IBI MUSCA."

Every purchaser of this number of "THE FLY," is entitled to an exquisitely-executed Lithographic PRINT of the Duke of Wellington, which is presented gratuitously.—[A similar print with every number.]

John Cunningham, Printer, Crown-court, Fleet-street.

Two days after the affair of Roliça, Sir Arthur Wellesley took up a strong position at Vimiero; where, on the 20th and 21st of August, he was joined by reinforcements from home. On the latter day, he was attacked by Marshal Junot, who was repulsed with considerable loss, leaving the British masters of the field, though unable to make the most of their victory for want of cavalry. The changes that followed in the chief command of the army, which was transferred to Sir Harry Burrard, and Sir Hugh Dalrymple, in rapid succession, led to the convention of Cintra, on the 30th August (by which the fruit of the previous successes was lost), and to the recall of the Generals in command. The result of the inquiry that followed-happily for England and the world-was the re embarkation of Sir Arthur Wellesley for Portugal, where he landed as Commander-in-Chief on the 22d April, 1809. Being now freed from the embarrassment of a divided authority, he proceeded at once to the Douro, where, at Oporto, Soult, in considerable force, was waiting his approach. The passage of the river was effected on the 12th May, when, after a desperate contest, the French army retreated with the loss of from seven thousand to eight thousand men, and the whole of its stores, baggage, and artillery. The battle of Talavera was fought on the 28th July following, and for these splendid achievements Sir Arthur Wellesley was raised to the peerage, on the 26th August, by the titles of Baron Douro, of Wellesley, and Viscount Wellington, of Talavera, and of Wellington, in the county of Somerset. The thanks of Parliament, and a pension of 20007. per annum, were also voted to him.

18th of August the Prince Regent created him Sembled Sovereigns at Paris. From Paris he
Marquis of the United Kingdom. The thanks lep aired to Madrid, and subsequently to Eng-
of Parliament were again voted, with a prince- and, where he arrived on the 23d June, and
ly grant for the purchase of a domain. In was welcomed with every manifestation of
Portugal he had already been created Count nationa lgratitude. Upon taking his seat in
of Vimiero, and Marquis of Torres Vedras; the House of Peers, on the 28th, his succes-
and the title of Duke of Vittoria was now sive patents of nobility were recited, and he
conferred upon him by the Prince of Brazil. received the congratulations of the House,
The British and allied forces continued in" on his return from the Continent,” and its
possession of Maurid until the beginning of thanks for the great, signal, and eminent
November, when the advance of the French services he had rendered to his country and to
in overwhelming numbers, under Massena, Europe." The House of Commons appointed
rendered its evacuation a matter of policy, a deputation to congratulate him, and on the
and the campaign of 1812 was closed upon the 1st July the Duke attended in person to ex-
frontier of Portugal.
press his thanks. His appearance occasioned
one of the most animated scenes ever witness-
ed within the walls of Parliament. The whole
of the members simultaneously rose as he en-
tered the House, and, uncovering, enthusias-
tically and continuously cheered him. On the
5th of the same month, the Duke was appoint-
ed Ambassador Extraordinary to the Court of
France.

On the 1st January, 1813, the Marquis of Wellington was gazetted as Colonel of the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards, and on the 4th March received the distinguished Order of the Garter. In the beginning of May he again assumed the offensive, and took the field with a force of 80,000 men.

Upon his advance, the French retired before him to the neighbourhood of Vittoria, where a sanguinary and obstinate engagement took place, on the 21st June, which ended in their total defeat. The great army, commanded by Joseph Buonaparte, with Marshal Jourdan as his Major-General, and consisting of the whole of the armies of the South, and centre, and all the cavalry of the army of Portugal, was reduced to a complete wreck. Stores, equipage, artillery, every thing was abandoned that could retard the flight of the vanquished, and the brother of Napoleon himself escaped with difficulty. The baton of a Marshal of France fell into the hands of the Conqueror; and, on the 3d of the following month, the Marquis of Wellington received in exchange for it that of Field Marshal of the British army.

The re-appearance of Napoleon upon the soil of France, on the 1st March, 1815, again summoned the Duke of Wellington to the field, and, on the 11th April, he joined the allied army at Brussels. The crowning day of Waterloo (18th June) may be said to have terminated his military career, by the permanent restoration of peace to Europe.

It is not, however, to the field of battle that the genius of the Duke of Wellington is confined. The publication of his despatches by Colonel Gurwood proves, that, from the very commencement of his Indian campaigns, the master-mind showed itself even in the minutest details connected with the administration of the conquered territories; and in Portugal he overcame difficulties originating in the distrust and vacillation of the Government, both there and at home, by a combination of firmness, sagacity, and self-reliance which nothing but the highest mental powers can give.

To these same qualities the influence which the Duke has exercised over foreign powers since the Peace of 1815, as Commander-inChief of the army of Occupation in France, and representative of Great Britain at the Congresses of Aix-la-Chapelle (1818), and Verona (1822), must be ascribed; nor can we forget that to him alone is die the carrying of the Catholic Relief Bill, with all its mighty consequences, at home. In alluding to En ̧•

The year 1810 was distinguished by the battle of Busaco (27th September), fought against the immense army assembled under The blow struck at Vittoria was decisive, Massena for the subjugation of Portugal, and and the brilliant achievements that succeeded by the subsequent defence of Lisbon against can scarcely be glanced at in the limits to that army, compelled to waste its strength be- which we are confined. From the 25th July fore the lines of Torres Vedras, without the to the 2d August, the allies were engaged in possibility of forcing an action, until the most a series of actions among the passes of the fearful privations led to the most disastrous of Pyrenees, which terminated in the retreat of retreats, when the British and Portuguese Marshal Soult into France. The storming of forces again advanced into the heart of Spain. San Sebastian, and the fall of Pampeluna, were In 1811 and 1812, the victories of Fuentes followed by the battle of the Bidassoa, and d'Onore, Almeida, Albuera, and Ciudad Rod- the passage of the Nivelle and the Nive, when rigo, rapidly succeeded each other, and the the British forces closed this arduous struggle Cortes of Spain marked their sense of the on the night of the 10th November, 1815, by services of Lord Wellington, by conferring pitching their tents upon what had been arro-lish internal affairs, we wish not to touch upon upon him the title of Duke of Ciudad Rod-gantly termed "the Sacred Territory," where rigo, and appointing him Commander-in-Chief they remained until February, with little moof their armies. At home the thanks of Par-lestation. liament were again voted-an additional grant The battle of Orthez, fought on the 27th of 20007. per annum was made, and the dig. February, 1814, was succeeded by the pasnity of an Earl conferred upon the victor. sages of the Adour and the Garonne, and the The storming of Badajoz added, on the 6th defeat of Marshal Soult before Toulouse, on April, 1812, to the list of his successes. On Easter Sunday, the 10th April. On the eventhe 22d July, the battle of Salamanca was ing of the 12th, despatches from Paris anfought and won, and the intervention of night nounced the restoration of the Bourbons, and alone saved the French army, under Marmont, the entrance of Louis XVIII. into his capital. from total destruction. On the 12th of Au-The Treaty of Peace, concluded at Paris on gust the British forces triumphantly entered the 30th May, put an end for the time to furMadrid. ther hostilities.

The honours which Lord Wellington had so eminently deserved of his country and her allies, were liberally accorded to him. Un the

On the 3d May the Conqueror was raised to the dignity of Marquis of Douro and Duke of Wellington, and immediately joined the as

debatable ground, but to speak of the Duke of Wellington as history will speak of him; and we say, without hesitation, that, when the present generation has passed away, and all its ephemeral struggles for place and power are forgotten, the act that emancipated seven millions of British subjects from the most degrading thraldom that prejudice ever imposed, will be regarded as a monument of political wisdom, such as few statesmen have left behind.

The Duke of Wellington became Commander-in-Chiet in 1827; First Lord of the Treasury, from February, 1828, till October, 1830; Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports in 1829; and Chancellor of the University of Oxford in 1834. He was, subsequently, Se

THE COMMERCE OF LEECHES.

We are indebted to Baron Dupin for a cu

through the valley of the shadow of death. Yet there, on the very brink, her delicate foot placed where the shawl lay on the fatal sunset night she stood pale and immovable as a marble statue; at times hollow sounds seemed to issue from the stream, or a plash was heard. She started and looked wildly round, and perceived that it was the moan of the night wind, a stone fallen from the cliff. It is strange how the spirit of the mourner accustoms itself to sad unearthly imaginings, and scenes about the loved and lost; would not the mother's breaking heart desire to behold her child again, even if it stood in its white shroud before her? would the husband fly the approach of his young and devoted wife, though the cerements of the grave were rent that she might visit him once more, and death led the beautiful phantom to his side-the face, the form, the voice that has filled every hour of

cretary of State for Foreign Affairs during the! short Administration of Sir R. Peel, but resigned with him in April, 1835; since which time he has stood aloof from mere party poli-rious note as it respects the leech trade. It ties, thongh giving his opinion with frankness appears that before 1813 this valuable waterand decision upon the great questions of the worm was far from having the same consequence attached to the trading of it, that it day. In a country like this there must necessarily enjoys at the present time; for France, after be differences as to the merits of the Duke of supplying the wants of her thirty-two millions Wellington's political career, but no man can of inhabitants, exported every year to the doubt the sincerity of his opinions, or the con- amount of 1,157,970 francs, or about 65804 sistency with which they have been main-But so much is this curative means in favour tained. His military pre-eminence all admit. now-thanks to M. Broussais- that not only His unimpeachable integrity has been acis the country bankrupt in leeches, but is furknowledged by every nation to which he has ther necessitated to resort for them to a foreign borne our arms. His wealth is due to the market, and to an extent so alarming, that, gratitude of his country-honouring herself in 1833, the importation amounted to the sum in honouring him—and England, while she of 41,654,000 francs, as entered on the Cuspossesses him, may truly boast that she numtom-house tables. It is true that Broussais' bers amongst her sons the most illustrious of system in 1834 having been severely attacked, modern warriors, and one of the greatest of the supply was diminished one-half, which, our life? Could I but see them once more, according to our notions, is still pretty considerable.

men.

SONG.

Oh! Love is like the cistus flower,
That blossoms for a day;

Oh! Love is like the summer shower,
That sunbeams kiss away.
'Tis but a wild delusive dream,
Dispersed by reason's power;
'Tis but an evanescent gleam
In youth's enchanting hour.
Yet oh! 'tis all we have of bliss,
A vision bright and dear,
As warm as beauty's gentle kiss,
As transient as her tear.

And woe be to those lonely hearts
That feel love's fires decay;
The feathery flake the snow-cloud darts
Is not more cold than they.

The blighted hope, the ruin'd mind,
All darkened and o'ercast;
These are the traces left behind
Where passion's storm has past.

MIND.

It would appear that it sometimes needs but

a few words to establish an immense com-
merce and again, a few pamphlets only are
necessary to reduce an article of trade to a
moiety, as in the present instance-namely,
twenty millions. Habent sua fata-hirudines.*
Be this as it may, the race of leeches is de-
cidedly lost in France, England, Germany,
and Hungary. They are still found in the
kingdom of Naples, and the marshes of Italy;
but it is from the provinces of Moldavia and
Wallachia that these valuable animals are
imported, and Bucharest is the central depôt
for all the leeches that are sent to Paris, and
further to the northward.

*The horse-leech.

THE LOST DAUGHTER.

F. E.

breaks often, often from the survivor's lips, who feels that the spirit in its sepulchral garments, would be better, dearer, than the dread void, the silence, the annihilation of all.

So thought Lucy, and thus she spoke almost without knowing it, as she left the lonely ravine and walked home, a distance of two miles, no step save her own abroad in the path; the lights in the cottage windows, where many a cheerful and contented family was gathered. She envied them, for were they not happy in their own home? were they not united before this separation? That home was no longer the same, every thing was changed, the servants were timid and spiritless, and no longer went about their employ cheerfully; they felt that a blight had fallen on the family, and often spoke apart and exchanged meaning looks with each other, and listened eagerly to every report in the neighbourhood.

(Continued from page 91.) The father was not as before, the stern man There was no certainty, yet there was every was changed; fits of silence quite unusual reason to believe that Maria had destroyed came over him, and he dreaded to be much herself. The mother would sit for hours with alone with his wife and daughter. How could the shawl and bonnet before her, as if feeding the fatal topic be avoided? Was he not the her eyes, and thoughts with the sad relics, cause-he felt that he was-of his daughter's while her tears fell unconsciously. But she early doom? He could not bear to ride, even could not bear to see the spot where it was by chance, within view of the spot where his supposed Maria had perished. Not so Lucy; daughter disappeared. He had caused the she visited it often, and walked to and fro on river to be dragged carefully many times for the bank, as if there was some strange attrac-miles below, but in vain; the body could not be found. It was supposed by most that it of view of each cottage window either from had been carried down by the rapidity of the the vale or hill side; the banks of the cliff current, or caught in some hollow place of the rose steep on one side, on the other were scat-bed or impending banks. Several weeks had tered masses of granite; the stream rolled deep, slow and sullen between. No tree or shrub grew on its banks; it was a forsaken and desolate district, save by a few wandering sheep, who found patches of wild grass between the rocks. The evening fell gloomily here; the autumn evenings were closing in fast, and the winds wailed fitfully through the ravine, but could not scare the steps of Lucy away, when the dark interest of the spot tempted her to linger later than usual.

The mind effects, what the physician cannot, a rapid cure. Is not our most subtle enemy often to be found wichin, in the myste-tion in the scene. It was a solitary place, out rious workings of that brain from whence are the issues of life, of intellect? whether it be the seat of the spirit's kingdom we know not; but we know sadly that the glory of our being hangs on its exquisite machinery, on its frail fibres and capricious movements. If the heart be the sole seat of the affections, why is it that the lunatic is generally indifferent to those whom he loved in his sanity?—that the husbald cares neither for the wife, nor she for her husband?—and that the father can see his daughter weeping over his lost condition with a careless look and untroubled feeling? The only love, perhaps, that survives the shattered mind, is that of the mother for her child.

Was it any wonder that the fancy of the girl caught the contagion of the scene and We can bear to be deprived of every thing circumstance; that the dark slow rolling of but our self-conceit, the waters was like that dread river that passes

now passed since she was seen no more; the spirits of the mother and daughter were so broken that they would see no one save a few old friends.

One evening, as they were drinking tea in the drawing room alone, for the father had gone to dine with a friend, glad by any means to throw off for a time the sad thoughts that followed him, the two female servants had gone out to milk the cows, which had been hitherto the work of one, but each refused to go at evening into the fields except her companion went with her, so strong was the fear that possessed them when night was drawing on. The lady wished to have some dry toast

vulsively in her own; the father turned pale
as death and sank into a chair, and then look.
ing at his daughter gave way to peals of joyful
laughter. When the first emotion was over,
she told them all, for her heart was also full,
and there was penitence in her eye when she
told it.

Vexed beyond measure, indignant at the
sudden rupture of her attachment, and the
harsh measures of her father, she left, in spite
and revenge, her bonnet and shawl on the
river's brink, and walking swiftly to the town,
many miles distant, favoured by the darkness
which soon sat in, she took a place unper-
ceived by any one who knew her in the Lon-
don coach, and arrived at her uncle's house in
London, who was delighted to see her, for she
was a favourite of his he was not surprised
at receiving no intimation, he knew her tem-
per had always been wild and capricious. In
about three weeks after her absence, a letter
came to her uncle informing him of her loss,
and that every search had been in vain. She
was moved at the picture of distress which it
contained, and reproaching herself deeply, in-
stantly sat out on her return. Yet a gratified
smile stole through her tears as she observed
that she had richly punished her father.

with her tea, and no servant being at hand, or
the footman, who was gone with his master,
Lucy went down to make it at the kitchen
fire. The kitchen, as is the custom in Wales,
was very spacious, lofty, exquisitely clean,
with a noble fire all the year round; the win-
dow was large, the light of a bright autumnal
evening fell softly through it, there were no
voices from without; the stranger who would
come suddenly there would have fancied that
the house was uninhabited, so silent it seemed
in every chamber, passage, and entrance, he
would have said, surely there is death in the
house, or else sorrow without hope hath made
it her home. Lucy was kneeling before the
fire, when some slight noise induced her to
turn her head, and she saw two men enter
from the court the open door of the kitchen,
bearing between them the body of her sister,
one supported the head and the other the feet.
As they bore Maria slowly through the kitchen
the tresses of her dark hair, which were re-
markable for their length and beauty, trailed
along the floor. Lucy followed their every
movement, their stern grasp of the body of
her dear companion, the keen and unflinching
gaze, and when they passed out of the oppo-
site door she still knelt and gazed where they
had disappeared. When the servants return-
ed, they found her in the same posture; the
fork and the toast had fallen into the ashes.
Their return recalled her recollection and pre-
sence of mind, so that when she returned to
the drawing-room she was silent as to the
scene she had witnessed, but there was a con-
viction in her own mind that her sister had
been murdered. She could not and did not
seek to shake it off, for it was a relief after This was a splendid instance of the force of
that of self destruction. The despair and imagination when directed to one absorbing
gloom of that belief was gone, but the thought memory, to one consuming sorrow; cool in
of Maria helplessly, perhaps cruelly, murder-judgment, disciplined by long reflection, chas-
ed, was one of agony which tears never failed tened by resignation and prayer. Yet her
to relieve, though they flowed from almost a mind's firm tone was borne down by the event
breaking heart. Yet she could not bear to and thick coming fancies, and then real phan-
distress her mother with this account, for as toms gathered around her.
yet there could be no proof, no foundation for
its truth beyond her own words. But that
ghastly pageant, that vision of a bloody deed,
followed her from day to day; by night it was
with her, even when sitting with her mother
and conversing she would sometimes start and
turn round as if the cold, pale, beautiful body
of Maria was passing by, borne by her mur-

derers.

A few days after this event, the family were assembled in the drawing-room, waiting the sound of the dinner bell, Lucy was looking through the window at the splendid tints of the autumnal sky, whose clouds as the sun went down seemed to forbode a storm, the wind already had a wailing sound. The father perceived a carriage driving up the avenue: it came on so rapidly that in a few minutes it was at the door: a stranger's arrival was unwelcome, a friend's unsought, and the lady turned away with an expression of discontent. The carriage door was opened, and before the steps could be let down out sprung the impetuous, the bold, the beautiful Maria. In a few moments she was hanging on the neck of her mother, and the sister stood weeping bitterly beside her, with her hand clasped con- |

Lucy always said afterwards that so dis: tinct, so palpable was the group that passed through the kitchen in the clear evening light, that to her dying day she should have firmly maintained the belief of her sister's murder The dark tresses of her long and beautiful har trailed along the sanded floor, and the long white robe drooped helplessly down, as the body was borne slowly along.

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