It does to ME! The murmuring summer breeze,
Which thou dost turn thy glowing cheek to meet,
For me sweeps desolately through the trees,
And moans a dying requiem at my feet!
The glistening river which in beauty glides,
Sparkling and blue with morn's triumphant light,
All lonely flows, or in its bosom hides
A broken image lost to human sight!

I gaze upon its rippling waves, and lo!

His smile seems brightening on the waters clear ;
Far off it gleams,-without the life-warm glow,—
In fitful rays that shine and disappear!
Or, 'mid the branches of the sheltering wood,
I listen for his voice so long unheard,
And my heart leaps, in that dim solitude,

At every sound by which the leaves are stirr'd.

I linger on the path, as though to wait

Might bring the loiterer to his mother's side; I hurry onwards,-past the wicket-gate

To the lone bower where he was wont to bide. Vague expectation fevers in my heart,

Still possible those happy meetings seem,—
Till, stung by memory's sudden power, I start-
And tears and anguish chase the mocking dream!

But THOU!-Ah! turn thee not in grief away,
I do not wish thy soul as sadly wrung—
I know the freedom of thy spirit's play,

I know thy bounding heart is fresh and young:

I know corroding Time will slowly break

The links which bound most fondly and most fast,
And Hope will be Youth's comforter, and make
The long bright Future overweigh the Past.

Only, when full of tears I raise mine eyes
And meet thine ever full of smiling light,
I feel as though thy vanished sympathies
Were buried in HIS grave, where all is night;
And when beside our lonely hearth I sit,

And thy light laugh comes echoing to my ear,
I wonder how the waste of mirth and wit

Hath still the power thy widowed heart to cheer! Bear with me yet! Mine is a harsh complaint! And thy youth's innocent light-heartedness Should rather soothe me when my spirits faint,

Than seem to mock my age's lone distress. Yet oh! the tide of grief is swelling high,

And if so soon forgetfulness must be―

If, for the DEAD, thou hast no further sigh,

Weep for his Mother!-Weep, young Bride, for ME!

Ir is the belief of the benevolent that even the devil may be painted in shadow; we have, therefore, some hope of winning the charity of our readers for Sheepskin of Clement's-inn: appearances may at first be against him, but feeling that that adroit person has more than an average share of mistakes to answer for, we hasten to declare that, no matter for the number or the condition of the tenants on the Hyacinth estate, their occupancy was entirely without his consent or knowledge. At the outset of our narrative, we explained the true motives of Cupid, the dog-surely, Sheepskin of Clement's-inn, deserves no less consideration. It is true, that the attorney had suffered the houses to fall into decay,—this, we cannot deny: but again, for this, he doubtless had his own especial reasons. Possibly, in the course of our story, these may be developed. We have now to speak of the immediate neighbours and fellow-lodgers-yes, fellow-lodgers-of Isaac Peppercorn.

The bill of charges presented to our traveller, although seeming monstrous to his simplicity, must at once have struck the reader-for we like to fix the attention through the pocket-as belonging to a happier time than the times we live in. Yes; they were of the golden age, when innkeepers had consciences; every generation of men-it is the comfortable creed of many excellent moralists-improving in wickedness on its predecessor. At what point of degradation the sins of Adam are to stop, remains a curious matter of uncertainty. As a philosopher has given in his firm conviction that man originally emerged from the innocency of an oyster, possibly he is destined to proceed through inuumerable changes, until all the human race shall merge into boa constrictors. Sorry are we to add, that we have known persons, who, although walking erect, and smiling, and looking like the sons of men, did, nevertheless, by certain moral sinuosities, not provided for by the statutes, very strongly fortify the theory;-men, whose vox humana sounded like a hiss, and who, fair and smooth without, had, it was plain, scale armour within. However, in the time of George the Second, there were no such men; or if there were, they were engaged against the Pretender, whose final defeat preceded only a short time the journey of our hero to London. In those days, there were vagabonds.

We love vagabonds-we confess it, we have a kindly yearning towards the knavish faculty-the antic cunning-the adroit wisdom that lives upon the outskirts of life,-and, having altogether shirked what legislators call the social compact, having from the cradle protested against the impression of a tacit consent to the dull forms of sober men, "clothe the back and fill the maw" from the weakness, the credulity, or the vanity of those who think and dub themselves the grave, wise elders! Your real, quick-blooded, genial vagabond is the arabesque of life, and much do we lament the doings of that mischievous spirit of

Continued from p. 257,

utility that with a brush, dripping white-wash, has put it out. Now, all is uniform, and all is blank-even the faded colours of the past do not show through. Now, as the French king mournfully said, "we are all gentlemen." Seventy, sixty, years ago, there were professed vagabonds-exquisite rascals-with whom Agamemnon might have drunk purl and shared an onion. Again-the painful fact must have found its way to every reflecting man-how miserably have we fallen in the articles of footpads and highwaymen though it is some consolation that in swindlers we have advanced a little. But only glance at the Old Bailey records of our times. Can anything be more mean, more squalid? There are now no great men on the road: to be sure, science now offers obstructions; it being more difficult to stop a passenger on a railway than on Hounslow. Still, our thieves have much degenerated; whilst, sixty years ago, men made their bow at Tyburn, whom, as Englishmen, we ought ever to be proud of. Turn where we will, we see the evil of respectability-we hate the very word, as Falstaff hated "lime." It has carried its white-wash into every corner of the land— it has made weak and insipid the "wine of life." Look at our players-are they the men they were? In these times, an actor is waited upon by, say two, or three, or four bailiffs: well, for the sake of his respectability, he quietly gets bail, the world losing a lively enjoyment of the circumstance. Now, when Weston or Shuter, we forget which, fell into the hands of the sheriff, the captive, seated in the front row of the gallery, loudly proclaimed his difficulty to the audience, at the same time requesting tender treatment of the catchpoles, they having permitted him to come to see the play. When shall we hear of Liston, or even Macready, doing as much? No; there is now nothing picturesque in life. We have caught the wild Indian, deprived him of his beads, his feathers, and his cloak of skins; we have put him into a Quaker's suit without buttons-and behold, the once mighty chief Great Sword is fallen into Mr. Respectable Man! We have now no character at all: it may seem a paradox-but our respectability has destroyed it.

Happily, our story does not belong to these drab-coloured times; and our preface to the present chapter, though long, will not, we trust, in the sequel appear impertinent. We must repeat, Mr. Peppercorn was "at home," and had his fellow-lodgers and his neighbours, Sheepskin being "innocent of the knowledge." To proceed with our history.

The landlord, with some difficulty, groped his way along the passage; and ascending a few stairs, a dim light through a mud-encrusted window directed him to an apartment on the first floor. He entered the room, and started at the sight of various articles of furniture, not of the most costly kind, but of the first utility. There was a truckle-bed with a blanket or two-a deal table-and the ruins of a chair. "Belonged to the Dutchman, no doubt," thought Peppercorn; and then he rubbed his hands, and showed his stumps of teeth, and crowed aloud"Ha! ha! Here-here's evidence against Sheepskin-evidence of occupancy. Why, if there ar'n't coals in the grate! ha ha! This," and the landlord was in a glow of delight, "this is enough to hang him." The darkness increased, when Peppercorn pulled forth his tinder-box-the lawyer was to send the bed and stool-and, taking a rushlight from his pocket, placed it in a bottle, left by lucky chance

upon the table. In a minute the taper was lighted, and Peppercorn ere he proceeded to take a view of the house, sat, his hands upon his knees, meditating upon the general iniquity of man, and upon the wickedness of Sheepskin in particular. We know not how long he might have dwelt upon the fertile theme, had not a simple monosyllable from an inhuman voice lifted him up, as though by lighted gunpowder. "Well!" The word, it will be allowed, is not much-but it was the time, the tone in which it was uttered, and the person who uttered it, that made it terrible. The word was barked rather than spoken by a miserable wretch in rags, whose face was a striking illustration of the force of love of mothers-nothing less could have saved him from smothering. Peppercorn's under jaw dropped like a trap-door, as he stared upon the speaker; who, surveying the landlord from head to foot, continued, "I say, old three-corners, I suppose you think yourself at home?"

"Eh? Why, yes," said Peppercorn, after a great effort.

"You do, do you? Well, we shall see about "-here the speaker fixed his eye upon the bottle, made two strides to it, looked at it with the eye of a Dutch water-doctor, then threw a glance of reproach at Peppercorn, and said in a pathetic under-tone, prefacing the statement with an oath, "there was half a pint in it when the beak sent me to oakum."

"To oakum," whispered Peppercorn, for surprise had stolen his voice, surprise at the arrival of his visiter, that morning only-we will not disguise the fact-returned from a short retirement in Bridewell.

"Never mind-all's right, you know," said the ragged, dirty, uncombed philosopher; "all's right, you know," and he slapped Peppercorn violently on the shoulder to convince him, an unbeliever, of the fact-"you'll do what's onorable ?"

"I!" exclaimed Peppercorn, as if quite unaccustomed to any such conduct.

"Ha! So you've come among us, eh?" continued the stranger, with growing affability.

"I-I think it was time; I wish I'd come a long time ago," said the landlord.

"Dare say you do; capital family, ar'n't we? How did you find us out? But I shall know. And what's your lay? Oh, I see; lord, that I shouldn't have known old Pattison, the letter-writer, at once? Well, you've dodged 'em a good many years, old fellow, and I onor you. But how's all the boys ?" Peppercorn was quite bewildered. you seen the general here o' late?"

"Have

"And does a general live in this house?" asked Peppercorn. "This house! Why, haven't we all the run of the row? I mean General Pompey and tell us, how's little Nick, the pieman; and how goes on the cards of old Dogstar, the conjuror? And how's Flittermouse, the showman; and what's become of Muzzleby,--is he here still, and where's the bear?" And the inquirer, such was his anxiety for his late companions and friends, continued to lengthen the list, summing up with an emphatic-"how are they all?"

"All in these houses!" exclaimed Peppercorn, in a tone mistaken by his hearer, for he replied, with fervent satisfaction,

"All's right as my leg, then, still!"

"And they-they keep a bear here?" cried Peppercorn.

"What! haven't you seen him? he used to sleep in the next room,” Peppercorn jumped aside; "but I-I liked to have my private thoughts sometimes; so I got Muzzleby to put him into the drawing-room of number nine. But I say," and the speaker here became serious, “you must be off out of this."

"I must ?" and Peppercorn was nearly betrayed into an avowal of his true dignity.

"To be sure you must-honour among thieves, you know. This has been my crib these three years."

"Pray, do you happen to know Mr. Sheepskin, lawyer, of Clement'sinn ?" asked the landlord.

"Not the pleasure," said the tenant, and began to whistle, we presume a thanksgiving.

"He is, as I hear, agent to this estate. In all the time you have inhabited this room-charming room "-and Peppercorn spoke, as with the cholic-" charming room,-bas▬▬❞

"There's bigger ones; but I like this because of the prospect; there's a steeple I don't know how many miles off; and a steeple's always something to look at," said the vagabond with an eye to the picturesque.

"Has Mr. Sheepskin ever shown himself among you?"

"An old man like you! ar'n't you ashamed of yourself to ask such a thing? A lawyer, and come among us! When do you think he'd get out agin ?"

"And I have my papers in my pocket," thought Peppercorn, and he turned pale at the recollection. The stranger observed the transition; and, mistaking its cause, put his hand upon the landlord's arm, who shook at the touch, and said, "No, no, don't you be afeard of your company; we wouldn't kill him by no means; no, no, we'd find him in lodging, that's all; 'cause you see, if he or the landlord was to know how many happy families live here for nothing'

"I thought how many might live here half an hour," thought Peppercorn to himself, but did not add "for nothing."

"There is no doubt at all, that they'd be hard-hearted enough to send us all packing. No, if we was to catch the lawyer here, we'd give him a cellar for life; perhaps, we'd put him along with the bear."

"Not with my bear," said a third party, entering, and the speaker was no less than Muzzleby himself, who, it appeared, was no other than the individual who had, in a preceding scene, advertised himself as dancingmaster to young Hyacinth. "No lawyer with my bear," said he; “I've a love for the animal, and it wouldn't be a fair match," Having said this, the bear-leader welcomed the gentleman from Bridewell home again as for Peppercorn, he was considered to have been introduced to the hospitalities of the estate by the late worker in oakum, and the rapid arrival of persons (by a secret back entrance) into the house prevented any particular inquiry. Peppercorn gasped, and the marrow in his bones turned cold at every new footstep.

"The general will be here," said Muzzleby, "and we shall have such a supper!"

"A supper!" and the late prisoner rubbed his hands, and glared like

an ogre.

"A supper !" groaned Peppercorn, and cast his eyes towards the ceiling.