in
the French language. "The animal does not understand you," exclaimed
Tallyho, in the vernacular idiom of the youth, "Speak to him in
English." "He must be a clever dog," answered the boy, "to know English
so soon, for neither him nor I have been in England above a week, and
for the first time in our lives."--"And how is it," asked Tallyho,
"that you speak the English language so fluently?" "O," said the little
fellow, "my mother taught it me; she is an English woman, and for that
reason I love the English, and am much fonder of talking their language
than my own." There was something extremely captivating in the boy. The
dog now struggling for freedom was nearly effecting his release,
when the two friends interposed their assistance, and secured the
pre-meditating fugitive at the moment when, to inquire the cause of the
bustle, the father of the child made his appearance in the person
of Field Marshal Count Bertrand. The Count, possessing all the
characteristics of a gentleman, acknowledged politely the kind attention
of the strangers to his son, while, on the other hand, they returned
his obeisance with the due respect excited by his uniform friendship and
undeviating attachment to greatness in adversity. The discerning eye
of Field Marshal Bertrand justly appreciated the superior rank of the
strangers, to whom he observed, that during the short period he had then
been in England, he had experienced much courtesy, of which he should
always retain a grateful recollection. This accidental interview was
creative of reciprocal satisfaction, and the parties separated, not
without an invitation on the part of the boy, that his newly found
acquaintances would again visit the "friends of the Emperor."{1}~5~~

1 LINES SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY
THE EX-EMPEROR NAPOLEON IN HIS LAST ILLNESS.

Too slowly the tide of existence recedes
For him in captivity destined to languish,
The Exile, abandon'd of fortune, who needs
The friendship of Death to obliviate his anguish.
Yet, even his last moments unmet by a sigh,
Napoleon the Great uncomplaining shall die!

Though doom'd on thy rock, St. Helena, to close
My life, that once presag'd ineffable glory,
Unvisited here though my ashes repose,
No tablet to tell the lone Exile's sad story,--
Napoleon Buonaparte--still shall the name
Ex