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of proceeding to Paris with her aunt, lady Anne Milsome, in their way to Italy. Now though this calculation has been made from the most accurate sources of information at present extant, it is nevertheless very probable that there may be a mistake of a day or two, and therefore we will quote the words of doctor Moore's Almanack, saying—“ The day before or the day after," which will make no great difference.

Lady Anne Milsome was neither of an age nor of a disposition to hurry herself in travelling, nor would she have done so on Mary's account, whose health was infinitely improved, and continued in a state of progressive amelioration every day of their journey ; so much so, indeed, that she proposed to her aunt that they should spend a short time in Paris, and then return to England. But lady Anne was resolved to go on, and seemed to entertain as much dread of disobeying the physician's commands in the slightest particular,

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as if he was some dreadful sorcerer, who would visit her with a severe punishment for any infraction.

“ Well,” said lady Anne, as the carriage passed the barrier,“ so I am once more in Paris. It is nearly fifty years, Mary, since I was here before, and that was with my poor deceased husband, Mr. Milsome, who was one of the finest, best-bred young men of his day; but every thing is altered now, and the manners that were then the most excellent, are as unfashionable as the part of the town we lived in, the Place Royale; while new ideas have sprung up like the houses in the part of the town where your brother resides, for I do not think then the rue Mont Blanc was thought of at all. Whereabouts is it, love? You and all the Evelyns were there for some time.”

Mary endeavoured to explain to her aunt where the rue Mont Blanc was situ-. ated; but before she could do so satisfactorily, the postilion demonstrated it in

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was classical ground to him, as a vehement admirer of Shakespeare, and he took the opportunity of the night of their arrival to conjure up Portia and her maid, and entertained himself with ideas that no other place could have so well brought forth.—“ Well, Wilmot,” said he, as they ran through it all, and all its accompanying thoughts, and let their fancy range through a thousand different divarications, for Wilmot too was a dreamer“ well, let people say what they like, almost all the enjoyment of man's life is made up of fancies; the realities are generally cares. Those who will, may reason themselves into sorrow-let me promote the more pleasing dreams of imagination."

“ They are golden dreams indeed,” answered Wilmot; " but remember, Charles, that we must sometimes wake, and find them false; and then how bitter is the disappointment!" He seemed to speak feelingly, and Charles did not follow the subject.

As soon as they had breakfasted the next morning, they sallied forth on foot, and wandered through churches, palaces, and colleges, till Charles was quite sick of St. Anthony, the patron saint of the city, who adorns every corner, and stares you in the face over every gate: Mr. Melville had seen quite enough of him, when at length they came to a picture of that venerable gentleman, engaged in the very profitable employment of preaching to the fishes.--" You see," said Mr. Wilmot, " that the fishes are here represented as half out of the water, in an attitude of great attention ?"

“Yes,” answered Charles, “ I perceive they are; but considering that we are taught to believe they have no souls to be saved, I cannot help thinking the saint's occupation • all cry and little wool,' as the devil said when he share the swine.”

This melted even Mr. Wilmot's gravity, and they returned to dinner laughing, and Charles shutting his eyes, vowing he

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would see no more of St. Anthony till he had dined.

The next day they proceeded to Vi. cenza. The morning was beautiful, the town was pretty, and Charles would have wished to pass some time there; but Mr. Wilmot seemed inclined to go on; and having taken a view of the theatre, which is a beautiful and curious piece of architecture, they pursued their journey to Verona, which was full thirty miles farther, being the longest distance they had travelled in one day since they had been in Italy.

At this town they remained two days, the first of which was principally taken up in viewing the amphitheatre, which still stands the most perfect ruin in Italy. It is in form a long oval, and calculated to contain from twenty-one to twenty-two thousand spectators; and standing within its lone walls, and looking round upon the seats once thronged with beings like our selves, we cannot help thinking what'a

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