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dull or bad book from such materials, yet it is great merit to have made the most of them which the limited space permitted. This is a book to be bought. As a specimen of the work, we subjoin this description of

THE CAVE OF GUACHARO.

"The greatest curiosity in the beautiful and salubrious district of Caripe is a cavern inhabited by nocturnal birds, the fat of which is employed in the missions for dressing food. It is named the Cave of Guacharo, and is situated in a valley three leagues distant from the convent. On the 18th of September Humboldt and Bonpland, accompanied by most of the monks and some of the Indians, set out for this aviary, following for an hour and a half a narrow path, leading across a fine plain covered with beautiful turf; then, turning westward along a small river which issues from the cave, they proceeded, during three quarters of an hour, sometimes walking in the water, sometimes on a slippery and miry soil between the torrent and a wall of rocks, until they arrived at the foot of the lofty mountain of Guacharo. Here the torrent ran in a deep ravine, and they went on under a projecting cliff which prevented them from seeing the sky, until at the last turning they came suddenly upon the immense opening of the recess, which is eighty-five feet broad and seventy-seven feet high. The entrance is toward the south, and is formed in the vertical face of a rock, covered with trees of gigantic height, intermixed with numerous species of singular and beautiful plants, some of which hang in festoons over the vault. This luxuriant vegetation is not confined to the exterior of the cave, but appears even in the vestibule, where the travellers were astonished to see heliconias nineteen feet in height, palms, and arborescent arums. They had advanced about four hundred and sixty feet before it became necessary to light their torches, when they heard from afar the hoarse screams of the birds.-The guacharo is the size of a domestic fowl, and has somewhat the appearance of a vulture, with a mouth like that of a goat-sucker. It forms a distinct genus in the order Passeres, differing from that just named in having a stronger beak, furnished with two denticulations, though in its manners it bears an affinity to it as well as to the Alpine crow. Its plumage is dark bluishgrey, minutely streaked and spotted with deep brown, the head, wings, and tail being marked with white spots bordered with black. The extent of the wings is three feet and a half. It lives on fruits, but quits the cave only in the evening. The shrill and piercing cries of these birds, assembled in multitudes, are said to form a harsh and disagreeable noise, somewhat resembling that of a rookery. The nests, which the guides showed by means of torches fastened to a long pole, were placed in funnel-shaped holes in the roof. The noise increased as they advanced, the animals being frightened by the numerous lights.-About midsummer every year, the Indians, armed with poles, enter the cave, and destroy the greater part of the nests. Several thousands of young birds are thus killed, and the old ones hover around, uttering frightful cries. Those which are secured in this manner are opened on the spot, to obtain the fat, which exists abundantly in their abdomen, and which is subsequently melted in clay vessels over fires of brushwood. This substance is semifluid, transparent, destitute of smell, and keeps above a year without becoming rancid. At the convent of Caripe it was used in the kitchen of the monks, and our travellers never found that it communicated any disagreeable smell or taste to the food. The gaucharoes would have been long ago destroyed, had not the superstitious dread of the Indians prevented them from penetrating far into the cavern. It also appears, that birds of the same species dwell in other accessible places in the neighbourhood, and that the great cave is repeopled by colonies from them. The hard and dry fruits which are found in the crops and gizzards of the young ones are considered as an excellent remedy against intermittent fevers, and regularly sent to Cariaco and other parts of the lower districts where such diseases prevail. The travellers followed the banks of the small river which issues from the cavern as far as the mounds of calcareous incrustations permitted them, and

afterwards descended into its bed. The cave preserved the same direction, breadth, and height, as at its entrance, to the distance of 1554 feet. The natives having a belief that the souls of their ancestors inhabit its deep recesses, the Indians who accompanied our travellers could hardly be persuaded to venture into it. Shooting at random in the dark, they obtained two specimens of the guacharo. Having proceeded to a certain distance, they came to a mass of stalactite, beyond which the cave became narrower, although it retained its original direction. Here the rivulet had deposited a blackish mould resembling that observed at Muggendorf in Franconia. The seeds, which the birds carry to their young, spring up wherever they are dropped into it; and M. Humboldt and his friend were astonished to find blanched stalks that had attained a height of two feet. As the missionaries were unable to persuade the Indians to advance farther, the party returned. The river, sparkling amid the foliage of the trees, seemed like a distant picture, to which the mouth of the cave formed a frame. Having sat down at the entrance to enjoy a little needful repose, they partook of a repast which the missionaries had prepared, and in due time returned to the convent."

SUNSHINE; OR, LAYS FOR LADIES.

A pretty poetical toy, somewhere between the Hood and Bayly schools. We could swear to having seen some of the airy trifles which compose the slender tome, but cannot tell where. From an Epistle from Madeline, a prudent married friend, to "Emma," who has got into a

"Shocking dilemma"

fallen imprudently in love, we give a few lines :-
"Can you give up your servant and carriage?
Can you live upon love, do you think?
These are joys in perspective in marriage,
When tried, like new friends, they will shrink.
"Could you give up the waltz's soft whirl?

Could you dress in the plainest of ways?
Could you give up your chance of an earl?

Could you give up the flatterer's praise ?
"Could you dine on the glance of an eye?

Could you live without credit or money?
Could you tea on a soft love-sick sigh?

I could not, though lips were of honey.
"Dear love, I implore you to ponder,
To pause ere you settle for life;
Believe me, a moonlight's fair wander,
Is more pleasant befar than when wife."

THE ANNUALS.

We have turned over some of these endless productions, and find them, as was to be expected, wonderfully like their great progenitors. It is conceivable that a person might once for all, make a selection from among them; but that, year after year, any one should heap up indifferent, or, at most, pretty prints, and scraps of the worst literature, is to us marvellous. The prettiest of those we have seen is the Keepsake, the best the Picturesque Annual. It really deserves to be bought and treasured up by those who have a Of twenty-six taste for forming a collection of prints. views one half are truly beautiful. They are mostly taken in Germany. There are already published, which we have seen, the Literary Souvenir, New-Year's Gift, Friendship's Offering, Amulet, Juvenile Forget-me-not, Comic A very nice volume might be comOffering, &c. &c. &c. piled from among them, not certainly half as good as the collections of reading lessons used in the humblest of our village schools; but pretty enough. And is it wonderful that these little seminaries send forth Cobbetts and Clares, and Elliotts, and Burnses, and Howitts, and nearly all the eminent persons we boast; while the regions of the Annu

als give us “seven persons of quality," like those who, Miss Sheridan informs us, have contributed to her Comic Offer

ing.

NOTES OF THE MONTH.

DECEMBER.

Season of social mirth! of fireside joys!
I love thy shortened day, when, at its close,
The blazing tapers, on the jovial board
Disperse o'er every care-forgetting face
Their cheering light, and round the bottle glides.
Now far be banished, from our social ring,
The party wrangle fierce, the argument
Deep-learned, metaphysical, and dull;
Oft dropt, as oft again renew'd, endless.
Rather I'd hear stories twice ten times told,
Or vapid joke, filch'd from Joe Miller's page;
Or tale of ghost, hobgoblin dire, or witch.

Grahame.

still it is not kept with any thing like the vigour, not only ran Christmas-day, New-Year's Day, and perseverance, and elegance of our ancestors. They Twelfth Night all into one, but kept the wassail bowl floating the whole time, and earned their right to enjoy it by all sorts of active pleasures.” Mr. Hunt must visit Derrynane, or, for change, the Hebrides. The old original Christmas still finds its sanctuary in Kerry and Skye. The wassail bowl* (as some of our readers may know by experience, for it has been a little revived of late) is a composition of spiced wine or ale, with roasted apples put into it, and sometimes eggs. [Here Mr. Hunt is obscure,-one might fancy the eggs were put to float and bob in the bowl like the apples. An Oxford man would have put this more clearly.] "They also adorned their houses with green boughs, which, it appears from Herrick, was a DECEMBER, the last month of the year, was origi-practice with many throughout the year"'—why, nally named Winter-monath by our Saxon ancestors, so it does from Goldsmith, who might be his greatthough this was changed to heligh, or holy-monath, great-grandson-" box succeeding at Candlemas on their conversion to Christianity. In it was ceto the holly, bay, rosemary, and mistletoe of Christlebrated the festival of the Scandinavian Jupiter, mas-yew at Easter to box birch (or the catkins the deity Thor. This was the IOL (or our Yule) of the palm?) at Whitsuntide to yew, and then feast, the holyday season of the northern year. bents or oaken boughs." What an evergreen year The weather, as in the present year, is often mild was that of merry England! "But, again," says in the early part of this month, but liable to sud- Mr. Hunt," the whole nation was in a ferment den variations of temperature. The atmosphere at Christmas with the warmth of exercise and is generally loaded with vapour, and we have their firesides, as they were in May with the new often fogs about great towns, and "a green (i. e. an sunshine. The peasants wrestled and sported on open, mild) Yule makes a fat kirkyard." It is the town green, and told tales of an evening; the remarked, that, in this state of the atmosphere, gentry feasted then, or had music and other elerural sounds are heard at great distances. pleasantest features of the month we must copy princely entertainment of masques;" [so, for that gant pastimes; the Court had the poetical and from Mr. Leigh Hunt. Why did he so soon drop, part, has it still, and we could tell who are and why never resume his Literary Pocket-book? the mummers ;]" and all sung, danced, revelled, the first, and by how much superior to all the suc and enjoyed themselves, and so welcomed the new ceeding Annuals! "It is," he says, year like happy and grateful subjects of nature. This is the way to turn winter to summer, and

*

*

*

*

The

66 now com

plete winter
The trees look
but like skeletons of what they were-

*

make the world what Heaven has enabled it to be.'

WINTER.

This is the eldest of the seasons: he

Moves not like spring with gradual step, nor grows
From bud to beauty, but with all his snows
Comes down at once in hoar antiquity.
No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee
Before him; nor unto his time belong
The suns of summer, nor the charms of song,
That with May's gentle smiles so well agree.
But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud,
Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound,
And with a tender footstep prints the ground,
As though to cheat man's ear; while yet he stays,
He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days,
And bid the dance and joke be long and loud.

Bare ruin'd choirs, in which the sweet birds sang. The evergreen trees, with their beautiful cones, such as firs and pines, are now particularly observed and valued. 營 * * * * But we have flowers as well as leaves in winter-time; besides a few of last month, there are the aconite, and hellebore, two names of very different celebrity; and, in addition to some of the flourishing shrubs, there is the Glastonbury thorn, which puts forth its beauty at Christmas. It is so called, we believe, because the Abbots of the famous monastery at that place first had it in their garden from abroad, and turned its seasonable efflorescence into a miracle." Mr. Hunt might have said much more on December flowers, and shrubs, as every one Wassail-Bowl, a Centre Supper Dish.-Crumble knows who is familiar with even the most ordi- down as for trifle a nice fresh cake (or use maccaroons or nary modern garden. But he slumps them all other small biscuit) into a china punch-bowl or deep glass dish. Over this pour some sweet rich wine, as very prettily, roses and evergreens, and passes to malmsey Madeira, if wanted very rich, but raisin-wine more attractive matter. "December has one cir-will do. Sweeten this, and pour a well-seasoned rich cuscumstance in it, which turns it into the merriest month of the year,

CHRISTMAS.

Charles Lloyd.

tard over it. Strew nutmeg and grated sugar over it, and stick it over with sliced blanched almonds. Obs.-This is, in fact, just a rich eating posset. A very good wassailbowl may be made of mild ale well spiced and sweetened, and a plain rice custard, with few eggs-Meg Dods'

This is the holyday which, for obvious reasons, may be said to have survived all the others; but | Cookery.

THE STORY-TELLER.

FOUR OLD MAIDS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ATHERTON," 99.66 TRUCKLEBOROUGH

HALL," &c.

I LOVE an old maid ;—I do not speak of an individual, but of the species,-I use the singular number, as speaking of a singularity in humanity. An old maid is not merely an antiquarian, she is an antiquity; not merely a record of the past, but the very past itself, she has escaped a great change, and sympathizes not in the ordinary mutations of mortality. She inhabits a little eternity of her own. She is Miss from the beginning of the chapter to the end. I do not like to hear her called Mistress, as is sometimes the practice, for that looks and sounds like the resignation of despair, a voluntary extinction of hope. I do not know whether marriages are made in Heaven, some people say that they are, but I am almost sure that old maids are. There is a something about them which is not of the earth earthy. They are Spectators of the world, not Adventurers nor Ramblers; perhaps Guardians, we say nothing of Tatlers. They are evidently predestinated to be what they are. They owe not the singularity of their condition to any lack of beauty, wisdom, wit, or good temper; there is no accounting for it but on the principle of fatality. I have known many old maids, and of them all not one that has not possessed as many good and amiable qualities as ninety and nine out of a hundred of my married acquaintance. Why then are they single? Heaven only knows. It is their fate!

On the left hand of the road between London and Liverpool, there is a village, which, for particular reasons, I shall call Littleton; and I will not so far gratify the curiosity of idle inquirers as to say whether it is nearest to London or to Liverpool, but it is a very pretty village, and let the reader keep a sharp look out for it next time he travels that road. It is situated in a valley, through which runs a tiny rivulet as bright as silver, but hardly wide enough for a trout to turn round in. Over the little stream there is a bridge, which seems to have been built merely out of compliment to the liquid thread, to save it the mortification of being hopped over by every urchin and clodpole in the parish. The church is covered with ivy even half way up the steeple, but the sexton has removed the green intrusion from the face of the clock, which, with its white surface and black figures, looks, at a little distance, like an owl in an iry bush. A little to the left of the church is the parsonage house, almost smothered with honeysuckles; in front of the house is a grass plot, and up to the door there is what is called a carriage drive; but I never saw a carriage drive up there, for it is so steep that it would require six horses to pull the carringe up, and there is not room enough for more than one. Somewhat farther up the hill which bounds the little valley Where the village stands, there is a cottage; the inhabitants of Littleton call it the white cottage. It is merely a small whitewashed house, but as it is occupied by genteelish sort of people, who cannot afford a large house, it is generally Called a cottage. All these beautiful and picturesque objects, and a great many more which I have not described, have lost with me their interest. It would make me melancholy to go into that church. The interest which I had in the parsonage house was transferred to the white cottage, and the interest which I had in the white cottage is now removed to the churchyard, and that interest is in four graves that lie parallel to each other, with head-stones of nearly one date. In these four graves lie the remains of four old maids. Poor things! Their remains! Alack, alack, there was not much that remained of them. There was but little left of them to bury. The bearers had but light work. I wondered why they should have four sepaTate graves, and four distinct tomb-stones. The sexton told the that it was their particular desire, in order to make the churchyard look respectable; and they left behind them just sufficient money to pay the undertaker's bills and to erect four grave-stones. I saw these ladies twice, and that at an interval of thirty years. I made one more attempt to see them, and I was more gieved than I could have anticipat

ed, when the neighbours shewed me their newly-closed graves. But no one long pities the dead, and I was, after a while, glad that they had not been long separated. I saw these ladies twice;-and the first time that I saw them, the only doubt was, which of the four would be first married. I should have fallen in love with one of them myself, I do not know which, but I understood that they were all four, more or less, engaged. They were all pretty, they were all sensible, they were all good-humored, and they knew the world, for they had all read Rollin's "Ancient History." They not only had admirers, but two of them even then had serious suitors. The whole village of Littleton, and many other villages in the neighbourhood, rang with the praises of the accomplished and agreeable daughters of the rector; nor were the young ladies dependent for their hopes of husbands merely on their good qualities; they had the reputation of wealth, which reputation I am constrained to say was rather a bubble. The rectory of Littleton was said to be worth a thousand a-year, but it never produced more than six hundred, and the worthy rector was said to be worth ten or twelve thousand pounds. Bless him! he might be worth that and a great deal' more, but he never possessed so much; the utmost of his private fortune was fifteen hundred pounds in the three per cents. It is enough to designate them by their Christian names. Their good old father used to boast that his daughters had really Christian names. The eldest was Mary, the second Martha, the third Anna, and the youngest Elizabeth. The eldest was, when I first knew them, actually engaged to a young gentleman who had just taken a wrangler's degree at Cambridge, and had gained a prize for a Greek epigram. Such an effort of genius seemed next to miraculous at Littleton, for the people of that village never gain prizes for Greek epigrams. The farmers, who had heard of his success, used to stare at him for a prodigy, and almost wondered that he should walk on two legs, and eat mutton, and say "How do you do?" like the rest of the world. And every body said he was such a nice man. He never skipped irreverently over the river as some young men of his age would do, but always went over the bridge. It was edifying to see how gracefully he handed the young ladies over the said bridge, Mary always the last, though she was the eldest. The young squire of the parish was generally considered as the suitor of the second. The third had many admirers; she was what is called a showy young woman, having a little of the theatrical in her style. She was eloquent, lively, and attitudinizing. She had a most beautiful voice, and her good papa used to say, "My dear Anna, the sound of your voice is very delightful, and it does me good to hear you sing to your own harpsichord, but I wish I could hear you sing at church." Poor man! he did not consider that there was no possibility of hearing any other voice while that of the parish clerk was dinning in his ears. Elizabeth, the youngest, was decidedly the prettiest of the four: sentimentality was her forte, or, more properly speaking, her foible. She sighed much herself, and was the cause of sighing to others. I little thought when I first saw them that I beheld a nest of predestinated old maids; but it was so; and the next time that I saw them they were all living together, spinsters. How I was occupied the next thirty years would be tedious to relate, therefore I pass over that period and come again to Littleton.

Time is like a mischievous urchin that plays sad tricks in our absence, and so disarranges things and persons toc, that when we conie back again we hardly know where to find them. When I made my second visit to Littleton, the good old rector had been several years in his grave; and when I asked after his daughters, I was told that they were living, and were together, and that they occupied the white cottage. I was rather pleased to hear that they were single, though I was surprised at the information. I knew that I should be well received, that I should not find all their old affections alienated by new ties. I knew that I should not have to encounter the haughty and interrogatory eyes of husbands, that I should not be under the necessity of accommodating myself to new manners. I had indeed some difficulty in making myself known, and still

more difficulty in distinguishing the ladies the one from the other, and connecting their present with their past appearance; for Anna's attitudinizing days were over, and Elizabeth had ceased to sigh. But when the recognition had taken place, we were all exceedingly glad to see each other, and we all talked together about every body, and everything at once.

My call at the white cottage was at the latter end of August. The weather was fine, but there had recently been much rain, and there were some few heavy clouds, and some little growling of the wind, like the aspect and tone of an angry schoolmaster who had just given a boy a sound thrashing, and looks as if he were half inclined to give him some more. The cottage was very small, very neat, very light. There was but one parlour, and that was a very pretty one. A small carpet covered the middle of the room; a worked fire-screen stood in one corner; a piece of needle-work, representing Abraham going to sacrifice Isaac, hung opposite to the door; shells, sea-weed, and old china stood on the mantlepiece; an old harpsichord, in a black mahogany case, stretched its leviathan length along one side of the room; six exceedingly heavy and clumsily carved mahogany chairs, with high backs, short legs, and broad square flat seats, any one of which might have ac.. commodated all the four sisters at once, according to their mode of sitting, stood round the room; these chairs, I recollected, had been in the dining-room at the rectory, but then there was a great lubberly cub of a footman to lug them about. The fire-place was particularly neat. It had an old brass fender polished up to the semblance of gold, delineating in its pattern divers birds and beasts, the like of which never entered Noah's ark, but they had a right to go in by sevens, for they were as clean as a penny. The poker looked like a toothpick, the shovel like an oldfashioned salt spoon, and the tongs like a pair of tweezers. The little black stove shone with an icy coldness, as if the maid had been scrubbing it all the morning to keep herself warm; and the cut paper was arranged over the vacant bars with a cruel exactitude that gave no hopes of fire. The ladies themselves looked as cold as the fire-place; and I could hardly help thinking that a stove without a fire, at the cold end of August, looked something like an old maid. The ladies, however, were very chatty, they all spoke together or nearly so, for when one began the others went on, one after another, in the way and after the manner of a catch, or more accurately speaking, perhaps somewhat in the similitude of a fugue. They talked very loud, and sat very upright, which last circumstance I should have thought very conducive to health, but they were not healthy; the fact is, they lived too sparingly, for their father had left much less than had been expected, and they were obliged to keep up appearances, as they still visited the first families in the neighbourhood. By living together, they had very much assimilated in manners, they all had the same sharp shrill voice, and the same short | snappy, not snappish, manner of speaking.

When I called on them I had not dined, but I suppose they had, for they asked me to stay and drink tea with them; though I should have preferred-dinner to tea, yet for the sake of such old acquaintance, I was content to let that pass. They pressed me very much to take a glass of wine, and I yielded, but afterwards I repented it. Single elderly ladies are very much imposed on in the article of

wine! il luck to those who cheat them! Then we had tea. I knew the old cups and saucers again, and the little silver tea-pot, and the little silver cream-jug, and the sugartongs, made like a pair of scissars; I was glad to see the

tea-urn, for it helped to warm the room. The tea made us quite communicative; not that it was strong enough to intoxicate, quite the contrary, it was rather weak. I should also have been glad of some more bread and butter, but they handed me the last piece, and I could not think of taking it, so it went into the kitchen for the maid, and I did not grudge it her, for she seemed by the way to be not much

better fed than her mistresses. She was a neat respectable

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several broad hints and intimations that I should like to hear their respective histories; in other words, I wished to know how it was that they had all remained single; for the history of an old maid is the narrative of her escapes from matrimony. My intimation was well received, and my implied request was complied with. Mary, as the eldest, commenced.

"I believe you remember my friend Mr. M— pr "I do so, and is he living ?"

"He is, and still single."

I smiled, and said, "Indeed!" but the lady smiled not. "Yes," continued the narrator, "he is still living and still single. I have occasionally seen him, but very seldom of late years. You remember, I dare say, what a cheerful companion he was, and how very polite. He was quite of the old school, but that was only as regarded his externak manners. In his opinions he partook too much of the new school. He was one of the liberal party at Cambridge; and though he was generally a very serious and good man, he perplexed his head with some strange notions, and when the time came that he should take orders, he declined doing so, on account of some objection which he had to some of the Thirty-nine Articles. Some people have gone so far as to say that he was no better than a Socinian, though I do not believe he was ever so bad as that. Still, however, it would never do for the daughter of a clergyman to marry a man who had any doubts concerning any of the Thirtynine Articles. We did all in our power to convince him he was wrong, and he did all in his power to convince us that he was right; but it was all to no purpose. Indeed he seemed to consider himself a kind of martyr, only because we talked to him. He argued most ingeniously to shew that exact conformity of opinion was not essential to happiness. But I could not think it correct to marry a man who had any doubts concerning the Articles; for, as my father very justly observed, when a man once begins to doubt, it is impossible to say where it will end. And so the matter went on from year to year, and so it remains still, and so it is likely to remain to the end of the chapter. I will never give up the Thirty-nine Articles."

was not a man of first

died,

All the sisters said that she was perfectly right; and then Martha told her story, saying, "It was just about the time that you were visiting Littleton, that Mr. B- who had long paid me very particular attention, made me an offer. Mr. Brate talents, though he did not want for understanding; he was also tolerably good-humoured, though occasionally subject to fits of violence. His father, however, most stre nuously objected to the match, and from being on friendly terms with us he suddenly dropped our acquaintance, and almost persecuted us. My father was a man of high spirit, and could not patiently brook the insults he received, and I have every reason to believe that thereby his days were shortened. In proportion, however, as the elder Mr. B- -opposed our union, the affection of the younger seemed to increase, and he absolutely proposed a marriage in Scotland, but my father would never allow a daughter of his to be married otherwise than by the rites of the Church of England. At length old Mr. Band then it was thought that we should be married; but it was necessary to wait a decent time after the old gentleman's death, in which interval the young squire, whose attentions had diminished of late, went up to London, widow with a large fortune. are now living separately." "You were faithful to your first loves," I observed. "But I," said Anna, "have a different story to tell. I had four offers before I was nineteen years of age; and I thought that I was exercising great judgment and discri mination in endeavouring to ascertain which was most worthy of my choice; so I walked, and talked, and sang, and played, and criticised with all in their turn: and be fore I could make up my mind which to choose, I lost them all, and gained the character of a flirt. It seems very unfortunate that we are placed under the necessity of making that decision which must influence our whole destiny for life, at that very period when we least know what life is.

where he married

They

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"I found it inexpedient," said Elizabeth, "to entertain several lovers in succession. My first lover won my heart by flute-playing. He was a lieutenant in the navy, visiting in the neighbourhood. My father disapproved the connexion, but I said that I could not live without him, and so a consent was extorted; but, alas! my flute-player's ship was ordered to the West Indies, and I heard of him no more. My next lover, who succeeded to the first rather too soon in the opinion of some people, was a medical man, and for a marriage with him a reluctant consent was obtained from my father; but before matters could be arranged, it was found that his business did not answer, and he departed. Another succeeded to the business, and also to my affections, and a third reluctant consent was extorted; but when the young gentleman found that the report of my father's wealth had been exaggerated, he departed also; and in time I grew accustomed to these disappointments, and bore them better than I expected. I might perhaps have had a husband, if I could have lived without a lover."

van.

"It is inexpedient,” said I, "to entertain several lover sat ceived. He said, "Gentlemen, my name is Darby O'Sullionce." I was born in the county of Kerry. When men were raised for the navy, I became a volunteer, and was put on board a ship of war. We sailed to the coast of Armoric, (Brittany,) and a boat was sent ashore to procure some water and provisions. The people, where we landed, spoke a kind of Ỉrish, and I thought I would be better off among them than on board a ship, where we were not very kindly treated. I ran, therefore, into the country, and came to a little town, where they were very kind to me. I found the cider better than the cider of Kerry, and took my fill of it. I then walked into the country, and I lay down to sleep, and when I awoke, I found myself transformed into a bear.” The keeper was not at all satisfied with what was going forward, and said to the company who had assembled, "Gentlemen, you must now be satisfied of the truth of what I asserted. This bear, in many respects, resembles a human being; but he is tired-we must leave him to his repose." Upon which Captain M'Carty drew his sword, and seizing the man by the collar, he said, "You have been playing some tricks with a countryman of mine, which shall not go unpunished. Instantly open the door of the cage to let him out, otherwise this sword will be buried in your body." The keeper, much terrified, admitted that it was a man in a bear's skin, and gave the following account of the circumstance :—

So ended their sad stories; and after tea we walked into the garden-it was a small garden, with four sides and a circular centre, so small, that as we walked round we were like the names in a round robin, it was difficult to say which was first. I shook hands with them at parting, gently, for fear of hurting them, for their fingers were long, cold, and fleshless. The next time I travelled that way they were all in their graves, and not much colder than when I saw them at the cottage.—Friendship's Offering.

CHARLES FRASER FRIZELL, ESQ., OF HAR-
COURT STREET, DUBLIN.*

ONE of the most extraordinary characters I have ever met
with was Mr Fraser Frizell, an Irish barrister.
He was
much devoted to inquiries regarding education, the state of
the poor, and other useful objects; and came to London on
purpose to procure such information as the metropolis
could furnish regarding them. He happened to call with

a letter of introduction to me, just when I was going to sit down to an early dinner, preparatory to a long debate in the House of Commons, and he readily agreed to take a share of it. His conversation was so lively and pleasant, that I felt no wish to exchange it for a dull debate in the House of Commons. Among other things, he said, "We Irish meet with more singular adventures than any other race of men, and, in proof of the assertion, I will tell you a story, which I think will amuse you." In the course of our future correspondence, as will appear from the subjoined letters, I earnestly requested him to send me the story himself, or to procure it from Father O'Leary; but being unsuccessful in those applications, I shall endeavour to make it out the best way I can, from a distant recollection.

"My partner and I were exhibiting, in a town in France, a real Russian bear, when he unfortunately became sick, and died. We had the skin taken off, and buried the body; and then resolved to take a walk into the country, to consider what we could do to remedy our misfortune. A short way from the town, we observed a man, lying in a ditch, quite drunk. It accidentally occurred to us, that it would be possible to sew the bear's skin over the man, in the state in which he then was, and to persuade him, when he became sober, that he had been converted into a bear, as a punishment for his drunkenness. We set about it without a moment's delay; and by means of blows, and showing him his figure in a glass, we convinced him that the transformation had actually taken place. The man believes himself to be a bear. He is perfectly reconciled to his fate; and to make him again a man, would do him no good, and would ruin us."

Captain M'Carty immediately replied, "This must not treated so inhumanly." Scissars were immediately procu be suffered. I will not permit a countryman of mine to be red, the bear's skin was taken off, and out came a great naked Irishman, who was much delighted with being restored to manhood. Clothes were immediately procured for him, and some money collected for his immediate subsistence; but as he had no means of gaining a livelihood, he resolved to enlist in Captain M'Carty's regiment. It is said, that in the course of the French Revolution, he embraced the cause of liberty, and ultimately rose to a situation of some importance in the armies of the Republic.

THE HISTORY OF DARBY O'SULLIVAN. Father O'Leary and Captain M'Carty were walking together through the streets of St. Omers, when they came to A good anecdote is told in the Court Journal, of the Duchess a house, at the door of which a man was bawling, in the de Perri's capture, and told in all simplicity. The wily NeaFrench language, "Walk in, gentlemen, and see the great-politan lady dealt largely in magnificent promises and in small est curiosity ever heard of, a Russian bear who can speak, souvenirs, knowing the gullibility of mankind, and acting acand dance, and sing, and in every respect is as intelligent cordingly. When she came out of her concealment begrimmed as a human being. Father O'Leary wished to walk on, with soot, (the scene should be got up as a spectacle at the but Captain McCarty insisted on their going in to see so Parisian theatres,) she borrowed a handkerchief from one great a curiosity. of her captors, in order to wipe her face, and in return, she Upon their entering the apartments afterwards presented him with a handsome kerchief. In many where the exhibition was to be seen, they saw, at the bot-instances she cut off locks of her hair, and offered them to those tom of a long room, a great cage, in which a huge bear was who had rendered her any little services; but there was one reposing. Upon their approaching the cage, the keeper, sturdy sansculotte, who stood out obstinately against Mademoiwith a long stick, began to beat the animal, in order to selle Kersabiec's repeated pressings to accept a locket, containrouse him. Upon his getting up, he commenced speaking ing one of her royal mistress's ringlets. At last, upon imporsome gibberish, which the two visiters immediately knew tuning him merely to convey it as a cadeau to his wife, the to be Irish. The keeper then said in French, "Come, Mr. republican boor exclaimed,"Cease your teasing, mademoiBear, give these gentlemen a song;" and, to their utter selle; and keep the thing for some idiot, who will fall down astonishment, he sung an Irish ditty. Father O'Leary im- honesty, and his love of the peace and happiness of France, and worship it." The republican boor! to refuse bartering his eliately said in Irish, "How came you to speak the Irish for a locket of a Princes's, hair! enough in itself to turn the language?" The astonishment of the bear, on hearing heads of five hundred boors, and every hair in it worth the himself addressed in his native tongue, may easily be con-lives of as many more. How strangely constructed must the understandings of those persons be calling themselves, par excellence, loyal

This extraordinary story is taken from the Reminiscences of Sir John Sinclair..

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