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my son. She replied that she was ready to obey me in everything, to be my servant even, if I desired it; but that before uniting her to my son she begged that I would grant her a delay of a year, hoping that during that time she might perhaps learn what had become of her father and her betrothed prince.

"But this year also passed away without any tidings coming from Denmark or England. The princess then told me that she was ready to accept the proposal I had made to her. I then betook myself to the archbishop of Cologne, and informed him of all that had happened in this affair. He approved of the course I had taken respecting the princess; and in order to put my son on a rank equal with that of a woman of such high birth, he made him a knight. A grand banquet was prepared to celebrate the marriage. While we were seated at table, I observed a poor man, standing apart, who from time to time looked timidly at the princess, wiping the tears that flowed down his cheeks. I approached him, and inquired who he was. He replied that he was heir to the throne of England, and that his name was William; and that in returning from Denmark, where he had been to visit the princess, his intended bride, he had been driven by a storm on a foreign shore; and that he had sought his princess from country to country, and that he could not reconcile himself to finding her at the moment she was about to become the bride of another,

"Take courage,' I replied; you do not know what happiness heaven may yet have in store for you.'

"I then took him into a chamber and gave him some rich clothes, which he put on: then I went to the archbishop and informed him of this new discovery, and he told me that my son's marriage with the princess could not take place. This was a cruel disappointment to my son but we represented to him that it was the duty of every one to submit to the decrees of Providence, and he became resigned. The same day the prince and princess were married; then I embarked with them in my ship to convey them to England.


"When we reached the port of London, I left the prince on board the ship, and went on shore alone, attended by a few of my sailors. A great number of tents were erected on the banks of the river, and the concourse of strangers in the city was so great that I had much difficulty in making my way. I learned that the king was dead, and that the election of his successor was about to take place the election being entrusted to twenty-four knights and three prelates. I mounted a horse, and as I was richly attired, I was taken for a person of consequence, so the crowd made way for me, and I soon found myself in the middle of the assembly of electors. One of them asked my name and whence I had come. "I am only a merchant,' I replied; 'my name is Gerhard of Cologne.'

"At these words all the knights rose up, declaring that I had been sent into their country by Providence, and that I should be their king. In spite of all the resistance and protestations I could make, I was carried to the throne, seated upon it, and the crown placed upon my head.

"When calm was restored, I succeeded at length in making them understand that I could not be their king. I told them that the son of their legitimate king was living and close at hand. This news excited the utmost enthusiasm and extravagant joy among the whole assembly and the people. The prince, whom I had previously notified, came on shore, and the knights, with their banners, and the crowd, hastened to place themselves in order, and marched before him.

"He was unanimously proclaimed king by all the inhabitants of the country; deputations being sent from Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. Then the king of Denmark, who had been advised of these happy events, arrived with a numerous retinue. The ascending to the throne, and the marriage of William were celebrated by pompous tournaments, festivals, and banquets. Never had England been so merry since the days of King Arthur.

"I remained there as long as these festivities lasted. When I announced my intention of returning to my native country, the king entreated me to remain with him; offering me a seat in his council and the county of Kent, then the city of London; I declined his offer. He then begged that I would at least allow him to give me treble the value of what it had cost me to deliver him, the princess, and the knights and ladies from their captivity, and I refused this also. At the moment of parting, the princess said to me,- My dear father, at least permit me to send a token of remembrance to your wife.'

"Then she sent me so much gold, silver, and precious stones, that, had I accepted them, I should have been the richest merchant in all Germany. I refused all, except a ring and a belt. I returned to Cologne, where the people began to call me Good Gerhard,' but I am unworthy of such a title, for I am only a poor sinful man." When the Emperor had heard this story, he said, “ Rightly have they surnamed thee Good,' for thou art even better than thy


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A TRAVELLER was hastening from a distant land to his native country. His heart was filled with hope and joy, for he had not seen his parents and brothers for many years; therefore he hurried along. But while he was on the mountains night overtook him, and it was so dark that he could hardly see the staff in his hand. When he descended into the valley he lost his way, and wandered a long time to the right and to the left; then he was very sad, and sighed, "Oh, would that a human being might meet me, and set me on the right way! how grateful I should be!" Thus he said, and stopped, waiting for a guide.

As the way-worn pilgrim was standing there, full of doubts and anxiety, behold a twinkling light gleamed from afar through the darkness, and its glimmer seemed lovely to him in the dark night. "Welcome!" he exclaimed, "th ou messenger of peace; thou givest me the assurance that a human being is nigh. Thy faint gleam through the darkness of night is sweet to me as the sunrise."

He hastened to reach the distant light, fancying that he saw the man who was carrying it. But lo! it was a will-o'-the-wisp rising from a fen, and hovering over the stagnant pool; thus the man drew nigh to the verge of destruction.

Suddenly a voice behind him exclaimed, "Stop, or thou art a dead man!" He stopped and looked around; it was a fisherman, who called to him from his boat.

"Why," asked he, "shall I not follow the kindly guiding light? I have lost my way."

"The guiding light!" said the fisherman; "callest thou thus the deluding glimmer which draws the wanderer into danger and destruction? Evil subterranean powers create from the noisome bogs the nightly vapour which imitates the glimmer of the friendly light. Behold how restlessly it flutters about, the evil offspring of night and darkness."

While he thus spoke the deceptive light vanished. After it had expired, the weary traveller thanked the fisherman heartily for preserving him; and the fisherman answered and said, "Should one man leave another in error, and not help him into the right way? We have both reason to thank God: I, that he made me the instrument to do good; thou, that I was ordained to be at this hour in my boat on the water."

Then the good-natured fisherman left his boat, accompanied the traveller for a while, and put him on the right way to reach his father's house. Now he walked on cheerily, and soon the light of home gleamed through the trees with its quiet, modest radiance, appearing to him doubly welcome after the troubles and dangers he had undergone. He knocked; the door was opened, and his father and mother, brothers, and sisters come to meet him, and hung on his neck and kissed him, weeping for joy.

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"It is incredible what a number of old people there are always wanting to have me with them," said the Dustman, "especially those who have done anything wicked. Dear, good Dustman,' they say to me, we cannot sleep a wink all night; we lie awake, and see all our bad deeds sitting on the edge of the bed, like little ugly goblins, and sprinkling scalding water over us. If you would but come and drive them away, so that we could have little sleep,' and then they sigh so deeply, we will be sure to pay, you well,-good night, Dustman, the money is lying at the window.' But I do not come for money," added Old Robin.



"What are we to do to-night ?" asked Edward. "Well, I do not know whether you would like to go again to a wedding? The one of which I am now speaking is quite of another kind from yesterday's. Your sister's great doll, that looks like a man, and is called Henry, is going to marry the doll Betsy; moreover, it is a birthday; so they will doubtless receive a great many presents."

"Oh, yes! I knew that before," said Edward: "whenever the dolls want new clothes, my sister calls it either their birthday or their wedding-day. They must certainly have been married a hundred times already."

"Yes, but to-night they will be married for the hundred-and-first time; and when it has come to that number, they can never be married again. So this time the wedding will be splendid! Just look!"

the room began singing the following pretty song, which had been written by the lead pencil;

Waft, gentle breeze, our kind farewell

To the tiny house where the bridefolks dwell,
With their skin of kid leather fitting so well;
They are straight and upright as a tailor's ell.
Hurrah, hurrah for beau and belle !
Let echo repeat our kind farewell.

And now presents were brought to them; all eatables, however, they declined accepting: love was enough for them to live upon. "Shall we go into the country, or make a tour in some foreign land ?" asked the bridegroom. So the Swallow, who had travelled a good deal, and the old Hen, who had hatched five broods of chickens, were consulted. And the Swallow spoke of those beautiful warm countries, where bunches of grapes, large and heavy, hang on the vines; where the air is so balmy, and the mountains are tinged with various hues, such as are never seen here.

But then they have not our green cabbages!" said the Hen. "One summer I and all my chickens lived in the country; there was a gravel pit, in which we might ramble and scrape about; besides, we had access to a garden full of green cabbages. Oh, how green they were! I cannot imagine anything more beautiful!" "But one head of cabbage looks exactly like another," said the Swallow; "and then we so often have wet weather here." "One gets accustomed to that," said the Hen. "But it is so cold-it freezes !"


"That is good for the cabbages," said the Hen; "besides which it can be warm sometimes. Did we not, four years ago, have a summer which lasted five weeks? It was so hot that one could hardly breathe. Then, too, we have none of the venomous animals which they have in foreign countries; and we are free from robbers. He is a blockhead who does not think our country the most beautiful of all!-he does not deserve to live here!" and at these words tears rolled down the Hen's cheeks. "I, too, have travelled; I have been twelve miles in a coop. There is no pleasure at all in travelling."


Yes, the Hen is a sensible creature !" said the doll Betsy. "I do not wish to travel over the mountains; one is always going up and down! No, we will go to the gravel pit, and walk in the garden among the cabbages."

And so it was settled.



A MERCHANT having one day disposed of his stock of goods at a fair, found himself at night in possession of a good lot of gold and silver, which he put into a bag, and prepared to hasten home to show it to his wife. So he strapped his portmanteau with the gold in it upon his horse's back, and rode off. After a time he stopped at an inn to refresh himself and rest his horse. When he was about to set off again, the stable boy, who baited his horse, said to him, "Sir, there is a nail gone from the left hind foot of your horse.” 'Oh, never mind,” replied the merchant; "I am in a hurry, and can't stop now. I dare say the shoe will hold till I get to my journey's end."


Some miles further on he stopped at another inn, to feed his horse, and here, also, the stable boy came and told him that a nail was missing from one of the shoes, and asked if he should take the horse to a farrier.

"No, no!" replied the merchant; "it's of no consequence, it has lasted me Saying this he rode off; but he had not proceeded very far before the thus far and I dare say it will hold till I get to the end of my journey." shoe came off, and as the road was a very rough one, full of sharp flints, his horse soon became lame, and limped and stumbled till it fell down and broke its leg. Then the merchant, who was afraid of robbers, had to take his heavy portmanteau off his horse's back and carry it on his own shoulders, and when he arrived home it was so late that his wife had gone to bed. He knocked and knocked at the door for a long time but nobody answered, for his wife, being alone in the house, was frightened, thinking it might be robbers. So she covered her head up with the counterpane, and paid no heed to the knocking.

at a window, but he missed his fcoting and fell, and broke his neck. Thus The merchant, finding he could not get in at the door, tried to climb in all his misfortunes came from the loss of a horse-shoe nail. The king hearing of the circumstance, ordered his court poet to make a poem about it, which, as it is not very long, may be given here. This is it:

For want of a nail the shoe was lost,
For want of a shoe the horse was lost,
For want of a horse the rider was lost,
And all for want of a horse-shoe nail.

And Edward looked upon the table, where stood the little doll's house; the windows were lighted up, and tin soldiers presented arms at the door. The bride and bridegroom were sitting on the floor, We have two ears, but only one mouth; Nature would thereby teach us and leaning against the leg of the table; they seemed very thought-that we should hear much but speak little. It was said of a certain ful,-there was, perhaps, good reason for their being so. But the philosopher, who talked a great deal, but never listened to others, that Dustman had, meanwhile, put on his grandmother's black gown, and Nature had in this instance reversed her order, and given him two tongues married them. When the ceremony was over, all the furniture in and but one ear.


"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

"For here, forlorn and lost, I tread, With fainting steps and slow, Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." "Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom! For yonder phantom only flies To lure thee to thy doom. "Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,-
My blessing and repose.

"No flocks, that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn :
Taught by that power who pities me,
I learn to pity them.

"But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn-thy cares forego;

All earth-bora cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell;

The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure,

The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
And strangers led astray..

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care:
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily pressed and smiled;
And, skilled in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled. Around, in sympathetic mirth,

Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling fagot flies.

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A LITTLE mushroom's table spread;
After short prayers, they set on bread,
A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat,
With some small glittering grit, to eat
His choicest bits with; then in a trice
They make a feast less great than nice,
But, all this while his eye is serv'd,
We must not think his ear is starv'd
But that there was in place, to stir
His spleen, the chirping grasshopper,
The merry cricket, puling fly,
The piping gnat, for minstrelsy;
And now we must imagine first
The elves, present, to quench his thirst,
A pure seed pearl of infant dew,
Brought and besweeten'd in a blue
And pregnant violet; which done,
His kitling eyes begin to run
Quite through the table, where he spies
The horns of papery butterflies,
Of which he eats; and tastes a little
Of what we call the cuckoo's spittle;
A little furze ball pudding stands
By, yet not blessed by his hands,"
That was too coarse; but then forthwith
He ventures boldly on the pith
Of sugar'd rush and eats the sag
And well bestrutted bee's sweet bag;
Gladding his palate with some store
Of emmets' eggs; what would he more
But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh,
A bloated earwig, and a fly;
With the red capp'd worm that is shut
Within the concave of a nut,

Brown as a tooth; a little moth,
Late fattened in a piece of cloth;
With wither'd cherries; mandrake's ears;
Mole's eyes; to these the slain stag's tears;
The unctuous dewlaps of a snail;
The broke heart of a nightingale
O'ercome in music, with a wine
Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine,
But gently press'd from the soft side
Of the most sweet and dainty bride,
Brought in a dainty daisy, which
He fully quaffs up to bewitch
His blood to height! This done, commended
Grace by the priest, the feast is ended.

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A DOG Crossing a little foot-bridge over a rivulet, with a piece of
meat in his mouth, saw his own image reflected in the glassy sur-
face of the water. Believing
it to be another dog carrying also a
piece of meat, the greedy cur snatched at it, at the same time drop-
ping the piece he carried into the water, where it sunk and was lost.
Thus, by grasping at the shadow he lost the reality.

Is not my calling sweet

To dwell amid beautiful things? Flowers giving perfume at my feet,

And birds-like flowers with wings? Oh! happy they who shun the strife Of pride, or passion's hours; And glide along the calms of life Like me, dispensing flowers!



This world is full of shadow chasers,

Most easily deceived;

Should I enumerate those racers,
I should not be believed.
I send them all to Esop's Dog,
Which, crossing water on a log,
Espied the meat he bore, below:
To seize its image, let it go.

Plunged in; to reach the shore was glad,
With neither what he hoped, nor what he'd had.

THE LITTLE BOY'S GOOD NIGHT. THE sun is hidden from our sight,

The birds are sleeping sound;

'Tis time to say to all, "Good night!" And give a kiss all round.

Good night! my father, mother dear,
Now kiss your little son;

Good night! my friends both far and near,
Good night to every one!

Good night! ye merry, merry birds,
Sleep well till morning light;
Perhaps, if you could sing in words,
You would have said, "Good night!"
To all my pretty flowers, good night!
You blossom while I sleep;
And all the stars which shine so bright
With you their watches keep.

The moon is lighting up the skies,
The stars are sparkling there;
"Tis time to shut our weary eyes,
And say our evening prayer.



SAY Grace it is not time misspent ;
Worst food this betters-and the best,
Wanting this natural condiment,
Breeds crudeness, and will not digest.


God loves no heart to others iced,

Nor erring flatteries which bedim, Our glorious membership of Christ, Wherein all loving His love Him.


All blessings ask a blessed mood:

The sauce is here much more than meat : Happy who chooses gratitude!

That wanting, God will try regret.


BIRD of the wilderness,
Blithesome and numberless,

Light be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

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THOU cheerful Bee! come, freely come,

And travel round my woodbine bower; Delight me with thy wandering hum,

And rouse me from my musing hour. Oh! try no more those tedious fields; Come taste the sweets my garden yields; The treasures of each blooming mine, The bud, the blossom,-all are thine And, careless of the noontide heat,

I'll follow as thy ramble guides, To watch thee pause and chafe thy feet, And sweep them o'er thy downy sides. Then in a flower bell nestling lie, And all thy busiest ardour ply; Then o'er the stem, though fair it grow, With touch rejecting, glance and go. O, Nature kind! O, labourer wise!

That roam'st along the summer ray, Glean'st every bliss thy life supplies,

And meet'st prepared thy wintry day. Go-envied, go-with crowded gates The hive thy rich return awaits; Bear home thy store in triumph gay, And shame each idler on thy way.

London: Printed by TAYLOR and GREENING, Graystoke-place, Fetter-lane; and published for the Proprietors by W. KENT and Co., Paternoster-row. Agents for the Continent: W. S. KIRKLAND and Co., 27, Rue de Richelieu, Paris.

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ANY years of affliction had passed since the fatal night upon which the furious waves had torn from the main land the cottage of Milon, built on a little promontory: the ocean had buried in its tremendous abyss the fertile plains which joined to the continent the pleasant spot he inhabited. This dwelling, now situated on a solitary island, was separated so far from the opposite shore, that even when the profoundest calm reigned over the air and ocean, and even the zephyrs could not rouse themselves to agitate the smallest flower, its inhabitants could not hear the lowing of the peaceful herd grazing on the opposite shore. All joy was denied them: shut out for ever from the sweet intercourse of society, and the tender cares of friendship which the gods had before granted them in common with all mankind. The wretched Semira had long ago buried Milon, her beloved husband. In this sad solitude she passed her days with Melida her daughter, having nothing to soothe her sorrows but her little flock and the fowls of the air.

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Melida grew up in all the bloom of beauty, unseen and unadmired. Her form was blither than the young fruit-tree when first it puts forth its rosy blossoms; and had a happier fate placed her in society, among the fair, she would have always appeared the fairest.

The tender Semira endeavoured to avoid embittering the solitude of her daughter, by carefully concealing from her all the charms of social life which were enjoyed by the happy inhabitants of the opposite shore, as she knew it would only render her a prey to unavailing regret, by inspiring her with a taste for pleasure which she was destined never to enjoy. Every day the unhappy widow repaired to the tomb of Milon, to consecrate an hour to lamentation and tears.


groans and lamentations. Despair will prey upon thy youth; and thou wilt die, without a friend to close thine eyes, or shed over thee the tears of affection: thy poor remains will be exposed to the heat of the noon-day sun, or become the prey of the birds of heaven. Ye rocky caves, intercept the voice of my lamentation! Ye solitary shades! to whom alone I can confide my griefs, assist me to conceal from her my affliction, that a happy ignorance may prevent her from comprehending the whole extent of her deplorable situation."

Such were the complaints of Semira; and thus she hid from her daughter the bitter anxiety with which her maternal heart was


"Alas! thou art no more!" thus every day she gave utterance to her sorrow: "Thou art no more, O thou, the consolation of my life, my support in our hopeless misery! Abandoned-enclosed by the impassable ocean, what will be our fate? The rigour of our destiny cannot be softened by the compassion of friendship, and all human aid is denied us. Oh, Melida, my dear child! why cannot I see thee also expire! Alas! such is the hopelessness of my condition, that to behold thee dead has become the most ardent of my wishes. Unto thee life is a curse, for if I die thou wilt remain here alone in the bloom of thy youth. Frightful prospect! Thou wilt remain here alone, surrounded by the waste of waters, with no other companion than thy anguish and despair. No human sound will ever reach thou wilt never hear the voice of a tender husband, whom thy charms and thy virtues would render happy; nor the endearing name of mother pronounced by lisping children: the accents of joy will be unknown to thee; the caves of the rocks and the solitary shades will re-echo no sound but that of thine own

thine ear;

Melida, however, full of innocence and gaiety, sported with the tender lambs, who had no want of a shepherd: for the sea on every side bounded their little pastures. She amused herself in twining together odoriferous shrubs, to form bowers: she was the tutelar divinity of the plants; she raised the drooping flowers, and ensured to them a happy growth by propping their tender stalks: sometimes she prepared for the obstructed rivulet a channel among the rocks, or gathered together its waters to form a little lake. Around the isle she had planted a double row of fruit trees; and, beautiful as Venus in the Isle of Paphos, she walked alone beneath their glowing shade. She had also decorated a grotto which nature had formed in a rock, which was washed by the sea, for solitude fertilises our ideas the sides of the grotto were adorned with shells which the sea had cast on the shore, which she arranged according to the variety of their forms and colours. A shell of prodigious size received the crystal drops of a rill which fel! from the arched roof of the grotto, with a sweet and lulling sound; while thick branching jessamine adorned its entrance.

In the midst of these innocent occupations the days of Melida passed by without her perceiving that she was alone; sixteen years of her life had thus fled away, when she began to feel that she was lonely. Seated under the shade of the bowers she had formed, pensive and melancholy, these were her reflections :

"What has been the design of the gods, in placing us in this solitude? Far less blessed than the dumb companions of our solitude, why have we existed, to what end do we still exist? Alas! I feel, by the sadness which consumes me, there is something inseparable from my being, something which I cannot name, of which I am deprived! No, nature never intended me for this seclusion! Certainly we have been placed here by some extraordinary revolution of which my mother keeps me ignorant. A mysterious melancholy is impressed on her countenance: and whenever I question her about our condition, her eyes overflow with tears, in spite of her efforts to conceal them from me. Her constant answer is, 'Let us hope everything from the beneficent wisdom of the gods, and submit without murmuring to their decrees.""

"Well, since it must be so, let me endeavour to resign myself to their divine will, without wishing to penetrate into the mysterious secrets of futurity."

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