e, but
the unfortunate Frenchman could only draw from his finger the ring of
Athalie, and with her name on his lips expired--being actually choked in
his own blood.

Such was the account of this combat given by the horrified Master
Spiggot, who suspecting "that there was something wrong," had followed
his guest to the scene of the encounter, the memory of which is still
preserved in the noble house of Hopetoun, and the legends of the
burghers of Crail.

So died Lemercier.

Of what Sir William said or thought on the occasion, we have no record.
In the good old times he would have eased his conscience by the
endowment of an altar, or foundation of a yearly mass; but in the year
1708 such things had long been a dead letter in the East Neuk; and so in
lieu thereof he interred him honorably in the aisle of the ancient kirk,
where a marble tablet long marked the place of his repose.

Sir William did more; he carefully transmitted the ring of Lemercier to
the bereaved Athalie, but before its arrival in Paris, she had dried her
tears for the poor Chevalier, and wedded one of his numerous rivals.
Thus, she forgot him sooner than his conqueror, who reached a good old
age, and died at his Castle of Balcomie, with his last breath regretting
the combat at the Standing-stone of Sauchope.

From the London Times.

HENRY FIELDING.[H]

We are glad to see this great humorist's works put forward in a popular
form, and at a price exceedingly low. A man may be very much injured by
perusing maudlin sentimental tales, but cannot be hurt, though he may be
shocked every now and then, by reading works of sound sterling humor,
like the greater part of these, full of benevolence, practical wisdom,
and generous sympathy with mankind.

The work is prefaced by an able biography of Fielding, in which the
writer does justice to the great satirist's memory, and rescues it from
the attacks which rivals, poetasters, and fine gentlemen have made upon
it.

Those who have a mind to forgive a little coarseness, for the sake of
one of the honestest, manliest, kindest companions in the world, cannot,
as we fancy, find a better than Fielding, or get so much true wit and
shrewdness from any other writer of our language.

"With regard to personal appearance," says his biographer, "Fielding was
strongly built, robust, and in height rather exceeding six feet." He was
possessed of rare conversational powers and wit; a nobleman who had
known Pope,