"He has just left us," replied several voices; "for his friend, the captain there, has won his last purse."

Osborne glanced scornfully at the person alluded to, who was in fact he whom we have just described.

The captain noticed it with a "you seem chafed, gentle Sir."

"Chafed!" echoed Osborne. "Yes, Sir Captain, I am grieved that my brother hath so far forgotten himself as to spend his time in dicing and drinking, to the neglect

of his business."

Osborne's blood boiled at this insult, and he answered the captain sharply.

"Sir Stranger," said he, "I can ill brook such language-bridle your tongue or your coat may suffer for your want of courtesy."

"Thou answerest like a malapert boy," replied the captain-" Mike Bradshaw hath slain his man ere now for a less word-But come," continued he, "chafe it not; I would forgive thee for thy brother's sake, who is a promising fellow, believe me;-wilt drink, my young master?" As he said this, he filled a glass, and presented it to Osborne, who, provoked at the captain's indifference, seemed too full for words, and as the latter held out the glass, he raised his arm, and dashed it to the ground.

"By buff and bilboe!" cried the captain, "thou shalt pay the forfeit of thy daring!" and springing up, he unsheathed his rapier, and called on Osborne to defend himself. Osborne's blade was

bared in an instant, and their swords crossed. The captain was well skilled in fence, and pressed hard upon his adversary, but Osborne threw aside his passes, and returned them with great skill and strength. Fortunately he had, while in Italy, received instructions from some of the most skilful masters of the art. The combat was not of long duration, for the captain, enraged at being foiled by one of such youthful appearance, fought with less caution; and Osborne, watching his opportunity, passed his rapier through the body of his adversary with such force, that the hilt struck him on the breast, and he fell heavily on the floor.

Away, y," cried several voices, on perceiving Osborne attempt to raise the body. "If thou hast a light pair of heels thou mayest save thy neck; fly to the water-side and take boat-the constable and his knaves will be here anon."

These persuasions were lost upon Osborne. They all crowded round the wounded man, who raised himself upon his elbow, and throwing back the long dark hair which overshadowed his face, he faintly articulated, -""Tis a just judgment. Come hither youth-closer still," he continued, as Osborne knelt by his side-"Mike Bradshawe is sped, but he would make some atonement for the in

jury he has helped to do thee; here," taking a bale of false dice from his

breast; "here is that which will and he threw them on the floor. bring thy brother to an end as untimely,"

"Will any of ye hasten for a surgeon?" enquired Osborne.

"'Tis of no use-none," said the dying man; "I have not long to live, but the time left me shall-Oh! I faint-thou

knowest the chest which standeth in thy late father's counting-house?"

" I do."

"Hasten thither-it contains the will -the forged will! the one thy brother made and I witnessed! possess thyself of that and" The miserable man could no longer articulate_the effort he had made to reveal his villany overpowered him-the death-rattle choked his speech-his clenched hands relaxed-his jaw fell, and the next moment he was a lifeless corpse.

Osborne stood for some moments fix

edly regarding the body of his fallen adversary, when he was aroused from his stupor by the entrance of the constable, followed by half a dozen men bearing brownbills, the usual weapons, then carried by those officers.

"Make room," said the officious constable, forcing his way into the apartment; "what," cried he, espying the corpse of the captain; "what the captain dead at last!-which of ye have robbed the hangman of his due?"

"A truce with your jesting, Sir!" said Osborne; "the unhappy man died by my hand, but he drew on me first."

(To be continued.)

HANSEL MONDAY,

"Will you never hold your little yelping tongues to-night?" said Beaty Lawson to the nursery brood, whom she had presided over ever since their birth, and whom she had just tucked into the various sized cribs which surrounded an ample nursery. "Your elder brothers are all quiet in the next room, and so is your sister; I'll warrant they dinna get leave

to cheep a word at school, after they are in their beds; and they will be weel sleepit, and up before any of you bairns, to wish their mamma a good Hansel Monday."

"Well but, Beaty, just answer me this one question," said a pertinacious little rogue, raising a curly bullet of a head from a well tumbled pillow; - "I'll go to sleep this instant if you will only tell me. Was that a guinea mamma sent out to get silver for?-I wonder how much we'll get to our hansels?"

"Oh, Jemmy, you should not be thinking about money after you have said your prayers," whispered a fair-haired little girl, whom Beaty loved above all the rest; "you know that nurse says, the fairies can turn it all into chucky stones, if we think about money in our beds."

66

Tut, nonsense!" said Jemmy ;"Mary is always dreaming about the fairies, because papa calls her his little elf. Well, if I get five shillings for my hansel, I'll buy you a little green coaty, Mary, if you'll promise not to turn my money into chucky stones."

"Well, do not say another word about it, but go to sleep this instant. See, you are wakening Willie, and I'll have the whole pack of you up; and if that's the case, Jemmy, I'll positively leave you at home when we go to the shops in the morning.".

This terrible threat had the desired effect, for Beaty was known to reign despotic in the nursery; and her judgments being as merciful as just, they were never interfered with by Mrs. Seaton, the mother of these children.

Sweet were the young voices, and the pattering of little feet, which assailed the happy parents' ears, as the little troop burst into their room to wish them a good Hansel Monday. Mr. Seaton kissed his children, and then led them to their mother's bed. The three elder of Beaty's charge could just on tiptoe reach the mother's lips; whilst the father helped a round faced little girl to scramble up the bed, and Beaty held the crowing baby in

her arms.

And here is a doll for Jane, and a purse for James, and another for William; and a little one for me, I declare, besides my pretty frock!"

"Oh, mamma and papa, how good you are!" exclaimed the joyous creatures, and the kisses were renewed.

"Now, my little ones, you must go to breakfast. Nurse, take your boy; his mother's kiss is all he cares for yet." "May God bless my infant," breathed the grateful mother, imprinting a kiss upon his rosy cheeks.

To breakfast the little ones went; but what child who knows the value of a sixpence, and sees before him the toyshop's boundless range, can look at "parritch" on a Hansel Monday! No; we may all remember the tumbled beds, the untasted breakfast, which told how unnecessary was sleep or food to the happy expectants of a day like this!

And now the little coats, the worsted gloves and snow-boots were duly buckled on, and the mother saw the joyous troop depart. She did not detain them with ilftimed cautions, lectures, or advice, to check the freedom of their wildest wishes; she stayed but for a moment her little Mary, and wrapping the Indian shawl still closer on her breast, she bade Betty take care of her gentle child. The two elder boys had already gone out with Mr. Seaton; and Fauny, being a little beyond Beaty's controul, remained to accompany her mother.

It was a pleasant sight for old and young, to behold the various groups of restless happy beings, which that day crowded the far-stretched line of Prince's Street. Already were to be seen some impatient little urchins, the offspring of chicken-pecked mothers, returning with their load of gilded baubles from their early walk. And passing them came upright, pale-faced girls, the governess's pride! Poor things, one day of freedom might have been permitted you, just to gild the gloom of such a life of vain and heartless toil! And now came youthful mothers, and proud young papas, with riotous boys, and giggling rosy girls, as happy in the toy-shop as their children were. But amongst all the various throng, none were more naturally joyous than Beaty Lawson's brood. They were the children of a good old-fashioned nursery, where much kindness and little discipline kept all in order. Beaty knew nothing of the thousand methods and never-ending books, which are now thought necessary for the education of youth. But she had all her bible by heart, and the greater part of Shakspeare, besides a superabundance of fairy tales and romantic ballads; and the little Seatons knew no severer punishment than Beaty's declaring that she would not tell a story for a week. Never was an impure word or a base action known in Beaty's nursery. Her own mind was the mirror of purity and truth; her heart the seat of ardent and active feeling.

The little Seatons felt it no penance to be confined to such a nursery. They looked upon it as privileged ground, where they could enact a thousand sports, sure of Beaty Lawson's assistance and applause. Even Sunday, that day of injudicious gloom to many, shone a holiday to them; nay, it was the happiest day of all the seven, for the pious father spent it with his children; and when retired from their parents, they had still to look to Beaty's Bible story; and whether it was to be Daniel in the lion's den-the children in the fiery furnace, or Mary's favorite Ruth, was the only question.

But we must not forget that Monday is already come, and that Beaty has to at tend to other high behests. No light task was hers, to hear and answer the thousand questions and never-ending projects, as to what their exhaustless wealth might be equal to procure. But, before entering the tempting precincts of the toy shop, Beaty's custom had ever been to exact from each child a tenth of its treasure, to be appropriated by her to some object of charity; and this being given with open heart and willing hand, there was no farther check to the disposal of the rest. It was delightful to listen to the various projected purchases-the magnificent presents they intended to bestow. William knew his papa wanted a barometer, and did nurse think they would get it at the toy-shop, and that Mrs. Connel would give it him for half a crown? Then came a list of gifts, commencing with a satin gown for mamma, and ending with a tea-canister for Betty the cook. If these things were at last discovered to be beyond their grasp, and something humbler was suggested when in the toy-shop, great at least had been their delight in talking of them, and Beaty was sure to make honourable mention of the first intention on their return home. And now the toy-shops having been ransacked, and the merits of good humoured Mrs. Connel been thoroughly discussed, another pleasure was still in store-a visit to George's Square, to taste old aunty Stewart's bun. This had always formed a part of the routine of Hansel Monday.

As long as the little Seatons could remember George's Square, so long had aunty Stewart inhabited the same house, and sat at her little wheel in the same

chair, just between the fire-place and the window. Her grey silk gown, her beautiful pinched cap, her silver hair and smooth unwrinkled skin, these had never altered. There stood the little table with her Bible, the newspapers, and a volume of the Spectator, and from year to year these dear children had come, and still found all the same. The bright brass grate with its shining utensils, the mahogany cat, on which the frothy buttered toast was placed at breakfast, and the plates were warmed at dinner;-the. china figures on the mantel-piece, where Sir John Falstaff, with his paunch stuffed full of fun, still stood so temptingly beyond their reach; these well-known sights were sure to meet their eyes as the little folk marched into aunt Stewart's parlour.

"Well, my bairns, and is this you?" said the good old lady, laying aside her spectacles, and carefully marking with a pin the place in the newspaper she had been reading; for since her memory had begun to fail, she found this the surest way of making straight work of the papers. "Is this you, my bairns, come to wish your old aunty a good Hansel Monday, and tell her all your news? Mary, my little woman, give Annie a cry, she'll be up in the store-room looking after the bun." But it was not necessary to hurry Annie, for she had heard the well known little tongues in the parlour, and, "Is that the little Seatons?" in her kindly voice, was answered by their running to meet her as she came down the stair, with a beaming face, and a plate well heaped with short-bread and with bun.

Annie, the unmarried daughter of Mrs. Stewart, was past the age of beauty, if she ever had possessed it; but there was a charm about the whole of the Stewart family far beyond that of beauty, although some of them had been eminent for loveliness, their minds seemed never to grow old. There was within a springing well of warmth and kindliness, of cheerful thoughts and lively fun, which all the cares of this weary world had never checked. They had met with many trials, yet still they saw the bright side of every thing, and their lives seemed but a continual song of thankfulness to God.

The children now being seated, the great-coats unbuckled, the cold shoes taken off, and the little feet rubbed into a glow, a drop of Aunty's cordial and a piece of bun was duly administered to each. Then came the display of all the wonderful things which had been bought -the large Hansels which they had got,

and how the little tongues did go about all that had been felt, seen, and done since the morning! Oh, what a pity that Hansel Monday should ever end! But Beaty Lawson reminded them that it was getting late, and they had still to visit cousin Stewart in his room. It was not to every one that this gentleman chose to shew himself, and few besides the little Seatons dared to intrude on his Sanctum Sanctorum; but they were always sure of a kind reception. How, with his kindly feelings and lively delight in every. thing which looked young and happy, Mr. Stewart had remained a bachelor, was like many other wonders, never rightly understood. But there he sat surrounded by his books, the picture of content. His pen seemed never idle, yet what he wrote, or where it went, or if the world was ever the wiser for it, no one ever knew, but at all events he was the busiest and the happiest of men. Himself, his room, and all about him, was the picture of comfort, order, and scrupulous tidyness. He had been a very handsome man, and when dress was

of his heart, rubbing his hands in pure delight. "And now, my little Fairy, you must give cousin Stewart his song." The little maid needed no second bidding, for she had sat and sung on cousin Stewart's knee as long as she could remember, and still her song had been,

"O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa';
And I mysel a drap of dew,

Into her bonny breast I'd fa."

He had heard her mother sing it when she perhaps, that might account for the tears was somewhat older than Mary; and, that dimmed the good man's eyes when he kissed the child, and said she was the image of her mother. But Beaty must now collect her flock and carry them off; for there was yet one visit to be paid, which her benevolent heart could not omit. It was a visit to the house of mourning.

To be continued.

a gentleman than it now is, his had still been conspicuous. Regularly as nine o'clock struck was Mr. Stewart to be seen under the hands of an ancient barber, who had shaved, powdered, and tied his cue for more than thirty years, discussing at the same time the politics of the day, mourning over the degeneracy of the times, and quitting his master with the daily renewed feeling, that it would be well for the country in general, and his pocket in particular, if there were many such gentlemen of the good old

school..

The entrance of the little cousins was preceded by a gentle tap from Mary, who, being the decided favourite, was the first to peer in her little head. "Come in, my little Fairy-God bless the little creature it is Queen Mab herself.

'And where got ye that gown sae gay,
My little Fairy Queen?
I got it in the Fairies' land,
Where you have never been.'

And where are my little men, Jemmy and Willie? Will your purses hold another half-crown, boys? God bless their comely faces! Annie, have you given them plenty of short-bread? and Beaty, did you get a glass of wine? Remember,

Christmas comes but once a year,
But once a-year, but once a-year;
Christmas comes but once a-year,
And therefore we'll be merry.""

So sung the old gentleman in the glee

(For the Olio.)

There is a star that ever beams

In man's else cheerless sky;
And that bright star of living dreams,

Is woman's sparkling eye.
At life's first dawn, its gilding ray
On every scene will rest;
And as it brightens into day,

With hope inspire the breast.

And though at noon some fiercer flame
Its lustre may outblaze;

Its hallowing charm is felt the same,..
To guide the wanderer's ways
And still when eve is darkling round,
And other joys dissever,
The eye of woman faithful found,
Shall smile and beam for ever!

H. C. H. JUSTINS.

THE BATTLE PLEDGE. (For the Olio.)

No foeman's draught is here, Her votaries' lips to dye,

Nought that shall rob the bright sword's gear,

No chaliced treachery.

Then drink! and as the bowl runs o'er, Let drops our thirsty swords belave, Then blending honour's crimson store, Seek we their hail or victory's stave. Swell to the blushing brim. W. MORLEY.

the clock should bid us separate either to rest, or amusement, now the cloth is removed and our fruits and wines are before us, and our presents are exchanged by

plains.

VIRGIL'S PASTORALS.

"We are not as those without comfort," said the white-haired champion of age, the highly beloved grandfather, who sat in the family chair at the head of the table surrounded by his friends before a yule fire. "We are not bereft of our last year's blessings. The Christmas wassail has passed kindly through the days of our old style, and we will continue them to the end of Twelfth-night, and the 'King of the Bean,' and the 'Queen of Good Rule,' shall reign over the sorrows which are past, and all our family feuds, of whatever kind, be buried in the depths of forgetful forgiveness. We have counted children, grand-children, and great grand-children-dame is as young in hope and health and joy, as she was when we kissed over the cushion bours have prodigal on our wedding-day. Some of our neighprodigal sons, but thank our good over ruler we have honesty, industry, and a fair name with mankind in the world, an' that we may preserve it for ever in our lineage, is our endeavour. Where are pretty Betsey, and Nancy, and Nelly?" Oh, they are getting the long room ready for the dance." The last hours of the Old Year' shall ring joyfully through our feelings, and with out being presumptuous, may we hear the sounds of of gladness and festal harmony vibrate through all our emotions! It is not necessary, dame, to say how much cake and ale shall be made, nor who may partake you know our rules. Every dear heart that throbs under this roof is at liberty to use all our prosperities fully and freely, but not to abuse them. If we are cast in our condition out of the pale of fashion's votaries, we hope we are not uncivilized; but are profited in the means of reading, and have the volumes of nature before us daily in our experi

you that we have a pretty little packet of simple characteristics for an occasional perusal, which it should seem by the way they have reached us, were left with an old inkhorn in the barn on the wheatsheaves by the poor, thin, little man, whom we relieved, and which, perhaps, were intended for some liberal bookseller, could such be found, that would venture their publication for his benefit. But dame has different thoughts concerning their author, and she pronounces Timothy Straw, our thresher, to be the lawful promoter of them, and rationally too, as Tim is fond of sketching, and none but Tim can know the characters herein delineated; and they may, if we read one of them on the first evening of our monthly meetings, like the carols, bring tidings, sweet comfort, and joy. If Tim be the author, he is not like Annibal, who carried poison in a ring he wore on his finger, but will only redden at seeing his name in print, and like a Ramsey, a Bloomfield, or a Clare, grow bold in writing perhaps, and produce scraps of song hereafter to amuse his brethren and the public. Be this as it may, here are the papers in question. But they are not christened. And what is a book, or, even a sketchy series, without a name? Well, the spirit of a Cæsar, or a Brutus, will not start, if we give the articles a name, we are not afraid of an attack from the gold lace, or parochial interference." "Grandfather," said little chumpy formed Charles, who sat like a mouse in ambush, "call the papers the 'Thresher's Flail.' "Nobly, my boy," was the reply, "Yes," continued Charles, "call it this, because you say they were discovered in the barn, and our man Timothy being a thresher, whether he be the author, or the little brown suited, shabbily dressed gentleman whom you suffered in the barn, the 'Thresher's Flail' might be