ANECDOTE OF THE PRINCE OF PIEDMONT.

THE Prince of Piedmont was not quite seven years old, when his preceptor, Cardinal (then Father) Gudil, explained to him the fable of Pandora's box. He told him that all the evils which afflict the human race were shut up in that fatal box, which Pandora, tempted by curiosity, opened, when they immediately flew out, and spread themselves over the surface of the earth. "What, father!" said the young prince, "were all the evils shut up in that box" "Yes," answered the preceptor. "That cannot be," replied the prince," since curiosity tempted Pandora; and that evil, which could not have been in it, was not the least, since it was the origin of all."

WEIGHT OF THE NATIONAL DEBT OF ENGLAND IN TENPOUND BANK NOTES.

ONE hundred men could not carry the national debt of England in ten-pound bank notes, 512 of which weigh a pound; so that 242 millions of pounds sterling, (which was the amount of the national debt in 1770, when this calculation was made) would weigh 47,650 pounds, which for a hundred men would be 473 pounds each.

CURIOUS EFFECT OF COMPOUND INTEREST.

AN English penny placed out at compound interest, at the rate of 5 per cent. at the birth of Jesus Christ, would, in the year 1786, have produced the enormous sum of 290,991,000000,000000,000000,000000, 000000l. sterling; which would make about 110 millions of our earth in solid gold. At single interest, it would have produced only 7s. 6d.

BON-MOT OF THE CHEVALIER GOTTI.

THE Chevalier Gotti, a skilful physician, once said to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, "When a person is sick, it is a dispute between the patient and the disease; a physician is called, and he comes with a great stick in his hand, to decide the quarrel: if it falls upon the disease, he cures the patient; if upon the patient, it kills him."

APOSTROPHE TO THE SHADE OF Nelson.

(From Dr. Halloran's Poem, "THE BATTle of TRAFALGAR.")

YES, lov'd heroic Nelson! o'er thy bier
Thy faithful seamen pour the artless tear;
Feel their stern breast with pangs unwonted torn,
And, though victorious, 'mid their triumph mourn;
While the whole navy shares their generous pain;
Its truest friend, its brightest glory slain!
Nor less thy country's griefs thy worth attest,
Her pitying Genius droops her plumed crest,
With mournful cypress twines her laurel wreath,
And weeps bright crystal on thy urn beneath;
While from the humblest cottage to the throne,
The land emits one universal groan!

Not with more grief, with more distracting woe,
Devoted Ilion's tears were seen to flow,
When she beheld, before her sacred wall,
Her bravest son, her god-like Hector fall!
In whom, as in thy noble breast combin'd,
"The gentlest manners, with the bravest mind;
To whom her safety, and her fame she ow'd,
"Her chief, her hero, and almost her God !",

Yet Nelson! if unequall'd honours paid,
If deathless praise can sooth the mighty shade,
Thy prince embalms thy memory with his tears;
Thy grateful isle a mausoleum rears;

L

Crests the tall pile with glory's brightest wreath,
And bids around perennial fragrance breathe ;
While fame's loud clarion, to each distant zone,
Has made thy name and great achievements known!
From where the Ganges rolls his ample streams,
To the far goal of day's declining beams;
From realms, by suns of fiercest fervour cross'd,
To polar regions of eternal frost,

Shall th' proud fame, thro' every age and clime,
Imperishable, mock the rage of time!

POETICAL REFLECTIONS ON THE DEATH OF LORD NELSON.

(From the Poem of " ULM AND TRAFALGAR.")

"LAMENTED Hero! when to Britain's shore
Exulting Fame those awful tidings bore,
Joy's bursting shout in whelming grief was drown'd,
And victory's self unwilling audience found;
On every brow the cloud of sadness hung,
The sounds of triumph died on every tongue!

Not joy thus. doubtful, sadness thus sincere,.
Shall grace, erewhile, the tyrant-conqueror's bier ;
Whether with undiscriminating sweep,

The scythe of war, amid the mangled heap,
Shall lay him low; or lone, corroding care,
Without one heart to pity or to share,

And cheerless toils of solitary sway,

Shall waste his withering frame with slow decay;
Come when it will from Heav'n's all righteous hand
To save, or to avenge, each injur'd land,

Nations shall kneel to bless the welcome doom,
And France, unfetter'd, trample on the tomb.

But thee, lov'd chief! what genuine griefs bemoan! Fleets, cities, camps, the cottage, and the throne! Round thy throng'd hearse those mingling sorrows

flow,

And seek thee faintly in a pomp of woe!

Yet not the vows thy weeping country pays, Not that high mead, thy mourning sov'reign's praise; Not, that the great, the beauteous, and the brave, Bend in mute reverence o'er thy closing grave; That with such grief as bathes a kindred bier, Collective nations mourn a death so dear; Not these alone shall sooth thy sainted shade, And consecrate the spot where thou art laid! Not these alone. But bursting through the gloom, With radiant glory from thy trophied tomb, The sacred splendour of thy deathless name Shall grace and guard thy country's martial fame; Far seen shall blaze the unextinguish'd ray, A mighty beacon, light'ning glory's way; With living lustre this proud land adorn, And shine, and save, through ages yet unborn!