When Mr. Apsley took leave of Lucille, he put a louis d'or into her hand; and repeated his intentions of making inquiry concerning Mr. Melmoth.

Though Mr. Apsley entered warmly into the case of Caroline Melmoth, he did not allow it to interrupt the pleasures of his trip to France. He went to all the places he had intended to visit, and saw all the sights he had intended to examine; and spent several months on the continent before he returned home. He left France at a different port from that by which he had entered it, and thus saw no more of Lucille.

On his arrival in London, he put an advertisement in several newspapers, desiring that all those who bore the name of Melmoth would repair to a certain place. Melmoths seemed to grow. More than a hundred of the name obeyed the summons in less than a week. Mr. Apsley told them all the story of the forsaken child, but not one among them all was the right Melmoth.

Mr. Apsley began to fear that poor Caroline's parents were no more. However he again put his advertisement into the papers, in consequence of which an elderly lady, named Melmoth, called according to the direction pointed out, and Mr. Apsley told her the story he had so often told to

her namesakes. The good lady was violently agitated as he proceeded. When he had concluded, she said, "I would to Heaven, Sir, that the forsaken child you speak of, were my Caroline. At the calamitous period, when so many English families were seized in France, Mr. Melmoth, myself, and two daughters contrived to get away: but in that terrible moment we could not seek our child, we should have lost the means of escape. Yet, indeed, Sir, we were not so barbarous as to leave her on the hands of her poor nurse, without inquiry. We sent to her more than once, and the person to whom we sent always acknowledged the receipt of what with difficulty we spared for our infant; til he wrote us word that she was dead. From that time we ceased all care, and never again inquired for Lucille."

"I will look further into it," said Mr. Apsley; and he took the trouble to go again to St. Omer, for no other purpose than to investigate the truth.

It appeared that the man to whom the money had been sent, had treacherously detained it for bis own use, and on quitting St. Omer for a distant part of France, had told the parents that their child was dead, in order to prevent inquiry that might be prejudicial to himself.

Having explained all to Lucille, Mr. Apsley returned to England, raised a subscription to enable Mrs. Melmoth to return to St. Omer, where her little income will go further than in England; and she has taken Caroline to herself: but as her income ceases with her life, she cannot take her child from the lowly state in which she has been brought up; and the daughter of one of the greatest merchants in our metropolis, and the granddaughter of a man of large fortune in a distant county, continues to earn her livelihood in a foreign land, by the exertions of bodily labour; unknown to all but the few who have heard her tale, and visit her from motives of curiosity.

WORLDLY TRANSITION.

WHILE the wheel of fortune turns round, and often lays the mighty low, it frequently exalts the mean. Happiness and misery succeed each other like light and darkness; and the ups and downs of life are like eclipses, which sometimes darken the sun, and sometimes hide the moon; as BAY ES has, in a most curious and explanatory manner, exemplified in the REHEARSAL, by means of a reel danced by the earth, the sun, and the moon. In which it clearly appears that as the earth and the moon interchangeably gain the middle place, the sun shines on, or is hidden from the earth. So if an imagination as sublime as that of BAYES will place happiness, misery, and man in a reel, it will be seen that as misery and man gain the middle place, so the influence of happiness is or is not felt by man: and prosperity or disappointment becomes his lot.

In the neighbourhood of Milford-haven, in Pembrokeshire, there was, many years ago, a poor man, who had a numerous family, which he bred in the extreme low poverty, which is, I fear, even now, the general mode of training among the lower classes in Wales. Scarcely cloathed, hardly fed, and wretchedly housed. This poor man, whose name was David Lloyd, had among other children a boy named Rowland, who, tired out by the hardships which he daily endured, ran from the misery of his father's home, and sometimes on foot, and sometimes by getting a short gratuitous conveyance in a cart or a waggon, by begging on the road, and asking charity at the inns, found his way up to London.

When he reached the metropolis, he wandered about he did not where, all day, and at night he threw himself under some pent-house, or within some porch, and forgot his misery in sleep.

He had gone on thus some time, when he asked in the Welch tongue for a morsel of victuals, at the door of a sugar-baker's premises in the city. Fortunately for him, there was among the persons employed in the management of the business, a Welchman, who taking pity on his little countryman, asked him several questions in the language which was native to both; and their conversation