with the hue of apprehension. If it really was an optical delusion, it was the most fixed and pertinacious one he ever heard of! The best part of valor is discretion, says Shakspeare; and in all things; so, observing a stage passing by at that moment, to put an end to the matter, Mr. D, with a little trepidation in his tone, ordered it to stop; there was just room for one inside; and in stepped Mr. Dchuckling at the cunning fashion after which he had succeeded in jockeying his strange attendant. Not feeling inclined to talk with the fat woman who sat next him, squeezing him most unmercifully against the side of the coach, nor with the elderly grazier-looking man fronting him, whose large dirty top-boots seriously incommoded him, he shut his eyes, that he might pursue his thoughts undisturbed. After about five minutes' riding, he suddenly opened his eyes --and the first thing that met them was the figure of the blue dog, lying stretched in some unaccountable manner at his feet, half under the seat!

"I-I-hope THE DOG does not annoy you, sir?" inquired Mr. D, a little flustered, of the man opposite, hoping to discern whether the dog chose to be visible to any one else.

“

"Sir!" exclaimed the person he addressed, starting from a kind of doze, and staring about in the bottom of the coach.

"Lord, sir!" echoed the woman beside him.

"A DOG sir, did you say?" inquired several, in a breath.

"Oh-nothing-nothing, I assure you. 'Tis a little mistake," replied Mr. D, with a faint smile; "I-I thought-in short, I find I've been dreaming; and I'm sure I beg pardon for disturbing you." Every one in the coach laughed except Mr. D, whose eyes continued riveted on the dim blue outline of the dog lying motionless at his feet. He was now

certain that he was suffering from an optical illusion of some sort or other, and endeavored to prevent his thoughts from running into an alarmed channel, by striving to engage his faculties with the philosophy of the thing. He could makenothing out, however; and the Q.. E.D. of his thinkings startled him not a little, when it came in the shape of the large blue dog, leaping at his heels out of the coach, when he alighted. Arrived at home, he lost sight of the phantom during the time of supper and the family devotions. As soon as he had extinguished his bedroom candle, and got into bed, he was nearly leaping out again, on feeling a sensation as if a large dog had jumped on that part of the bed where his feet lay. He felt its pressure! He said he was inclined to rise, and make it a subject of special prayer to the Deity. Mrs. Dasked him what was the matter with him? for he became very cold, and shivered a little. He easily quieted her with saying he felt a little chilled; and as soon as she was fairly asleep, he got quietly out of bed, and walked up and down the room. Wherever he moved, he beheld, by the moonlight through the window, the dim dusky outline of the dog, following wherever he went! Mr. D opened the windows, he did not exactly know why, and mounted the dressing-table for that purpose. On looking down before he leaped on the floor, there was the dog waiting for him, squatting composedly on his haunches! There was no standing this any longer, thought Mr. D

delusion or no delusion; so he ran to the bed-plunged beneath the clothes, and, thoroughly frightened, dropt at length asleep, his head under cover all night! On waking in the morning, he thought it must have been all a dream about the dog, for it had totally disappeared with the daylight. When an hour's glancing in all directions had convinced him that the phantom was really no longer visi

ble, he told the whole to Mrs. D——, and made very merry with her fears-for she would have it, it was something supernatural," and, good lady, Mr. D-might depend upon it, the thing had its errand!" Four times subsequently to this did Mr. D see the spectral visitant-in nowise altered either in its manner, form, or color. It was always late in the evenings when he observed it, and generally when he was alone.-He was a man extensively acquainted with physiology; but felt utterly at a loss to what derangement, of what part of the animal economy to refer it. So, indeed, was I-for he came to consult me about it. He was with me once during the presence of the phantom. I examined his eyes with a candle, to see whether the interrupted motions of the irides indicated any sudden alteration of the functions of the optic nerve; but the pupils contracted and dilated with perfect regularity. One

thing, however, was certain-his stomach had been lately a little out of order, and everybody knows the intimate connexion between its functions and the nervous system. But why he should see spectrawhy they should assume and retain the figure of a dog, and of such an uncanine color too - and why it should so pertinaciously attach itself to him, and be seen precisely the same, at the various intervals after which it made its appearance

and why he should hear, or imagine he heard it utter sounds,—all these questions I am as unable to answer as Mr. D— was, or as the reader will be. He may account for it in whatever way his ingenuity may enable him.-I have seen and known other cases of spectra, not unlike the one above related; and great alarm and horror have they excited in the breasts of persons blessed with less firmness and good sense than Mr. D-— displayed.

THE nuts hang ripe upon the chesnut boughs,

And the rich stars send forth their clear blue light,

O'er glistening leaves, and flowers that, fond as love,

Perfume the very dew that bows their heads, And lays their sweet and quiet beauty low, And dream-like voices float upon the ear, With mingling harmony of birds and trees, And gushing waters! Beautiful is Night And beautiful the thoughts she calls to birth, The hopes which make themselves immortal wings;

The memories, that slow and sadly steal, Like moonlight music, o'er the watching heart:

Yet, with a tone thus light, stirring the mind To themes beyond a trumpet's breath to rouse,

My spirit wakes 'mid sad remembrances Of one who shone the beauty of our vale, The idol of our homes-our Village Queen! Methinks I see her now-the graceful girl! The shadowy richness of her auburn hair, Half parted o'er a brow white as the bloom Of the wild myrtle flower; and eyes whose

hue

Was like the violet's, with more of light;
A silent poetry dwelt in their depths→→→
A melody inaudible! Her neck-

Oh, elegant and fair as the young dove's!Gave to the mild expression of her form The grace that artists study. Thus she look'd Ere early blight had wasted her fine bloom, And dimm'd the gladness of her starry eyes. Her house was small, but very beautiful : A pastoral cot, with mountain, rock, and vale,

And pleasant water-all that constitutes A picture of romance, a summer home! There, like a rose, she grew from infancy The blessing of a widow'd mother's heartLight of her eyes-the dial of her mind, Round which her thoughts revolved.

An orphan youth, The offspring of a distant relative, Dwelt with the aged matron and her child And rose to manhood 'neath their generou

roof:

Alas, for the return!-'T is strange that one So mild and gentle in her loveliness, Whose life was simple as the wilding broom, And happiest in the shade, should nurse so fond,

So deep, a passion for a youth, whose moods Were ever wayward, gloomy, wild, and bold,

Jealous and proud-the passionate reverse Of her sweet, guileless self! And yet she loved,

With that intense affection, that deep faith, Which knows no change, and sets but in the tomb!

"T were vain to trace how step by step he fell

How, deed by deed, he darken'd into guilt, And perish'd in his crimes!

Sweet Eleanor ! Pale, blighted girl!--she wither'd fast, like those

Who have no earthly hope; and still she smiled,

And said she should be happy soon, and breathed,

Like a young dying swan, her music tones Of parting tenderness into that fount Which might not hold them long—a mother's heart!

Oh! youth is like the emerald, which throws

Its own green light o'er all! Even to the last,

She spoke of brighter hours, of happier days,

Of nights that bring no sorrow-no regret ; That she would love none but her mother

now,

And she henceforth should be the world to her.

Do you behold where the lone rising moon Tinges with holy light the village spire, And braids with silver the far cypress boughs,'

Bending, like mercy, o'er the sorrowing brow,

And lonely heart, the weary and the worn? There, in her early tomb, reclines the pride

And beauty of our vale-the Village Queen.

CHARLES X. was served [during the journey to Cherbourg] by his "officers of the mouth," who waited upon him in full dress, with bags, silk stockings, and swords by their sides. A rich proprietor, who resided in a château near L'Aigle, made an offer of his mansion for a resting-place on the march. This hospitable invitation was accepted, and Monsieur C. hastened home to make preparations for his majesty's reception the next day. The best apartments in the house, consisting of a saloon, bed-chamber, and a large closet, in general occupied by the proprietor's mother, was destined for the King. Separate chambers for the ladies, &c. disposed of the rest of the house, all but one small room, which the worthy man retained for himself and family; while his son-in-law and his wife were consigned to an outhouse. Having with great trouble made all ready, at seven in the morning a waggon arrived, loaded with plate and furniture, attended by many cooks and other servants. That important personage the maître d'hôtel, M. Hocquart, then made his appearance. Upon surveying the apartments he declared that it would not be possible for his majesty to sleep there without new arrangements. He stated that no

King of France could possibly pass the night without a chamber attached to his own sufficiently large for his personal attendants, and that he must have a different suite of rooms. As this was impossible, matters were accommodated by removing the bed into the saloon.

In the kitchen, the royal cooks took possession of every oven and culinary utensil. M. Hocquart complained bitterly that, out of twenty cooks who had left Rambouillet, nine had deserted, leaving only eleven to dress the dinners for the royal party and their attendants. He requested that twenty-five women, to assist in the kitchen, might be sent for to L'Aigle, which was accordingly done. Before dinner the royal party arrived. Two tables were ordered, one of eight covers for the ex-king and family, and one of twenty-five for the suite.

Previously to the serving up of the repast, the maître d'hôtel entered to see that all was in order, but was dreadfully shocked on finding that the eight covers were laid on a round table. He asked Mons. C. if he were really so ignorant as not to know that no King of France had dined at a round table for the last three centuries, and said that it must be immediately altered. The worthy host replied that he had no

other; the man in office thereupon called for a saw, saying that it must be cut to the requisite shape. Mons. C. here interposed, as we may well suppose his patience was exhausted, and would not permit his furniture to be spoiled; thus, for the first time, during so many ages, the fa

mily of the Bourbons dined off a round table! At a former place of sojourn, a table was actually cut by an upholsterer to the form required. As a mark of gratitude for the trouble given and expense incurred, the host was invited to dine with the attendants, which honor he refused.

IN Damascus some of the best reciters are to be found, and the peculiar luxury and situation of its coffee-houses aid very much the effect of their narrations. In Cairo, the want of water, the burning heat, and the dry, gloomy, and dusty streets, are great foes to the imagination, as well as the desart that spreads on every side. In Constantinople the beauty of the external scenery cannot be surpassedthe river and its enchanting shores; but the scantiness of water in the interior of the city decreases very much the luxuries of its people, who love, beyond everything, the sight and sound of falling water in their apartments. In the capital of Syria, almost all the coffee-houses have splendid fountains, that are thrown up, some of them, to the height of six or seven feet; and it is delightful to recline on one of the soft seats near them, and listen to the ceaseless rush and fall,-while the very sight of them, in so hot a clime, is like the face of a friend. The abundance of water, from the five streams that flow around the city, is incredible. The Assyrians might well complain, in their inroads into the promised land, of the scarcity of its rivers, and boast that there was nothing like their own Abana and Pharpar. In some of these houses of recreation, whose latticed windows, thrown open, admit the air, the wealthier people form dinner parties, of men only. Seated in a circle on the carpet, with the various dishes on low tables before them, they eat slowly and carelessly, conversing at intervals, without any of the goût

or joviality that wine inspires. Every good private dwelling in Damascus has its fountain, and this is invariably in the best apartment; it being a luxury, or rather a necessity, that few inhabitants care to do without an Englishman would as soon live in an uncarpeted house. And round the marble basin, or in the divan just beyond it, the host at evening receives his friends; and they sit, and smoke, and calmly converse the hours away. This is the time when the wealthier families sometimes send for a celebrated story-teller to amuse the party; and when the latter knows he is to be handsomely paid, it is a more recherché opportunity than the public companies afford. It is the sultry hour of noon, perhaps, when the burning rays are on the water, the trees, and green banks that surround the scene of indolence and indulgence; the light roof supported by the slender pillars casts a shade on the peopled floor, on which the well and variously-dressed Turks recline, some in small wickered chairs, others on long and softer benches, covered and backed with carpets and cushions. These seats are placed close to the river's edge; and earth has nothing more luxurious than to sit here, in the cool of the day, or in the still hour of night, and listen to the rush of the waters, and gaze on the gleaming of the cataract; then put the ambertipped and scented pipe to the lips, or turn to the throng of many nations around, all silently enjoying the hour.

Prince Talleyrand.The Prince is well known to be one of the wittiest of his day, -and wit upon one's self is the best de fence against the satire of others. A newspaper correspondent, giving an ac count of the prince's landing at Dover, expressed his surprise at seeing in Talley rand, whom he had expected to look nothing but the cunning diplomatist, "the countenance of an open, candid, and honest character." This was shown to Talleyrand, who coolly remarked, "It must have been, I suppose, in consequence of the dreadful sea-sickness I experienced in coming over!'

Worship in Russia.-Let a person be ever so religious, he has the greatest difficulty to refrain from laughing, when he sees so many genuflexions and so many crosses made before a trumpery image, beside which some simpleton has placed a lighted taper. You can seldom pass the gate of the Kremlin, without seeing some old woman or other of the lower class, notwithstanding the carriages, striking her bead in her pious zeal for an hour together against the muddy pavement. How often have I seen a long-bearded hypocrite, holding a relic to be kissed by a poor young girl, who firmly believed that the pious offering of a few copecks could seeure her father or her lover from the murderous sabres of the Turks! No droschka driver fails to make the sign of the cross as he passes the image of any saint at the corner of a street, and even the shopkeeper does not forget to cross himself before he cheats you out of your cash. But it is in the churches that the absurdity of all this pious mummery is most striking. Place yourself near the altar, if you would observe the truly comic movements of all those backs that bend, of all those heads that bow, in concert. Old and young, men and women, devotees with grey beards and without any beards at all, follow this religious cadence with wonderful precision. Anecdote of Cavendish. He was shy and bashful to a degree bordering on disease; he could not bear to have any person introduced to him, or to be pointed out in any way as a remarkable man. One Sun day evening he was standing at Sir Joseph Banks's in a crowded room, conversing with Mr. Hatchett, when Dr. Ingenhousz, who had a good deal of pomposity of manner, came up with an Austrian gentleman in his hand, and introduced him formally to Mr. Cavendish. He mentioned the titles and qualifications of his friend at great length, and said that he had been peculiarly anxious to be introduced to a philosopher so profound and so universally known and celebrated as Mr. Cavendish.

As soon as Dr. Ingenhousz had finished, the Austrian gentleman began, and assured Mr. Cavendish that his principal reason for coming to London was to see and converse with one of the greatest ornaments of the age, and one of the most illustrious philosophers that ever existed. To all these high-flown speeches Mr. Cavendish answered not a word, but stood with his eyes cast down, quite abashed, and confounded. At last, spying an opening in the crowd, he darted through it with all the speed of which he was master; nor did he stop till he reached his carriage, which drove him directly home.

Homer. In parting with Homer, I cannot forbear once more, and for the last time, earnestly advising such of my readers as are really desirous of acquiring a pure and healthful taste, and a clear and vigorous style, to study the Homeric poems with care and perseverance. It is too generally the case that the Iliad and the Odyssey, from the comparative facility of their construction, are classed as school books only; but in truth they are fit to be the studies of every age and of all men. If there be such a thing as a royal road to a just and manly feeling of what is great and animated in poetry, it is to be found in a knowledge of Homer. To be Homeric, is to be natural, lively, rapid, energetic, harmonious; the ancient critics used the epithet as a collective term to express these qualities, however exhibited. They called Sophocles, Homeric--Pindar, Ho meric-Sappho, Homeric; because all three have that clearness, picturesqueness, and force, which the Iliad and Odyssey contain in perfection. Homer always seems to write in good spirits, and he rarely fails to put his readers in good spirits also. To do this is a prerogative of genius in all times; but it is especially so of the genius of primitive or heroic poetry. In Homer, head and heart speak and are spoken together. Morbid peculiarities of thought or temper have no place in him. He is as wide and general as the air we breathe and the earth upon which we tread, and his vivacious spirit animates like a Proteus, a thousand different forms of intellectual production-the life-preserving principle in them all. He is the mighty strength of his own deep-flowing ocean.Coleridge on the Study of the Classics.

Taste. We heartily commend the following paragraph to the notice of the ladies" May we not be permitted to regret that so few of our fair artists prefer studying the freshness of nature, to copying incessantly gaudy heaps of flowers designed by very second-rate talent? Void of botanical accuracy, they have the