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"When the waiter lingered by the table for his pay, I remarked, with an assumed carelessness, that I had no money in my pocket at the moment, but being a stranger, I would leave something as a pledge till I had an oppor tunity of paying the amount in cash, and casting my eyes on Buckskin, I drew from my pocket-his diamond ring""

THE ADOPTED CHILD.

BY ALEXANDER ANDREWS.

Он, winter, with its cold nights, long evenings, and chilblained toes, is a merry time after all. Talk of the pleasures of summer! why they are as nothing when compared with those of hoary, jovial winter. What can be more pleasant, after the fatigues of the day are concluded, than to join the social party round the fire and while away the evening in the narration of ghost-stories, until the clock warns you that it is bed-time, and you retire to your warm, comfortable bed for the night? And, then, again, as the snow and the hail patter against the window, how heart-cheering is it to draw one's chair nearer to the fire, and bid defiance to the elements that rage without!

So, at least, thought Colonel Simpson, an elderly gentieman with a good-natured looking countenance and a powdered wig, as he deposited himself, for the remainder of the evening, in his large, old-fashioned easy-chair. "Well," observed Mrs. Simpson, a portly dame," fat, fair, and forty"-yes, forty, notwithstanding her assertions that she was not yet five-and-thirty: well, Mr. S., what kind of night is it?"

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"Why, my dear," replied her husband, thrusting the poker into the fire, "it's very cold and uncomfortable out of doors; just such a night as when I returned from Why, bless me!" he continued, as his eyes fell on the almanac by his side," and it is the same day of the month, too!"

"What do you mean ?" inquired Mrs. S.

Her husband made no reply, but, turning to a tall handsome girl, who sat opposite to him, he said, "Ellen, you are now old enough to be entrusted with a secret which I have hitherto withheld from you; I mean the secret of your birth and parentage. My dear girl," he continued, hoarsely, "those whom you have so long considered as your parents are not in reality such; and, although I should be proud to own you as my daughter, it is my duty to undeceive you."

The girl started and turned pale, but by a strong effort she mastered her agitation, and begged of him to proceed. "When I married," continued the old officer, "I was a lieutenant in the army, and was engaged with my regiment in active service on the continent; but, having distinguished myself in a brush with the French, I was promoted to the rank of captain; and I served in that capacity in the battle of Waterloo. It was just in the midst of the battle, and the balls were flying in all quarters, when a French soldier, imagining, from the superior description of my regimentals, that I was some officer of distinction, galloped up, and, presenting his pistol, called on me to surrender. I refused, and was in the act of drawing my sword in self-defence, when a second soldier, whom I had not before perceived, made a pass at me with his lance. He would no doubt have succeeded in wounding me, had not a young officer, of the name of Walton, a lieutenant in the same regiment as myself, rushed to my assistance and struck my assailant to the ground. In the next minute, however, a company of Frenchmen came up; I was thrust from my horse, and the lieutenant fell heavily across me. I remember that some blood trickled on my face, and I concluded that he

was wounded; but, as I raised him in my arms to ascertain the extent of his injuries, a party of cavalry passed over the spot, and the horses trampled on us both. I felt and heard no more, until I awoke as it were from a dream, and found myself still lying on the ground. I felt around for my friend, but there was no one near me; it was evident that I had been moved. With difficulty I raised myself on my feet; my limbs were stiff, and I was faint, but I contrived to walk some distance. It was night, and I listened in vain for the clash of arms, and the sound of trumpets; but the plain which had so recently been the scene of strife and bloodshed, was now occupied only by the dead and dying; and the groans of the wounded or the screams of the carrion bird, were the only sounds that disturbed the silence of the night. Oh, it was an awful sight!-so many fellow-creatures stretched before me, some in the agonies of death, and others far beyond all earthly agony. The Englishman lay side by side with his French foe; their angry passions stemmed only by the iron hand of death. Well, I walked on until I found myself overcome with fatigue, and I sank down to rest myself. A poor fellow lay next me on the point of death; the colour of his uniform told me he was a fellow-countryman, and I was just preparing to administer some consolation to the dying officer, when I heard a voice by his side muttering the most horrible French oaths, and, from my former experience, I concluded that the fellow was despoiling the corpse, while it was yet warm, of its trinkets. I again attempted to walk, but before I had proceeded many steps, the sound of a female voice, in tones of grief and lamentation, arrested my progress. I turned on one side to discover the cause, and there, bending over a dead body at her feet, stood a young woman, who, with one hand was clasping a child to her breast, and with the other was vainly essaying to raise the head of the corpse. I proffered my assistance, and as I stooped to lift the inanimate body from the ground, I recognised in its pale countenance, the familiar and somewhat handsome features of Lieutenant Walton.

dead? oh, tell me, tell me! I am prepared to hear the "Is he dead, sir?" asked the woman, eagerly. "Is he

worst."

My sorrow at losing one of my dearest friends completely choked my utterance, and the only reply which I could make to the anxious question of his widow was, "He is!" As I uttered it, the poor woman fell upon the corpse of her husband with an hysteric shriek, and when I attempted to remove her, I found that she too was dead.

Seeing then, that I could render no assistance to the parents, I turned my attention to the child, which was still alive, and wrapping it under my cloak, conveyed it to the first house I found. It was a small farm, and had escaped the destruction which had befallen the other cottages in the neighbourhood of the fatal plain. Its occupants were an honest, worthy couple, who took care of myself and my little charge until my wounds were healed, and I was enabled to return to England. It is eighteen years to-day, since my return, and the secret has been confided Ellen,' only to one person, and that person was my wife. 66 you are continued the colonel, breaking off abruptly, that child-the daughter of Lieutenant Walton."

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Most men regard madness with horror, yet how few recoil from the practices whereby it is engendered! The annals of the lunatic asylum testify that intoxication, in itself a species of madness, is the primary cause of onethird of the cases of insanity; and yet men drain the wine-cup, knowing that they drink liquid madness.

POETRY.

NOT AT HOME.

NOT at home! not at home! close my curtain again,
Go and send the intruders away;

They may knock if they will, but 'tis labour in vain,
For I am not made up for the day;

Though my ball was the best of all possible balls,
Though I graced my saloon like a queen,
I've a head-ache to-day, so if any one calls-
"Not at home!" I am not to be seen.

Not at home! not at home! bring strong coffee at two,
But now leave me to doze in the dark;

I'm too pale for my pink, I'm too brown for my blue,
I'm too sick for my drive in the park.

If the man whose attentions are pointed should call-
(Eliza, you know who I mean,)

Oh say, when he knocks, I'm knock'd up by my ball, "Not at home!" I am not to be seen.

Not at home to Sir John, should the baron dismount,
Not at home till my ringlets are curled ;
Should the jeweller call with his "little account,"
Not at home! not at home for the world!

I at midnight must shine at three splendid "at homes,"
Then adieu to my morning chagrin ;

Close my curtain again, for till candlelight comes,
"Not at home!" I am not to be seen.

VARIETIES.

OPAQUE GLASS.-To render glass opaque, take a piece of flat copper, and a little sand or fine emery made into a very thin paste with water, and with this rub over the glass with a circular motion of the hand; this will, in a short time, destroy the polish of the surface. Instead of copper a piece of Yorkshire frit may be used; but the former is preferable, as it holds the sand better.

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The object of this Publication will be to give, by the com bined effect of pictorial illustrations and letter-press descriptions, a more full and faithful exhibition of human nature, in its ever varying aspects, than has been before attempted in any work of a similar kind. The sketches, both pictorial and literary, will embrace the peculiarities of individuals and the eccentricities of classes. But while it will be the aim equally of the artist and the author, to give prominence to whatever is striking, or partakes of the oddities of life, they will studi ously avoid overstepping the line which separates the empire of fact from the region of caricature. The work will embrace the grave and the gay in nearly equal proportions; while the literary department will constantly seek to blend information with amusement. It will endeavour to portray man as he actually is, and not as he is to be found in the pages of the novelist. The PICTURES" will be those of every-day life; such as are hourly to be met with both in the crowded cities and the rural districts of the land. The publication will not be of partial or temporary interest; it will, if the projectors succeed in carrying their intentions into effect, possess the elements of a universal and enduring popularity.

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"PICTURES OF POPULAR PEOPLE" will be printed on a super-royal paper of the finest quality. It will be got up in a style of typographical elegance never surpassed; and each Number will contain Four Engravings from designs by some of the most eminent artists of the day. The Work will be published by Mr. Virtue, of Ivy Lane. Orders, which will be received by all Booksellers, should be given immediately.

TO OUR READERS.

WITH the present number, which concludes the second volume of the New Series of the LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL, MR. GRANT will close his editorial connexion with this publication. His principal reason for relinquishing the editorship is, that on the First of February he is to commence a new monthly work, as will be seen from the preceding advertisement; due attention to which would be incompatible with his continuing to conduct the SATURDAY JOURNAL It is gratifying to MR. GRANT to be able to state, that he resigns the editorship of the latter publication in favour of MR. TIMBS, the gentleman who for eleven years conducted "The Mirror" with distinguished success; and who may, therefore, be expected to do every justice to this periodical. MR. GRANT, indeed, has no hesitation in saying, that his successor will be able to devote more time and attention to the SATURDAY JOURNAL, than it was possible for him, amidst the multiplicity of his other literary engagements, to bestow upon it. With sincere acknowledgments, therefore, to his numerous friends and readers for their past patronage, MR. GRANT now transfers the SATURDAY JOURNAL to new hands, with his most cordial wishes for its continued prosperity.

PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.

THE Subscribers to the LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL are respectfully informed, that MR. GRANT having relin quished the Editorship of this Miscellany, it will henceforth be conducted by MR. JOHN TIMBS, "eleven years the industrious and able Editor of the MIRROR,"* and the LITERARY WORLD; and who has become co-proprietor of the present Journal. Without disparaging the successful exertions of the retiring Editor of the LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL, the Publisher assures the Subscribers, that no exertion will be spared for the advancement of this Miscellany in popular favour; by especial attention to the tone of its Literature, and the character of its Illustrations. The First Number of the LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL, edited by MR. TIMBS, will appear on JANUARY 1st, 1842. Paternoster Row, December 25, 1841.

It is requested that Communications and Books for Review, be addressed to the Editor, as above.

* Literary Gazette, March 9, 1839.

LONDON: W. BRITTAIN, PATERNOSTER ROW.

Edinburgh: JOHN MENZIES. Glasgow: D. BRYCE. Dublin: CURRY & Co.

Printed by J. I.ier, 14, Eartholomew Close.

LONDON

SATURDAY JOURNAL.

NEW AND PICTORIAL SERIES.

CONDUCTED BY JOHN TIMBS, THIRTEEN YEARS EDITOR OF "THE MIRROR" & "LITERARY WORLD."

VOL. III.

FROM JANUARY TO JUNE, 1842, INCLUSIVE.

LONDON:

W. BRITTAIN, 11, PATERNOSTER ROW.

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