And all the house of death was chill and dim,
The dull old housekeeper was looking grim,
The hall-clock ticking slow, the dismal rain
Splashing by fits against the window-pane,
The garden shivering in the twilight dark,
Beyond, the bare trees of the empty park,
And faint grey light upon the great cold bed,
And I alone; and he I turn'd from,—dead.

Ay, "dwarf" they call'd this man who sleeping lies;
No lady shone upon him with her eyes,

No tender maiden heard his true-love vow,
And pressed her kisses on the great bold brow.

What cared John Hamerton? With light, light laugh,
He halted through the streets upon his staff;
Halt, lame, not beauteous, yet with winning grace
And sweetness in his pale and quiet face;
Fire, hell's or heaven's, in his eyes of blue;
Warm words of love upon his tongue thereto;
Could win a woman's soul with what he said,
And I am here; and here he lieth dead.

I would not blush if the bad world saw now
How by his bed I stoop and kiss his brow!
Ay, kiss it, kiss it, o'er and o'er again,
With all the love that fills my heart and brain.

For where was man had stoop'd to me before,
Though I was maiden still, and girl no more?
Where was the spirit that had deign'd to prize
The poor plain features and the envious eyes?
What lips had whisper'd warmly in mine ears?
When had I known the passion and the tears?
Till he I look on sleeping came unto me,

Found me among the shadows, stoop'd to woo me,
Seized on the heart that flutter'd withering here,
Strung it, and wrung it, with new joy and fear,
Yea, brought the rapturous light, and brought the day,
Waken'd the dead heart, withering away,

Put thorns and roses on the unhonour'd head,
That felt but roses till the roses fled!

Who, who, but he crept unto sunless ground,
Content to prize the faded face he found?

John Hamerton, I pardon all-sleep sound, my love, sleep sound!

What fool that crawls shall prate of shame and sin?
Did he not think me fair enough to win?
Yea, stoop and smile upon my face as none,
Living or dead, save he alone, had done?
Bring the bright blush unto my cheek, when ne'er
The full of life and love had mantled there?
And I am all alone; and here lies he,—
The only man that ever smiled on me.

Here, in his lonely dwelling-house he lies,
The light all faded from his winsome eyes:
Alone, alone, alone, he slumbers here,
With wife nor little child to shed a tear!
Little, indeed, to him did Nature give;
Nor was he good and pure as some that live,
But pinch'd in body, warp'd in limb,

He hated the bad world that loved not him!

Barbara Gray!

Pause, and remember how he turn'd away;

Think of your wrongs, and of your sorrows. Nay!
Woman, think rather of the shame and wrong
Of pining lonely in the dark so long;

Think of the comfort in the grief he brought,
The revelation in the love he taught.

Then, Barbara Gray!

Blush not, nor heed what the cold world will
But kiss him, kiss him, o'er and o'er again,
In passion and in pain,

say;

With all the love that fills your heart and brain!
Yea, kiss him, bless him, pray beside his bed,
For you have lived, and here your love lies dead.
(By permission of Messrs. Strahan.)

237

JACK PEBBLE'S FIRST OFFENCE.

J. E. CARPEnter.

"TRANSPORTED for fourteen years!" cried Doctor Brown, laying down his copy of the Times which, although he resided above a hundred miles from the metropolis, he was reading about the time that London fast men and West-end swells think of turning out of bed. "Transported for fourteen years! I was afraid it would come to this; lenity is thrown away on some men."

It will be necessary to state that the Doctor was an old friend of mine, and that I was paying him a visit, for the double purpose of reciprocating his friendship and enjoying a week's shooting in his immediate locality.

I soon discovered that Jack Pebble, whose appointment to a government berth in Woolwich dockyard was thus notified in the Times, had been a footman of the worthy Doctor's, and that his first offence, or rather the first in which he had been detected, was committed in the Doctor's employ. As Jack's first introduction into the fraternity of "prigs" was a somewhat curious one, I shall relate it, not precisely in the Doctor's own words, but keeping sufficiently close to his narrative to vouch for the authenticity of my statement.

I have said that Jack was "Footman" to the benevclent Dr. Brown; he took him, as he supposed, from the plough-tail, but the fact was that Jack was more frequently to be found in the skittle-alley behind the Plough Ale House, than treading the furrows of the plough in Farmer Homestead's lands. However, the latter thought him sufficiently lazy to make an excellent Footman, and the Doctor took him on his recommendation. Now the Doctor was one of those easy-going souls who sacrificed everything for the sake of peace and quietness; he detested law and lawyers from the bottom of his heart, and would rather that every apple in his orchard were stolen, than be at the trouble of prose

cuting a thief for the loss of a bushel. "Like master, like man!" is an old proverb, and never waз proverb more truly verified than in the Doctor and his factotum, Bob Hall, his confidential servant; who was not a whit less eccentric than his master. His eccentricity partook of the same nature, for, honest as the day himself, he could never believe but that those in authority under him were not equally so. It happened, one night, about half an hour after the Doctor had retired to bed, that Bob Hall came tapping at the door of his apart

ment.

"I am called out to visit a patient!" thought the Doctor, who had no idea of turning out at that time of night, even to save the life of the Emperor of Morocco. "The plague take you !" he cried; "say I'll be there the first thing in the morning."

"You're not wanted, sir," said Bob, "only Jack Pebble, the footman, is nowhere to be found, and I want to lock the house up for the night."

"Not to be found!" echoed the Doctor; "then call up James and count the plate, for one or the other of them keeps possession of the key."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Bob, in evident alarm; "you don't mean, sir, that you suspect one of them to be a thief?"

"I don't like to harbour suspicion against any one," replied the Doctor, "so count the plate, Bob, and if it's all right, lock the fellow out, and tell him to come to me, it he returns, in the morning." 'But, sir, I'll stake my life on his honesty!" "No matter for that," continued the Doctor, "I should like you to count the plate!" and so saying, he turned round and settled himself for sleep. The Doctor's will was Bob's law, and, however reluctantly, he proceeded to call up his fellow-servant, growling as he went. Well, the plate was counted, and much to Bob's satisfaction, it proved to be correct; not even a salt-spoon was missing. Bob reported to his master, locked up the house, and proceeded to his own bed-room. No sooner had Bob ar

rived at that humble apartment when a sudden thought struck him, and he commenced rummaging about in his wardrobe. The examination, naturally, did not occupy much time, and as soon as it was over, again Bob posted away to his master-" Sir, sir," knocking with his knuckles at the door until he rubbed the skin off—“ sir, that villain Jack, is a thief after all.”

"Nonsense," cried the Doctor, somewhat angrily this time, "the plate's all right; go to bed, and we can look into matters more closely in the morning."

"But, sir, the rascal has gone off with my best coat." "Best fiddlestick, Bob, you must have mislaid it. I'll stake my life on his honesty."

"But, sir—the villain-he'll get away by the morning, and I shall never recover it-I'm certain that he's got my coat, for he was admiring it only yesterday." "Pooh-nonsense! if he has he will probably return

it!"

"Oh! never, sir," continued Bob, "there's thief written in every line of the fellow's countenance. Doctor!"

"Well, sir, well!"

"Will you allow me to take old Ball out of his stable and pursue the vagabond?"

"Take what you like, Bob, but don't come and disturb me any more with your cock-and-bull stories."

Away went Bob to the stables, and in less than half an hour he was five miles out of the town. There he called at a public house, and ascertained that Jack had got a lift in a market cart, and had passed through the village an hour before. Bob grew desperate, and putting spurs to his horse, at length overtook a cart, the driver of which had pulled up for the night:-he had taken up a man who continued his journey along the high road. Tired as old Ball was, Bob could not give up the chase when the game was almost in view. In less than ten minutes more, he discovered, by the light of the moon, his own coat running away as fast as Jack Pebble's legs could carry it. Away they went,