THE FRENCH SOLDIER.

Having reached Peronne, a well fortified town, beautifully situated about thirty miles beyond Cambray, the diligence stopped to change horses, a business which I had never yet seen the French in any particular hurry to complete. Finding myself rather fatigued, from sitting so many hours cramped up in this vehicle, I embraced the opportunity now offered for a walk. It was a delightful evening in June, and taking the arm of my friend, we set forward together, admiring the beauties of the scenery which surrounded us, and calling to mind those equally charming scenes we had left in England.

"We had strayed some distance from Peronne, when we were accosted by an old man, who, in a supplicating tone, craved our charity. A more finished figure of penury and wretchedness I had scarcely ever beheld: distress was pourtrayed in every feature of his brown, wrinkled face, where hardships and misfortunes had left indelible marks of their ravages. He wore an old blue jacket, patched and torn in almost every part, and seeming even now as ready to fall from his back. On his head he had an old cocked-hat, where stiil might be perceived the remains of a feather; while a tattered pair of what once were white trowsers, finished the catalogue of his dress; for alas! poor fellow, he had neither shoes nor stockings. Across his shoulder was a

a stick, to which hung a small bundle, probably containing all he was worth in the world.

"Such was the object which now appeared before me; and, as I viewed him with a look of pity, I saw a tear tremble on his withered cheek. I could not resist this appeal to my compassion; and taking a franc from my purse, presented it to the old soldier. The hand which received it fell from its former position, and now hung, as if useless, by his side. Not a word of thanks broke from his lips, for, indeed, he seemed unable to speak the gratitude he felt. A look was all he gave; but it was a look which spoke the feelings of his heart. I waited a moment, expecting he would say something; but, after a short reflection, instead of pouring forth the abundance of common-place thanks we so generally meet with on these occasions, he began to dance and sing, in such a manner as quite astonished me. His old cocked-hat he pulled from his head, and throwing it into the air, played as many antics as a monkey. What an alteration did this

trifling gift make in the poor old veteran ! raising him from the worst apparent misery to this extravagance of joy! The diligence had now overtaken us; and, when seated in it, I frequently looked out after him, and perceived him still dancing and waving his hat with every demonstration of gratitude, till distance entirely divided us from the sight of each other."

MAD MARY-A TRUE STORY.

Mary was the daughter of a worthy father, who served Mr. C. a gentleman of considerable fortune, in the capacity of Steward. Her disposition was amiable, her appearance delicate, and her manner improved by a genteel education.

Mr C. had an only daughter, and as Mary was of her age, they were constant companions. Mr. C. thinking that emulation might incite his daughter to rapid improvements, ordered the masters employed for her to give instruction to Mary, so that her acquired accomplishments became equal to those of her friend. Mary, as her years increased, became the favourite of all who knew her, but none admired her more, or loved her with so much sincerity, as the amiable young lady with whom she resided.

A gentleman of large estate, named Freeman, had made proposals of marriage to Miss C. which were accepted, and she soon left the house of her father for the mansion of her husband.

Mary grieved with silent sincerity at the departure of her patroness, who, soon after her union, set out with her family to take the tour of Europe. The family of Mrs Freeman remained abroad three years, and though Mary loved her father, and failed in no point of her duty or affection, the letters she received from Mrs. Freeman were her principal delight; till at length her friend returned, and Mary received an invitation to pass the winter with her in the metropolis.

She now found herself in a situation she considered the happiest upon earth-but it was her misfortune to be handsome, to

possess charms accompanied by a softness of manner, and sensibility of character, which awaken an interest within the breast of all who are within their influence.

Thus endowed, and thus attracting, Mary caught the libertine admiration, the meretricious passion of Mr. Freeman. Though this gentleman had every reason to be attached to his wife, he had not been the constant husband she merited to possess, and he now resolved to make another offering at the shrine of infidelity.

His continual assiduities appeared to the credulous unsuspecting Mary, as the attentions of a friend, and he was obliged to speak very plain language, before she conceived the purport of his designs-but when the veil was drawn aside, the situation of her mind became truly deplorable.

To acquaint Mrs. Freeman with the conduct of her husband, would be to plant a dagger in her bosom, and to remain liable to his insults, would be indeed to risque every thing dear to a woman of honour, delicacy, and feeling: she therefore transmitted a perfect account of every occurrence to her father, and implored his immediate presence to snatch her from ruin.

In the interval, Mr. Freeman had laid his plans so sure, that he succeeded in the consummation of them-he procured an opiate to be administered, and basely took an advantage of insensibility.

Mary awakened as from a delirium-she found herself in a strange apartment-in a strange bed. She found herself in the arms of her villainous seducer.

Outrage was the immediate consequence an explanation produced insanity, which brought on a fever that confirmed her disorder into permanent distraction.

On the instant the honest old steward received his daughter's letter, he set off for the metropolis. When he arrived at Mr. Freeman's he was informed by a servant, that Mary had eloped, but with whom they could not tell.

The unhappy father divined the worst—and by the interference of a magistrate, after some difficulty, he got admittance to his wretched child.-Let us draw a veil over this interview.

The father is no more-and the wife of Freeman is at the point of death.-Poor Mary remains a maniac, yet sensible of her wretchedness.

"Tell that villain, Freeman," said she to a friend that visited her, tell him, he may live in plenty, but not in peace.shall haunt him at the banquet-and scare him at the midnight revel. Tell him, his sin is recorded,—and at the last day he will find me his accuser, and the ALMIGHTY his JUDGE."

THE BIRTH OF A POESY-AN ALLEGORY.

The youthful God of Love, having roamed one fine summer evening into the depths of a forest, found himself bewildered in its mazes. In vain be sought for an avenue by which he might emerge; thickets of roses and vines, twining their clustering arms, opposed him at every turn.

Fatigued with this ramble, he threw his bow from his hand, and disencumbering himself of his quiver, he cast his polished limbs upon a bed of delicious violets, whose fragrance seemed to invite him to sleep. He closed his eyes, and was already in fancy wafted back to the gardens of Cytherea, when the warm air of a gentle sigh, breathing over his cheek awakened him. He looked up, and beheld a beautiful nymph bending over his head she held her tresses in her hand, forming a golden mantle, with which she shaded the sleeping god from the hot gleams of the setting sun.

When the celestial eyes of Love opened upon the virgin, she receded from the spot; but the aroused god sprung from his bed of flowers, and, pursuing the flying nymph, chased her with nimble feet from the green covert to the winding recesses of her cave. Still she fled the breath of love panted on her neck; his glowing fingers at intervals mingled with her hair, which the wary zephyrs bore away from his grasp.

His

A broad river stopped her course sinking with terror and despair, she staggered and fell: the youthful deity caught her within his rosy arms, and bore her back to the cave. caresses restored her to life. For her he deserted the banquets of Olympus, and for her he rejected the incense of ten thousand virgins on the shores of Paphos.

Thus of Love and the nymph Solitude was born the seraphic form of Poesy. This lovely offspring of immortal tenderness drew from the balmy lips of her father that honeyed softness which trembles on her tongue: but it is only to the chaste ears of her mother, amid grots and secret groves, that she pours forth all the warmth and pathos of her song.

THE FUNERAL.

(From the New European Magazine).

There was a maid who dwelt among the hills

Of Arvon, and to one of higher birth

Had pledged her troth ;-not rashly, nor beguiled-
They had been playmates in their infancy,

And she in all his thoughts had borne a part,
And all his joys. The moon, and all the stars
Witness'd their mutual vows.

SOUTHEY'S MADOC.

Whenever I arrive at any town or village my first visit is usually to the church-yard; and as it has been my lot to lead a very unsettled and wandering sort of life, there are few cemeteries in the kingdom that are unknown to me. It may appear a strange fancy, but I am a strange man, and therefore this sepulchral predilection is perfectly in unison with my customary habits and feelings. A poignant disappointment in early life, not in a pecuniary point of view, for I should not have minded that—I could have remedied it,—has tinctured my mind with melancholy, and, it may be, with morosenesss; and 'tis therefore perhaps that I love to wander among the verdant graves of the retired village burial place, pondering upon the instabillity and vanity of all earthly desires, as I read in the rudely-sculptured tomb-stones "the short and simple annals of the poor."

If there be any particular district in the kingdom which I most delight to visit, it is North Wales, for in many of the secluded parts of that beautiful country the peasants are extremely sedulous in decorating the graves of their departed friends and kindred with turfs and wild-flowers. It is a pleasing custom, and never may it be abolished!

I had arrived late one evening, in July, 18**, at a little town in Denbighshire, on my accustomed idle pilgrimage, and early the next morning I strolled into the church-yard, which is here situated at the foot of a small hillock to the north of the hamlet. There is something peculiarly interesting to me in this delightful spot, placed as it is amidst so many wild and frowning mountains. It is impossible to convey an adequate description of it by words,