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the happiest day of her life-it was the birth-day of her child; and though she had since mourned over the grave of a kind husband, yet, when the day came round, the heart of Agnes still renewed her hymn of gratitude to God.

That day twelve months past had been the day which the mother had fixed upon for the wedding of her son. "It was the happiest day of my life, George," said he, "and I would have it the happiest day of yours; and if God spare me to see your Peggy as blest a mother as I have been, then may I say, 'Lord now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." Thus, with his mother's blessing warm at his heart, and happiness brightening every feature, did the youth ful bridegroom quit his parent's roof. He was to return in the evening with his bride, who was henceforward to be the inmate of his mother's dwelling. The widow had no fears or misgivings as to the worth or excellency of George's wife, for she had known and loved her from a child; and the first wish of her heart had been, that George should marry pretty Peggy Burns.

The daylight had long passed away, and more than once had widow Gray trimmed the fire, and looked with pride and pleasure at the well-furnished room which was to be the abode of her new daughter. The hours passed by, and still they did not come: Oh, what could stay them now? And for the first time alarm arose in the mother's heart.

She

took her seat beside the fire, and tried to read her Bible, but her heart throbbed and fluttered so, it was in vain. At last she heard a noise, her ears could not be deceived-it was their footsteps on the stair. She hurried to the door with a light, a man, indeed, stood there: but the light fell upon the face of a stranger. "Who are you?" said the agitated mother. "Why do I see you here? My God! has any thing happened to my boy? Whose are those voices that I hear below?" And she would have rushed past him, but he caught her arm. "Come into the house," said the compassionate stranger, "and I will tell you all."-" Oh, I know it all already!" said the mother; "my boy, my boy is gone!"-"No, he is not dead; believe me, my poor woman, your son lives, but he has been severely hurt, and they are now bringing him here at his own desire. I have dressed his wound, and perhaps" -The mother heard not what he said she remained fixed to the spot-her eyes raised to heaven-her heart in silent prayer, as if imploring God for strength to bear

her misery. It was indeed a sight to harrow up the soul; her brave, her beautiful boy, was now brought back to his mother's house, and laid upon the bed, pale, bleeding, and almost lifeless. He was supported by the surgeon and some of the bridal party, whilst his poor Peggy pressed close to his side, her face as white as her bridal garments.

The mother asked not a question, but the facts were soon made known by those around her. Her son had arrived within a few paces of his father-in-law's door, when his attention was attracted to the opposite side of the street, by the screams of a young girl, apparently struggling to disengage herself from the rude attack of two young men. He stopt for a moment, but persuading himself they were only claiming the privilege of Hansel Monday, to obtain a kiss from a pretty girl, he prepared to hurry on to his own appointment. A second appeal for help, however, in a voice of unequivocal terror and supplication, rendered him ashamed of his momentary selfishness, and thinking of his own Peggy, he flew to the assistance of the poor girl. Forcibly seizing the arm of the most troublesome of the two ruffians, he enabled the girl to make her escape; but at that moment, the other young man turning upon George threw him head foremost with all his force against the iron lamp-post. The blow was fatally severe, and he lay at their feet bleeding and senseless. A party of the wedding guests were the first to observe him, and come to his assistance; he was carried into the house of his Peggy's father, and it was some time before he uttered a word. At last he opened his eyes, and as Peggy hung over him, he pressed her hand, and faintly uttered, "Let them carry me to my mother." After a while, however, he recovered so far, as to be able to give some account of what had happened. The surgeon who had been called in, having now made his appearance, the poor young man again petitioned to be taken to his mother's house; and seeing that quiet was not to be obtained where he was, the surgeon agreed to his immediate removal.

All now having quitted the house of Mrs. Gray, except the surgeon and poor Peggy, the mother, with trembling hands, assisted to undress her son, and stood by while he was bled. The doctor now saw him laid quiet, and proposed to leave them for the night. He had given no hope-he had said nothing, and the unhappy widow dared not to ask a question, for she read in his face the sentence of her son's death. Next morning, George desired to see the surgeon alone, and after conversing with him for some noments, he sent for Peggy. They reinained for some time together, and when the mother entered the room, the poor girl was seated by the bed, holding the hand of her lover, paler if possible than before, but still, and silent, as death itself.

"Mother, I have been telling Peggy what I need not tell you, for I saw you knew how it would be, when you laid me on this bed. And now, dear mother, I have only one wish, and that is to see our good minister, and once more hear his voice in prayer. -Oh! I hoped to have seen him perform an office far different from this! but the Lord's will be done." The good man came, and after a few words to the afflicted mother, he seated himself by the bed of her son. Peggy now rose for the first time, and taking the widow aside, she said some words in a low and earnest voice, but at that moment the minister called to them to kneel round George's bed, and then he prayed aloud with all the fervour of a feeling and a pious heart. His were indeed the words of eternal life, and as he poured out his spirit in prayer, this world, with all its sins and its sorrows, faded from their eyes.

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The holy man now arose, and would have left them, but Peggy, starting forward, laid her hand upon his arm with a look of earnest supplication, and tried to speak, but the effort was too much for her, and the mother then advanced to explain her wishes. "If you think there is naething wrang in it, sir, Peggy wishes to be made the wife of my poor boy." The minister looked at the dying man, and shook his head. Peggy knows that, sir," said widow Gray; "she knows he has not many hours to live, but yet it is natural for her to wish-And then her father could let her live with me." " And then, " said Peggy, rousing herself to speak, "Oh! then, sir, I would be laid in" She could not say the word, but George, clasping her hand, added, "In my grave, Peggy, it is that you would say. God bless you, dearest, for the wish." The good man made no further objection, and their hands were now joined in wedlock. George's strength supported him through the sacred ceremony, and when the clergyman pronounced them man and wife, he opened his arms, received her to his bosom, and saying, "God bless my Peggy," he expired.

Such was the story which the children had heard from their nurse soon after it had happened, Since then they had

frequently visited the widow and her daughter, for Peggy had never left her mother-in-law. Though poor now, they were not altogether destitute, and the young widow added to their little stock, by taking in plain work. This was all she was able for. She had always been a delicate girl; and now sorrow, though quietly endured, was making deep inroads in her feeble frame. The cold of winter had borne hard upon Peggy, and when Beaty now saw her seated by the poor old woman, she felt that it would be difficult to sav whether the ripe fruit or the blighted flower was likely to be soonest taken. The children, with instinctive feeling, had hid their toys in Beaty's mantle as they ascended the stair. "Do not let poor Peggy see our playthings, to put her in mind of Hansel Monday," said litle William. Poor things, it was kindly meant; but Hansel Monday was written in Peggy's heart in characters too deep to be ever effaced from it. As they softly entered, they found the widow seated by the fire; her wheel, for that day, was laid aside; while Peggy sat beside her with her open bible upon her knee, apparently reading to her. "Do not let me interrupt you, Peggy," said the nurse; "our visit must be very short, but my bairns have brought Agnes and yourself some little things to shew their good-will, for they well know it is not what this world can now bestow that is any thing to you." "That is true," said Peggy, clasping her bible to her breast, "this book is my best treasure; and oh! may these dear bairns feel it to be such, even in their young days of happiness andjoy! So may God spare them the sore lesson He saw fit that I should learn; yet sweet are the uses of adversity." - "Yes," said the old woman, "Peggy doesna mean to murmur. And do not, dear children, amongst all the happy faces you have seen to-day, think that God has forgotten us. No; he has made his face to shine upon us in all our sorrow, and filled our hearts with peace, and hope, and joy! Poor Peggy had but one care when she rose this morning, and felt how weak she was; and even that is now removed, for both our good minister, and your dear mother, have been here to-day, and they have promised Peggy that if it pleased the Lord that she should join him that's gone, before his poor old mother does, they will take care of her. So now her poor heart is at rest, and we can both wait for God's good time in peace." The children now bestowed their little gifts, and received the blessing of the widow

and her daughter. Their little hearts were full, and the tears stood in their bright eyes when they departed. But at their age, such tears may purify, but do not long sadden, the heart.

Blackwood's Mag.

TOM STUMP.-(A STREET CIRCULAR.) (For the Olio.)

He holds the broom of palm-ability.

Like Widdrington in Chevy Chase,
Who fought in doleful dumps,'
Tom lost the standards of his race,
And found his stand hard stumps.

To make an honest penny, he
An organ play'd around;
And safely from the dangerous sea,
Existed by the Sound.

"

going through the cloisters. Pray, why do you suffer the schooiboys to chalk the stones all over? I have been spelling pudding, grease, lard, kitchen-stuff, and know what all." - Catling. "Why, thereby hangs a tail: do you know that the Dean married a woman?" -Nollekens. "Well, so he ought; the clergy are allowed to marry now-a-days; it is not as it was formerly: you know I have been at Rome, and know enough about their customs." Here Mr. Catling gave Mr. Nollekens an admonitary pinch upon the elbow, for at that moment the Bishop was passing through Poet's Corner from the Deanery, on his way to the House of Lords. Nollekens. "What does he carry that blue-bag with him for?"-Catling. "It contains his papers upon the business of the day."Nollekens. "Oh! now you talk of papers, Mrs. Nollekens bid me to ask you where Ashburnham House is, that held the Cotton papers, I think it was."Catling. Your good lady means the Cottonian Manuscripts, Sir; it is in Little Dean's-yard, on the north side; it has a stone entrance, designed by Inigo Jones, and is now inhabited by Doctor Bell, who was Chaplain to the Princess Amelia." -"Oh! I know, he was robbed by Sixteen-string Jack, in Gunnersburylane; thank ye. And she wants to know what you've done with the wooden figures, with wax masks, all in silk tatters, that the Westminster boys called the Ragged Regiment: she says they was always carried before the corpse formerly."-Catling. "Why, we had them all out the other day, for John Carter and young Smith to draw from; they are put up in those very narrow closets, between our wax figures of Queen Elizabeth and Lord Chatham in his robes, in Bishop Islip's A CONVERSATION IN WESTMINS- Chapel; where you have seen the stained

But keys were flat, -the notes were old,
For sharper cheer he sought;
He changed his tune, the organ sold,
And nat'ral this he thought.

He sweeps the cross roads void of hurt,
A hero staked and bold;

His stumps will sometimes catch the dirt,
But never catch a cold.

He's hand and glove with MR. BIRCH
That guards his post with ease;
And though he prays not oft at church,
Rests daily on his knees.

Morning and noon's the sweeper's prime,
'Tis then his callings thrive;
True to his beat, Tom keeps his time,
And time keeps Tom alive.

Hard by the 'Angel's' painted face
He braves the rain and wind;
And few possess such sweeping grace,
Leaving" no trace behind."

TER ABBEY.

P.

MR. NOLLEKENS, during the time his men were moulding parts of monuments in Westminster Abbey, had the following conversation with the late Mr. John Catling, the Verger, to the great amusement of my father, who was also present. Mr. Nollekens.." Why, Mr. Catling, you seem to be as fond of the Abbey, as I am of my models by Michael Angelo. My man, Finny, tells me you was born in it."-Catling. "No, not in the Abbey, I was born in the tower, on the right hand, just before you enter into the little cloisters." - Nollekens.

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Oh! I know; there's some steps to go up, and a wooden rail to hold by. Now, I wonder you don't lose that silver thing that you carry before the Dean, when you are

glass of a boy slipping down a tree, a slip of a tree, and the eye slipping out of its socket." - Nollekens. "What! where the Poll-Parrot is? I wonder you keep such stuff: why, at Antwerp, where my father was born, they put such things in silks outside in the streets. I don't mind going to Mrs. Salmon's Wax-work, in Fleet-street, where Mother Shipton gives you a kick as you are going out. Oh, dear! you should not have such rubbish in the Abbey and then for you to take money for this foolish thing, and that foolish thing, so that nobody can come in to see the fine works of art, without being bothered with Queen Catherine's bones, the Spanish Ambassador's coffin, the Lady who died by pricking her finger, and that nasty cap of General Monk's you beg of people to put money into, just like the

money-box that I recollect they used to put down from the Gate-house. You had better tell Mr. Dean to see that the monuments don't want dusting, and to look after the Westminster boys, and not let them break the ornaments off to play at sconce with in the cloisters. Now, at Rome, and all other churches abroad, a man may go in and draw; but here he must write and wait, and be brought up like a criminal before the Dean. Why, do you know, I have been told that Stothard, one of our Academicians, had a great deal of trouble with the man; and then he talked about the proper fees! Bless my heart! it's very bad!"*-Catling. My good sir, you are very severe with us this morning. Let me ask you what would become of the gentlemen of the choir, and myself, as well as the Dean, if we did not take money?"-Nollekins. "What's become of that curious old picture that used to hang, when I was a boy, next to the pulpit?"-Catling. "You mean the whole-length portrait of King Richard II. in his robes that is now put up in the Jerusalem Chamber in the Deanery; I have a print of it by Carter."-Nollekens. "My mother had one by Vertue: she was acquainted with him, and at that time he lived in Brownlow street, Drury-lane. Well, and what has become of Queen Catherine's bones?" Catling. "Oh, the remains of her bones have been gone long ago!"

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They were now interrupted by old Gayfere, the Abbey-mason, who exclaimed, as he came toddling on, Ah, Mr. Nollekens, are you here?"-Nollekens. "Here! yes; and why do you suffer that Queen Anne's altar to remain here, in a gothic building? send it back to Whitehall, where it came from. And why don't you keep a better look out, and not suffer the fingers of figures and the noses of bustos to be knocked off by them Westminster boys?"- Gayfere. "Why, what an ungrateful little man you are! don't it give you a job now and then? did not Mr. Dolben have a new nose put upon Camden's face the

• When all the demands for viewing the various curiosities of Westminster Abbey are added together, the sum will amount to a lit. tle more now than it did one hundred and fifty-one years ago, as can be proved by a reference to Peacham's truly interesting tract, entitled, "The Worth of a Penny," published in the year 1667, in which the author says:"For a penny, you may hear a most eloquent oration upon our English Kings and Queens, if, keeping your hands off, you will serionsiy listen to David Owen, who keeps the monuments in Westminster."

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other day at his own expense? I believe I told you that I carried the rods when Fleetcraft measured the last work at the north tower when the Abbey was finished." -Nollekens. - "There's the bell tolling; Oh, no, it's the quarters; I used to hear them when I was in the Abbey working with my master Scheemakers. There's a bird flying!"-Gayfere. "A bird? ay, you may see a hundred birds; they come in at the broken panes of glass."-Nollekens. "Here comes Mr. Champneys. Well, you have been singing at St. Paul's, and now you are come to sing here: why don't you put a little more powder in your wig? why its as brown as my maid Bronze's skin now is that's what is called a Busby, an't it?"-Champneys. "It is, Mr. Nollekens. Pray how is Mrs. Nollekens? I was once a beau of hers."-Nollekens. "Oh dear! I was looking at his monument, to see if it was the same wig, but he has a cap on."-Champneys. "That's a fine monument, Mr. Nollekens."Nollekens. "Yes, a very good one; it was done by Bird. Mrs. Nollekens says he was fond of flogging the Westminster boys." Champneys. It is said so, Our friend Roberts, of the Exchequer, has Busby's house at Ealing, where Busby's Walk still remains, on which the Doctor used to exercise of a morning, to 'wash his lungs, as he used to say."Eollekens. "What have you done with the old gothic pulpit?"-Catling. has been conveyed to our vestry, the Chapel of St. Blaize, south of Poet's Corner; a very curious part of the Abbey, not often shewn-did you ever see it? it's very dark; there is an ancient picture, on the east wall, of a figure, which can be made out tolerably well, after the eye is accustomed to the dimness of the place. Did you ever notice the remaining colours of the curious little figure that was painted on the tomb of Chaucer ?" -Nollekens. "No, that's not at all in my way." "Pray, Mr. Nollekens," asked Mr. Champneys, " can you give me the name of the Sculptor who executed the basso-relievo of Townsend's monument? I have applied to several of my friends among the artists, but I have never been able to obtain it: in my opinion, the composition and style of carving are admirable; but I am sorry to find that some evil-minded person has stolen one of the heads."-Nollekens. "That's what I say. Dean Horsley should look after the monuments himself. Hang his wax-works! Yes, I can tell you who did it. Tom Carter had the job, and he employed another man of the name of

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"My heart is too full," said Osborne, " or I would resent your gibes; come with me, Sir, I command you, for I have much need of your assistance." The constable was about to reply, when one of those who had witnessed the encounter acquainted him with what had passed, particularly the Captain's dying confession.

"Oh, oh!" cried the man in autho rity," that alters the case, 'tis a foul conspiracy to defraud an honest gentleman. I am ready to attend ye, Sir."

"Then on to the Bridge-street," said Osborne; and the whole party proceeded thither. On arriving at the house, Osborne, together with the constable and his fellows, were admitted. The chest mentioned by the captain was quickly forced, and the first object that presented itself was the forged will. Osborne emptied the contents of the chest, which chiefly consisted of papers, and to his great joy, discovered the will his father had made, but it was not witnessed. Old Martha beheld this scene with mute surprise; while Osborne waited impatiently for his brother's return. In a short time, a loud knocking was heard at the door, and on its being opened, Edward entered. Without knowing of his brother's return, he abruptly strode into the apartment where Osborne and the constable were waiting. He started on beholding them, and in a voice of mingled surprise and displeasure, welcomed his brother.

"Edward Wyvill," said Osborne, “I know thee well, do not attempt to deceive me. I know my presence troubles

+ In 1762, the above artist, Mr. John Ecksteine, received from the Society of Arts, for a basso-relievo in Portland-stone, the premium of 151. 15s., and in 1764, for a basso-relievo in marble, the sum of 521. 10s. 1.

thee much, and that my return was not expected." Edward surveyed his brother from head to foot, and whether it was from the violence of his passion, which he was endeavouring to smother, or the effect of conscious guilt, his whole frame was palsied, and the fingers of his right hand, which played with the handle of his dagger, shook like the aspen.

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These are strange words, brother Osborne," replied he, " and thy bearing still more strange; it lacks of that brotherly feeling thou didst once love to boast of but," continued he, "what brings these men here? Speak, knaves, who brought ye hither ?"

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Marry, Sir, this good gentleman, your brother," said the officious constable, when Osborne interrupted him.

"Edward," said he, "I have heard of thy misdeeds during my absence, and much does it grieve me to act in the manner I am now forced to do. I always thought thee wild and turbulent, but never did I consider thee capable of doing a deed so black as that thou art guilty of. I see thine eye flash, and thy lip quiver; nay, speak not till I have shewn thee the instrument you and your confederate have forged." As he uttered these words, he drew the forged will from his bosom, and held it up. Edward regarded it for some moments with a fixed stare, while his brother cried, "See, here is thy infernal contrivance to rid me of my just heritage."

"Liar!" shouted Edward, springing forward, "dost thou doubt that document? Does it not bear thy father's sig. nature; and is it not witnessed in due form?"

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Thy father never saw this parchment," said Osborne, firmly; "'tis thine own writing, and he who witnessed it was bribed for the purpose."

"Ah!" cried Edward, while his countenance grew deadly pale, and every limb quivered with emotion. " Osborne, thy art will not avail thee; I'll seek the gentleman who witnessed my father's will." He was about to leave the room, when the constable and his men interposed.

"What," cried Edward, in a voice of thunder, "am I a prisoner in my own house? make room, varlets, or by heaven!"

"Profane not that word," interrupted Osborne, "thou goest not hence; guard well the door-and know, thou heartless son of a fond and indulgent father, that the wretched man who aided thee in thy villany sleeps in death: I slew him not half an hour hence, and he confessed that"

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