ON THE AMPUTATED LEG OF THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEA.

A YORKSHIRE gentleman who lately visited the village of Waterloo, produced the following extemporaneous jeu d'esprit, as a burlesque upon some very stupid lines that had been inscribed upon a kind of mock tomb erected to the memory of the said leg.

Here rests-and let no saucy knave,
Presume to sneer or laugh,

To learn that mould'ring in the grave,
Is laid a-a British calf.

For he who writes these lines is sure,
That those who read the whole,
Will find such laugh were premature,
For here too-lies a sole.

And here five little ones repose,
Twinborn with other five
Unheeded by the brother toes,
Who all are now alive.

A leg and foot, to speak more plain,
Rest here of one commanding:
Who, though his wits he might retain,
Lost-half his understanding.

Who when the guns with murder fraught,
Pour'd bullets thick as hail,

Could only in this way be brought,-
To give the foe-leg bail.-
Who, now in England-just as gay
As in the battle brave,-
Goes to the rout, review, or play,
With-one foot in the grave.
Fortune in vain here shew'd her spite,
For he will still be found,

Should England's sons engage in fight,
Resolv'd to stand his ground.

But fortune's pardon I must beg,-
She wish'd not to disarm,

And when she lopp'd the hero's leg,
She did not seek his-h-arm

And but indulged a harmless whim,
Since he could walk with one,
She saw two legs were lost in him
Who never deigned to run.

THE CHILD. A CHARACTER.

A CHILD is a man in a small letter, yet the best copy of Adam before he tasted of the apple: and he is happy, whose small practice in the world can only write his character. He is Nature's fresh picture newly drawn in oil, which time and much handling dims and defaces. His soul is yet a white paper unscribbled with observations of the world, wherewith at length it becomes a blurred note-book. He is purely happy because he knows no evil, nor hath made means by sin to be acquainted with misery. He arrives not at the mischief of being wise, nor endures evils to come by foreseeing them. He kisses and loves all, and when the smart of the rod is past, smiles on his beater. Nature and his parents alike dandle him, and entice him on with a bait of sugar to a draught of wormwood. He plays yet like a young prentice the first day, and is not come to his task of melancholy. All the language he speaks yet is tears, and they serve him well enough to express his necessity. His hardest labour is his tongue, as if he were loath to use so deceitful an organ; and he is best company with it when he can but prattle. We laugh at his foolish sports, but his game is our earnest; and his drums, rattles, and hobbyhorses, but the emblems and mocking of men's business. His father hath writ him as his own little story, wherein he reads those days of his life that he cannot remember, and sighs to see what innocence he has outlived. He is the Christian's example and the old man's relapse: the one imitates his purèness, and the other falls into his simplicity. Could he put off his body with his little coat, he had got eternity without a burthen, and exchanged but one heaven for another.

A BIRD'S NEST ILLUMINATED.

AT the foot of CapeComorio, on the borders of Travancore, numerous birds build their pendulous nests. At night, each of these little habitations is lighted up, as if to receive company. The sagacious bird fastens a bit of clay to the top of the nest, and then picks up a fire-fly, and sticks it on the clay to illuminate the dwelling, which consists of two rooms. Sometimes there are three or four flies. and their blaze of light in the little cell, dazzles the eyes of the bats, which often kill the young of these birds.

THE REPENTANT PROSTITUTE.

BY MR. W. STEPHENSON.

YE antique dames, with many furrows,
Deep graven on your sallow ckeeks,
Look down with feeling on the sorrows
Of one who now your pity seeks;
Nor turn as from the loathsome creatures
Frequenting damp and noisome caves ;—
Why haste your steps-distort your features,
"Tis only one your comfort craves.

I own my heart has err'd most greatly,
But now it fain would turn to good-
I now would work-or stoop sedately
To earn me clothing, friends, and food,
Repentance now my bosom's rending,
Gnawing rusts my heart have wrung!
Disease my body too is bending

To the source from whence it sprung.
Now storms are rising chill and dreary-
The sun is sinking in the west:
And I am cold and wet and weary-

The clay cold earth's my place of rest:
And now night-winds are fiercely brushing
With angry sweep across the plain,
And torrents down the hills are rushing,
While 1, unwept, am torn with pain.
But to some lonely dell I'll wander,
Where rocks shall echo to my moan,
And winds shall sigh in sweetest candour
While I breathe my latest groan !—
And when in death's cold arms I'm sleeping,
No friendly tears my grave shall wet.
Save those of pitying heaven's own weeping,
When densest clouds and rocks have met.
No friendly hand will sweetly tremble
When closing in my once bright eyes;
But staring-still, they will resemble
The last sad fetch that soon will rise;
No gaudy shroud will deck my pillow,
But wintry winds my requiem blow,
Yes

o'er my head will bend the willowMy winding sheet the driven snow.

FEW miles from the town of Coggeshall, in the county of Essex, the above ancient mansion stands most agreeably in a pleasant park. It was held, at the time of the Conquest, by Nigel, under Hugh de Montford; the family of Nigel afterwards obtained the entire lordship of the manor, which took its name of Mark's Hall, from Merkeshall, their place of residence. It now belongs to the Honeywood family, having been sold in 1605, to Robert Honeywood, Esq. of Charing, in Kent, by whom the manor house was partly rebuilt, a new and handsome front being erected, and the quarterings of the family arms, placed over the porch. It received further improvements from its present proprietor, Filmer Honeywood, Esq.

In the dining room is the portrait of Mrs. Mary Honeywood, mother of Robert, who first purchased this estate. This lady lived to the age of 90; she died in the year 1620, having seen no less than 267 of her own immediate posterity; viz. 16 children of her own, 114 grand-children, 128 great grand-children, and 9 great great grand-children. Towards the close of her life, this lady was seized with the most melancholy despondence, which not all the reasonings of the best divines, and among the number Fox, so famous for his Martyrology, could dissipate; it is further said that in an agony of despair, she exclaimed one day

while holding a Venetian glass in her hand, "I'm as surely damned as this glass is broken."-Upon which, she instantly dashed the glass violently upon the ground, when to the surprise of all, it rebounded and was taken up unbroken: it is still preserved in the family. A monument, which represents this lady in a kneeling posture, was erected to her memory in the adjoining church. Mark's Hall is now the residence of W. P. Honeywood, Esq.

TEN YEARS AGO.

"TEN years ago," the world was then
A pleasant and a lovely dream;
Life was a river banked by flowers,

With sunshine glancing o'er the stream;
The path was new, and there was thrown
A sweet veil over pleasure's ray;
But ignorance is happiness,

When young Hope is to show the way;
And fair the scenes that hope would show,
When youth was bright "ten years ago.”
Ten years are past,-life is no more
The fairy land that once I knew-
Pleasures have proved but falling stars,
And many a sweetest spell untrue:
But may 1 look on these dear ones,
Feel their soft smile, their rosy kiss;

Or, may I turn, beloved, to thee,

My own home-star of truth and bliss!
While love's sweet lights thus round me glow,
Can I regret "ten years ago?"

PROGRESS OF FEMALE EDUCATION IN

AMERICA.

THE Bellows-Falls Newspaper gives a pleasant description of the marriage of an honest farmer with a young lady just graduated from a female country academy, after a residence therein of about six months. The husband, boasting of her learning, says; "She can tell the year aud day of the month when our forefathers landed at Plymouth; knows the name of every capital town in the union; can tell to an inch how far it is from here to the antipodes, I think she calls them. If you should bore a hole though the globe,