Major General George Dalrymple was the identical lost child of Colonel Elliot. The gist of the story is this. Captain Dalrymple had been stationed at Boston, to watch the coast to Halifax, previous to and during a part of the war of 1755, as it was called. During his command, he was ordered to visit the frontiers to give advice in transporting artillery and munitions of war to Lake George. As he was on the frontiers, his son, only two years of age, sickened with the croup and suddenly died, and he hastened with his half distracted wife to the Atlantic sea-board. The fleet had sailed he knew, and he took an eastern port in his way, for he had heard of a fine ship just ready for sea, which was to be sent to England for sale. This was purchased, and soon got ready for sea. His wife was now conducted to the ship, to see her accommodations, and give her orders. On her last visit to the ship, she saw a child, about the age of her own she had lost, playing with a little dog. She took them into her cabin, and tied round the child's neck a coral and bells, which had been a present to her child. The boy, as it was warm, soon went to sleep, and she placed him in her berth, and the little dog jumped in beside him. In the midst of bustle and preparation, she forgot the circumstance. It was soon announced that the wind was fair and fresh, that the pilot was on board, and all things ready for the voyage. The ship saluted the town as she left it, and she was soon out of sight, sailing as she did at least ten knots an hour. Captain Dalrymple was busy in watching her motions, and was delighted to find her so fast and

manageable. As the shades of night came on, the exhausted lady was about to retire, and was making some adjustment of her mattress, she uttered a shriek of distress, for in her berth she found both child and dog. "Oh! his mother, his mother!" broke, in the wildest tones, from her lips. "She is distracted by this time-good God! good God! what shall I do!" From this paroxysm she fell into a state of torpor and almost insensibility. When Mrs. Dalrymple came out of this state of mind, she said to her husband, "Did not God send this child to us to supply the place of our own? Ours was taken away from us suddenly, and this as wonderfully given to us;" and before the sun arose, they had come to a determination to adopt the child with the name of their own. An Irish female servant was the only one who had the secret, and she was faithful to the highest example, even to death. Entering into the scheme most cordially, to please her mistress, she made some admirable arrangements. In the morning the child was dressed in the best clothes of the deceased; it was a green and gold hermaphrodite dress; such as indicated, but did not unequivocally decide the sex of the infant. With this dress, and the bells and coral, he did not complain, and before the week was passed forgot his cradle and his home; probably having at home been in some degree neglected by some new comer in the list of sons and daughters of the family. If there had been a sailor on board who had seen the urchin at home, in his new dress, he would not have known him. In justice to this good woman, it must be said, that she was the fondest

mother to her adopted offspring, and petted him so much in childhood, that the admiral sent him from home to school, that she might not ruin him by indulgence. The Admiral knew that he was the founder of his own fortunes, and could do no injustice to any hereditary claims by the course he was pursuing.

When the General read his father's letter, he remembered the story of his American friend of the loss of a child, and at once he was anxious to get at the whole of this interesting story. He entertained the wish, in a strong degree inherent in all minds, to know distinctly his origin. On his last visit to the United States, he made minute inquiries respecting the sailing of the St. George, the vessel bought and named by his father, and compared the date with the one in the paper sent him. He talked with Mrs. Elliot respecting the precise time of the loss of her child. She said he had a mark on his left hand, the scar of a burn. The whole circumstances were brought to agree with circumstances and impressions in his own mind, and by slow degrees he communicated the whole story to the Colonel and his wife. All, the whole course of these events, made the proofs irresistible in the minds of parents and child. Indeed, the mother thought the child was not sent into Egypt without the consent of the Lord, who now had it in his heart and power to bring succor to them all; but with the prudence of a good woman, she thought, for her son's sake, that this ought not to be known, as it would do them no good, and might injure her son among the high-born in England. This prudent counsel prevailed,

and the secret died with the parents, as it regarded them; but father and mother bore on their brows until the hour of their departure, as if written with a sun-beam, "This is my son, who was dead, and is alive again; who was lost, and is found." Parents and child have gone long since to their graves, and the story is told to vindicate the ways of God to man.

MY DOG.

"I blame you not for praising Cæsar so."

THE affectionate faithfulness of the dog has been a theme of praise ever since man has recorded a thought of his brain, or spoke of the pulsation of his heart. More than twenty-seven hundred years ago, the great master of epics and novels devoted some of his loveliest pages to ARGUS, the faithful and intelligent dog who owned the wise Ulysses for a master. Homer, who knew human nature as well as any bard, since that day, knew also the character of those friends of man, the dog and the horse. On each he has bestowed some of his most splendid passages. The story of Argus is deeply affecting. He knew his master's voice and step, after an absence of twenty years, when all his subjects had forgotten him, and when even Penelope, the queen of connubial chastity, no longer remembered the person of the husband of her youth, and his old father had lost every trace of the image of his son. I had once a friend like Argus, of equal blood and breed to any royal pack that ever uttered a full mouth cry in the chase, and as affectionate and sagacious a dog as ever hunted for the bewildered traveller among the Alpine snows. He died young, cut off by ruthless