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lucky day:" "We are all, here, in this life, subject, in a certain degree, to the power of circumstances: it is partly through their influence that you suffer. But above these, there stands unshaken an eternal order: to go into this, and to find our place in it, is the problem given to us all; and it is possible to all to solve it. Then nothing more will essentially disturb our liberty and our happiness."]

EXERCISE CLXXVIII.

A DAUGHTER'S WISH, ON HER MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY,

IN NOVEMBER.

Montgomery.

THIS day to me most dear
In the changes of the year!

Spring, the fields and woods adorning,
Spring may boast a gayer morning;
Summer noon, with brighter beams,
Gild the mountains and the streams;
Autumn, through the twilight vale,
Breathe a more delicious gale:
Yet though stern November* reigns,
Wild and wintry o'er the plains,
Never does the morning rise
Half so welcome to mine eyes;
Noontide glories never shed
Rays so beauteous round my head;
Never looks the evening scene
So enchantingly serene,
As on this returning day,
When, in spirit rapt away,
Joys and sorrows I have known,
In the years forever flown,
Wake, at every sound and sight,
Reminiscence of delight,-
All around me, all above,
Witnessing a mother's love.

* The English classification of the months, places November in the season of winter.

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Love, that watched my early years With conflicting hopes and fears; Love, that through life's flowery May Led my childhood, prone to stray; Love, that still directs my youth With the constancy of Truth, Heightens every bliss it shares, Softens and divides the cares, Smiles away my light distress, Weeps for joy, or tenderness: -May that love, to latest age, Cheer my earthly pilgrimage; May that love, o'er death victorious, Rise beyond the grave, more glorious! Souls, united here, would be One to all eternity!

When these eyes, from native night, First unfolded to the light, On what object, fair and new, Did they fix their fondest view? On my Mother's smiling mien; All the mother there was seen. When their weary lids would close, And she sang me to repose, Found I not the sweetest rest On my Mother's peaceful breast?

When my tongue from hers had caught

Sounds to utter infant thought,

Readiest then what accents came?

Those that meant my Mother's name.

When my timid feet begun,
Strangely pleased, to stand or run,
'Twas my Mother's voice and eye
Most encouraged me to try,

Safe to run, and strong to stand,
Holding by her gentle hand.

Time, since then, hath deeper made Lines where youthful dimples played; Yet to me my Mother's face Wears a more angelic grace: And her tresses thin and hoary, Are they not a crown of glory?

-Cruel griefs have wrung that breast,
Once my paradise of rest;

While in these I bear a part,
Warmer grows my Mother's heart;
Closer our affections twine;
Mine with hers, and hers with mine.
- Many a name, since hers I knew,
Have I loved with honour due;

But no name shall be more dear
Than my Mother's to mine ear.
-Many a hand that Friendship plighted
Have I clasped, with all delighted,
But more faithful none can be
Than my Mother's hand to me.

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THE day I paid my visit to the Tower of London, I was accompanied by a young French nobleman; and he was highly amused at the pompous gravity of the men who exhibited the curiosities. Every time that a thumb-screw, toe

screw, leg-screw, nose-screw, or any other article, was pointed out to our inspection, with the unavoidable comment, - the Frenchman turned to me, and exclaimed-"Ah! here are the Spaniards yet!" This was repeated a great number of times; and I was really put to the blush, when I considered how very flagitious my countrymen had been. At last, we came to a room where we were shown something similar to the above taken from the French. I then turned to my companion, and retorted on him.

We had already given several shillings, and were coming away, when I perceived a board stuck up at the door, on which some words were written to the following purpose, or something like it: "It is expected that visitors will compliment the warden."

This was the cause of a very ludicrous mistake. My French companion was not very conversant with the English language, at the time, and having read the above inscription, most innocently took the thing in a literal sense. Accordingly, while the plump and grave warden was, in becoming silence, expecting the "compliment," the Frenchman,remarkable for politeness, — could not be neglectful of complying with what he conceived was enjoined by the inscription. He made, therefore, a graceful bow to the formal warden, and, in broken English, began to compliment the warden on his civil attentions. The man, addressed in this novel way, stared, for some time, in astonishment. A friend who was with us, burst out into laughter. — I did little less; and this tended to heighten the effect of the scene.

The warden, conceiving that it was a joke, and probably not being partial to such things, put on a most demure aspect. Indeed, he so far increased his natural stock of dull gravity, that he looked formidable. The Frenchman perceiving that his most elegant and well-bred compliments were received not merely with indifference, but had evidently offended, began to stare in turn, and ended, no doubt, by attributing the affair to his inexperience of the English tongue. But his understanding was soon enlightened. I slipped half-a-crown into the hand of the warden, which made him unbend from his rigidity; whilst a few words from my friend Stanley set our companion right concerning his strange mistake. "The mischief!" cried the young Frenchman smiling. "This is what the English mean by 'compliments !'”

As we retraced our steps, this scene afforded ample matter for comment and mirth. The Frenchman now and then

brought out—"These English compliments," as he called them; and I make no doubt that, upon his return to Paris, he informed his countrymen, that the greatest proof of politeness one can possibly show an Englishman, is to give him money.

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THE old sexton soon got better, and was about again. He was not able to work; but, one day, there was a grave to be made; and he came to overlook the man who dug it. He was in a talkative mood; and Nelly, at first standing by his side, and afterwards sitting on the grass at his feet, with her thoughtful face raised towards his, began to converse with him.

Now the man who did the sexton's duty, was a little older than he, though much more active. But he was deaf; and when the sexton, (who peradventure, on a pinch, might have valked a mile, with great difficulty, in half-a-dozen hours,) exchanged a remark with him about his work, the child could not help noticing that he did so with an impatient kind of pity for his infirmity; as if he were himself the strongest and heartiest man alive.

"I'm sorry to see there is this to do," said the child, when she approached; "I heard of no one having died."

"She lived in another hamlet, my dear," returned the sexton. "Three mile away."

"Was she young?"

"Ye- yes," said the sexton;

"not more than sixty-four,

I think. David, was she more than sixty-four?"

David, who was digging hard, heard nothing of the question. The sexton, as he could not reach to touch him with his crutch, and was too infirm to rise without assistance, called his attention by throwing a little mould upon his red nightcap "What's the matter now?" said David, looking up.

"How old was Becky Morgan?" asked the sexton.

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Becky Morgan?" repeated David.

"Yes," replied the sexton; adding in a half-compassionate, half-irritable tone, which the old man couldn't hear, "You're getting very deaf, Davy, very deaf to be sure." The old man stopped in his work, and cleansing his spade

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