Firm as the monarch of the woods, at bay,
His flashing eyes and roaring seem'd to say,
"Furor fit læsa sæpius patientia,

Come on, ye braggart hinds; your valour shew,
Whate'er the numbers of your clamorous crew,
By great Osiris I'll no longer blench ye."
They fled in turn; for though the butcher feels
No dread of danger at a bullock's heels,
But all his bellowing and kicking scorns;
Yet if the brute resolves to bear the brunt,
And shows the terrors of his lordly front,
Not one in ten admires to face his horns.

Uncle (his thoughts recall'd from things above)
Not an iota from his cart would move;
For "watch and pray

was his unvaried maxim.

The ox surveys indignantly around,

And, finding one who still maintains his ground,
Darts to the spot, and furiously attacks him.

The fugitives return'd the sport to see,
Judging that Nunky's utmost risk would be
Slight bruises or prostration in the mud;

But, 'stead of mirth, it proved a tragic fray,
Writhing in death the mangled victim lay,
Trampled and gored, and weltering in his blood.
Scarce had the hapless mortal breathed his last,
When straight a youth, distracted and aghast,
Rush'd through the pitying crowd: "It is!" he cried,
"It is my honour'd uncle! cruel fate,

He is no more! I have arrived too late To gain his parting blessing ere he died!" So natural, so frantic was his grief,

Every spectator held a firm belief

That he sincerely mourn'd his murder'd kinsman;
But, reader, (entre nous.) to tell the truth,
In spite of all his well-dissembled ruth,

The harden'd rascal did not care two pins, man.

"Call me a coach!" the vile impostor bawl'd;

"Call me a coach!" Forthwith a coach was call'd,
Which, when the quick and dead were placed within it,
Drove from the fatal spot with rapid pace,
Leaving full many a sympathizing face,
Hied o'er the bridge, and vanish'd in a minute.
Meanwhile at home the senior nephew wrought,
Grave as a tomb, nor e'er of mischief thought,
Humming a hymn, his daily task to cheer;

But, borne on rumour's wings, the tidings spread,
And ere 'twas night, the words, " Your uncle's dead,"
From twenty mouths were echo'd in his ear.

Not Brutus, when he breathed his stern decree,
Display'd more stoic equanimity,

Or firmness, to behold his offspring die,

Than he, when first the melancholy tale
His neighbours told;-his spirits did not fail,
Nor did he shed one tear, nor heave one sigh.
"Twas thought by some religious resignation;
But no; his grief was curb'd by exultation,

That he should quit the labours of his stall.
The accident made his advancement sure;
To him, by right of primogeniture,
His uncle's end secured his uncle's all.

When by condoling gossips left alone,

Straight to the house, which now he call'd his own, He sped to wait his brother's sad approach,

Hour after hour towards the street he gazed, And each succeeding hour was more amazed ;There came nor brother, message, corpse, nor coach. In sable weeds, belied by cheerful breast, Of opulence and leisure now possest, Leather and tools he hasten'd to resign.

His coarser food, which toil had long made sweet, Was changed for daintiest poultry, fish, and meat : And sour small beer for generous ale and wine. Of all My Uncle's friends there was but one Who felt severe regret that he was gone; He drew a face as long as any quaker,

To lose a friend he 'd known for many a year,
Nor will you doubt his sorrow was sincere ;
I'll tell you why-he was an undertaker.

Three weeks had Crispin pass'd in fruitless search,
Ranging the capital from church to church,
Curious where Uncle was interr'd to know;
At length one morning as he sipp'd his tea
Snugly at home, he was surprized to see
His scapegrace brother in the garb of woe.
The reprobate felt all his courage drop;

For though, when driven to seek his brother's shop,
Whate'er reproof he met he stoutly bore it;
Yet such command can affluence assume,

That now, in entering that same brother's room, He fear'd his discipline, and shrunk before it.

He look'd just like a disobedient hound
That droops his tail and crouches on the ground,
In dread of kick, or stripe, or such disaster,

When nature, 'stead of education, following,
With currish appetite he has been swallowing
The game he should have brought unto his master.
At length this adage to his mind arose ;
That whether men contend by words or blows,
"He who first speaks or strikes, 'tis odds he wins."
Therefore, anticipating the assault,

He promised to refrain from future fault,
And to atone for all his former sins.

The welcome, but unhoped-for, protestation
Dispell'd at once his brother's indignation,
Who said (and kindly hugg'd him to his breast,)
That if he proved his penitence sincere,
He would esteem his friendship doubly dear,
And all the past should in oblivion rest.

Nor did his love stop here; the generous heir
Promised his convert should his fortune share;
Then with a soothing air, and voice pathetic,
(While tête-à-tête o'er their repast they sat,
Mingling inquiry with familiar chat,)
Commenced this conversation catechetic.

SENIOR.

"I hope you'll make a hearty breakfast, brother;
Where have you been since last we saw each other?
(Take some more ham) and, pr'ythee, let me ask
Why was not Uncle's body home convey'd,
That when his relics in the earth were laid,
I might have shared the melancholy task?”
JUNIOR.

"Brother, your proffer'd reconciliation
Precludes concealment or prevarication ;
Let not th' acknowledgment your love decrease ;
'Twas to secure his jewels, watch, and cash,
That I might revel, drink, and cut a dash,
While they supplied me with a single piece.

And that my sense of grief might seem acute,
I sold his watch to buy this mourning suit."

SENIOR.

"I thank your frankness; but have still to crave That you his place of burial will make known; And we will raise a monumental stone,

To tell his hapless end, and mark his grave."

JUNIOR.

"First let me trespass on your condescension, By owning one more cause of his detention."

SENIOR.

"With all my heart; I'll gladly hear you out.
Only inform me where his bones repose;
And whatsoever follies you disclose,

They all shall be forgiven, you need not doubt."
JUNIOR.

"Hoping, although my uncle bleeding lay,
That life remain'd, I hurried him away,

With all the speed two well-flogg'd hacks could muster; Nor could I count ten minutes from his fall

Ere he was laid within an hospital,

With twenty surgeons round him in a cluster."

""Twas kind!"

SENIOR.

JUNIOR.

"I thought, if death he could elude,

I should insure his lasting gratitude,

And gain some solid proofs of his affection.
But all their efforts fail'd-his soul had fled !
So, finding him irrevocably dead ”—

"Alas! and then?"

SENIOR.

JUNIOR.

"I SOLD HIM FOR DISSECTION."

THE GAOL CHAPLAIN:

OR, A DARK PAGE FROM LIFE'S VOLUME.

CHAPTER XXV.

"SILENT: BUT, AH! HOW SAD!"

Nay, dally not with time, the wise man's treasure,
Though fools are lavish on't-the fatal fisher
Hooks souls, while we waste moments.

SIR WALTER SCOTT

My promise had been given: and, however painful its performance, I fulfilled it. An inquest had been held. A verdict, "Died from natural causes," had been returned: and an hour fixed by the gaoler for interment. But in the interim my wishes had been conveyed to him, and had received attention. I looked on Winifred for the last time. I paused, involuntarily, upon that countenance which not a few of the young and the credulous had so often watched, studied, and feared. Its aspect was remarkable. The deep furrows of age had entirely disappeared. The lines, harsh and marked, with which care, sorrow, and the habitual indulgence of evil passions, had indented her commanding features, were singularly subdued and softened; and her appearance as she lay in the solemn grasp of death betokened not the woman of fourscore, but one who had barely reached the boundary of fifty years.

That the final separation had taken place there was ample evidence. The priceless spirit had departed; why, then, was my gaze riveted on the forsaken shrine?

It seemed to speak of the distant and invisible. There was on the brow a frown of deep and unutterable despair, which, methought, bore tidings of terrible import. There was on the pale features an air of dismay, distress, and surprise, which, if I read it rightly, was fraught with fearful meaning. Of gloom and horror there was much; but nothing which could be construed into a look of freedom, happiness, and rest.

I thought of her last frightful burst of merriment. Memory called up that outbreak of scornful mirth with which she had met and combated my suggestions. I seemed again to hear its chilling echo, and I gladly turned away. But busy thought would not be baffled.

If, I mused, the departed remember aught of earth, that interview will recur to her. She will recal its tenor, and comprehend its meaning. Her spirit will quail beneath its oppressive remembrance when she and laughter shall have long been strangers!

CHAPTER XXVI.

AN ILL-USED OFFICIAL.

"Well, Chiffinch," said the Duke, "let them drive on. Vogue la Galere! I've sailed through worse perils than this yet.""It is not for me to judge," said Chiffinch; your Grace is a bold commander, and Christian hath the cunning of the devil for a pilot; but However, I remain your Grace's poor friend, and will neartily rejoice in your extrication."-Peveril of the Peak.

THERE is a small, but, I fear, increasing community amongst us, who may be called "The care-and-grief-promoters." Not content with the sorrows with which disappointment, sickness, and death largely strew man's pilgrimage, they seem bent on increasing them. They never look at life through a Claude Lorraine glass. Their medium of observation is invariably sad-coloured. Every trifle ruffles them. Every passing cloud depresses them. The lightest breeze is "sure to bring disaster;" and the indisposition of an hour "likely to end in death." They are remorseless self-tormentors. With a stray member of this community few can have escaped meeting. One, a perfect specimen, I well remember in the lady of a major of her Majesty's Royal Waggon Train, whose dolorous visage, and still more dolorous language grievously perplexed her merry-hearted mate. "Behold!" was his description as she slowly rose upon his view, "a virtuous woman,' who is a crown to her husband. Here comes Mrs. Major - a pattern to her sex - who never is happy but when she is miserable!"

To this community belonged the governor of the county gaol of He was effervescing with indignation the morning I had the misfortune to encounter him.

"Have the magistrates met, Mr. Stark ?"-
"On merely routine business, I presume?"

They have, sir.”

Precisely so the usual routine business of diminishing the comforts, and paring down the perquisites of the unfortunate officials under them. The debate will be warm this morning. The new magistrate is a rare reformer. He talks of persons surrendering this claim, and abstaining from pressing that, from a sense of public duty! Admirable ! admirable! I must resign, sir; I must resign. They will drive me to it. But, the consequences be on their own head. Mr. Cleaver, I'm an ill-used man,-I'm a very ill-used man!”

His emotion tickled me. In truth I was well content that one who, in general, was so merciless to others, should, now and then, wince under the spur of authority.

"I conclude," continued the governor, "that you have heard the last new order? It nearly affects yourself."- "Indeed!"

"Strangers are to be excluded from the Chaplain's Gallery." "Ah! at whose instance ?"

"That of Mr. Trounce. He is a Puritan, it seems, as well as Reformer, and denounced the practice as indecent, unseemly, unfeeling. Loud and vehement was he. It availed him: the point was carried."

"I rejoice at it. In the gallery of a gaol chapel strange faces are an offensive anomaly. The attention of the prisoners is distracted. The object of the service, which is to turn their thoughts back upon themselves, is defeated. And, on the other hand, theirs must be