for attempting the rescue of those held captive in the bowels of the earth. To their honour, all the coal-proprietors and others around offered horses, engines, and men, for the undertaking. Though it was seen to be impossible to clear the shaft of water in time to do good, yet, to prevent it rising so as to inundate the galleries, 100 horses were set to work on the fire-pump, and much water taken out; but it rose faster than it was evacuated, and the source was not closed up till Sunday. However, it was on another scheme that the chance of relief hung. M. Migneron, at the head of a body of strong men, entered the headway-dilapidated unluckily-of the Mamonster pit; and after crawling through a dangerous passage 131 yards long, arrived at the spot nearest to where the confined men were supposed to be in the Beaujonc pit. A bore, or drift, was then commenced in the direction that seemed most likely to do good; but all was sad uncertainty on this point. Only two men at a time, lying upon their sides, could work in the drift, but they were often relieved. The seam of coal, besides, was hard, and cost about three hours to make eighty inches of way. While this drift was going on, every scheme was tried to direct the confined men's attention to the spot, by firing small cannon, and making other noises. No appearance, however, of succeeding in this respect, presented itself till Saturday, when some slight noises were heard. Nevertheless, no distinct indication of the quarter in which the men were was given till the Monday, when it was found that the drift was going as nearly right as possible. On the Tuesday, after almost incredible labour, a passage fifty-one yards long was made, and a boring-rod passed through into the cavity where the captives were, but in so indirect a manner as to permit of no other dmmunication with them than by speech. But even

not

was a great satisfaction, as it enabled Goffin to heaveunce the existence of most of the workmen. The heroismentioned had to be stopped up, as the prisoners him on t bear the pressure of the air, which rushed all goes wusly.

On the 4th of March (the Wednesday), at twelve o'clock noon, the miners broke through into the passage begun, and carried to the length of twelve yards, by Goffin and his companions. This made a passage in all of sixty-three yards. When the barrier was broken down, the air rushing in caused a report like thunder. Then did the captives press to the hole, and crawl out man by man, Goffin and his son being the last. Seventy human beings were thus restored to this world in a measure; twenty-four men had perished in all. Every preparation that kindness and skill could suggest had been previously made for giving food and other necessaries, in a proper way, to the liberated workmen. Such were the crowds continually in waiting near the spot to learn the result, that the military had to be kept always on guard at the place, lest the workers should be interfered with. The air was rent with acclamations when the liberation was announced to the multitude. But who can describe the joy of the families of the delivered, or the sorrow of others for the lost?

Hubert Goffin, to whom the merit of saving these men from this terrible calamity is chiefly to be ascribed, was rewarded by the king of the Netherlands with the decoration of the Legion of Honour. But he received a far higher remuneration in the profound gratitude of the saved, as well as of their wives, parents, and children.

THE TALE OF THE FALCON.

[The following tale is one of the most admired pieces in one of the most popular books ever published-the Decameron of Boccaccio. As the Decameron is little read by the British public, and, as a whole, were as well less read than it is, it seems proper thus to select the really fine passages of it for the amusement of our readers.]

AT Florence dwelt a young gentleman named Frederick, son of Philip Albergi, who, in feats of arms and gentility, surpassed all the youth in Tuscany. This gentleman was in love with a lady called Madam Giovanna, one of the most agreeable women in Florence; and to gain her affection, used to be continually making tilts, balls, and such diversions; lavishing away his money in rich presents, and everything that was extravagant. But she, as just and reputable as she was fair, made no account either of what he did for her sake or of himself. Living in this manner, his wealth soon began to waste, till at last he had nothing left but a very small farm, the income of which was a most slender maintenance, and a single hawk, one of the best in the world. Yet loving still more than ever, and finding he could subsist no longer in the city, in the manner he would choose to live, he retired to his farm, where he went out a fowling as often as the weather would permit, and bore his distress patiently, and without ever making his necessity known to anybody. Now, one day it happened, that as he was reduced to the last extremity, the husband to this lady chanced to fall sick, who, being very rich, left all his substance to an only son, who was almost grown up, and if he should die without issue, he then ordered that it should revert to his lady, whom he was extremely fond of; and when he had disposed thus of his fortune, he died. She now, being left a widow, retired, as our ladies usually do during the summer season, to a house of hers in the country near to that of Frederick; whence it happened that her son soon became acquainted with him,

and they used to divert themselves together with dogs and hawks; when he, having often seen Frederick's hawk fly, and being strangely taken with it, was desirous of having it, though the other valued it to that degree, that he knew not how to ask for it. This being so, the young man soon fell sick, which gave his mother great concern, as he was her only child, and she ceased not to attend on and comfort him; often requesting, if there was any particular thing which he fancied, to let her know it, and promising to procure it for him if it was possible. The young gentleman, after many offers of this kind, at last said: 'Madam, if you could contrive for me to have Frederick's hawk, I should soon be well.'

She was in some suspense at this, and began to consider how best to act. She knew that Frederick had long entertained a liking for her, without the least encouragement on her part; therefore she said to herself: 'How can I send or go to ask for this hawk, which I hear is the very best of the kind, and what alone maintains him in the world? Or how can I offer to take away from a gentleman all the pleasure that he has in life?' Being in this perplexity, though she was very sure of having it for a word, she stood without making any reply; till at last the love of her son so far prevailed, that she resolved at all events to make him easy, and not send, but go herself to bring it. She then replied: Son, set your heart at rest, and think only of your recovery, for I promise you that I will go to-morrow for it the first thing I do.'

This afforded him such joy, that he immediately shewed signs of amendment.

The next morning she went, by way of a walk, with another lady in company, to his little cottage to inquire for him. At that time, as it was too early to go out upon his diversion, he was at work in his garden. Hearing, therefore, that his mistress inquired for him at the door, he ran thither, surprised and full of joy; whilst she, with a great deal of complaisance, went to meet him; and

after the usual compliments, she said: 'Good-morning to you, sir; I am come to make you some amends for what you have formerly done on my account. What I mean is, that I have brought a companion to take a neighbourly dinner with you to-day.'

He replied, with a great deal of humility: 'Madam, I do not remember ever to have received any harm by your means, but rather so much good, that if I was worth anything at any time, it was due to your singular merit, and the love I had for you: and most assuredly, this courteous visit is more welcome to me than if I had all that I have wasted returned to me to spend over again; but you are come to a very poor host.'

With these words, he shewed her into his house, seeming much out of countenance, and from thence they went into the garden, when, having no company for her, he said: 'Madam, as I have nobody else, please to admit this honest woman, a labourer's wife, to be with you, whilst I set forth the table.'

He, although his poverty was extreme, was never so sensible of his having been extravagant as now; but finding nothing to entertain the lady with, he was in the utmost perplexity, lamenting his evil fortune, and running up and down like one out of his wits; at length, having neither money nor anything he could pawn, and being willing to give her something, at the same time that he would not make his case known, even so much as to his own labourer, he espied his hawk upon the perch, which he seized, and finding it very fat, judged it might make a dish not unworthy of such a lady. Without further thought, then, he pulled his head off, and gave him to a girl to dress and roast carefully, whilst he laid the cloth, having a small quantity of linen yet left, and then he returned, with a smile on his countenance, into the garden to her, telling her that what little dinner he was able to provide was now ready.

She and her friend, therefore, entered and sat down with him, he serving them all the time with great respect, when they ate the hawk. After dinner was over, and