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having a good leathern jerkin on, dealt about his blows manfully, and received as good in his turn. Many a gallant action was performed, and those within the barriers flung upon the assailants stones, logs, and pots full of lime, to annoy them.

"It chanced that Sir Henry of Flanders, who was one of the foremost, with his sword attached to his waist, laid about him at a great rate; he came too near the abbot, who caught hold of his sword, and drew him to the barriers with so much force, that his arm was dragged through the grating, for he could not quit his sword with honour; the abbot continued pulling, and, had the grating been wide enough, he would have had him through, for his shoulder had passed, and he kept his hold, to the knights great discomfort. On the other side, his brother knights were endeavouring to draw him out of his hands, and this lasted so long that Sir Henry was sorely hurt: he was, however, at last rescued, but his sword remained with the abbot. And at the time I was writing this book, as I passed through that town, the monks shewed me this sword, which was kept there, much ornamented. It was there that I learnt all the truth of this assault."

IRISH BULL.

AN Irish blockhead was once asked what age he was: I am only twenty-six," he answered; "but I ought to be twenty-seven, for my mother miscarried the year before I was born."

ANACREONTIC.

THE Paphian boy, my blooming fair,
Nestles within this heart of mine;
And feel how warm he trembles there,
Awaken'd by that touch of thine!

Have you not mark'd when infants weep,
As fears their little breasts alarm,
How soon their murmurs sink to sleep
When folded soft in beauty's arm ?

Love is a child, my girl, you know;
Then take him to thy breast of snow,
And on that heaven of beauty blest,
Oh! let him tremble into rest!

Bristol.

THE QUESTION.

SWEET Ellen! o'er your pensive face
Does sorrow shed that sickly hue?
Say are they tears of woe that grace
Those trembling lights of heavenly blue?

"No," cries a Sylph, from fancy's bower, ""Tis love who Ellen's bloom has stole, And with it tinged his sweetest flowerA flower that blooms in Ellen's soul." Bristol.

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ANECDOTE OF THE PRINCE OF PIEDMONT.

THE Prince of Piedmont was not quite seven years old, when his preceptor, Cardinal (then Father) Gudil, explained to him the fable of Pandora's box. He told him that all the evils which afflict the human race were shut up in that fatal box, which Pandora, tempted by curiosity, opened, when they immediately flew out, and spread themselves over the surface of the earth. " What, father!" said the young prince, "were all the evils shut up in that box :" "Yes," answered the preceptor. "That cannot be," replied the prince," since curiosity tempted Pandora; and that evil, which could not have been in it, was not the least, since it was the origin of all."

WEIGHT OF THE NATIONAL DEBT OF ENGLAND IN TENPOUND BANK NOTES.

ONE hundred men could not carry the national debt of England in ten-pound bank notes, 512 of which weigh a pound; so that 242 millions of pounds sterling, (which was the amount of the national debt in 1770, when this calculation was made) would weigh 47,650 pounds, which for a hundred men would be 473 pounds each.

CURIOUS EFFECT OF COMPOUND INTEREST.

AN English penny placed out at compound interest, at the rate of 5 per cent. at the birth of Jesus Christ, would, in the year 1786, have produced the enor mous sum of 290,991,000000,000000,000000,000000, 0000001. sterling; which would make about 110 millions of our earth in solid gold. At single interest, it would have produced only 7s. 6d.

BON-MOT OF THE CHEVALIER GOTTI.

THE Chevalier Gotti, a skilful physician, once said to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, "When a person is sick, it is a dispute between the patient and the disease; a physician is called, and he comes with a great stick in his hand, to decide the quarrel: if it falls upon the disease, he cures the patient; if upon the patient, it kills him."

APOSTROPHE TO THE SHADE OF NELSON.

(From Dr. Halloran's Poem, "THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR.")

YES, lov'd heroic Nelson! o'er thy bier
Thy faithful seamen pour the artless tear;
Feel their stern breast with pangs unwonted torn,
And, though victorious, 'mid their triumph mourn;
While the whole navy shares their generous pain;
Its truest friend, its brightest glory slain!
Nor less thy country's griefs thy worth attest,
Her pitying Genius droops her plumed crest,
With mournful cypress twines her laurel wreath,
And weeps bright crystal on thy urn beneath;
While from the humblest cottage to the throne,
The land emits one universal groan!

Not with more grief, with more distracting woe,
Devoted Ilion's tears were seen to flow,
When she beheld, before her sacred wall,
Her bravest son, her god-like Hector fall!
In whom, as in thy noble breast combin'd,
"The gentlest manners, with the bravest mind;
To whom her safety, and her fame she ow'd.
"Her chief, her hero, and almost her God!",

"Yet Nelson! if unequall'd honours paid,
If deathless praise can sooth the mighty shade,
Thy prince embalms thy memory with his tears;
Thy grateful isle a mausoleum rears;

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