WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
BY H. J. CRATE.
Cicada sits upon a sprig,
And makes his song resound;
For he is happy when a twig
Lifts him above the ground.
And so am I, when lifted up
On hopes delusive wing;
I laugh, and quaff the flowing cup,
I love, I write, I sing!
Should clouds or cares obscure our sky,
And all be gloom around,
My merry little friend and I
Soon tumble to the ground.
TRICKS ON TRAVELLERS AT WATERLOO.
M. Leon Gozlan, one of the most esteemed magazinists in France, has lately paid a flying visit to the scene of his country's most glorious disasters, Waterloo, and has given a characteristic account of what he saw and heard there. We quote a part of it, in which he describes a knavish practice of which great numbers are every year made victims. M. Gozlan has just passed through the Brussels faubourg Louisa, and is oppressed with most melancholy reflections, when his coachman addresses him—
"Sir," exclaimed my conductor, suddenly interrupting my meditations, "excuse me if I am troublesome, but before arriving at Mont-Saint-Jean I wish to warn you of a knavish trade you have probably never heard of at Paris."
"A knavish trade unknown at Paris?" I replied, incredulously; "that is rather surprising. But come, tell me what is this new species of industry."