A French soldier, who accompanied the armies of Russia, concealed a
small treasure at the entrance of a village near Wilna, with a view of
taking it with him on his return. After the defeat of Moscow he was made
prisoner, and sent to Siberia, and only recovered his liberty at the end
of last year. On reaching Wilna he remembered his hidden treasure, and
after tracing out the spot where he had hid it, he went to take it away.
What was his astonishment to find, in the place of his money, a small
tin box, containing a letter addressed to him, in which a commercial
house was mentioned at Nancy, where he might receive the sum buried,
with interest, since the year 1812. The soldier supposed this was all a
hoax; he went, however, to the house pointed out, where he received his
capital, with twelve years' interest. With this sum he established a
small business at Nancy, which enables him to live comfortably; but he
has never been able, though he has taken some pains, to ascertain how
his money was taken away and restored to him.
* * * * *
Two lovely ladies dwell at ----,
And each a-churching goes;
Emma goes there _to close her eyes_,
And Jane to _eye her clothes_.
* * * * *
The death of Stanislaus, king of Poland, was occasioned in a singular
manner. Being much addicted to smoking, he generally every day finished
many pipes. In knocking out the ashes he set fire to his dressing-gown.
As no one was near him, the flames had surrounded him, when the officer
on guard, hearing his cries, ran to his assistance, and extinguished the
fire. He might have survived, but a singular circumstance accompanied
the accident. He had been devout during the last years of his life, and,
as a penance for his sins, had worn a girdle with points on the inside;
these became heated, and being pressed into his body while the flames
were extinguishing, caused a number of wounds, the discharge from which,
at his period of life, proved too much for his debilitated constitution.
* * * * *
Professor Porson was often in pecuniary difficulties. On one occasion he
came with a dejected air to a friend, and said he had been walking
through the streets of London all the morning, thinking how strange it
was that not one of all the crowds he met should know as much about
Greek tragic verse as himself, and yet that he could not turn his
knowledge into a hundred pounds. In these moments he often talked of
retiring forever to the wilds of America, where he formed a plan of
living in solitary happiness, without a book or a friend.
* * * * *
One evening, at the Literary Fund Club, Mr. Incledon having sung with
great effect Mr. T. Dibdin's ballad of "May we ne'er want a friend, or a
bottle to give him," an elderly gentleman whispered in Mr. T. Dibdin's
ear, "Ah! my dear sir, these are the true things of the old school; what
a pity it is no one living is found to write such ditties now!"
* * * * *
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and sold by all Newsmen and Booksellers._