marked upon them. Seated around their massive mother, they might not unaptly be compared to the slices of lemon that garnish a fillet of veal, and they appeared to have quite pungency enough to relieve all her insipidity." The insatiable god of law now demands a sacrifice, and poor Connor is offered up a victim; in other words, he is committed to the Fleet prisa for his inability to meet a bill for fifty pounds. Another situation presents itself to Cleone, which she ultimately accepts. Miss Fitzcloin, an old maid, of unpolished but friendly manners, has a niece of delicate health for whom she has sought the advantages of a companion. Cleone is approved of, and enters upon her engagement; the circumstance of her father's situation being concealed from the knowledge of the family. The accident of a serious illness suffered by her charge, Emily Fitzcloin, from which she is recovered principally through the assiduous care of Cleone, serves to form the commencement of a lasting friendship between them. In the mean time Fate is busily preparing a total revolution in the current of events. Miss Fitzcloin has a brother, whose character is best learnt from circumstances that remain to be told, of gentlemanly and rather handsome exterior, who, smitten with the charms of Cleone, declares his love to her and offers her marriage. Cleone may be supposed not to have forgotten the high-minded Mountwarren, but the persuasion that he has long since ceased to think of her prevents that absolute feeling of repugnance to the advances of a new suitor which she might otherwise have experienced. The power which the accession of fortune would immediately give her of rescuing her father from the horrors of a jail, finally determines her course. that Fitzcloin is the holder of the very bill on account of which Connor lies in prison. He ascertains this, and seizing it as a happy auxiliary to his wishes, obtains her father's immediate liberation. Thus circumstances conspire to his object, and he is made happy by the hand of the fair Cleone. "Needles and pins, needles and pins! It turns out When a man's married his sorrow begins!" So goes on an old song; but the whole of the sequel of "Such a character (the character of Cleone) can never be judged justly by the mere matter of fact man, whose imagination is as measured as his judgment who would take his rule and compass to the lightning, and weigh ether by avoirdupoise who (if we adopt the fanciful notion of Prior, that the soul enters at the feet, and so progresses, till it finally makes its exit from the head) never felt bis soul get beyond his stomach, where food gives it sufficient excitement, and digestion The story now returns to Mountwarren. He upon Cleone has now a child of two years of age to enliven the solitude of her life. But as new teeth displace the old, so is the new-born generation destined to supplant their sires. Cleone seemed scarcely to have become familiarised to the blessing of a mother's possession than she lost that which was not less dear to her. Her father dies, and the communication is made to her by her husband in a manner and under circumstances in which no little aggravate the odiousness of his character. At the same moment she receives this news, an accident happens, involving consequences both of a painful and a pleasurable nature. Little Connor, as he is called, is reported to be missing, and after the most diligent search carried on by father, mother, and the whole household, he is still not to be found. In wild distraction Cleone breaks away aud ranges amongst the hills without knowing whither she is carried, till exhausted and having sunk down under her load of affiction, she hears a voice gently exclaiming, "But I want you to tell me your name"-The reply "Mamma's Connor," proceeds from her child. In a moment she is on the spot, seizes her boy in her arms, and discovers its saviour to be-Mountwarren. He was on a shooting excursion and had fallen in with the litue wanderer. All the communication respecting one another which they require to exchange, in order to be upon a footing with the reader, is rapidly made, and Mountwarren returns with Cleone to the house. In the period which transpired before the return of Mr. Fitzcloin, much interesting conversation takes place between the two, which sufficiently indicates that Mountwarren's love for her, who is now the wife of another, is nowise abated. To what length it might go, if unrepressed, we are left to conjecture, but Cleone's propriety never forsook her. The meetings between Mr. Fitzcloin are marked by coldness and formality. The monotony of Cleone's life is now still further qualified by an event, not less agreeable than the last, which is the unexpected arrival of her brother Leon, who, on the death of his father had set out upon a melancholy pilgrimage, at length compensated by the pleasure of once more finding himself in his sister's presence. The arrivals multiply. Sir Edward Arfleur and his daughter are reported; they are on a visit to a Colonel Clifford. News of still more importance is, that through their interest Mountwarren has obtained an appointment in Van Diemens Land. Leon consents to accompany him on the expedition, and all preparations are made. But before their departure another event, which has been secretly winning its way to maturity, takes place, which makes an agreeable addition to the number of the emigrants. The nuptials of Leon and Rosina Arfleur are celebrated with great rejoicings in spite of the malediction which Sir Edward pronounces in the rage into which he is thrown by his daughter's choice. Colonel Clifford and Miss Somerton, Rosina's Aunt, fill so small a space on the canvass in this portion of the picture as to require no individual notice. After the departure of Mountwarren with Leon and his bride, for Hobart Town, Cleone is again thrown into her former state of hopeless solitude, her husband's cold indifference leaving her without a gleam of that social happiness which every home ought to yield. Her children were now the only objects of her affection. They were three in number, little Connor, now seven years of age, having a brother and sister younger than himself, woman, who is dying, discovers, on her deathbed, that she is no other than the once gay and beautiful Clara Mountwarren, who having been cruelly treated by her husband, the coxcomb before mentioned, upon his discovery of her want of fortune, had at last been forced to leave him, and ever since had wandered in poverty and wretchedness, till, rendered desperate, she had sought to put an end at once to her own existence and her child's. Cleone, after the death of this unfortunate victim of inhumanity, conceiving a strong obligation, determined upon adopting the little girl, and bringing her up together with her own children. This resolution is obstinately opposed by her uncharitable husband, and thence ensues a breach which hastens the conclusion. For Mr. Fitzcloin, without alleging any motive, suddenly breaks up his establishment in the Isle of Man, and transports the whole family to London, where they find themselves lodged in a mean-looking house in an obscure part of the town. Upon inquiry, she is informed that this change has been adopted in consequence of her refusal to part with her adopted child Blanche; and the only alternative now offered is to relinquish that child or her own, for either the one or the other are to be taken from her. After this exhibition of the tyranny of man, Cleone is sitting in her solitary parlour lost in grief and despair, when a piece of news is communicated to her which, however terrible in itself, can scarcely be supposed to convey any permanent affliction to her mind, but rather to relieve it from the whole load of its misery. Her husband, that but a moment before had stood before her in the character of an unfeeling despot, lies in the house a corpse. He had tumbled from to the top to the bottom of the staircase. Shortly after the death of Fitzcloin his will is discovered, which may rather be called his ill-will, for it is found to contain this proviso:-that upon Cleone's separating her self from her children, the property should descend to them; but if she refused to do so, then it was to pass away to the children of his two brothers, Carter and Clarke, herself being only allowed an annuity of sixty pounds a year. Cleone's indignant protest againt this will, and her determination to bring the matter before the Court of Chancery, find a supporter in the person of the maiden sister of the deceased, Miss Fitzcloin, who, with her neice Emily, here make their re-appearance. The day arrives for bringing the case into Court, and Cleone herself attends in mourning. The counsel opposed to her has concluded his oration, and his respondent is now looked for, but it is reported, that a sudden indisposition has attacked him. The Court adjourns. It re-assembles; but Cleone has not the strength to return in person; she is however informed that her cause is being powerfully pleaded by her counsel, and this is presently succeeded by the electrifying intelligence that decision is pronounced, and pronounced in her favour. It may be remarked, that this is the shortest Chancery suit that ever was recorded, and may be considered one of the most powerful creations of Mrs. Grimstone's imagination."Here," cries Miss Fitzcloin, "comes the saviour of your cause." Cleone turns her eyes and they meet-Mountwarren!-Hearing from England of the death of Fitzcloin, he had forthwith recrossed the seas; no sooner had he reached the country than he learnt of the pending case; Cleone's counsel was one of his acquaintance; he seized the opportunity, which the other did not withhold, and, before the Court pleaded the cause of his dear Cleone with all the eloquence that love brought to his command. Having gained the suit at law, it may hardly be necessary to add that he gained that of love soon after, and the re union of the families in one common circle of happiness and unclouded enjoyment, is no more than the reader may have foreseen, or poetical justice demands. Such are the materials that compose the story of Cleone; it is written, throughout, in an excellent style, and with a laudable spirit, and only with such defects as, were it not our duty to admit, it would be our pleasure to conceal. As a didactic tale, it is good; as a novel, it is deficient. It is not recommended by any ingenuity of plot, nor is the plot which it has conducted with much nicety. All the smaller probabilities, which make up the effect of a good novel, are little regarded. Nor is there, with little exception, any nice discrimination of character preserved. Picturesqueness, fancy, incident, are all wanting, and, of course, interest in proportion. The chief beauties are a deep sympathy with human suffering, and especially with those of the female kind. The mother, the sister, the wife, are painted with great fidelity and feeling, and all that has reference to children and to education is animated by the best spirit. The story is one "of married life," and the whole is designed to illustrate the hardships to which women are subjected by the present system of education. To effect a revolution in this system is the great object which Mrs. Grimstone has in view. We de not agree with all her opinions, but with many of them we think that most lovers of fair dealing must heartily sympathize. Much of her work, to use a favourite modern epithet, is truly "sweet ;" and we recommend all who can afford it to get it for themselves, and pick out the plums for themselves. They were one day sporting out of doors, accompanied by their mother, when the dog Sid, so called from Sidney Mount warren, comes bounding towards them, drip- Owing to the early period which an anticipated large sale, and ping with water, and apparently solicits them to follow him. They did so, and on the banks of a rivulet in the neighbourhood they discover a poor woman and her child whom it appears he has just succeeded in rescuing from the water." They are taken home, and the poor the necessity of an exactness in the time of publication, compels this JOURNAL to go to press, it has been found impos. sible to wait for the advertisements which have been promised. A few, therefore, have been selected for insertion from other publications, thus preserving uniformity in the first Number, and showing exactly what it is wished that the appearance of this work should be. And other distinguished Statesmen and Philosophers in Paris. In offering this Library to the British public, the Proprietors beg to remark that they have been induced to enter upon its publication partly in consequence of the extraordinary success which has attended the "Bibliotheque," published by the above celebrated in France, but principally from the conviction of the necessity of a similar work in England. Knowledge has been called the key-stone of the arch of civilization; up to a late period it has been but too much defaced by technicality, and the difficulties which attended its acquisition. It was the desire of relieving science from their encumbrances that Dr. Arnott, Mr. Babbage, and a host of other learned and excellent men, commenced their labours; and it is a humble but honest helpmate in the same vineyard, that "The Library of Popular Instruction" begins its career. In the course of their publication, the Proprietors intend to draw largely from the parent stock, the "Bibliotheque Popuaire." A literal translation of this work would be inexpedient, because of its purely national character, and because also of the different opinions entertained on particular points by the learned of both countries. On some subjects, as geology, zoology, &c., entirely new treatises will be written. In that of zoology, for in. stance, the principles of the sciences will be first explained, and then again illustrated by reference to the history and habits of animals, in the hope that, by mixing the "dulce et utile," the subject will be divested of its dryness, and rendered more inviting and easy of comprehension. "The Popular Library of Instruction" will be published regu larly on the 1st of every Month, at 6d. each Vol. Published by Sparrow and Co., at the Bell's Weekly Magazine Office, 11 Crane-court, Fleet-street. This Magazine stands forward as the representative of that strong common-sense school, of which Mr. Cobbett is the unflinching champion. 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Nor let it be supposed that the inferiority in the price of this Magazine, which will contain for one shilling as much as the more expensive periodicals at half-a-crown, will therefore produce an inferiority of contents; for from the extensive increase of circulation which has immediately resulted from the reduction in price of "Cobbett's Magazine," the Proprietors are enabled to compete in their scale of remuneration for contributions with the most expensive Periodicals of the day. Office, Bolt Court. B ELL'S WEEKLY MAGAZINE. Price Two-pence. In Numbers, Weekly, comprising 8 closely-printed folio pages, price One Penny, or in Parts, Monthly, price 6d., stitched in a neat Wrapper, T HE LADIES' PENNY GAZETTE; MIRROR OF FASHION, AND MISCELLANY OF INSTTRUCTION &c. THE LADIES' PENNY GAZETTE Contains the Newest French and English Fashions, illustrated with numerous Engravings and Directions by which any Lady may make the Dresses herself-Accurate views and Descriptions of Fashionable Resorts and Assemblages-Music, arranged for the Piano-Forte, Harp, &c.-Interesting Tales, Essays, and Poetry-Criticisms on the Arts, Drama, New Music, &c.-and Selections of every kind likely to improve or amuse the Female Mind. LEIGH HUNT'S OPINION OF THE PENNY GAZETTE. "We mus trequire all our fair readers, "an' they love us" (and it is hard if they do not love us a little, considering we love them and their interests so much), to leave off instantly what they are about (provided they are not saying something very kind to their husbands), and send to King Edward Street, Blackfriars, or any of the Periodical booksellers, for The Ladies' Penny Gazette. They have no notion what a good thing it is; how sociable, how sensible, how miscellaneous, how alive to all the sources of pleasure with which this calumniated, and most capable, and divine world abounds, and how desirous every one should enjoy them. And the manner is as spotless as the matter is good; they may take it in without scruple at once, and put it in the hands of those they love best. And what a price! a penny a week! the cost of a bun, or a piece of bobbin; for which they have prose and verse, extract, comments, and theatricals, and always a good wood-cut of fashions, or a piece of music, sometimes (as in the number before us) both. Truly, "Knowledge" may be said to "cry out in the streets" now-a-days; and she cries here in her prettiest, as well as her cheapest, manner. It is the ery of the primroses. The contributors to the Ladies' Gazette are of both sexes, and appear to consist generally of the same persons-friends, we presume, of a congenial editor; and a pleasant knot of people they are. One writes verse, another prose, another bo h verse and prose, and all agreeably, and with a true feeling, sometimes with a deep one. Their subjects, for the most part, are of love and the country, and the domestic and social affections, with a sprinkle of town matters, like news brought into their pleasant coterie, the milliner coming at the same time with her show of bonnets and dresses, and the pianoforte being at hand for the new song. But there is no assumption of being fine' on the one hand, nor any vulgarity on the other. All is calculated to do good to all; to harmonize pride, and elevate lowliness. It is e sort of Watteau publication, without the painters airs or aristocracy."-True Sun. "A nice bargain for ladies."-Literary Gazette. ** Vol. I. of the Ladies' Penny Gazette is published, price 7s. 6d. in cloth boards, forming a tasteful, useful, and very cheap Present-book for the Fair Sex. Published at the Office, King Edward Street, New Bridge Street, where all the Numbers, Parts, and Volumes, are always on sale; and sold by Berger, Holywell Street; Steill, Paternoster Row; and, on order, by all Venders of Periodicals. A List of New and Interesting Works, Illustrated by MR. CRUIKSHANK, and Published by W. KIDD, 14, Chandos Street, West Strand.-Agents: ADAM BLACK, Edinburgh, and W. F. WAKEMAN, Dublin. CRUIKSHANK "AT HOME!" Second Series. In a neat post 8vo. vol. with numerous original Engravings on Wood. "An admirable work, containing fun sufficient to elicit shouts of laughter from the strictest Puritan that ever lived. 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I. and II. price 5s. 6d. each, handsomely bound.-Vol. III., 7s. VII. CRUIKSHANK'S COMIC ALBUM. A General Collection of the jeu-d'esprit, illustrated by MR. CRUIKSHANK with 120 Engravings, price, handsomely bound, 24s. Vol. III. (separate) 10s. 6d. "These little volumes, in their present handsome form, will be most acceptable to the public. They abound with fun and drollery, and may, certainly, so far as relates to the Engravings, rank among Mr. Cruikshank's happiest efforts."-Morning Post. VIII-TWENTY MINUTES' ADVICE ON THE EYES, "An invaluable little pamphlet, containing the pith of the "A work exciting the most intense interest on matters grossly This work should find a place on the table of Every Englishman. It holds up the dealers in the "black art" to well merited contempt; not, however, without exciting roars of laughter."-Courier. "We do not envy the man that could look on this little work XI. CRUIKSHANK'S VIEW OF THE METROPOLITAN True Sun. XII-FACETIE. Vol. III. With numerous Engravings, A few complete sets of this work, in 3 vols. may still be had. SIR WALTER SCOTT'S MISCELLANEOUS PROSE WORKS. On the first of May will be published, Uniform with the Waverly Novels, and his poems, now in cours of publication. VOLUME FIRST of a new, extended, and correcte Edition of the MISCELLANEOUS PROSE WORKS of SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. to be contined in Monthly Vo. lumes, with Notes and Illustrations. Embellished with Por traits, Frontispieces, Vignette Titles, and Maps. The designs o the Landscapes from Real Scenes, by J. M. W. TURNER, R. A. The great success which has attended the periodical issues of Sir Walter Scott's Novels and Poetry, leads the proprietors te bring forward in a similar form HIS MISCELLANEOUS PROSE WORKS, which they will endeavour to do, so as equall to deserve the patronage of the Public. It is their purpose to observe the chronological order with much strictness as they shall find possible. The Early Volume will contain the Lives of DRYDEN and SWIFT,and the as ye less widely circulated, though even more interesting, Biogra. phical Memoirs, of RICHARDSON, FIELDING, SMOLLETT CUMBERLAND, GOLDSMITH, JOHNSON, STERNE, HENRY MACKENZIE, WALPOLE, REEVE, RADCLIFFE, LE SAGE, JOHNSTONE, BAGE, CHARLOTTE SMITH, SIC RALPH SADLER, DR. LEYDEN, MISS SEWARD, DE FOE, &c. These Volumes will be enriched with Portraits of DRYDEN, SWIFT, SMOLLETT, and MACKENZIE, besides Vignette Embellishments. Another important portion of this series will be the Life of NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, which, besides two authentic Portraits, and engravings after Turner's drawings of the places most strikingly associated with the history of that extraordinary man, will have Maps of his Campaign, drawn and engraved expressly for this Publication. The text of the Life of Napoleon had been revised with great care by Sir Walter Scott himself; two interleaved copies of the last edition are now in the hands of his Executor:-the language has been corrected and condensed; the utmost accuracy has been attended to as to dates; a most careful comparison has been made with the numerous Liographies that had appeared since the publication of the First and Second Editions of the work-and copious Editorial Notes will now be attached, containing brief notices of the many distinguished men who acted a prominent part in the eventful wars which followed the French Revolution. One or more volumes of this collection will comprise Sir Walter Scott's contributions to the principal periodical works of his time. It is well known that he was at one period among the chief supports of the Edinburgh Review, and at a later one of the Quarterly, and his Essays (now first collected) from these Journals and others, must ever form a most interesting feature in his literary, and even in his personal career. The Series will close with the far-famed Tales of a Grandfather, which will also have the benefit of Mr. Turner's illustrating pencil. The Work to be comprised in Twenty-Two Volumes; the publication to commence on the 1st of May, 1834, and to be continued on the 1st day of each month till completed. Robert Cadell, Edinburgh; Whitaker and Co., London. Specimens of the Illustrations may be seen at the shop every Bookseller in Town or Country. As above may be had, 1. Sir Walter Scott's Poetry, Vols. I. to XI. II. Waverly Novels, New Edition, 43 Vols. III. Completion of Waverly Novels, former editions, in d and 12mo, and 18mo. UTMOST FACILITY FOR RAPID POLITICO. HISTORICAL REFERENCE. THE MEMBERS OF BOTH HOUSES OF PAR LIAMENT are respectfully informed, that the Fourth Edition of MAJOR BELL'S TWENTY-ONE COMPARATIVE AND PROGRESSIVE, Royal Folio, TABLES OF UNIVER. SAL HISTORY, LITERATURE, and PAINTERS, (fully illustrated, for the first time, by colouring, and brought down to November, 1833,) is now ready for delivery. Price, strongly and handsomely half-bound, 17. 15s, "Its value to Historical Literature is inestimable.-JAMES TATE, M. A. Baldwin and Cradock, 47, Paternoster-row. LONDON JOURNAL. TO ASSIST THE ENQUIRING, ANIMATE THE STRUGGLING, AND SYMPATHIZE WITH ALL. WEDNESDAY, APRIL 9, 1834. ON A STONE. LOOKING about us during a walk to see what subject we could write upon in this our second number, that should be familiar to every body, and afford as striking a specimen as we could give, of the entertainment to be found in the commonest objects, our eyes lighted upon a stone. It was a common pebble, a flint; such as a little boy kicks before him as he goes, by way of making haste with a message, and saving his new shoes. "A stone!" cries a reader, "a flint! the very symool of a miser! What can be got out of that?" The question is well put; but a little reflection on the part of our interrogator would soon rescue the poor stone from the comparision. Strike him at any rate, and you will get something out of him-warm his heart, and out come the genial sparks that shall gladden your hearth, and put hot dishes on your table. This is not miser's work. A French poet has described the process, well known to the maid-servant, when she stoops, with flashing face, over the tinder-box on a cold morning, and rejoices to see the first laugh of the fire. A sexton, in the poem we allude to, is striking a light in a church : -Boirude, qui voit que la peril approche, Boileau. The prudent sexton, studious to reveal Dark holes, here takes from out his pouch a steel; Then strikes upon a flint. In many a spark Forth leaps the sprightly fire against the dark; The tinder feels the little lightning hit, The match provokes it, and a candle's lit. We shall not stop to pursue this fiery point into all its consequences, to shew what a world of beauty or of formidable power is contained in that single property of our friend flint, what fires, what lights, what conflagrations, what myriads of clicks of triggers-awful sounds before battle, when instead of letting his flint do its proper good-natured work of cooking his supper, and warming his wife and himself over their cottage-fire, the poor fellow is made to kill and be killed by other poor fellows, whose brains are strewed about the place for want of knowing better. But to return to the natural, quiet condition of our friend, and what he can do for us in a peaceful way, and so as to please meditation ;-what think you of him as the musician of the brooks? as the unpretending player on those watery pipes and flageolets, during the hot noon, or the silence of the night? Without the pebble the brook would want its prettiest murmur. And then, in reminding you of these murmurs, he reminds you of the poets. A noise as of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, Yes, the brook 'singeth; but it would not sing so well,- out the stone. Then 'gan the shepherd gather into one Spenser's Guat, observe; he wrote a whole poem upon *Rumbling in pebble-stone" is a pretty enlargement of Virgil's "susurrantis" (whispering). Green us any gourd is also an improvement as well as an addition. The expression is as fresh as the colour. [SPARROW AND CO. CRANE COURT.] No. 2. the smallest marvellous object of God's workmanship But to our brook and pebbles. See how one pleasant So much for the agreeable sounds of which the sight of a common stone may remind us, (for we have not chosen to go so far back as the poetry of Orpheus, who is said to have made the materials of stone-walls answer to his lyre, and dance themselves into shape without troubling the mason.) We shall come to grander echoes by-and-bye. Let us see, meanwhile, how pleasant the sight itself may be rendered. Mr. Wordsworth shall do it for us in his exquisite little poem on the fair maiden who died by the river Dove. Our volume is not at hand, but we remember the passage we more particularly allude to. It is where he compares his modest, artless, and sequestered beauty with A violet by a mossy stone Is not that beautiful? Can any thing express a lovelier his heaven. But stone does not want even moss to render him in teresting. Here is another stone, and another solitary Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, PRICE THREE HALFPENCE. Quiet as a stone! Nothing certainly can be more quiet than that. Not a syllable or a sigh will stone utter, though you watch and bear him company for a whole week on the most desolate moor in Cumberland. Thus silent, thus unmoved, thus insensible to whatever circumstances might be taking place, or spectators might think of him, was the soul-stunned old patriarch of the gods. We may picture to ourselves a large, or a small stone, as we please-Stone-henge, or a pebble. The simplicity and grandeur of truth do not care which. The silence is the thing,-its intensity, its unalterable ness. Our friend pebble is here in grand company, and you may think him (though we hope not,) unduly bettered by it. But see what Shakspeare will do for him in his hardest shape and in no finer company than a pea sant's : Weariness Can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth Sleeping on hard stone would have been words strong enough for a common poet; or perhaps he would have said, "resting," or "profoundly reposing;" or that he could have made his "bed of the bare floor;" and the last saying would not have been the worst; but Shakspeare must have the very strongest words and really profoundest expressions, and he finds them in the homeliest and most primitive. He does not mince the matter, but goes to the root of both sleep and stone-can snore upon the flint. We see the fellow hard at it-bent upon it-deeply drinking of the forgetful draught. To conclude our quotations from the poets, we wil give another line or two from Shakspeare, not inapplicable to our proposed speculations in general, and still less so to the one in hand. Green, a minor poet, author of the "Spleen," an effusion full of wit and good sense, gives pleasant advice to the sick who want exercise, and who are frightened with hypochondria: Fling but a stone, the giant dies. And this reminds us of a pleasant story connected with the flinging of stones, in one of the Italian novels. Two waggish painters persuade a simple brother of theirs, that there is a plant which renders the finder of it invisible, and they all set out to look for it. They pretend suddenly to miss him, as if he had gone away; and to his great joy, while throwing stones about in h absence, give him great knocks in the ribs, and horribl bruises, he hugging himself all the while at these manifest proofs of his success, and the little suspicion which they have of it. It is amusing to picture him to one's fancy, growing happier as the blows grow worse, rubbing his sore knuckles with delight, and hardly able to ejaculate a triumphant Hah! at some excessive thump in the back. But setting aside the wonders of the poets and the novelists, Pebble, in his own person, and by his own family alliances, includes wonders far beyond the most wonderful things they have imagined. Wrongly is Flint compared with the miser. You cannot, to be sure, skin him, but you can melt him; aye, make him absolutely flow into a liquid ;-flow too for use and beauty; and become light unto your eyes, goblets to your table, and a mirror to your beloved. Bring two friends of his about him, called Potash and Soda, and Flint runs into melting tenderness, and is no longer Flint; he is Glass You look through him; you drink out of him; he furnishes you beautiful and transparent shutters against the rain and cold; you shave by him; protect pictures with him, and watches, and books; are assisted by him in a thousand curious philosophies; are helped over the sea by him; and he makes your_cathedral windows divine; and enables your mistress to wear your portrait broad, and at the same time, pointed hint to others, if in her bosom. But we must hasten to close our article, and bring his most precious riches down in a shower surpassing the rainbow. Stone is the humble relation, nay, the stock and parent of Precious Stone! Ruby, Emerald, and Sapphire are of his family!-of the family of the Flints-and Flint is more in them than anything else! That the habitations and secret bosoms of the precious metals are stone, is also true; but it is little compared with this. Precious stone, for the most part, is stone itself is flint-with some wonderful circumstance of addition, nobody knows what; but without the flint, the preciousness would not be. Here is wealth and honour for the poor Pebble! Look at him, and think what splendours issue from his loins: Fiery Opals, sapphires, amethysts, To ransom great kings from captivity. MARLOW. What now remains for stone, thus filling the coffers of wealth, glorifying the crowns of sultans, and adding beams to beauty itself? One thing greater than all. The oldest and stoniest of stone is granite, and granite (as far as we know,) is the chief material of the earth itself the bones of the world-the substance of our star. Honoured therefore be thou, thou small pebble lying in the lane; and whenever any one looks at thee, may he think of the beautiful and noble world he lives in, and all of which it is capable. SECOND WEEK IN APRIL. A ROOKERY. THOUGH the re-appearance of the rooks, with their rustic population and good old rough music, does not belong exclusively to April, yet as people about this time begin to walk into the country and first observe them, we have taken advantage of Mr. Mudie's new work to furnish our readers with the best summary we are acquainted with, of their manners and way of life. The niceties of language and description in it we need not point out, from the happy idea of the "wingless rustic," down to the conclusion: but we must not forget to give the author our special thanks for the pains he has taken to do justice to Rook's character, and rescue him from the notion of his being a mere disorderly neigh bour and a thief. The Saxon word rook and the Latin word raucus (hoarse) appear to come from the same root; though it is curious that neither Latins nor Italians have a name for the rook, distinct from that of crow and raven, as the English have. The same sense, however, of the hoarseness of the bird's voice seems to have furnished the names of almost all the Corsican family,-crow, rook, raven, daw, corvus and cornix (Latin) korax (Greek). We notice this point, because when the rook is mentioned, nobody can help thinking of his voice. It is as much identified with him, as bark with the old trees. The only thing we miss in the description of Mr. Mudie is the kindly chuckle of the young crows, which appears to us particularly pleasant, good humoured, and infant-like, and is as different from the rough note of the elders, as peel is from bark, or a baby's voice is from that of a man. Let the reader picture to his mind's eye a hamlet, an old country-house, a rookery, some arab.e ano, and himself walking and looking up to the growing and cawing tree-tops, with their dark blots made by the nests, and he is in his best condition to relish our author's company : ་་ Every body knows the rook; the dark, the noisy, and sometimes the nest-plundering, or, in the early fields, the contribution-levying rook; but still, notwithstanding the cheerful, the orderly, the industrious, the discreet, the beneficent rook. There in the aged and stately trees, he builds his wicker castle, chants his rude and monotonous cry the while, dwells among his brethren and his kindred, and looks down on the lord of the manor with as much self-possession as if it were he who suffered the wingless rustic to toil with heavy steps through the sticks that fall from the nest of his superior. "Nor does he loiter away his time in the manoria! bower. He looks after the estate, and gives a very they would take it. off he flics to the sea-beach or the river-side, and inter crop. When the thaw comes, he hurries to the meadows, and examines the debris which has been cast there by the swollen stream; and if he finds in it the germ of any noxious thing, he pulls it out, so that the blessing of the hill may come upon the valley, pure, wholesome, and without offensive addition. Next he goes to the Autumn-sown wheat, and, by a curious instinct, knowing those plants that are sickly, he delves down, and extracts the larva of the cock chaffer, or whatever earth caterpillar it may be, which is only waiting for a few gleams of a warmer sun, in order to render your labour abortive, and compel you to plough and sow that field anew. " Again, he is over the pasture, and every stool of grass and plant of clover undergoes a like patient and is done,' he returns to his perch, cawing, to inform you well directed scrutiny; and, by the time that 'the day that the labour is accomplished and the labourer paid, in less time than you would take in considering how to do either the one or the other. "The great additional labour of the rooks is the preparing of their nests, and the rearing of those family which are to continue the society, and watch over the state of the fields, after age or casualty shall have given their own feathers to the winds, and their flesh to the raven; and their early rising, their constant labour, and the order and police which they maintain, are all very curious. Their time of commencement is the first of March, a little earlier or a little later, according to the season; and, as the building of the nest, and the instinct by means of which that nest is to be stocked, come to maturity together; so, if the lapwing storm, which, raging on the shores and in the low country, helps to drive these beautiful birds to the moors, be long and protracted, the nest-building is suspended till it blows over, and the rook contents himself in the interim with watching the safety of those sticks that are already placed. "But if the season goes cheerily on, and there is no interruption, the cawing and the bustle begin at the greyest dawn; and that man is most industrious that can get to his work before the rook. Ask the beasts, and they shall tell; the birds, and they shall instruct.' It is good at that season, to be near a rookery. There is no lullaby in their cawing: you cannot sleep; and they will not allow you to be dozing and losing thought in bed. Rise you must, or suffer for it. But they do not annoy you at night. Early to bed and early to rise,' is the rooks' maxim, and if you follow them as far as that, the rest will follow of necessary consequence. "But their admonition does not stop there. The is as necessary to their present profit as they are to his farmer's busy time is their busy time; they feel that he future; or they act as if they so felt, which, in effect, comes to the same thing. If he will not bring out his teams, turn the soil, and expose the worms and the grubs; they caw over his fields, and make the same sort of lamentation that a hungry man does when he knows that there is meat in the house, but the careless servant has lost the key of the larder. "But if the teams are all a-field betimes, slicing the sward or the stubble, and turning up the fresh and fragrant earth to be mellowed by the action of the sun, there is not a complaining note among all the fieldward rooks. Gallantly they strut, and incessantly they pick up the larvæ and the worms, so that the returning plough cannot bury and so preserve in the soil a single destructive thing. And you would think that the memory of gratitude was strong in them, and that they know upon whose territory they depend, when their own was locked up by the snow and frost. At that time, he resorted to the shores of the sea, and fed on the pastures of the gull; and now that it is his time for superabundance, the gull comes for a share, and the rook, instead of offering any resistance, mixes with the stranger on the most friendly terms. Even the pigeon comes from the cote or the wood, and the very poultry and ducks come from the farm-yard, and mingle in peace with the wild tribes,—such charms has the timely labouring of the ground. "The plentiful supply of food which, in the course of a few hours, the rook obtains at that season, enables the one half of them to be always, and the greater part of them to be sometimes, at work in the rookeries. It has been said, though after a good deal of observation I cannot verify it, that the strong sometimes help the weak in the construction of their nests; but it is certain that those which have been detected in filching sticks from the nests of others, are punished, not merely by the parties they have plundered, but by others. The attachment of the pair during the nesting time is the strongest of their attachments; but there is a feeling towards the society, and even the place; for if part of the trees are cut down, the rooks will accommodate each other upon the remaining others, often so thickly, as to contain two nests in the same fork, without any signs of hostility between either the old birds or the broods. In close time the male does not take turn in sitting, and when the action of the eggs has begun, the female is never long absent from the nest; but the male certainly does bring food to her, and appears as willing to bestow, as she is grateful to receive. After the young are of such an age as that they can be left, both parents assist in feeding them; and as the working of the land goes on during the time, or if not, the larvæ come near the surface of the pastures, an abundance of food for the numerous broods (the average is five,) is obtained without much difficulty. The feeding continues after the birds leave the nest and branch; and when there are several broods on the same tree, each parent appears to know its young, and each of the young its parents, with as much certainty, as the ewes and lambs of a flock know each other, though the ewes are browsing and the lambs sporting indiscriminately over the pasture. The pairing attachment weakens, if it does not altogether cease, as soon as the young birds are able to shift for themselves; but the social instinct, which is the bond of union of the rookery, continues not only for life, but through as many generations as the trees continue; and if these are cut down en masse, the birds remove en masse to a new locality, generally as near the old one as they can. "The treatment of orphan broods, and the disposal of widowed rooks, are curious points in the domestic history of a rookery; but they are points upon which, from the similarity of one rook to another, it is very difficult to get accurate information. There is little doubt, however, that when any casualty happens to the parents after the brood are of such an age as that they can complain, the others do relieve their wants. Indeed, it is very possible that all species of birds contribute at times to the support of orphan broods of their own species, otherwise, from the casualties to which the parent birds are subject, we should meet with many more instances of young that had died in the nest. As for the widowed ones, there is no doubt that they pair again the next year, so that there is never more than one odd bird in a rookery; and it has been asserted that one of the ways in which new rookeries are formed, is the pairing of the odd birds from existing ones. During the pairing season, one may often observe a rook flying about in a hurried manner, and cawing in a sharper and more anxious key, without carrying sticks, or taking any share in the busi ness of nidification; but whether they be the odd ones, it is not easy to say. Couriers sometimes pass and repass between the different rookeries, upon terms that are evidently amicable, but the messages which they carry are known only to the rooks themselves. There is no doubt, however, that all birds which live in societies have some signals by which they recognise each other; for when the rooks of different rookeries feed together during the day, but go home at night, each party takes its proper course, though occasionally one or two will follow the wrong leader for a time, before they discover their mistake. Rooks have a history which is neither brief nor void of interest; and they are so numerous, and found in so many places, that any one may study it." " April 11, 1732. At Rhoran in Austria, Joseph Hadyn, father of the modern instrumental style of music. His compositions are full of taste, learning, and vivacity, sometimes sublime, with an occasional pedantry of ultra-scholarship, and a graceful pathos. Hadyn was a good man, with faith in all good things, and a pardonable reverence for the conventionalities in which he was brought up; though they sometimes betrayed the formal part of him into a confounding of small things with greater. Thus he was not easy when he sat down to compose, unless he was full dressed, and had a ring on his finger that was presented to him by the German Emperor. 12, 1596. In the French province of Touraine, Rene Descartes, author of an exploded system of astronomy, which perhaps, however, has not left others quite so settled as they appear. He was a deep and original philosopher, but spoilt for the deductions of science by too lively a temperament. He was also an excellent and noble-minded man. A pleasant story (which would have amused him as much as any body) is told of the way in which a facetious French clergyman ridiculed the hot disputes that took place between his disciples and those of Aristotle. This reverend wag had brought up four dogs, one of which he called Aristotle, another Descartes, giving to each a disciple, and had found means to keep up the sharpest animosity between each party. Aristotle, at the very sight of Descartes, was ready to fly at him, and tear him to pieces; and Descartes, by his snarling, shewed, that he also longed to have a brush with him. The curate frequently diverted his company with the following scene. He called Aristotle and Descartes, who immediately took their proper places, Aristotle on his right hand, and Descartes on the left, and each of the disciples close by his master; then the curate would speak to Aristotle, persuading him to come to an agree ment with Descartes, but Aristotle's latrations, and fiery eyes, bespoke his implacability; then he turned towards Descartes, who manifested the like aversion to the curate's overtures; Well," says he, "then let us try what a conference may do; then ordering them to come near, and face each other, at first they only muttered and growled, as it were alternately, and seemed to auswer each other; but by degrees, their vociferations increased, and terminated in a violent fray, two against two, so that they would have destroyed one another, if the curate, by the authority which he had been careful to maintain, had not interfered. This, with the curate, was a natural image of scholastic contentions. April 12, 1578. At Folkestone in Kent, William Harvey born; the discoverer of the circulation of the blood. Like most true physicians, he was a man equally pleasing in manners and generous in sentiment; though his physic did not hinder him from suffering excruciating pangs of the gout in his old age. However, he lived till near ninety. Probably he was too fond of study to abide properly by his own maxims, and so was punished for too sedentary a life. He was the friend of Cowley; and so fond of Virgil, that he used to start up sometimes while reading him, and exclaim, "He had a devil!" BROTHER MERRY; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF An old soldier. THIS is a story after our own heart, or at least after three parts of our heart; for we have a fourth, which is a little more serious than Brother Merry's; but we like him mightily, for he is a personification of animal spirits and their natural goodness and good-will, not over scrupulous, we grant, because he is not overthoughtful, but honourable, upon the whole, to the reputation of natural impulses, and having as little of ill in him as he thinks of any. Nor is any body to suppose that the freedoms taken with some venerable names imply real irreverence; for the story is here seen through a Catholic medium; and Catholics, from their greater familiarity with certain images, take a sort of domestic liberty with them, without meaning any diminution of love and respect. Brother Merry sets out with a good deal of jovial Charity; he has Hope in full measure, and all the Faith in the world consistent with his having no notion that the stars can mean him any ill; and this is by no means the smallest or least honouring part of faith. We take the story from a new publication which we are very glad to see,-Lays and Legends of Various Nations, No. 1, containing "Germany." The close of it reminds us of a ballad we have read of a lawyer, who being refused entrance into heaven by St. Peter, contrived to throw his hat inside the door; and then, being permitted by the kind saint to go in and fetch it, took advantage of the latter's fixture as door-keeper, to refuse to come back again. In days of yore there was a great war; and when the war was at an end, a great number of the soldiers were discharged. Among the rest, Brother Merry received his discharge, and nothing more for all he had done than a very little loaf of soldier's bread and four halfpence in money-and with that he went his way. But St. Peter had seated himself in the road, like a poor beggar-man, and when Brother Merry came there, he asked him for charity. Then said the soldier "Dear beggar-man, what shall I give you? I have been a soldier, and have got my discharge, and with it nothing but a very little loaf of bread and four half-pence, and when that is gone I must beg as well as yourself." Then he divided the loaf into four parts, gave the apostle one, and also one half-penny. St. Peter thanked him, and went a little further, and seated himself like another beggar, in the way of the soldier; and when he came up, as formerly, asked alms of him. Brother Merry spoke as before, and gave him again another quarter of the loaf, and another half-penny. St. Peter thanked him, and seated himself in the way for the third time, like another beggar, and again addressed Brother Merry. Brother Merry then gave him the third quarter of the loaf, and the third half-penny. St. Peter thanked him, and Brother Merry journeyed on; and all he had left was one-fourth of the loaf and one half-penny. So be went into a tavern, and ate the bread, and spent the half-penny in beer to drink with it. When he had finished, he journeyed on; and St. Peter, in the disguise of a disbanded soldier, met him again, and saluted him: "Good comrade," said he, "can you give me a morsel of bread, and a half-penny to get a drop of drink?" "Where shall I get it?" answered Brother Merry, "I got my discharge, and nothing with it but a loaf and four half-pence. Three beggars met me on the road, and I gave each of them a quarter of the loaf and a half-penny. The last part I have just eaten at the tavern, and spent the last half-penny in drink. Now I am quite empty, and if you also have nothing more, let us go begging together." No, that will not be necessary just now," said St. Peter, "I understand a little of doctoring, and therewith will I in time obtain as much as I need." "Ha!" said Brother Merry, "I know nothing about that; so I must go and beg by myself." "Now only come along," said St. Peter, "if I can earn anything, you shall go halves.' "That will suit me well enough, said Brother Merry. So they travelled together. Now they came to a cottage, and heard great lamenting and screaming inside, and when they went in there lay a man sick to the death, as if about to expire, and his wife crying and weeping bitterly. "Leave off whining and crying," said St. Peter, "I will make the man well again" and he took a salve out of his pocket, and cured the man instantly, so that he could stand up, and was quite hearty. The man and his wife in great joy demanded "How can we pay you? what shall we give you?" But St. Peter would not take anything, and the more they pressed him to do so, the more firmly he declined. But Brother Merry nudged him and said, "Take something, take something: we want it, indeed." At last the peasant brought a lamb, and insisted on St. Peter accepting it, but he would not. Then Brother Merry jogged his side, "Take it, you foolish fellow, we want it bad enough." Then said St. Peter at last, "Well, I'll take the lamb; but I shall not carry it, you must carry it." "There's no great hardship in that," cried Brother Merry, "I can easily do it ;" and he took it on his shoulders. After that, they went on till they came to a wood; when Brother Merry found the lamb a heavy load, and being now very hungry, he called to St. Peter, "Hallo! here's a nice place for us to dress and eat the lamb." "With all my heart" said St. Peter, "but I don't understand anything of cookery, so do you begin, and I will just walk about till it is ready; but mind you don't begin to eat till I return; I will take care to be back in time." "Go your ways," said Brother Merry; "I can cook it well enough; I'll soon have it ready." So St. Peter wandered away, while Brother Merry lighted the fire, killed the lamb, put the pieces into the pot, and boiled them. The lamb, however, was thoroughly boiled, and his companion not returned; so Merry took it up, carved it, and found the heart. "That is the best part of it," said he, and kept tasting it till he finished it. At length St. Peter came back, and said, "I only want the heart; all the rest you may have, so you give me that." Then Brother Merry took knife and fork, and turned the lamb as if he would have found the heart, but he could not. At last he said, in a careless manner, said the Saint. "It is not there." "No! where should it be then?" "That I don't know," said Merry; "but now I think of it, what a couple of fools we are to look for the heart of a lamb!-a lamb, you know, has not got a heart." "What!" said St. Peter, "that's news indeed: why every beast has a heart, and why should not the lamb have one as well as the best?" "No, certainly, comrade, a lamb has no heart: now only reflect, and it will occur to you that it really has not.' I need none of the lamb; you may eat it all." "Well, "Well, it is quite sufficient-there is no heart there, so what I can't eat, I'll put in my knapsack," said Brother Merry. Then he ate half, and disposed of the other as he had said. Now as they journeyed on, St. Peter managed that a great stream should flow right across their path, through which they must ford. Then," said he, "go you first." "No," answered Brother Merry, "go you first;" thinking, if the water were too deep, he would even stay were he was. So St. Peter waded through it, and the water only reached to his knees; but when brother Merry ventured, the water was much deeper, and he was up to his neck in it. Help me, comrade!" cried he; but the Saint said, "Will you confess, then, that you ate the lamb's heart." But he still denied it, and the water got still deeper, and reached his mouth. Then said St. Peter again, 66 Will you confess then that you ate the lamb's heart?" But he still denied it; St. Peter, however, would not let him be drowned, so helped him out of his danger. "This comes Now they journeyed on till they came to a kingdom where they heard that the king's daughter lay dangerously ill. "Holloa, brother," said the soldier, "here's a catch for us; if we can only cure her, we shall be made for ever.' But St. Peter was not quick enough for him. "Come, Brother Heart," said he, "put your best foot forward, that we may yet come in at the right time." But the Saint went still more slowly, though his comrade kept pushing and driving him, till at last they heard that the princess was dead. of your creeping so," said the soldier. "Now be still," said St. Peter, for I can do more than make the sick whole, since I can bring the dead to life again.' Now, if that's true," said Merry, "you must at least earn half the kingdom for us by the job." Thereupon they went to the king's palace, where everybody was in trouble; but St. Peter told the king he would restore his daughter to him. They then conducted him to where she lay, and he commanded them to let him have a cauldron of water, and when he received it, he ordered them all to go away, and let nobody remain with him but Brother Merry. Then he divided the limbs of the dead princess, and threw them into the water, lighted a fire under the cauldron, and boiled them. And when all the flesh had fallen from the bones, the Saint took the beautiful white bones and laid them on a table, and placed them together according to their natural order. When that was done, he walked before them, and said, "In the name of all things holy, arise, thou dead one!" And at the third time the princess arose up, alive, well, and beautiful. Now was the king greatly rejoiced thereat, and said to St. Peter, "Require for thy reward what thou wilt, though it should be half my empire, I will give it you." But he answered, "I desire nothing for what I have done." Oh! thou Jack Fool," thought Brother Merry to himself, then nudged his comrade's side, and said, "Don't be so silly; if you won't have anything yet I need somewhat." St. Peter, however, would have nothing; yet because the king saw the other would gladly, he commanded the keeper of his treasures to fill his knapsack with gold, at which Brother Merry was right well pleased. Thereupon they went their way till they came into a wood, when the Saint said to his fellow traveller, "Now we will share the gold." "Yes," answered he," that we can do." Then St. Peter took the gold and divided it into three portions. "Well," thought Brother Merry, "what whim has he got in his head now, making three parcels, and only two of us?" But St. Peter said, "Now I have divided it fairly; one for me, one for you, and one for him who ate the heart." "Oh, I ate that,' said the soldier, quickly taking up the gold; "I did I assure you." "How can that be true," said St. Peter, "a lamb has no heart." a Aye, what, brother? What are you thinking of a lamb has no heart? very good! when every beast has, why should that one be without?" "Now, that is very good," said the Saint, "take all the gold to yourself, for I shall remain no more with you, but will go my own way alone." "As you please, brother Heart," answered the soldier; "a pleasant journey to you, my hearty." But when St. Peter took another road, his comrade bethought him, "Well, it is all right that he has marched off, for he is an odd fellow." Now had Brother Merry plenty of money, but he did not know what to do with it, but spent it and gave it away, till, in the course of a little time, he found himself once more pennyless. Then he came into a country where he heard that the king's daughter was dead, "Ah," thought he," that may turn out well: I will bring her to life again;" then went he to the king, and offered so to do. Now the king had heard that there was an old soldier, who went about restoring the dead to life, and thought that Brother Merry must be the very man; yet because he had no confidence in him, he first consulted his council, and they agreed, that as the princess was certainly dead, he might make the attempt. Then Brother Merry commanded them to bring him a cauldron of water, and when every one had left the room, he separated the limbs and threw them into the cauldron, and made a fire under it exactly as he had seen St. Peter do; and when the water boiled and the flesh fell from the bones, he took them and placed them upon the table, but as he did not know how to arrange them he piled them one upon another. Then he stood before them and cried, "In the name of the Holy Heaven, thou dead arise,” and he cried so three times, but still to no purpose. "Stand up, you vixen, stand up, or it shall be the worse for you." the window, just as before, in the likeness of an old Scarcely had he said this, ere Saint Peter came in at soldier, and said, "You impious fellow, how can the dead stand up when you have thrown the bones thus one upon another?" "Ah, Brother Heart," answered Merry, "I have done it as well as I can.” "This time will I help you out of your trouble, but this I tell you, whenever you again undertake anything like this you will repent it: moreover, for this, you shall neither ask for nor take the least thing from the king." Thereupon St. Peter placed the bones in their proper order, and said three times, "In the name of the Holy Trinity, thou dead arise," and the princess stood up, sound and beautiful as formerly. Then St. Peter immediately went away again out of the window, and Brother Merry was glad that all had turned out so well; but he was sorely grieved that he might take nothing for it. "I should like to know," thought he, "what he had to grumble about-what he gives with one hand, he takes with the other; there is no wit in that." Now the king asked him what he would have, but he durst not take any thing; yet, be managed by hints and cunning, that the king should fill his knapsack with money; and with that he journeyed forth. But, when he came out, St. Peter was standing before the door, and said, "See what a man you are; have I not forbidden you to take any thing, and yet you have your knapsack filled with gold?" How can I help it," answered the soldier, "if they would thrust it in?” "This I tell you then-mind that you do not a second time undertake such a business: if you do, it will fare badly with you." "Ab, Brother, never fear: now I have money, why should I trouble myself with washing bones ?" "Ah!" said St. Peter, "that will not last a long time; but, in order that you may never tread in a forbidden path, I will bestow upon your knapsack this power that whatever you wish into it, that shall be Farewell-You will never see me again." "Adieu," said Brother Lusty, and, thought he, "I am glad you are gone, you wonderful fellow: I am willing enough not to follow you." But he thought not of the wonderful property bestowed upon his knapsack. Brother Merry went off with his gold, which he had very soon spent and squandered as before. there. When he had nothing but fourpence left, he came to a public house, and thought the money must go; so he called for three pennyworth of wine and one pennyworth of bread. As he ate and drank there, the flavour of roasting geese tickled his nose. So he peeped and pried about, and saw that the landlord had placed two geese in the oven. Then it occurred to him that his comrade had told him, whatever he wished in his knapsack should be there; so he determined the geese should be the test of it. He went out therefore and stood be fore the door, and said, "I wish that the two geese which are baking in the oven were in my knapsack," and, when he had said so, he peeped in, and there they were, sure enough. "Ah, ah, that is all right," said he, "I am a made man," and he went on a little way, took out the geese, and began to eat them. As he was thus enjoying himself, there came by two labouring men, who looked with hungry eyes at the one goose which was yet untouched. Now when Brother Merry saw that, he said, "one was quite enough for him." So he called them, gave them the goose, and bade them drink his health. When they had finished, they thanked him, and went therewith to the public house, called for wine and bread, took out their present, and began to eat it. When the hostess |
