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his regiment." Meantime it was found necessary to amputate the shattered limb. He bore the operation without a murmur, and limped with the air of a hero.

As it was very easy to know him by his collar and medal, orders were given, that at whatever mess he should happen to present himself, he should be welcomed en camarade; and thus he continued to follow the army. Having but three paws and one ear, he could lay small claims to the name of a beauty; nevertheless, he had his little affairs of the heart. Faithful in every thing to the character of a French soldier, Moustache was volatile, and found as many new mistresses as quarters.

At the battle of Essling, he perceived a vidette of his own species; it was a poodle. Moustache rushed to the combat; but, O tender surprise! the poodle was a More happy than Tancred, who had not wit enough to recognise his Clorinda, Moustache in a single instant found his martial ardour subside into transports of another description. In a word, he seduced the fair enemy, who deserted with him to the French camp, where she was received with every consideration.

This attachment lasted the best part of a year. Moustache appeared before his comrades in the new capacity of a father; and the Moll Flagons of the regiment took great care of his offspring. Moustache seemed to be happy. His temper was acquiring a softer character. But one day a chasseur, mistaking his dog no doubt, hit him a chance blow with the flat side of his sabre. Moustache, piqued to the heart, deserted, abandoning at once his regiment and his family. He attached himself to some dragoons, and followed them into Spain.

He continued to be infinitely useful in these new campaigns. He was always first up and first dressed. He gave notice the moment any thing struck him as suspicious; he barked at the least noise, except during nightmarches, when he received a hint that secresy was desirable. At the affair of the Sierra-Morena, Moustache

gave a signal proof of his zeal and skill, by bringing home in safety to the camp the horse of a dragoon who had had the misfortune to be killed. How he had managed it no one could tell exactly; but he limped after him into the camp; and the moment he saw him in the hands of a soldier, turned and flew back to the field.

Moustache was killed by a cannon-ball, on the 11th of March, 1811, at the taking of Badajoz. He was buried on the scene of his last glories-collar, medal, and all. A plain stone served him for a monument; and the inscription was simply,—

"HERE LIES THE BRAVE MOUSTACHE."

The French historian of Moustache adds, but, we hope, without sufficient authority, that the Spaniards afterwards broke the stone, and that the bones of the hero were burnt by order of the Inquisition.

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Oh! glorious is the gifted poet's lot,
And touching more than glorious: 'tis to be
Companion of the heart's least earthly hour;
The voice of love and sadness, calling forth
Tears from their silent fountain: 'tis to have
Share in all nature's loveliness; giving flowers
A life as sweet, more lasting than their own;
And catching from green wood and lofty pine
Language mysterious as musical;

Making the thoughts, which else had only been
Like colours on the morning's earliest hour,
Immortal, and worth immortality;

Yielding the hero that eternal name

For which he fought; making the patriot's deed
A stirring record for long after time;

Cherishing tender thoughts which else had passed
Away like tears; and saving the loved dead
From death's worst part-its deep forgetfulness.

THE DOOM OF THE ST. NICHOLAS.

A TALE OF MY GRANDMOTHER.

"You hae been up the glen makin' merchandise," said the mistress of a hedge hostelry to a young man with a pack on his shoulder.

"I hae been up as far as Glennap, but there's no muckle siller a-steerin',” replied the pedlar, leaning his burden on a large stone that stood at the door.

"Will you no come in? You canna be gaun muckle farther this night.”

"Was there no àan elderly man here wi' a large green pack, within this day or twa?" inquired the pedlar.

The woman hesitated." An elderly man, wi' a large green pack?—No, my bairn," was the reply.

"He was to hae met me at the Nick o' the Balloch four days ago. I wonder what can be the matter, for he's aye sae punctual to his trysts; I hope no accident has happened to my father."

"What's his name, my bairn ?"

"His name is Simon Fraser, guidwife."

Hech, sirs! is Simon Fraser your father? Then you shanna steer ae step farther this night; for if your father is in this neighbourhood, this will be his quarters.”

The youth now stepped into the kitchen, and gave his pack in charge to the landlady, (which was the custom in those days.) It was in the latter end of October. The weather had been very boisterous for some days; and the night, which was fast approaching, appeared to be gathering into a storm of violence.-There was a large fire blazing in the kitchen, near to which the landlady drew a seat, and the lad sat down. He was rather surprised, however, to see none but herself in the house. She went into a closet, and returned with a quaich full of brandy. Here, bairn, tak' a mouthfu' o' that; it will do you guid. The lads are awa' down at Ballantrae. You hinna drawn mickle siller, you was sayin'?"

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No, guidwife, siller's very scarce now-a-days."

"Troth is't,” replied the landlady. "We hae sair altered times since the doctrine o' that German wellhouker, Johnny Calvin, has got amang us; an' that priestkilling, temple-razing bedlamite o' a reformer, John Knox. Oh! the days when Abbot Kennedy, Father Ingulf, an' a dizen mair, tenanted the holy cloisters of Crosraguell! After a while's daffin', we had nought to do but gang an' get shrived, an' a' was richt. Gentle and semple, rich an' puir-east, west, north, an' south-ay, frae the holy city o' Rome hae they come a pilgrimage to Saint Ninian's shrine!"

At this period a groan was heard to issue from an inner apartment, as from one awakening out of his sleep. The landlady went to the outer door, and returned in a few minutes, accompanied by two men, who had more the appearance of seafaring people than shepherds.

"Sit down, lads," said the hostess; "I'se warrant you are baith tired an hungry; how are the goats comin' on? This is a son o' Simon Fraser's come to bide wi' us the nicht."

The men eyed the pedlar in a manner that awakened a suspicion in the mind of the youth that all was not right; and his fears were farther increased when the party commenced a conversation in a language unknown to him, in which the landlady joined. The storm had been augmenting during the evening, and there being no house within some miles of the hostelry, there was no alternative leftfor the youth but to remain where he was. A scanty meal was provided for him, when a second party of three men and one woman entered the kitchen; and what particularly surprised the stranger, they had no appearance of having been exposed to the storm, which was beating on the roof of the house with great violence.

The landlady now took a light, and beckoning to the pedlar, led him to an out-house, which, although removed a considerable way from the apartment where they sat,

was still under the same continued roof, as the hostelry consisted of one long range of thatched buildings. When the landlady retired, he heard her lock the door upon him, and he sat down to ruminate with a mind boding no good from the situation in which he was placed. While thus employed, a faint stream of light caught his eye, and creeping with silent caution, he climbed upon one of the joists with considerable exertion, where he saw the party that he had just left, feasting and carousing in all the riotous revelry of drunken bacchanals. A fat, baldheaded personage, whom he had not before seen, appeared to be the master of the feast.

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Come, Father Ingulf, give us a song," was demanded by the riotous party.

"Ah! children, I have no heart to sing-I am as a bird bereft of a nest-I am a pilgrim without a shrine."

"There is a holy lady," said the hostess, "whose resurrection this day from the heather will make thy heart rejoice, and thy old age comfortable; yes, Father Ingulf, it is a profitable journey thou hast made from France to see our Holy Mother Church, and heath-clad Mochrum."

"Well, lady, my journey shows zeal for the good cause; but come, fill your cups, and I'll give you a toast. —Here's a fair wind for Manks, and then for Dunkirk. Come, sweet hostess, are the provisions you promised ready?-we must sail ere the sun brightens the holy cross on Crosraguell."

"All is ready, holy father; but I have a choice kid which I intend to kill, that you may have a little fresh provender by the way."

A kid was brought from the inner apartment, and one of the men dragged it into the corner of the room, where stood a large flat stone, and taking a clasp-knife from his pocket, he cut the throat of the animal. In the struggles of death, the poor kid gave a stifled groan.

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"I say, Allister Gunn," said one of the party, not that groan put you in mind of old Fraser last night?"

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