down, sit down; and let me have a little conversation with you. Come, be candid, and tell me your story. I am anxious to know your history, and what brought you to London; for by your discourse you cannot have been long from the north."

"'Deed, Sir, I have been a gude bit in England; but somehow or anither the broad Scotch sticks to the roof o' my mouth, and I maun tell my ane story in my ane mither tongue.

"You maun ken, then, Sir, I was yance a servant-lassie in Edinbro', and about tan years agone I war married upon my Sandie, who was a soger, and, when we became acquaint, was quartered in the Pierce Hill Barracks at Porto Bello. He was as bra' a lad as ony ye'll see in a simmer's day, and was sent wi' his regiment to Spain; but they would na let me gang wi' him, you see. So I went awa hame to my mither, and bided there till Sandie cam back. She was a puir frail body, and stayed at Kinghorn. It has lately pleased the Lord to tak her to himsel.

"I went down to see my aged parent in her last illness; I gied her a decent burial; and came up to join Sandie at the barracks at Rumford. But, aweel awa! I thought I war nae to haud nor to bind, when I find he war dead, and buried twa days before I arrived. His camrades tauld me, he war nae himsel for days thegither, and he did naething but rave for his Jeannie baith night and day. When I heard this, I thought I would hae gane distract a' thegither; for I fancied if I could hae nursed him mysel, I might hae saved his life-puir dear Sandie! You dinna ken, Sir, you canna imagine what a tinder heart he had, though he war a soger: and mony a bludy battle had he been in beside Waterloo; and the tear would start in his bonny blue een, when he wad tel! me o' the sufferings of the wounded and the dying. And my heart is ready to brak when I think I war nae wi' him in his last moments, puir fellow! O, Sir, you maun excuse my sobbing sae; but ye dinna ken what it is to lose the

lad you loo sae weel! But the Lord's will be done! we munna repine. He's gane til a better place.

"I hae twa childer, ye ken, and my eldest son, who is named after his father, war wi' him when he died; and the puir callant has scarcely lifted up his head sin. He war an ailing bairn, a stunted, wee bit body, amaist nine year auld; but he's an auld farrant chiel, and a tinder-hearted laddie, like his father. I left him at the Spread Eagle i' Romford; but he'll larn nae gude there.

"I war going yestreen to ca' upon Mistress Euphemia Mac Alister, who is housekeeper's servant-lassie at the Dutchess of B.'s. Femmy is a discreet body; mayhap ye may ken her, Sir. Her mither's gude sister was first cousin to my father's grandmither; and as we are sae near akin, and united thegither by natural blude, I thought she might speak to the dutchess about my lad

Sandie.

"I see you smile, Sir, at my mention o' the dutchess; but she has a kind heart for a' the folks, muckle and sma', frae Scotland: the vary beasts o' the field, and the birds o' the air, wull come at her bidding, and feed out o' her ain hand as she walks through the policy o' the palace o' D. And when ony o' the puir folk dee in her neighbourhood, this noble lady will be at their bedside her ainsel, and do a' she can to soften the pangs of affliction at that awsome moment. She has the blessings o' the puir wharever she gaes; and her gude deeds will live in their breasts lang after she is gane to heaven.

Weel, weel, as I war saying, Sir, I had walked mony a mile upon the broad stanes till my feet began to blister. I could na mak mysel weel understood, and I lost my road. I war unco weary, and felt mysel faint and overcome; and I sat mysel down on the stair and fell asleep; but the greeting o' the bairn wakened me. I was heart-sick and very despairing-like; but 'tis wrong to despair,-for the Lord befriended me in his mercy: I met wi' you, Sir, and that's the whale o' Jeannie Mackenzie's waeful story, you ken."

"if

"I believe every word of it to be truc, Mrs. Mackenzie," said Jeremiah; you'll send for your son Sandie, I'll take him into my service, and if he turn out well, I'll make a man of him."

"The Lord will reward you, Sir! I'se be bound my Sandie will never disgrace his mother."

Well, instead of this sovereign, for which I have some regard, take that Five Pound Note, and after you have had your breakfast, my man William shall go and seck a lodging for you in the neighbourhood. When your son arrives, you shall assist him in his duties. I'll employ you both, and allow you so much a week for his education; for it is a pity that he should be parted from so good a mother. Neither you nor your children shall ever want a shilling whilst you deserve one. Step down into my kitchen, where my servants will give you and your Charlie your breakfast.-So good morning to you Mrs. Mackenzie!"

Jeannie Mackenzie lifted up her eyes and hands in astonishment and thankfulness to God, who provides for the widow and the fatherless; and Mr. Jeremiah Gizzard went to his avocations with greater satisfaction than he ever experienced in winning the odd trick. From that day he ceased to derive any amusement from games of chance, and never afterward would engage in play to gratify the best friend with whom he associated. He found such exquisite and superlative gratification in acts of beneficence, that he resolved to devote a great portion of his property to charitable purposes.

Perhaps we have already presented our readers with a sufficient specimen of the author's style and manner; but the anecdote of Sir Osmyn Morland (we believe founded in fact) is so honourable and consonant to the British military character, that we cannot forbear extracting it:

Sir Osmyn had fainted on falling from his horse, and he had lain a long time insensible, till the blood from his wounds had coagulated and ceased to flow. The moon shone with splendour at intervals during the night; and the first moment when he again became conscious of existence, his thirst was intolerable, and he felt as if his vitals were burning coals within him. On casting his eyes

around, he saw, at a little distance, a young woman kneeling by the side of a wounded soldier, and applying a canteen to his mouth: he called out as loud as his faintness would allow,-"For the love of God, spare me a single drop of water!" The soldier made a motion with his hand, and the woman immediately hastened to Sir Osmyn, and lifted the liquid to his parched lips, and it operated as a renovating cordial to his exhausted frame.

This female was young and handsome, though then pale and in tears, she had an infant about fourteen months old, who was strapped like a knapsack upon her back. Her husband was a serjeant, and she had followed him from Brussels, to the field of battle. From the report of one of his comrades, who saw him fall during one of the many charges of that fearful day, she found out the spot where he lay, had staunched his wounds, and was then administering to his comfort as well as she was able. She covered Sir Osmyn with a military cloak, and placed a great coat under his head for a pillow: but he would not attempt to stir for fear of opening his wounds afresh; and he was so much revived by the refreshing liquid, with which she frequently supplied him, as to be determined to wait patiently till daylight, when he knew parties would be sent out to the assistance of the wounded, and to bury the dead. The woman made every possible signal to attract attention, and the morning had scarcely dawned, before a party of men arrived upon that part of the field, and with the utmost expedition constructed a sort of litter, in which they intended to bear away Sir Osmyn on their shoulders. They were about to place the serjeant in a common cart with many others, who were in the same pitiable condition, when the poor man entreated them to "let him alone, for the jolting of the vehicle would certainly kill him, and he could but die where he was." On hearing this, Sir Osmyn assumed his right to command, and desired the men to place the serjeant on the same litter with himself; for he declared that he should be carried with himself, and should be lodged in the same apartment which he was to occupy, that he might see him furnished with proper and comfortable attendance.

The poor serjeant lived only a few days; alocked jaw took place, and he expired in the arms of his faithful and affectionate wife. These are the scenes in which the patience, the fidelity, and the heroism of woman are tried to the utmost, and seldom are they found to be defective.

After her husband's death, she threw herself on his body in speechless agony for some minutes; then, starting up and clasping her infant in her arms, she dropped down on her knees by the bed side, and with streaming eyes cast a look of humble piety to heaven, while she exclaimed,-" God's will be done! 1 must still live for my child."

She had never been in bed since the day of the battle, but had watched alternately her husband and Sir Osmyn, the latter of whom, after the death of her husband, requested her to take some rest. But the next morning she was again in attendance upon him, and begged that she might be allowed to minister to his wants, till he should no longer require a nurse; and she did not leave him night or day for a week, whilst he remained in the delirium of a fever without hopes of recovery. When he approached to something like a state of convalescence, this faithful creature, overcome with sorrow, fatigue, and anxiety, sickened and fell into a nervous fever, which appeared slow in its progress at first, but soon took a decided and fatal turn.

Sir Osmyn felt the utmost anxiety respecting her fate: after an absence of some days she sent to request to see him. The first visit which his strength allowed him to make, was to her lodgings, where he found her languid and weak, with her little smiling boy reclining by her side. She stretched out her feeble hand to him, and grasped his with a faint pressure: Pray, pardon me, Sir," said she, "but I could not die satisfied without seeing you-my child!"

"I will be a father to your child," said Sir Osmyn, and he snatched the boy into his arms and kissed him with eagerness.

"Thank God! then I have no longer any wish to live."

"O yes, you must not talk of dying. Be comforted; you will yet revive." "No, I know it cannot be! but since my child will not be lost, I die in peace.

-God bless you, Sir! Be, be a father to my helpless"-babe, she would have said, but her maternal feelings were too poignant for her strength; she fell back with exhaustion, and spoke no more. The scene was too much for the shattered nerves of Sir Osmyn, weak as he was: he felt a choaking in his throat, amounting almost to suffocation, as he hastily withdrew to his own apartment. The next morning, he was told that this excellent woman had breathed her last, during the night. He caused her to be buried by the side of her husband, attended the funeral as chief mourner, with the orphan in his arms, and shed tears of manly sorrow over her grave. He hired a nurse for the infant, and brought them both over to England as soon as he was able to travel; and the child is now under this woman's care at Hampstead. He has had him christened Osmyn Tomkins, which was the name of the serjeant. Sir Osmyn's protegé is a fine blooming little fellow, and he intends to train him up for the army. The good baronet says, he does not think it possible for him ever to feel for a child of his own a stronger attachment, than that which he indulges towards this orphan boy; for he considers that the mother of the child, not only saved his life, but sacrificed her own by her assiduous attentions.

7

GREGORIO LETI.

66

GREGORIO LETI, an Italian writer, came to England soon after the Restoration. Charles II. seeing him at his levee one day, said, "Leti, I hear you are writing the history of my court." To this Leti answered: "Sire, I am collecting materials for such a work." "Take care," said the King, "that your history does not give offence." "Sire," replied Leti, "I will do what I can; but if a man were as wise as Solomon, he would hardly be able to avoid giving some offence." Why then," retorted Charles, "be as wise as Solomon; write proverbs and let history alone." Leti, however, did not take this advice. The history appeared under the title of "Teatro Britannico," and the author was ordered to quit the kingdom. fanciful writer composed, The life of Sextus V.; The Life of Charles V.; The Life of Queen Elizabeth; History of Oliver Cromwell; The History of Geneva; History of the Cardinals. These histories are nothing more than amusing romances.

of Leti.

This

The celebrated Le Clerc married the daughter

TERZETTO.

Grey twilight from her shadowy hill
Discolours nature's vernal bloom,

And sheds on grove, and stream, and rill,
One placid tint of deepening gloom.
The sailor sighs 'mid shoreless seas,
Touch'd by the thoughts of friends afar,
As fann'd by ocean's flowing breeze,
He gazes on the western star.
The wanderer hears in pensive dream
The accents of the last farewell;
As passing by the mountain stream
He listens to the evening bell.

THE ODES OF ANACREON OF TEOS. Translated by William Richardson, Esq.; with Notes, 12mo. G. and B. W. Whittaker, 1824.

AGAIN the Odes of Anacreon appear in English,-of Anacreon, the sprightly bard of Teos, whose voluptuous muse delighted to revel in scenes of pleasurable enchantment, slightly fettered by the iambic and trochaic measures of that beautiful and expressive language, which assisted, rather than restrained, her excursions. An easy, faithful, yet spirited translation of Anacreon, is, as every classical scholar well knows, no easy task. Fawkes has rendered some of the odes with sufficient accuracy, and with an easy elegance, but has failed in giving due effect to the spirited original. The talents of Moore, who was fully competent to do justice to the Greek author, are too well known to be commented on by us. Mr. Richardson has pursued the same arduous path, and his version is concise, and possesses considerable elegance. The notes are descriptive and judicious, and evidently the production of one who has critically considered and appreciated the merits of his author. What those merits are may be known from Rapin, who observes, that "the Odes of Anacreon are flowers, beauties, and perpetual graces; it is familiar to him to write what is natural, and to the life; having an air so delicate, so easy, and so graceful, that, amongst all the ancients, there is nothing comparable to him: he flows soft and easy, every where diffusing the joy and indolence of his mind through his verse, and tuning his harp to the temper of his soul."

Mr. Richardson has observed, that the lines in Ode 24,

Oh! then dismiss me, grievous care;
Spread thy broad pinions to the air;
For thou hast not to do with me,
The son of mirth and revelry:

have evidently been the foundation of the well-known song, Begone, dull care," &c., the Greek being-Oỏ dév ẻơí σoɩ Tε Kaμoí; i. e. there is no common concern between me and thee, kolvov, &c. being understood. Ode II. on Women, besides the usual versions of Anacreon, has raised a host of translators and imitators. The following is the version of Mr. Richardson:

ODE II. ON WOMEN.

Nature to bulls hath given horns,
The horse the circling hoof adorns ;
Fleetness of foot she gave the hare;
To lions, teeth, and eyes that glare;
To fish ordained the liquid seas;
Birds wing the firmament at ease.
Courage she gave t' imperial man:
What, then, throughout her mighty plan
For women had she left to give?

Why, beauty!-it will more achieve

Than shields, than spears, or swords, or fires,
Or all the arms which man requires ;
At beauty's shrine resistance flies-
She all subdues beneath the skies.