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to me; upon which I observed to him, 'So M'Kinlay, I suspect you are wrong this time.' The right of the regiment being posted on the round end of a hill cut into steps for the vines, a body of the enemy's sharp-shooters came close under us, and opened a fire to cover their retiring columns. M'Kinlay seeing one of them taking aim over the arm of a fig-tree in our direction, exclaimed, Look at that rascal going to shoot our captain!' And advancing one step down the hill, presented at the Frenchman, who, however, was unfortunately too quick for him, for in an instant after wards poor M'Kinlay was shot through the neck, and killed on the spot. The same ball gave me a severe contusion on the breast, and I fell with the unfortunate man, and was actually covered with his blood. He was one of the best soldiers in the grenadier company, and was much regretted ;-indeed but for him it is probable I should not have lived to tell this tale. The will was duly forwarded to the War-office, whence an order was issued for his comrade Swift to receive all that was due to him."

their neighbours is not very flattering. They are called superstitious, ignorant and prejudiced, and much more given to worship at the shrines of their innumerable saints and their thirty thousand virgins, than at the footstool of art, science or philosophy. One man has done almost miracles to redeem his compatriots from this reproach. Professor Wallraf, of Cologne, was one of those universal and amazing scholars of whom we read in past ages; men who concentrated all their powers and passions and faculties in the acquirement of knowledge, from the mere abstract love of science; to whom learning was a resistless passion. Together with his professorship, Wallraf enjoyed a canonship in the cathedral, and derived from both an income of about seven or eight hundred francs (perhaps thirty pounds sterling) per annum. Early in life he had formed the resolution to remove from his native city the reproach of contented ignorance under which it had existed; and in the course of a long life of labour and privation, he contrived (with his scanty means) to accumulate books, manucripts, pictures, gems, works

A RARE INSTANCE OF PUBLIC of art, and rare specimens in natural

SPIRIT.

(From the German).

We do not remember any incident that implies a more perfeet possession of that noble quality, devotion to country, than was manifested by the subject of the following true tale, for which we are indebted to a late German periodical. His act, at least in its motive, if not in the splendour of its performance, may compare with that of Winkelreid the Swiss, or Curtius the Roman patriot.

In making the translation, we have been somewhat perplexed by the German name of the antique referred to it is called simply "a face." We have used the term "mask," as more expressive of the true character of the relic, which is probably one of those isolated basreliefs of such rare occurrence in even the richest galleries.

Among all the cities of Germany, Cologne is eminent for its want of pictures and statues; its attractions to the tourist consist of little more than the famous tomb of the three kings, and the superiority of its perfumed water, the real "Eau de Cologne." The character of the inhabitants is peculiar, and, to confess the truth, their reputation among

history, to an immense amount. In the year 1818, on his recovery from a severe illness, he presented his whole collection to the city of Cologne; and the magistracy, in return, bestowed upon him a pension of three thousand francs for the remainder of his life. He was then upwards of seventy years old.

Very soon afterward, a dealer in antiquities arrived from Rome, on his way to England, bringing with him a colossal mask of Medusa, in high preservation and of wondrous beauty: nearly twice as large as the famous Medusa Rondanini of Munich, and obviously the production of the highest and most glorious period of Grecian art. The professor hoped to dispose of this and some other antiquities in London; the price of his whole collection was twelve thousand francs, and he would not sell any part of it separately. The city refused to make the purchase, thinking it too dear; and Wallraf, in despair at the idea of this magnificent relic passing away into another land, raised the twelve thousand francs by the mortgage of his pension, bought the collection, which he also presented to the city, and then contentedly resumed his accustomed life of selfdenial and frugality, upon the slender income of his appointments. His only fear was lest he should die before the four

years should have elapsed, which were required to pay off the mortgage, as with his death the pension would, of course, determine. His hope was fulfilled; he lived until the nineteenth of March, 1824, just three months beyond the time required for the satisfaction of the mortgage.

THE FLUTIST'S DOG. (From the French).

ABOUT the period of the wars of Mazarin, there lived a poor beggar, of the name of Sulpice. Lean and scraggy, as ugly as a Quasimodo, and shaped like a Z, he possessed but a dog for his companion, and a flute as the only means of subsistence. But his talent upon that instrument was such, that he could attract by its melodious sounds those whom his unfortunate physiognomy repulsed.

They say, that the beggars at this period had no dislike to a glass of wine, in the course of their wandering. Besides, everybody frequented the tavern. Times are very much changed. To-day every one goes to the coffee-house. On a certain day Sulpice entered a tavern; there he ate enough for four, and drank sufficient for ten, and then rolled under the table, and slept by the side of his dog. An amateur who was seated at one of the adjoining tables, took advantage of his sleep, robbed him of his flute, and went out without any one discovering the theft. When Sulpice awoke, his first movement was to search for his flute, which, on more than one occasion, had assisted to pay his reckoning. In vain he fumbled in his pockets, the instrument had disappeared. How to express the shockthe consternation of the poor beggar! This flute was his all-his treasure; it was excellent in tone, and of perfect workmanship; besides, he had possessed it for more than twenty years! What a dreadful blow for poor Sulpice. Desolation was depicted in every feature; a cold perspiration trickled down his face. To no purpose did he question the barkeeper, waiters, and customers; they all shrugged their shoulders. The poor little fellow then made an infernal noise; he cried, swore, raved, and overturned the tables and chairs, but no one could give him back his flute; and they even threatened to call in the police to put an end to the uproar. Sulpice preferred paying his reckoning, and departed; his eyes swollen with tears, and heart burning with rage. Who has not heard of the admirable instinct of dogs? There

have been frequent examples of their cunning scent; but the acuteness of their hearing has seldom been put to the test. Sulpice was already a good distance from the tavern, when, on turning a street, he saw his dog wag his tail and raise his ears, like a pointer on the track of a partridge; next he placed himself before his master, bounding up joyfully, and impatient to go forward. Sulpice, who at this moment was in no caressing humour, hastily repulsed and even beat him. The dog, nowise quieted by beating, continued to manoeuvre with different attempts. His master, in astonishment, knew not to what cause to attribute this strange obstinacy. He stood still, lost in deep thought, when he heard behind him the sound of a flute. His heart beat violently, and a restless curiosity took possession of his mind; he receded a few paces, and his dog began to point again, redoubling his efforts, since he had, at length, been understood. He ran before, shewing the way, and stopped barking in front of a house, from whence proceeded the melodious sounds. The beggar listened attentively, his surmises gaining strength every instant; soon his doubts were changed to conviction.

"Shall I enter ?" he asked of himself. He went in; his dog, animated with zeal, and bounding with joy, ran before his master, and scratched at the door of the unknown musician. He, hearing the noise, came to open the door himself, holding the flute in his hand.

66

Holy virgin!'t is my flute," exclaimed Sulpice, transported with fury; "my name is engraven on it."

Nor was he deceived. The unknown could not deny the fact, or offer a single word in justification. He was a devoted amateur, jealous of the reputation of Sulpice. In robbing him of his instrument, he thought to deprive him likewise of his skill. Humbled and confused, he stammered out some inaudible words of apology, and restored the flute without any difficulty. Poor Sulpice, scarcely crediting such an unhoped-for good luck, asked nothing farther, but rapidly descended the steps, and departed, like Saint Rock, with his dog. J. G. W.

DUBLIN FIFTY YEARS AGO.

Dublin was at that day the most jovial and joyous city in the King's dominions. There was nobody in it sick, sore, or sorry. The Catholic question, which afterwards awoke in strife and clamour, then slept quietly in its cradle. The

social system, since torn by party spirit, was without rent or flaw; or if any defect could be discovered in it, it was hospitality carried to excess. Trade was good, taxes were light, and provisions cheap. A gentleman could import for his own use the best claret the cellars of Bordeaux could supply, and drink it at his own table at the rate, in price, of sixteen-pence a bottle. The innkeeper, who paid a duty, could afford to sell it at from two shillings to two shillings and sixpence; and excellent port at eighteen shillings or a guinea a dozen. Ireland had then its separate and domestic legislature. During eight months in the year, Dublin was filled with a resident nobility and gentry, liberal, hospitable, and expensive in their habits; and scenes were then and there acted in which individuals of the first class of society were the performers, that might challenge comparison with the most whimsical freaks of the Second Charles and his favourite Rochester, or even rival the adventures of Prince Henry and the fat Knight of Gadshill. In fine, it was the holiday-time of Dublin, the season of jubilee and enjoyment. Absentees of large property were comparatively few. They did not then, as now, crowd the streets of Florence, Rome, and Naples. Paris was the principal resort, and the ultima Thule of their foreign travels. How limited in distance were their excursions may be inferred from the wonder excited in Dublin by a voyage made to Jerusalem, by the late Mr. Thomas Whalley, the brother of the Countess of Clare. Mr. Whalley boasted his intention to visit that city, but his friends, although aware of the eccentricity of his character, were incredulous. An aeronaut of 1829, undertaking a flight to the moon, would not be considered more frantic or extravagant. One of Mr. Whalley's friends proposed a bet of 5001. that he would not complete this extraordinary, and, in his opinion, dangerous and impracticable journey. Mr. Whalley accepted the bet, went and returned from Jerusalem, won the 500l. and with it a title. He was ever after called Jerusalem Whalley, in commemoration of his wonderful exploit. Were Peter Wilkins now to make his appearance, after realizing his lunar flights, and his adventures with the Glums and Gowries, he would not be more stared at in the streets of Dublin.

New Monthly Magazine.

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A Roman, being about to repudiate his wife, among a variety of other questions from his enraged kinsmen, was asked, "Is not your wife a suitable woman? Is she not a handsome woman? Has she not borne you five children?" In answer to all which questions, slipping off his shoe, he held it up, and interrogated them in return. "Is not this shoe," said he, "a very handsome one? Is it not quite new? Is it not extremely well made? How is it then that none of you can tell me where it pinches ?"

CONSOLATION.

H. J.

Prince Abbas Mirza (says M. Gaspard Drouville, a Colonel of Cavalry in the service of Russia), experienced, during the last war against that country, numerous defeats, which, far from discouraging him, merely added to the stubbornness of his resolutions. He was ever the first to console his Generals for the checks they experienced. "Every time the Russians beat me," said he, "they give me a lesson from which I shall derive more profit than they dream of." Peter the Great had said, before Prince Abbas, "The Swedes will beat me until they teach me to beat them."

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HOLBEIN'S DANCE OF DEATH. The Dance of Death in the church-yard of the Predicants of the suburbs of St. John, at Basle, is ascribed to Holbein, and is shewn to strangers through a grate; and yet, as Vertue observes, in his Anecdotes of Painting, Holbein had, undoubtedly, no hand in it. Pope Eugenius the Fourth appointed the Council of Basil, in 1431, and it sat there fifteen years, during which time a plague raged, which carried off all degrees of people. On its cessation the work in question was immediately painted as a memorial of that calamity. bein was not born till 1498.

Hol

OF FICTION, POETRY, HISTORY, AND GENERAL LITERATURE.

No. 35.

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1835. Price Two-Pence.

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THE RATIONAL LUNATIC OF study. They asked him if he could

SALAMANCA.

[From the unpublished works of Cervantes.]

(For the Parterre.)

"Sounding in moral virtue was his speech." CHAUCER.

CHAP. I.

As two young gentlemen, students at the great Spanish university of Salamanca, were one day walking on the banks of the Tormes, which flows past that city to join the more majestic Douro on the frontiers of Portugal, they found, sleeping under a tree, a boy of about eleven years old, in the dress of a peasant. They ordered a servant to wake him; and when he was awakened, they asked him whence he came, and how it was that he had fallen asleep in that solitary place. To which the boy answered, that he had forgotten the name of his native place, but that he was going to Salamanca, to seek some master whom he might serve, for no other wages than the permission to

read.

"Yes," said he, "and write too." "Then," said one of the students to him, "it is not for want of memory that thou hast forgotten the name of thy birth-place."

"Be that as it may," answered the boy, "no one shall know either its name or that of my parents, until I can do honour to them and to it."

"And in what way dost thou think of doing them honour?" asked the other gentleman.

"By my learning," answered the boy, "making myself famous by it; for I've heard that it's of men they make bishops."

This answer inclined the students to take him along with them, and receive him into their service; which they accordingly did, and gave him instruction as it is the custom to give it to servitors in that university. The boy said that he was called Tomas Rodaja, which word rodaja also signifies a little wheel; and his masters concluded, from his ple

beian name and his attire, that he was the son of some poor countryman. In a few days they clothed him in black; and in a few weeks Tomas began to shew that he possessed great parts; serving his masters with such fidelity, punctuality, and diligence, that, without in the smallest degree neglecting his studies, their service seemed to be his only occupation. And as the good conduct of the man inclines the master to treat him well, so Tomas shortly became rather the companion of his masters than their servant. In short, in eight years during which he lived with them, he became so celebrated in the university for his good parts and great acquirements, that he was beloved and esteemed by everybody. The law was professedly his principal study; but he was most distinguished for his attainments in polite literature: his memory was astonishingly retentive; and with it he united so fine an understanding, that, he was equally celebrated for both.

The time at length arrived, at which his masters, having finished their studies, returned to their native place, which was one of the best cities in Andalusia. They took Tomas with them, and he staid with them a few days; but, as he was eagerly desirous of going back to his studies, and to Salamanca, which Cervantes, who himself studied there for a short time, describes as having a charm for all who had once tasted "the calm pleasures of its tranquil abodes;" Tomas, I say, being enamoured of his college life, and like Chaucer's Clerk of Oxenford, "of study taking greatest care and heed," -asked leave of his masters to return; and they, being courteous and liberal, granted his request, and furnished him with the means of maintaining himself at the university for three years. After expressing his gratitude, he took leave of them, and departed from Malaga, the place where the two gentlemen resided.

While descending the hill of Zambra, on the way to Antequera, he fell in with a gentleman on horseback, gallantly equipped for travelling, with two servants also on horseback. He rode up to the traveller, and learned that he was going the same way as himself. Having joined company, they conversed on various subjects; which gave occasion for Tomas to display his superior endow ments, and the cavalier his gallant and polite behaviour. He said that he was a captain in his majesty's infantry, and that his ensign was recruiting in the

He spoke

territory of Salamanca. warmly in praise of a soldier's life; and described in glowing terms the beauty of Naples, the pleasures of Palermo, the abundance of Milan, the luxuries of Lombardy, the splendid living at the taverns; in short, he described to him, with true Spanish enthusiasm, the enjoyments to be found in each of the European countries which the accession of the Austrian dynasty to the throne of Spain had annexed to the Spanish crown, and with which Spanish officers of that day had abundant opportunities of becoming acquainted. He extolled to the skies the free life of a soldier, and the free manners of Italy: but he said nothing about the coldness of the watch, the perils of the assault, the terrors of the battle, the privations of the siege, the destruction of the mine, and other matters equally agreeable, and as constantly attendant then as they are now on the life of a soldier engaged in active warfare. short, he told him so many fine things, and told them so well, that the discretion of our Tomas Rodaja began to waver, and his wishes to incline towards this life on which death so closely attends.

In

The captain, whose name was Don Diego de Valdivia, being well pleased with Tomas's good person, talents, and address, asked him to go with him to Italy, if only to gratify his curiosity by seeing that country; saying that he offered him his table, and also, if it was necessary, his colours, for that his ensign was about to resign them. Tomas did not hesitate to accept the invitation; considering that it would be as well for him to visit Italy, Flanders, and various other countries, since by long travel men gain wisdom, and that in so doing he should spend at the most but three or four years, at the end of which time he should still be young enough to return to his studies.

And, as if every thing was to accord exactly with his wishes, he told the captain that he agreed to go with him to Italy, provided that he was not enlisted, nor put in the ranks, so that he might not be obliged to serve. However, the captain told him that the enrolling his name would be of no consequence; as, though he would thereby be entitled to receive the same rations and pay as the rest of the company, he would give him leave of absence whenever he should desire it.

"That," said Tomas, "would be against my conscience, and against the

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