in her own apartment making up her accounts,
or darning stockings. Finally, however, the
good humour, obliging industry, and politeness
of the soldiers, altogether cured her,
and Pierre completed her recovery by his
ingenious mending of her work-box.

They were always ready to carry the
water-pails for the pretty Madeleine, to sweep
the court, or to do any kind things for
help or for the pleasure of the children.
One of them with the fine name of
Alphonse—an active, snub-nosed, red-
moustached, dirty-faced little fellow, whom the
Guards would have repudiated, turned
out to be a famous cook, and taught Susette
how to compose many delicious messes.

We were all positively grieved to part
with our invaders, and especially missed, of
an evening, Albert and his violin. The
house seemed to be deserted; little Harry
wept, and even Nurse admitted that "they
were not so bad after all."

On their part the men expressed
themselves infinitely delighted with the treatment
they had received.

"Good bye madame, messieurs, and
mademoiselles," exclaimed the corporal. "It is
well for France, that her soldiers do not
often find such charming quarters. They
would soon be unfitted for the roughness of
their service."

"Good bye," chorussed the others in a sort
of trio wherein gratitude, pleasure, English
hospitality, were frequently recurring words.
And with many an invitation to come
and see the Camp, the four men shouldered
their rifles, and trudged down the street, the
corporal turning at the corner, for the last
time, to raise his cap.

We were beginning to lose our more vivid
recollection of the billet, when one day,
returning from a long walk in the country, we
noticed a soldier bending under some heavy
ungainly burden, which he carried with a
little difficulty.

He paused at the porte-cochère of our friend's
house; and, when we came up to him, lo! it
was our friend Alphouse: nothing the cleanlier,
we must admit, for his sojourn at the Camp.

He was overjoyed at seeing us again, and
with a great many salutations, produced a
small note from the corporal. I shall not
attempt to translate its elegantly turned
phrases of compliment. Its purport was to
request madame's (our host's wife,) acceptance
of a flower-stand, the joint work of
himself and his companions. It was most
ingeniously and gracefully constructed of
unbarked wood and pine cones, with a quaint
border of twisted and plaited roots. It was
about three feet high, and filled with moss,
into which flower-pots might be imbedded.

It was quite the pride of the lobby, and the
whole young family collected round Alphonse
while he partook of some refreshment, with
loud shouts of admiration.

We were, to use their own expression,
"penetrated," with the trouble these poor
fellows had taken. Their kindly spirit touched
us and the entente cordiale was perfect
between us and them.

THE DOMESTIC MERCURY.

THIS Domestic Mercury is not a little foot-
page of to-day, but yesterday's newspaper,
counting one hundred and seventy-seven
years as but a day, and that number of years
ago as yesterday. This Mercury is a small
sheet or half sheet of paper, not at all fair in
complexion, upon which matter is printed in
a clear, distinct type, evidently of the newest
fashion, as intended for the eyes of the
nobility and gentry. Putting away to-day's
Times, I take up yesterday's Mercury—
the first number of that journal written as
it appears to suit the taste of the public, in
the time of his sacred Majesty King Charles
the Second; for its date is the nineteenth of
December, sixteen hundred and seventy-
nine. According to the fashion of that day,
it has a double title, rather a large one for a
newspaper, that looks like a leaf torn out of
the Penny Cyclopædia. It stands thus:

"Mercurius Domesticus; or, Newes both
from City and Country. Published to prevent
false Reports."

Prevention is better than cure; but if this
benevolent object could be accomplished
within the four columns of my Mercury
(supposing them to be entirely devoted thereto,
which they are not), then, indeed, false
reports have grown mightily upon us since
the year of grace just mentioned, and the
days in which we now live really are
degenerate.

The first false report concerns a lady now
really deceased—Nell Gwyn. She was not
dead then, it seems.

"Several false and rediculous Reports
being spread abroad concerning Madam Ellin
Gwyn, as to her death, or absence from her
house, we are assured that there is no ground
for such a Report, the said Madam Ellin
Gwyn being now at her own house in health,
and has not been absent from it."

Her own house is doubtless the one she had
in Pall Mall, and which she occupied until
her death, twelve years after the publication
of this Mercury.

This being off his mind, the editor goes on
to certify the public as to the true movements
of a Mr. Baldrun and a Mr. Mowbray. They
returned last night from Yorkshire, where
they have been attending some proceedings
regarding the Popish Plot—or, as we count
it, the night before last—Titus Oates and no
Popery were carrying the day.

"There has been much discourse, that Sir
William Waller, Justice Warcup, and others
of His Majesties Justices of the Peace in the
City of Westminster and County of Middlesex,
were turned out of the Commission of