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sions of thankfulness, the hopeful tradesman paid his penny. On the first of the succeeding month, Audley again called, and demanded twopence, and was as politely satisfied as before. On the first of December he received a groat; the first of February, one shilling and fourpence. Still Miller did not see through the artifice, but paid him with a gracious smile; perhaps, however, there was something cynical in the look of Audley as he left the shop this time, for the poor tradesman's suspicions were aroused, and he put his pen to paper, as he ought to have done years before, to ascertain the amount of his subsequent payments. Reader, what think you would have been the amount of the payment due on the first of the twentieth month? What sum, think ye, the little penny had become? No less than two thousand one hundred and eighty pounds! And what was the aggregate sum of all these twenty monthly payments? Why, the enormous sum of four thousand three hundred and sixty-six pounds, eleven shillings, and threepence? It sounds incredible; but, if you think it a fable, do as Miller did, and reckon for yourselves. Of course Miller refused the payment of his bond, and forfeited five hundred pounds by the benevolence and charity of the miser.

VANDILLE is one of the most remarkable characters, as a miser, that is to be found among the eccentric biographies of France. His riches were immense, and his avarice and parsimony extreme. He hired a miserable garret in one of the most obscure parts of Paris, and paid a poor woman a sous a day to wait upon him. Excepting once a week, his diet was never varied; bread and milk for breakfast, the same for dinner, and the same for supper, all the week round. On a Sunday he ventured to indulge in a glass of sour wine, and he strove to satisfy the compunctions of conscience by bestowing, in charity, a farthing every Sabbath. This munificence, which incurred an expenditure of one shilling and a penny per annum, he carefully noted down; and just before his death he found, with some degree of regret, that during his life he had disbursed no less than forty-three shillings and fourpence. Forty-three shillings and fourpence! prodigious generosity for the richest man in France! Vandille had been a magistrate at Boulogne, and while in that office he

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partly maintained himself, free of cost, by constituting himself milk-taster general at the market. He would munch his scrap of bread, and wash it down with these gratuitous draughts. By such parsimonious artifices, and a most penurious course of life, he succeeded in amassing an enormous fortune, and was in a position to lend vast sums of money to the French government. When he had occasion to journey from Boulogne to Paris, he avoided the expense of coach-fare by proceeding on foot; and, lest he should be robbed, he never carried more than threepence in his pocket, although he had a distance of a hundred and thirty miles before him. If he found this sum insufficient, he would profess poverty, and beg from the passengers on the road a trifle to help him on. In the year 1735, Vandille, the miser, was worth nearly eight hundred thousand pounds! He used to boast that this vast accumulation sprang from a single shilling. The winter of the year 1734 had been very cold and bitter, and the miser felt inclined to purchase a little extra fuel in the summer time, to provide, to some extent, against the like severity in the ensuing winter. He heard a man pass the street with wood to sell; he haggled for an unconscionable time about the price, and at last completed his bargain at the lowest possible rate. Avarice had made the miser dishonest, and he stole from the poor woodman several logs. In his eagerness to carry them away, and hide his ill-gotten store, he overheated his blood, and produced a fever. For the first time in his life he sent for a surgeon. "I wish to be bled," said he; "what is your charge?" "Half a livre," was the reply. The demand was deemed extortionate, and the surgeon was dismissed. He then sent for an apothecary, but he was also considered too high; and he at last sent for a poor barber, who agreed to open the vein for threepence a time. "But, friend," said the cautious miser, "how often will it be requisite to bleed me?" "Three times," replied the barber. "Three times! and pray what quantity of blood do you intend to take from me at each operation?" "About eight ounces each time," was the answer. "Let me see," said the possessor of three-quarters of a million, "that will be ninepence: too much! too much! I have determined to go a cheaper way to work; take the whole twenty-four ounces at once,

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and that will save me sixpence." The barber remonstrated, but the miser was firm; he was certain, he said, that the barber was only desirous to extort an extra sixpence, and he would not submit to such scandalous imposition. His vein was opened, and four-and-twenty ounces of blood were taken from him. In a few days, Vandille the miser was no more. The savings of his life, the wages of his vice and avarice, he left to the King of France.

tained. Yet to this singular being the Empress Catherine the Second owed a million of rubles. His cellar, it was said, contained casks of gold, and packages of silver were stowed away in the dismal corners of his ruinous mansion. He was one of the richest men in Russia. He relied for the safety of his hoards upon the exertions of a huge mastiff, which he had trained to bark and howl throughout the night, to strike terror into the hearts of thieves. The miser outlived the dog; but he disliked to part with any portion of his treasure in the purchase of another cur, and he resolved to save his money by officiating as his own watch-dog. Every morning, and every evening, would that insane old man wander about his dismal habitation, barking and howling in imitation of his recent sentinel.

A similar anecdote is related of Sir WILLIAM SMYTH, of Bedfordshire. He was immensely rich, but most parsimonious and miserly in his habits. At seventy years of age he was entirely deprived of his sight, unable to gloat over his hoarded heaps of gold; this was a terrible affliction. He was persuaded by Taylor, the celebrated oculist, to be couched; who was, by agreement, to have sixty guineas if he restored his patient to any degree of sight. Taylor succeeded in his operation, and Sir William was enabled to read and write, without the aid of spectacles, during the rest of his life. But no sooner was his sight restored, than the baronet began to regret that his agreement had been for so large a sum; he felt no joy as others would have felt, but grieved and sighed over the loss of his sixty guineas? His thoughts were now how to cheat the oculist; he pretended that he had only a glimmering, and could see nothing distinctly; for which reason, the bandage on his eyes was continued a month longer than the usual time. Taylor was deceived by these misrepresentations, and agreed to compound the bargain, and accepted twenty guineas, instead of sixty. Yet Sir William was an old bachelor, and had no one to care or provide for. At the time Taylor attended❘ him, he had a large estate, an immense sum of money in the stocks, and six thousand pounds in the house.

The miser, poor wretch! as he approaches eternity, clutches his gold the firmer. Fain would he take it with him, but that cannot be. He must allow it to pass to others, who, perhaps, squander as foolishly as, and far more speedily than, he accumulated. Strange stories are told, in the book before us, showing the strength of the passion even in death. How terrible, sometimes, is the death of the miser! That which he made a god, and thought a saviour, proves a destroyer.

A miser, of the name of FoSCUE, who had amassed enormous wealth by the most sordid parsimony and the most discreditable extortion, was requested by the government to advance a sum of money, as a loan. The miser, to whom a fair interest was not inducement sufficiently strong to enable him to part with his treasured gold, declared his incapacity to meet this demand; he pleaded severe losses, and the utmost poverty. Fearing, however, that some of his neighbors, among whom he was very unpopular, would report his immense wealth to the government, he applied his ingenuity to discover some effectual way of hiding his gold, should they attempt to institute a search to ascertain the truth or falsehood of his plea. With great care and secrecy, he dug a deep cave in his cellar; to this receptacle for his treasure he descended by a ladder, and to the trapdoor he attached a spring-lock, so that,

Many years ago, there lived in a large, cheerless, and dilapidated old house in St. Petersburg, a wretched miser. He confined himself to one room, and left the rest of the rambling edifice to molder into ruin; he cared for no comfort, and deprived himself even of those things which the poorest regard as the necessaries of life; he seldom lit a fire to repel the damp-on shutting, it would fasten of itself. Byness which hung on the walls of his solitary chamber, and a few worthless objects of furniture were all that the room con

and-by the miser disappeared: inquiries were made; the house was searched ; woods were explored, and the ponds were

dragged; but no Foscue could they find; and gossips began to conclude that the miser had fled, with his gold, to some part where, by living incognito, he would be free from the hands of the government. Some time passed on; the house in which he had lived was sold, and workmen were busily employed in its repair. In the progress of their work they met with the door of the secret cave, with the key in the lock outside. They threw back the door, and descended with a light. The first object upon which the lamp reflected was the ghostly body of Foscue the miser, and scattered around him were heavy bags of gold, and ponderous chests of untold treasure; a candlestick lay beside him on the floor. This worshipper of mammon had gone into his cave, to pay his devoirs to his golden god, and became a sacrifice to his devotion!-S. F. Merryweather.

sions, to singe, if not to burn, the end of his tail; and to watch the contortions of his face, the while, is excruciatingly droll indeed! The cat, too, often gets singed; and the antics consequent thereupon among the monkeys, foxes, &c., is funny-very. But in the association of these creatures, there is no "art of taming" exhibited. A stick, a rod of hot iron, starvation, and "use," ("second nature,") are the" inducements" held out to make these creatures fraternize-and they surely are very powerful persuasives. We look at these things several times; and all wonder, all interest ceases.

It is not so with birds or animals regularly "tamed." We see in them that the prevailing feeling is affection-that the animal loves you for yourself. It hears your voice, your step; and tries hard to get at you. If a bird-it sits on your finger, your head, or your shoulder; it eats from your mouth; nestles in your bosom; sidles towards you in the cage; and must enjoy your society. Its heart, though small, is full of love, and it will impart it to you. This is true affection.

Now all this is the result of a naturallyaffectionate disposition in the master or mistress. It affects the atmosphere it inhabits-diffuses, by contact, all its healthful influence around. It is the same as with ourselves and our associates-for there is a very close analogy, in many things, between the higher and the lower world. The instincts of the latter are strangely marvelous. We have had birds in our time whose "love" for us, and ours for them, has been such that no person could credit it. We shall, therefore, be contented with this remark, en passant.

Now, as regards animals generally, they are won in precisely the same way. Kindness of speech, familiarity of manner, the whole heart given up, and confidence shared-these the animal readily comprehends, appreciates, reciprocates. Perhaps the horse and the dog are the most susceptible to " pure friendship" of all animals. We have had proofs innumerable of this. What would our readers think of us, if we were to say that we have had more real happiness, experienced more true affection and constancy, from certain of these quadrupeds, than from any other creature living! We will not say it--but if we did, every word would be truly spoken.

We cannot help smiling at some of the

SOM

THE ART OF TAMING ANIMALS. NOME years since, the public were full of wonder when they beheld a large cage in the Waterloo Road, filled with a variety of animals of opposite tastes, habits, and dispositions. They saw the cat familiar with the rat, pigeons with owls; jackdaws, hawks, guinea pigs, leverets, hares, rabbits, &c., &c., herding together in apparent amity. This cage was christened the "Happy Family," and the exhibitor reaped a rich harvest of pence. With him, the "harvest" is now over. He is cut down and withered. The grave closed on his remains years agone. He was himself a happy creature. We see him now, with his full-moon countenance, triumphing mentally as well as facially in the work of his hands. It was 66 as good as a play" to see him glide mysteriously round the corner of the cage, armed with a saucer to collect the dues; one almost felt the "obliged party" whilst contributing to the funds.

The mantle of this brute-tamer has since descended upon some others; and we have now foxes, badgers, pole-cats, monkeys, and a host of other novelties, gracing some half-dozen similar cages in different parts of the town. As regards ourselves, we see little to marvel at in these animals, or in their training. We sometimes smile at them in the winter season, when a lighted candle is placed inside. It is no uncommon circumstance for a monkey, on such occa

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letters we receive on this subject. writers, evidently most truly amiable, evince so much charming ignorance that we cannot be angry with them. They "want their little friends to love them, but don't know how to set about it." If we knew any nice, affectionate young lady, and wanted her to love us, how should we set about it? We always meet the case in this way. Why, by delicate attention; showing our delight by constant propinquity, (that overpowering argument in matters of the heart,) and by tendering little offerings of affection. This is the talisman.

But it is not always that animals or birds are so won. The eye has much to do with the subjection of certain of the larger kinds. The eye speaks the wish of the master. The eye enforces the commands of the master. The animal sees, feels, and instantly obeys. We have been in the stables of the late Andrew Ducrow (at Astley's) when two horses (between which we were standing) on hearing his voice, trembled to the very foundation. They quaked through fear. (He was an awful brute to them.) We have noted his eye; we noticed their eyes. There was "a mystery" to us, no longer. This is Mesmerism, properly so called. We may introduce the word now, harmlessly; for all the world are opening their eyes to its power. Its quondam bitterest enemies, are, whilst we write, among its firmest adherents.

always a fibber, we have seen the bird and judged fairly. Fame, in this case, has redeemed her character. The gray parrot is an admirable performer.

The parrot rejoices in the name of "George." He has been in Mr. Trotter's possession fourteen years; and never was yet known to utter the word " Polly." In this, he is a solitary exception, it is believed, among all his tribe; neither does he shriek nor scream. In all respect he is a mirror of perfection. When we saw him, he was, like an ordinary parrot, seated on his perch, in a large cage. His master's voice reached him, and their eyes met. A sympathetic chord ran through the twain.

"Give me your right foot and kiss me,” said the master. The foot was presented, the kiss was given. The same request was made for the left foot, and the kiss; and with the same result. There were many attempts made to persuade the bird he was "mistaken"-but he knew better. He also passed and repassed his master's arm, by stooping, when requested so to do.

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Our lady readers will not need to have recourse to the "eye," when taming their "pets." The "heart" is everything with them; and we must confess, it is the best "argument" of the two. Never yet was affection foiled, if it had the smallest particle of good material to work upon. We could be eloquent on this, and bring proofs inexhaustible. When others have failed, we have " gone in-and won!" This perhaps ought to have been a "confidential communication!" Our remark, however, does not necessarily apply to the "higher" world.

George" next went through a very curious and entertaining series of experiments. He lay down at command as "dead." He was then taken up, an apparently lifeless mass, thrown backwards and forwards, hither and thither, upwards and downwards. Still, no motion. He was then de-mesmerized, and once more "himself again." Then did he go through a long exercise with three tea-spoons. One he held firmly in his mouth, and one in each of his claws. He was then held up by the hand of his master, and performed a dance, first on his head, and then on his feet. It was a dance-à la three teaspoons. A tune was whistled to him; and he kept time to it. This and much more. In all that we have related of "George," it must be borne in mind that the "eye" alone has been called into exercise.

Then he is a first-rate dancer-full of fun, full of attitude, and as for "talking," there is no end to it. This last, however, he will do only when he pleases. The "eye" here has no power. His most favorite expressions are" Prince Albert!

We have spoken of the "eye" as a powerful agent in taming an animal. We are now about to prove it, by relating a few particulars that have come under our notice, connected with a very wonderful and a very clever gray parrot, the property of G. Trotter, Esq., a gentleman residing in the Isle of Thanet. The fame of this bird has traveled far and near. Being anxious to satisfy ourselves if

ame was

More correctly speaking, as the bird was shamming to be "dead," he passively danced, under his master's guidance; the tune being mentally remembered, and repeated on a future

occasion.

Come and kiss pretty, pretty Queen Victoria-Pretty, pretty, Queen Victoria! Come and kiss poor George-Poor George is in his cage and cannot get out-One hundred guineas for poor George, cage and all, cage and all," &c., &c. He will also, when he hears a noise, cry out "Silence!" This, of course, from having heard his master say so.

We need hardly add that this bird-a sweetly-pretty creature!—is, like the rest of his tribe, possessed of certain powers, largely developed by circumstances. He has no knowledge of the meaning of what he says, but mechanically obeys an impulse over which he has no power.

Herein we have endeavored to show the "Art of Taming and Training Animals." It is a subject on which little can be said, save in outline; but one that is replete with interest if carefully studied. We shall, no doubt, be constantly treating on something connected with it; for new discoveries are being made daily.

THE GRAVE OF ISAAC WALTON.

THERE

HERE are few places of more inter

est than Winchester, England. The venerable cathedral would of itself amply repay the cost and trouble of a summer day's pilgrimage. The hospital of St. Cross is a most interesting structure, and is in many respects perfectly unique. Then there is the college, with its curious ecclesiastical brasses, and the celebrated quaint figure. The market-cross, the round-table, the ancient gateways, the ruins of the castle, and the numerous churches, are all objects of attraction, and will afford the antiquary and artist very great gratification and pleasure. The opportunities of visiting this city are now so great, and the means so accessible by reason of the railways, that from London or the west of England the journey can be accomplished with very little expense, and in a very short time.

It is not, however, my intention to lead the reader to the contemplation of the architectural beauties of the work of William of Wykeham; or to invite him to linger in the cloisters of the beautiful hospital of St. Cross. He may, if he pleases, eat a munchet of bread at the porch of the hospital, and bless the bounty that has so liberally provided for the corporeal necessities of pilgrims and wayfarers

like himself; but, having thus far satisfied the cravings of nature, let him follow me by the banks of the sweet river Ichen; he shall listen to the pleasant ditties of the birds, and hear a music, an he lists, in the light-toned trembling of the reeds. The gaily-decked kingfisher shall hover round the trunks of the moss-grown trees; and the trouts shall rise with their burnished fins so to tempt him, that he shall scarcely forbear the use of his rod and line. And the nightingales! ay, they shall feed the air with their melodious warblings. Very fragrant, too, shall the wandering breezes be, laden with the delicious aroma of the new-made hay. Bees, and blossoms, and all fragile things, shall float in the clear and ambient air; so if he be not cheerful and content he will be truly "a grave man." Of a verity, it is a lovely spot; and, all England over, there is none other to be found so suggestive of one who once listened to the singing of its birds, and who angled many a summer's day in its pure and peaceful waters. And not far from this he rests in the long sleep of the night that knows no waking. Who has not read the Complete Art of Angling, by Isaac Walton, Gent.? Who has not followed him by this same stream, and by the Lea, and heard him discourse upon the dainty pleasures of his favorite pursuit? Who can ever forget his descriptions of rural life in that quaint old tome, or his free and pleasant colloquies ? Above all, and through all, what a true and unaffected piety! what a humble sense of the divine blessings! what a fervent expression of gratitude and joy for the beauties with which the gladsome and teaming earth so copiously abound. He is truly worthy to be ranked amid the number of those who string their lyres to gentle verse.

The apathy of the past and a passing age has too lightly regarded that amusing volume. Many, who look on angling as a cruel pastime, and unworthy their attention, have turned with indifference and aversion from those delightful pages. Open the book once with a fair and honest attention, and thou must read on,-O! lover of nature, poet, philosopher, moralist, or whatever other title thou dost call thyself! It is a book for all ages, and all times. Thou must needs be critical if there is aught to offend thee in it. It is a perfect English pastoral-an idyl in prose. To enjoy it, as it ought to be enjoyed, let it be read by

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